batteries could knock down some of the attacking aircraft, but they couldn’t stop every incoming raid — not when EurCon planes based in France were only minutes’ flying time from targets in southern England. There were too many potential targets and too few fighters and SAM batteries available to protect them.
As a result, Ward knew, EurCon’s first attacks had been disturbingly effective. The Mirage raid on Brize Norton had killed nearly one hundred soldiers and airmen. Hundreds more were wounded, many seriously. Later raids on other bases had inflicted similar losses. The initial enemy air and submarine attacks had also destroyed a number of transport planes and cargo ships that were worth their weight in gold.
EurCon’s leaders must be hoping that expanding the war to British soil would throw the United States and its allies off balance. Certainly the losses they’d inflicted would slow the movement of British troops to Poland. And they probably hoped the Combined Forces air commanders would strengthen the U.K.’s defenses by diverting some of the American F-15 and F-16 squadrons now bombing installations inside France and Germany.
Of course, by demonstrating just how vulnerable the United Kingdom was to any enemy attack, the EurCon raids had helped spur Washington and London into approving drastic retaliatory and preemptive measures. The men in both Paris and Berlin were about to relearn the law of unintended consequences, Ward thought dourly.
He had been summoned to London from midocean late the night before — forced to endure a bumpy, low- altitude COD flight to arrive in time for this morning’s meeting hosted by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Although it had cost him a badly needed night’s sleep, a stiff neck, and a bruised backside, the show had proved well worth the price of admission.
For all his three stars, the admiral had soon realized he was a small fry in a very select group. Aside from a number of very silent junior officers present as aides, the active participants had included Britain’s Prime Minister, the heads of the British Army, the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy, the U.S. Navy’s chief of naval operations, and the U.S. Air Force general who served as vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
The Prime Minister’s first words had ended any idle speculation that they were there for a simple update or get-acquainted meeting. “I’ve just come from a secure-line conference call with the President and the Norwegian Prime Minister, gentlemen. You now have a new mission — one you will accord an equal priority with our resupply and reinforcement operations for Poland. Beginning immediately, you will exert every effort to eliminate the French tactical and strategic nuclear arsenal.”
Ward could still remember the sudden, startled murmur that had greeted the Prime Minister’s soft-spoken, matter-of-fact announcement. Going after French nukes was a serious upping of the ante. Despite the warning order he’d received from Washington indicating that such a move might be in the works, he’d never actually expected the politicians to show enough guts.
“So far, thank God, there is no indication that our enemies intend to use nuclear weapons against the United Kingdom or Norway itself, but their willingness to use them at all is rather unsettling.”
Ward shook his head, still bemused by the Prime Minister’s classic British understatement. Seeing that hideously beautiful fireball blossom near his ships had been daunting enough, The prospect of more nuclear weapons going off, this time over cities and towns, was too horrible to contemplate.
“If we win this war, and we shall do our utmost to win, Paris could well find itself with its back against a wall,” the Prime Minister had continued. “We cannot predict the actions of desperate men. Accordingly, while we know this will take substantial resources, it is vital that our national territories be protected against a last-ditch nuclear strike.”
Some of the steps the Prime Minister detailed were familiar to Ward. After all, he’d helped plan them. Other precautionary measures raised hairs on the back of his neck. Commanders aboard several of America’s
The Royal Navy’s own SSBNs were engaged in the same doomsday process. More ominously still, the RAF’s tactical nuclear weapons were being dispersed from its heavily guarded stockpiles to operational bases — ready for immediate use if need be. Selected American subs and surface ships were being rearmed with nuclear land attack Tomahawk cruise missiles and deployed into firing positions off the French coastline.
Although the Combined Forces would not initiate the use of nuclear weapons against populated areas, they were absolutely determined to make the French realize who would win and who would lose if the gloves came off.
The Gazelle pilot’s voice broke in on his grim thoughts. “Understood, Lionheart. Safe corridor is direct to Heathrow. Two six two degrees at five hundred feet.” He twisted around in his seat. “Buckle up if you please, gents. We’re on our way.”
“That was your okay?” Ward asked, complying with the tactfully disguised order.
The pilot nodded. “ADC reports the Frogs are outbound from Southampton. Our assigned flight path is clear.”
Lieutenant Harada snapped his own seat belt and shoulder harness in place. “What happens if we stray outside that corridor?”
The sandy-haired warrant officer grinned abruptly. “Then we’re fair game for any trigger-happy bugger with a gun or missile.” He faced front again and pulled up on the collective while rotating the throttle to full power.
The Gazelle lifted off in a shaking, teeth-rattling roar, sliding slowly toward the far end of the ministry’s courtyard as it climbed. Five hundred feet above the ground it spun left and dipped its nose slightly, transitioning to forward flight.
Ward stared down out the side window, fascinated by this close-up view of London from low altitude. It had still been dark when they’d arrived early this morning. Now he could see the vast city stretching out on all sides — mile after mile of public buildings, residences, and office blocks, some elegant and some drab, tall church spires, and lush, green parks.
They flew low over the landscaped splendor of St. James’s Park and past the imposing walls of Buckingham Palace. Heads on the streets below turned upward in alarm. Londoners had long-held memories of danger from the skies, and the steady stream of emergency BBC news bulletins since dawn had rekindled those memories.
Sirens howled, off in the distance at first and then closer in — audible even over the Gazelle’s clattering roar.
“Shit.” The pilot spun the helicopter right and dove, picking up speed. A broad expanse of trees, grass, and paths opened up before them. Sunlight glinted off a mile-long lake, Hyde Park’s Serpentine.
Ward and Harada heard his shouted explanation over their intercom earphones. “ADC just set Warning Red! There’s another raid inbound — heading for London this time. I’ve been ordered to set down and set down fast. When I say go, both of you hop out and run like hell for the nearest cover!”
The Gazelle swooped low over the park and flared out near a stand of trees. Its landing skids bounced lightly once and then settled firmly onto the ground. New-mown grass whirled above the cockpit, caught in the rotor wash.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Harada flipped open his seat belt and slammed the helicopter’s side door open. He dropped outside, followed a second later by Ward. Air currents whipped by the whirring rotor blades tugged and tore at their uniforms.
Crouched low to clear the rotor, both Americans raced for the trees — a clump of tall, spreading oaks. This far away from the helicopter, they could hear the air raid sirens still wailing across the city.
As he ran, Ward eyed the buildings visible to the north and south, weighing their chances of reaching a shelter in time. Then he shook his head. Hyde Park was nearly a thousand yards across at this point, and they’d come down almost smack-dab in the middle. They would have to ride out whatever was coming right here.
Once they had the Gazelle’s engine shut down, the two British crewmen scrambled out of the cockpit themselves and sprinted across the open ground, heading for the same grove. The helicopter stood deserted behind them with its doors wide open.
Ward slid to a stop beside one of the oaks and dropped prone, breathing hard. The others joined him just in time.
Bright lights streaked into the sky, moving south and east at incredible speed — missiles rising on columns of white smoke and fire. Several British-manned Patriot batteries were deployed near key installations around London. Now they were firing at attackers who were still well beyond visual range.
Seconds passed. Ward caught one blinding flash low on the southern horizon. Then nothing.
