Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

Soon they were through back streets lined with old wooden buildings and back down to the Daugava again. As they drove, they kept the windows down and rifle barrels facing out, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for more Russians. From the scale of what they had witnessed back at the airport, they could be landing more troops anywhere.

Krauja turned right and made her way through the narrow streets of the old port quarter and then joined the main highway. Finally they drove onto the 600-meter length of the Vansu bridge, high above the Daugava River.

“There’s your ship. Down on the left,” said Krauja, pointing.

Morland looked left as Krauja indicated and there, his view partially obscured by the metal guardrails that ran alongside the bridge, were three small battleship-gray mine countermeasure ships, alongside the dockside on the other side of the river; all that NATO had been able to agree among themselves to send to Latvia in its hour of need. And now, from the activity on the deck, he could see they were preparing to leave.

HMS Padstow wasn’t much to look at , thought Morland, and she carried no weapons worth mentioning. But thank God , the Royal Navy was here . Further alongside the dock, at the stern of the next ship, he could see the black, red and gold flag of Germany.

Now that escape was at hand, he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to say goodbye to Krauja. Something told him that when he said farewell, as he knew he must, he would not be seeing her again. Krauja had unfinished business with the Russian airborne and he doubted she would survive. And then, as they reached the center of the bridge and Morland was about to start saying his goodbyes, it happened.

High above them, too high to hear the roar of their jet engines, Morland spotted the tiny silhouettes of two Su-25KM Scorpions—Russia’s state-of-the-art ground-attack aircraft—as they banked below the clouds. He leaned out of the window to get a better view and saw them straighten for a moment and then, from each of them, came tell-tale twin streaks: laser-guided bombs. Morland had only ever seen them fired in news clips from Ukraine, but he was in no doubt about what he was witnessing and what would happen next.

Improbably and shockingly, the bombs began to snake down, heading directly toward the bridge and the Land Cruiser. He instinctively ducked, as if they were meant for him. But in the split second as the bombs streaked over the bridge, he knew he was being ridiculous. Those bombs were designed to destroy something very much larger and more valuable than him and his camera.

Next moment the bombs hit two of the ships on their left.

Nevertheless, Morland forced himself to glance back up. He saw the aircraft circle, bank again and, fearing nothing and nobody, let loose more bombs.

As Morland again looked left, the two ships erupted in a ballooning yellow fireball—intensely red at the center. He clearly saw chunks of molten material spin high into the air, before falling back into the water with a hiss of steam. A wave of heat engulfed them through the open windows and the car rocked wildly when the blast wave hit it. As they drove off the bridge, slowly now, the fireball subsided and he saw the two closest ships in flames. Then there was another, deeper roar as the ammunition and explosives on board each vessel erupted in an even bigger fireball. HMS Padstow and FGS Eckernförde turned turtle, broke up and began to sink.

Krauja drove into a side street, then halted. “What now, Tom? That’s your way home gone.” She was pale, angry at what she had witnessed and now struggling to control her emotions in the face of what the Russians were doing in her beloved Riga.

Morland looked around at his team, all of them in shock. Only moments ago he had not known what to say to Krauja after watching her countrymen being massacred at the airport and learning about the probable fate of her brother. Now he, too, was a witness to the death of fellow Britons.

Morland felt he was looking at a film playing in slow motion. He thought with perfect clarity, staring out of the window as he spoke, saying what he felt, exactly as he felt it; not something he would normally do with his soldiers. But then he had never witnessed anything like this before. “Those fucking bastards have just sunk a British and a German ship. That means we must now be at war with Russia…”

Krauja glanced at him expectantly, evidently wondering what he was going to say next.

He turned to look at his team and they looked back at him. He saw the expression on their faces that said: What the fuck now, boss? But he also saw the stubborn determination of British infantrymen, now really pissed off and more than ready to fight against the odds. Whatever it took.

“OK, that part of the job’s done and dusted. Nobody needs those bloody photos now. The proof about the Russians’ intentions is sinking right there, in the harbor… We’re staying to fight with the Latvians.”

“Well, that didn’t take the brains of an archbishop, Sir,” Wild said. “Unless someone has got a magic, bleeding carpet, they’ve sunk our only way home. I reckon we should head back to Ādaži and link up with our special forces mates. Just think, guys, we’ll get to do that forest-training phase after all.”

“Good call, sarge.” Morland looked at Krauja, grateful for the sergeant’s attempt at a joke, however small it might be. “Can you drop us back at Ādaži, Marina? Once you’ve done that I suppose you’ll be heading back to Riga?”

“I’m taking you to Ādaži, but I’m staying with you. You need me now more than ever. And we’ll need that radio of yours before this is over. Ādaži will be where the fightback will begin. Not here in Riga. Not after this morning.”

Krauja looked at Morland. Their eyes met.

Morland’s heart missed a beat. He felt immensely protective. He knew he’d go to the ends of the earth for her. At that moment in time, fighting for Latvia meant fighting for Marina Krauja. But she must never know.

“What are you waiting for, then?” he ordered. “Let’s roll.”

TREV WALKER SIPPED morosely at a Diet Coke and checked the emails on his iPhone. He was sitting in the open-plan bar of the Russell Arms, a rambling, quirky pub just under a mile north of the Prime Minister’s official residence at Chequers, in the green and leafy Buckinghamshire countryside on the edge of the Chiltern Hills. Normally he’d be quite happy to spend Sunday lunchtime in a pub, but surrounded as he was by boot-clad hikers and check-trousered Sunday golfers, fresh from eighteen holes on the nearby Ellesborough club course, he felt uncomfortably out of place. In his ill-fitting and crumpled off-the-peg suit and scuffed black shoes, he knew he looked like it, too.

Walker was happiest in the Red Lion, halfway down Whitehall and almost opposite the entrance to Downing Street. That was where he could meet, network and extend his influence. A country pub full of newly countrified people relaxing on a Sunday was well outside his comfort zone.

He looked across at the lunch table in the corner of the dining room where the Prime Minister sat with his family. It had clearly been a good morning for him. He sat, like any other forty-something father, focused on his pretty wife and young children, completely happy. Walker accepted that the PM was reasonably conscientious at dealing with his ministerial boxes, usually before breakfast, but sometimes, thought Walker, the PM overdid the relaxing. Photos of him with his family might sit well with middle-class, female voters—one of the PM’s fixations—but one result was that he could end up reacting to events, rather than driving them, like that latest telephone call from President Dillon of the United States.