Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

Morland dropped to the ground, leopard-crawled to the edge of the forest and lay prone. He listened and looked around. No immediate threat. He pulled out his mini-binoculars from his breast pocket. The rest of the team took up positions in all-round defense, rifles pointing in a 360-degree circle. He looked through his binoculars. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, despite himself.

From the safety of his cover, Morland looked down the length of the runway. It was a scene of horror. Smoke billowed from lime-green-liveried AirBaltic passenger planes lined up on the hard-standing a kilometer away. In front of the modern, glass-fronted passenger terminal, a vast Russian Mi-26 Halo helicopter, capable of lifting ninety troops, lay on its side, burning fiercely. Curtains of machine-gun fire snaked across the runway and abandoned parachutes billowed on the grass. A full-scale assault on the international airport was under way.

However, despite the carnage on the tarmac, things were obviously not going well for the defenders, because yet more airborne soldiers were de-bussing from the cavernous bellies of other, intact, Mi-26 Halos and, as their feet touched the ground, they started skirmishing toward the buildings. Morland was impressed despite himself; these were highly trained and very brave troops, who were assaulting into murderous and well-aimed fire. However, with the sort of numbers being deployed, there was only going to be one outcome here this morning.

Then there was a heavier volley of fire from the far side of the runway and shells smacked into the terminal buildings, ripping chunks out of the walls and doing God knows what damage to the defenders inside.

Morland trained his binoculars on the vehicles doing the firing, and in one muzzle flash, saw what he had expected and feared: Russian BMD-4 armored vehicles. They would have been dropped with the initial parachute landings. There was no doubt about what he was witnessing; this was the cream of the Russian airborne, with the latest equipment, at work here.

The problem was that he was not close enough to get the quality of photographs the colonel had demanded; the unambiguous evidence that these were Russian regular forces and not some proxies, or some militia, as the Russians would doubtless claim—a game the Russians had played so cleverly and for so long in Ukraine.

Next moment he switched back to the terminal, as he saw flashes and heard the unmistakable crump of mortar rounds exploding among the advancing Russians. As the rounds fell on the hard tarmac, they blew the troops over, scythed down, just like the toy plastic soldiers Morland had played with as a child and knocked over with his finger to signify they were dead.

“Those Latvians sure know how to use their mortars.” Morland heard Sergeant Wild’s voice in his PRR, personal role radio, in his ear. “They’re giving the Russians something to think about… There’ll be a good few less in the queue for coffee and doughnuts when they finally get to the cafeteria.”

Morland could almost feel himself smile at the sergeant’s grim, gallows humor. But the happy thought that the Latvians were fighting back so effectively was destroyed moments later by a loud roar just above their heads. It was a flight of four Mi-24 Hind helicopter gunships, which opened fire on the airport buildings. Smoke from 80-millimeter rockets snaked from weapon stations mounted on their stub wings, while 23-millimeter nose-mounted cannons sent burst after burst into the Latvian infantry fire positions.

The roar and clatter of huge helicopters did not stop as four more Hinds roared low to replace the first flight, which turned for home, ammunition exhausted. Soon there was a regular taxi rank of gunships pouring fire onto the hapless Latvians from a mere 200 feet above the heads of Morland and his team.

Ghastly though it was to watch, Morland knew that this was his proof and this was his moment. He raised his camera and took photograph after photograph of the Hinds in action above him; switching every so often to record the devastation they were creating. They were so low and moving so slowly and with such confidence that he was even able to ensure that he captured their registration numbers; the Int boys back home would love those shots. They would probably be able to name the pilots. This was the proof the colonel had demanded. This was Russian airborne forces at work. No ifs. No buts. No militias or proxies.

It was, though, now time to get out before they were spotted. Morland could see this was now the endgame of the defense and he noted there had been no more mortar strikes since the Hinds had started their deadly pounding. The Russians would soon move in and finish off the survivors and then they would be moving to their secondary targets. He wanted to be gone by then.

He spoke quietly into his PRR to tell the other two that it was time to move back to the car. Morland and Watson began to move back, covered by Wild, making the most of the cover provided by the trees.

Then Morland heard the roar and clatter of another two Hinds approaching. However, these were not firing rockets or shells. He found himself frozen in appalled fascination as they flew overhead, almost knowing what was going to happen next, but somehow unable to not watch it. He raised his camera again as the Hinds flew over the passenger terminal. Two large drums dropped, one from the back of each Hind. They could only be one thing.

The 250-kilogram, fuel-air explosive bombs landed on the building.

There was a roar as the terminal erupted and, even from over a kilometer distance and lying prone on the edge of the forest, Morland felt the intense heat and blast hit his face. There would be no Latvian survivors for the Russian soldiers to finish off after all. In fact, Morland wondered whether that massive explosion might not have taken more than a few Russians with it.

And now there was silence from the buildings; silence everywhere in fact, a shocked silence. Then vehicles appeared, supported by infantry, which closed on the building. The fight for the airport was over. The Russians would next spread out to secure the perimeter. He spoke into his microphone.

“Move now. Fast.”

The team quickly retraced its steps to where Krauja and Archer were waiting with the Land Cruiser under cover and mounted up.

One look at Krauja’s eyes told Morland of her desperate need to know what was happening at the airport and to its defenders. He guessed that she would have friends in that Riga-recruited National Guard Battalion, which had defended the airport so bravely. But he knew, too, that this was not a moment for emotion.

Instead, he reverted to the professionalism of a soldier giving a situation report. After the trauma of what he had seen, it was the only way. Anything more than an emotionless statement of the bare facts would be in danger of wrecking Krauja. And he was suddenly unsure how he would handle that.

“Major Russian airborne assault on the airport. I’d estimate it at least a battalion-plus strength; supported by Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters and BMD-4 airborne armored vehicles. Defenders put up a strong fight, but have now been neutralized. The airport is now in enemy hands. I have photographic evidence of Russian helicopters attacking. Our task now is to get those pictures back to the UK as quickly as possible. We need to get to Padstow ASAP.”

Krauja took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My younger brother was a reservist in that battalion. He was in his first year studying law at the University of Riga.”

Morland was lost for words. Her quiet dignity somehow made the situation even worse. He nodded in acknowledgment of what she had just told him and then pointed at the car. Without saying another word she strode to the driver’s door, got into the seat, turned the key and, once the last door had slammed shut, accelerated hard back down the narrow cycle path toward Riga.