Richard Shirreff - War with Russia

“Get a grip, Mr. Morland,” he heard Color Sergeant Carty of the Welsh Guards, his old instructor at Sandhurst, say. “Just think what the others are thinking.”

Meanwhile, above him, the first Mi-24 Hind gunship flew overhead as it started to fly circuits as top cover. They can’t possibly see us down here, he told himself, so keep focused and be ready for a clearance patrol on the ground. If the Russians are any good, they’ll have them everywhere.

Then his watch showed ten o’clock and he heard the deeper, slower noise of a pair of Mi-8s. That’ll be him , thought Morland, it won’t be long before he lands now .

The next five minutes seemed to last an hour and still the Mi-24s circled. Then they pulled in tighter to Ligatne, leaving them undisturbed. That had to mean the VVIP was on the ground and the gunships were now providing close-in top cover.

Another ten minutes passed. Just as Morland was beginning to wonder if the fact that the Mi-24s had closed in on the VIPs meant the operation had somehow been compromised, there was the unmistakable crack of a Stinger, followed by a second. Through the canopy above him Morland saw two flashes of light, followed by two snaking smoke trails. He lost sight of the heat-seeking missiles, but there was no doubt about the two loud explosions.

“Splash two Hinds… Yes. Got the bastards!” Morland wanted to punch the air in triumph.

FOURTEEN HUNDRED MILES away in the PM’s “den” in Number 10, Trev Walker sat with the Prime Minister, William Spencer, in front of a TV carrying breaking BBC News reporting on a live link, helpfully subtitled into English, from Russia Today. They watched as the President landed by helicopter at a bunker-like building at Ligatne, deep in the Latvian forests. Escorted by the burly, jowly Commander of Western Military District, the two men walked over to where the bodies of the Latvian so-called terrorists responsible for shooting down a Russian Mi-24 Hind were on display.

Neither man said anything as the camera panned along the bodies, laid out in a row, a selection of the weapons that they had been captured with piled up behind them.

Then the camera switched to the President, who eyed them coldly, unmoved by the twisted, bloodied corpses.

For a moment, Walker thought he was going to kick one of them to display his contempt. If he had intended to, the President controlled himself and instead, he prepared to speak to the film crews; eyes narrowed, face furious.

Next moment there were two loud explosions in the sky behind the President. As if hypnotized, the live feed from the TV cameras first found and then focused on the two fireballs and then began to track the pieces of burning helicopter as they fell to the ground.

Then the camera turned back to the President, as if looking for his reaction to the shock attack that had just taken place above them.

What they filmed instead was the natural reaction of close-protection officers anywhere. Two beefy bodyguards leapt on the President, pushing him to the ground, before covering him with their bodies to protect him as best they could.

The camera continued to run and it was as if the world stood still for long seconds. Soldiers cocked their assault rifles and turned, ready to repulse an attack that failed to come; journalists lay on the ground, in the mud, unsure what to do next. Finally, pistols still cocked and ready, the bodyguards got up, followed by a furious President; now covered with mud and swearing at them, pushing one of them away, as he still tried to do his duty and shield him with his body.

Walker looked at the Prime Minister with a huge grin on his face. “You’ve done it, PM. You’ve bloody pulled it off… Congratulations.”

The Prime Minister smiled back. “We have, haven’t we? That’ll show that bastard who is boss. Now, let’s see how the media react…”

Meanwhile, Walker and Spencer watched, first in astonishment and then in growing amusement as the mud-splattered, angry President continued to shout and swear at his protectors on live TV, before screaming at the camera to stop filming. It took almost a minute before terrified aides led him off toward a waiting armored vehicle and out of camera shot.

Instead of stopping, the camera turned back to the humiliation and horror of two helicopters burning in the forest behind them, smoke rising from their funeral pyres and the sound of ammunition cooking off in the intense heat, making it sound as if there was an intense firefight taking place among the trees.

“Well, PM,” said Walker finally. “You asked for a spectacular and you certainly got one. What do you think? A Military Cross for our man in charge out there? Or perhaps even a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. That would cheer everyone up and show them that Britain means business.”

“I thought the idea was not to let the Russians know we were behind this, Trev. Remember what they did to Litvinenko? He’ll get his gong, but we’ll keep it well under wraps. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll have another chat to the Americans. Ask what they have done to stop the Russians lately.”

THE REPEATED CLANG of the electronic bell, with the disembodied voice announcing, “This is not a drill. This is not a drill. General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. All hands man your battle stations,” sounded over the carrier’s PA system. Unless already in position, the men and women of the ship’s crew immediately stopped whatever they were doing and moved swiftly to their designated action stations. Commander James Bush RN, Executive Officer of HMS Queen Elizabeth , stood on the bridge, receiving calls from each department as it reported ready for action, and took keen note of how the crew were making themselves ready for war. Getting better , he thought to himself grudgingly, but I’m not giving these buggers an inch. There’s still a long way to go before this crew is as slick as it needs to be.

Three days out from Portsmouth and Queen Elizabeth had passed through the narrow confines of the Skagerrak, entered the Baltic, and was now twenty-five nautical miles north of the Polish port of Świnoujście, the port of Szczecin, situated just east of the German border to their south. Once out of the English Channel, the order had come from the Prime Minister to sail into the Baltic Sea, where the Amphibious Task Force was to poise off shore to demonstrate UK resolve, before linking up with the five frigates and destroyers of the NATO Response Force Maritime Component; themselves inbound from the eastern Mediterranean, but not expected in the Baltic for several days yet. Once they were all together, he would feel a lot less concerned.

Usually the most positive of men, Bush nevertheless thought back to the warning from his old shipmate Executive Warrant Officer Geordie Rae, before they had left Portsmouth. HMS Kent , the Type 23 anti-submarine frigate, had in fact defied expectations and lasted a full day after rounding North Foreland, but, ordered to take part in a high-speed anti-submarine drill, had broken down and been forced to limp back to Portsmouth for a new generator and a replacement for its shattered propeller shaft. That left the Task Group with only her sister ship, HMS Lancaster , as an anti-submarine escort.

The chickens are really coming home to roost , thought Bush. When will the MOD bean counters ever get the message that running ships beyond their sell-by date makes no sense, operationally or financially. He was reminded of Admiral Beattie’s bitter comment at Jutland in 1916: “There seems to be something wrong with our bloody ships today.”