World in Flames

“Understood, sir,” put in the Guards officer, Laylor, in command of A Group. “But if the shelters are sealed off, then even if we get some members of the STAVKA HQ upstairs, what happens if the rest scurry to the shelters before we can—”

“Good question, Laylor — so now we come to Groups B and C.” The major was looking around at the eighty men. “Ah, Brentwood, there you are. I do hope you don’t object to leading Bravo Troop? You were chosen because of your experience in the Freeman raid on Pyongyang.

“Good. Now, your job is to get into the Council of Ministers — hereafter designated COM — while Laylor’s Alfa Group is securing the perimeter. Hit them before they know what the dickens is going on. Remember, they’ve at least two companies of SPETS billeted in the arsenal just two hundred yards west of the COM. That’s in addition to regular Kremlin guards stationed at building entrances, et cetera.”

The major turned back to Laylor. “In any event, Laylor, the drill will be that whether or not the STAVKA and other members of the Politburo do ‘scurry’ to the cellars, your job is to secure a perimeter within which Brentwood’s Bravo Troop can clean house.’ Brentwood, your sappers will plant enough plastique to bring down the entire COM if necessary. Whether the STAVKA are shot or asphyxiated by thousands of tons of concrete coming down on their shelter is neither here nor there to us. Your job is to kill them before they get a chance to unleash all-out chemical and biological warfare on our troops and on our civilians.

“Before your departure, all of you will be doing walkthroughs — many, in fact — of a mock-up of Suzlov’s office, et cetera, on the top floor of the COM’s eastern wing. Remember, all you are concerned with is the area bounded by the triangle— the Kremlin’s northern end. You should land within the triangle — hopefully in the more open space between the arsenal and the Council of Ministers. When you open your chutes at low altitude, even with cloud, your infrared goggles should allow you to make out the landing zone area clearly. For a reference point, look for the line of cannons lined up all along here — the eastern side of the arsenal facing the Council of Ministers. We’ll be practicing orientation here, sending you up on the mezzanine and looking down on the model. You’ll be issued flares — short fuse — but hopefully you’ll have the element of surprise and won’t have to use them, as you’d only be presenting yourselves as targets. Most critical phase will be the time it takes the SPETs in and around the arsenal to realize what’s going on. But no matter where you land within the Kremlin complex, remember you’ll never be too far from your targets. So regroup quickly.”

Next Rye turned to Cheek-Dawson, who was designated leader of the remaining twenty-odd SAS. “C Troop under Mr. Cheek-Dawson will surround the Council of Ministers Building, to help Laylor’s Alfa Group bottle up the SPETS in the arsenal while Brentwood is cleaning house. C will also provide a squad of sappers to plant the time-delay plastique which will bring down the COM, covering its shelters in rubble, should Mr. Brentwood’s group not put pay to everyone at the STAVKA meeting. No use doing only half the job. Captain, you’ll also provide ‘fire teams’ of two, no more than four, men to plug any weak holes in the perimeter.”

“Understood, sir,” said Cheek-Dawson.

“Good. Everyone else — clear so far?”

Rye was wearing such an encouraging smile that for a moment it occurred to the Australian, Lewis, that to anyone walking in, it might seem as if they were merely being briefed for yet another practice HALO jump, except the atmosphere in the room was electric with excitement, laced through with the fear that they were going into the bear’s den.

“I’ll hand this over in a few moments to Mr. Cheek-Dawson for your detailed walk-throughs, but I do have a few closing remarks. We have — I should say MI5 and CIA have — provided us with enough information to arrange a mock-up ‘attack set’ in our Hereford house. You will all do six run-throughs — each fifteen minutes maximum — before you take off tomorrow afternoon for our forward airfields around Minsk.

