Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

Rae was a forthright Mancunian, who had known Bush since they were both junior Able Seamen seventeen years earlier, and the close bond of friendship, formed as young men, had lasted after Bush was commissioned. Rae spotted Bush and immediately grinned, braced up and saluted. They might be old shipmates, but now Bush carried the Queen’s Commission the usual formalities applied.

“Morning, Sir. Good to see you… Come to see how the troops are getting on?”

“Exactly, Geordie.” Bush was not one to stand on ceremony. “How are the vibes?”

“Where do you want to start?” Rae wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and gestured to the working party he’d been directing to carry on with their task.

“You’ve no need to worry about the quality of the crew or the ship. They’ll be more than up to the mark…” Rae dropped his voice, clearly anxious not to be overheard being anything but positive. “But don’t kid yourself that all is well. The guys and girls are seriously worried. We’re pushed to man the ship properly, so each watch is light on people; it’s criminal that, to save money, the amphib Bulwark hasn’t got any hangar space for helicopters, so we’ve got to keep her helicopters on board here. The Lord alone knows how that will work out at the sharp end, when the bootnecks on Bulwark need urgent transport. A midshipman on his first day at sea could tell you that bit of bean-counter-inspired ship design is a lethal cock-up just waiting to happen. Then, to cap it all, one of the Type 23 anti-sub escorts is on its last legs. Apart from that, it’s all peachy… Sorry to whinge, but you did ask.”

“What’s the score on the Type 23?” Bush asked.

“ Kent is only fit for the knacker’s yard,” replied Rae. “My mate is her Executive Warrant Officer and he tells me she’s fucked; that she’s well overdue a full refit. Strictly between us, and it would be his arse on the line if this went any further, when she put into Portsmouth at the end of her last trip her skipper was no longer willing to risk going to Full Ahead in case she blew something. The chances of her generators and turbines lasting around the North Foreland are pretty much zero. Then we’ll be down to one anti-sub escort… and what if one of the Type 45s decides to blow its generator? Then we’d be right royally buggered. I’d have hoped for four Type 23s; two might just have sufficed, but not if things go tits up out there. One can’t begin to do the job.”

“Thanks, Geordie,” said Bush quietly. He knew that this was a coded signal that morale was more than fragile and that the Navy was being asked too much of this time. “There’s no getting around it. The cupboard’s bare. Something like this wasn’t meant to happen and certainly not in Europe. We still haven’t recovered from that crazy assumption in the 2010 Defense Review that we’d never have to go to war again, so the clever dicks in the MOD never thought we’d have to assemble another Task Group in double-quick time. Trouble is, as you know, the other anti-sub escorts are either spread to the wind doing other stuff or they’re in refit. We’ve just got to do the best we can, Geordie, God help us.”

Three days later, with the Rear Admiral commanding the Task Group embarked, together with his staff, HMS Queen Elizabeth left Portsmouth Harbor to go to war. Blue-jacketed sailors in their best rig lined the decks, while emotional crowds gathered on Southsea Common to wave off the Task Group. As Bush stood on the bridge, he felt a lump in his throat and a flush of pride as the mighty warship moved slowly into the waters of Spithead, before heading out past the Martello forts built to protect Portsmouth from the French, and into the English Channel, following the course so many great warships had taken before.

Yet, despite this sense of pride in being part of the golden thread of excellence exemplified by the Royal Navy, a premonition of dread gripped him. He only hoped that the politicians and admirals and pundits were right and Russia would not come out and fight them, lest it provoke a wider European war and an almost inevitable nuclear exchange. History might indicate otherwise, though. Back in 1982 the experts predicted the Argentinians would buckle as soon as they saw the Task Force heading toward them. But that had not happened, had it?

STANDING ON THE bridge overlooking the War Room in the National Defense Control Center, Fyodor Komarov, the President’s Chief of Staff, could see that the man chosen to set up and run it, Lieutenant General Mikhail Filatov, was looking anxious.

Well he might in front of this lot, but he’d better get used to it or he’ll end up commanding a camp in Siberia , thought Komarov, standing behind the President, who was flanked by his key cohort of advisers; the men who ran Russia’s war machine.

Below them a host of staff officers, all too conscious that they were being watched by the man who could determine their fate at a word, sat at the concentric rings of desks, quietly working the banks of computers and secure telephones. Around the walls the interactive screens now showed detailed maps of the Baltic states and Sea, together with those of northwest Europe, the North Sea and English Channel. The TV screens were showing multiple live 24-hour news feeds. Had the sound been turned up, they would have heard a cacophony of anxious presenters and frantic journalists.

Instead, in complete silence, clips of film showed Russian vehicles and soldiers moving purposefully through the streets of cities in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, watched by shocked and sullen crowds of civilians. Although, in stark contrast, some Russian TV feeds were showing scenes of Russian flag-waving locals—doubtless the Russian-speaking minority—throwing flowers and kissing the victorious Russian soldiers. On one screen, marked as showing Russia Today, clips of Russian soldiers in their camouflage uniforms were interspersed with grainy black-and-white footage of advancing Soviet troops from the Great Patriotic War.

The President’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction and he nodded to Filatov. “What are you waiting for? I came here for an update and I haven’t got all day.”

Filatov took a deep breath, smoothed back his well-coiffed hair and started.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich, I am pleased to tell you that Russian armed forces have enjoyed complete success. Thanks to the very effective maskirovka operation and the efforts of the RNZS, the Russian People’s Protection Force in Latvia, as well as the cyber operation, the integrity of the state collapsed like a discarded balloon. Latvia is almost completely in Russian hands. Seventy-Sixth Guards Assault Landing Division has secured the international airport and the air base at Lielvārde. We have just heard from the divisional commander that his most battle-hardened formation, Twenty-Three Air Assault Regiment—you’ll remember how well they did in the recovery of Ukraine three years ago—is now effectively in control of Riga. Meanwhile, First Guards Tank Army is making good progress and estimates it will be in Riga in four hours.”

“What about opposition, Mikhail Nikolayevich?” asked the President, ignoring Filatov and turning instead to his Chief of the General Staff, Gareyev, dressed today in a simple soldier’s combat fatigues.

“The Latvians fought hard, but their army was only five thousand full timers and twenty thousand reservists, many of whom never even deployed in time. They didn’t stand a chance. We’re lucky NATO hadn’t stationed any well-armed, permanent forces there. That could have changed things completely.”