“Remember the whole thrust of your training is that above all, SAS adapts to any situation faster and better than anyone else. Apart from those weapons and techniques that you’ve spent the last weeks honing to a fine point, your greatest weapon will be speed and surprise. If we had thought we could have relied on any other means to do the job, we wouldn’t have asked you. That, indeed, was my first consideration when former C in C General Freeman, who originated this plan and kept it on standby, initially presented it to me in Brussels. And if we thought we could get you in by low, radar-evading choppers, we would have also tried that. But I’m afraid the perimeter defenses of Moscow area simply made that unfeasible. The only way is to go high and drop you in. So far as getting you out — something I venture a few of you at least are interested in doing—” the laughter was short “—Royal Air Force will launch a Harrier-escorted flight of four Sea Stallion choppers for pickup—” he turned to the map “—here at Naro- Fominsk. It’s thirty miles out — closest we can possibly hope to get. But we do have surprise help for you on that score.”

“A bloody compass!” called out the Australian.

“A little better than that, Mr. Lewis,” replied Rye easily. “Sar’Major will fill you in on that. As far as the choppers go, we would have liked to have used something with a smaller silhouette than the Stallions, but each Stallion can carry enough fuel and can get thirty-five of you out in one haul — providing you can reach them. The fourth Stallion will be manned by American medical personnel. I believe they have everything aboard except the kitchen sink.” Another smarter of laughter. “Again, vertical-landing Harriers, the only fighters we can put down without an airfield, will be with them, waiting for you. I won’t insult your intelligence, gentlemen, by pretending that even if you reach Naro-Fominsk, the evacuation’s going to be any picnic. Within five minutes of you hitting the drop zone, I estimate that all SPETS outside as well as those inside the Kremlin will be alerted. Hopefully they will also be confused for a minute or so, at least when you go in, and that should give you a vital edge. Best of luck.”

With that, Major Rye let Cheek-Dawson take over. It was unstated, but the men drew confidence from the fact that the spearhead of the mission — the job of carrying out the “flush-out,” in SAS parlance, of the enemy commanders from their various offices along the eastern wing of the Council of Ministers Building — had been assigned to a veteran of such a raid: the American, Brentwood, and not automatically assigned, as often happened in line units, to the most senior officer, in this case Captain Cheek-Dawson. Every leader, despite his generalist SAS training, had sensibly been chosen because of his experience as well as SAS training, and not his rank.

“Very nice,” said Aussie, looking down at one of the lists of Russian phrases several of the NCOs were handing out. “Very nice — twenty bloody phrases to learn off by heart, but who’s the Russian specialist in our group, may I ask?”

“Why,” said Schwarzenegger, surprised that Lewis didn’t mow. “I am. I speak Russian as well as German, you know. Many Germans do. It’s—”

Lewis turned on him. “You boxhead! You never told me that. Christ — you’ve cost me a bloody fortune!”

“You never asked me,” Schwarzenegger repeated, unruffled. “Besides, I thought you were so sure that we were going to Malaya, then Korea—”

“Ah, piss off!”

David Brentwood didn’t join in the ribbing. The full realization of his awesome responsibility was now upon him like a backpack twice the weight of the 110-pound load he’d take with him out of the aircraft. And now, too, he was confronted by the memories of how he had lain petrified in the shelled moonscape during the botched-up drop of the airborne outside Stadthagen: how he had been unable to move, too afraid to move, until the SPETS bayonet appeared before his face and he’d surrendered. Oh, he’d escaped from Stadthagen, all right, but that, like the actions of so many others, had been motivated more by fear of what would happen to him if he didn’t escape. Physically he felt fit and ready enough for “Operation Merlin,” but that had all been training. Now it would be the real thing—again.

Cheek-Dawson was taking the roof off the model of the Council of Ministers, indicating to the sappers the points of the building where charges would exert most stress with the least resistance. The man in Laylor’s group passing out the list of Russian-English phrases to be memorized and practiced by morning wondered aloud what the word “Kremlin” actually meant.

“Fortress,” Cheek-Dawson answered, without looking up.

“Oh, lovely,” said Aussie, “Does that tell you something, fellas?”

“Yeah, long way from Korea, Aussie,” commented a cockney, who, turning to his mate, continued, “Poor bugger’ll owe over three hundred quid, I reckon.”

“Less than that,” said the Welshman they called “Choir” Williams.

“How come?”