' The Longest Night ' & ' Crossing the Rubicon ': The Original Map Illustrated and Uncut Final Volume (Armageddon's Song) (60 page)

“Whinging Pom
Monkey at One O’clock, boss.” Che informed Gary. A British RMP corporal with filtered torch was indicating they go left. Gary checked the map and saw they were now close to their harbour area where they would ready for the final push to evict the Chinese 3
rd
Army from Port Kembla, and shove them north into ruined and irradiated Sydney.

From ‘owning’ ten thousand square miles of Australia the Chinese now held an area twenty five miles long and ten miles deep. No one held the ground north of them, no sane
person would want to. The US 2
nd
Marines, 10
th
Mountain and 5
th
Mechanised Division had cleared Newcastle and then moved to the north west of Kembla, giving Sydney a wide berth. The Jocks, The Highland Brigade, were to the west and the ANZACS, with their tame Poms on attachment, had locked down the south along with the Guards Division.

It was dark in the harbour area, too dark to carry out maintenance on the vehicle without breaking black-out discipline, so they ate cold rations and slept.

USNS 
Mercy
: Bass Strait, 100 miles SE of Melbourne. 1135hrs, Sunday 23
rd
December.

Jim Popham lay pale and wan, attached to tubes and drips. He looked curiously shrunken when Pat entered the ward, his eyes dark hollows. Pat had spent the last couple of hours visiting the wounded from his so he had the whole poker face thing mastered. Visiting Mark Venables had been particularly difficult as the Hussar had been badly burned.

“No grapes?” Jim managed a painful smile at Pat not bearing gifts.

“Sorry, the greengrocer and florists were closing early for Christmas.”

Pat Reed took a seat beside the
paratrooper’s bed and looked around the ward. It was pretty full.

The
Mercy
was a converted supertanker and a pretty impressive vessel. Along with her sister ship,
Comfort
, they were taking the burden off hospitals on shore.

“What’s their story?” Pat asked, nodding to the bed opposite.

“Soon to be weds, apparently.” Jim said.

Nikki Pelham had her hand gripping that of the patient in the bed opposite, and the two of them seemed oblivious to everyone else around.

“They didn’t think he was going to make it for a day or two.”

“So what is your prognosis then?”

“Apparently the surgeon worked wonders and I can still play the saxophone, which is also slightly miraculous as I couldn’t play one before I got hit.”

An artillery round had hit the Scimitar that Jim had been stood upon. 

“So how is it going then Pat, are they going to fold do you think?”

“In a word, no.”

No one knew what was motivating the Chinese politburo, but it certainly did not seem to be common sense.

“General?”

A navy nurse had her professional smile in place and he looked at his watch. It was time to go.

“Take care Jim, I will look in on you again.”

“Don’t forget to duck, Pat.”

A Chinook took the visitors back to shore. Pat looked down at the big white hospital ship, its red crosses emblazoned along the sides and wondered how many new visits he would be making after the next attack.

Port Kembla. Monday 24
th
December.

0400hrs and a ground mist covered the coast to the south of the port of Kembla. The full moon in a cloudless night sky illuminated it, and those preparing for battle viewed it with either wonder or dread.

At Albatross the crews had been roused for the first sorties of the day and
Nikki looked at her coffee and decided on water instead. Across the mess hall table her new RIO almost had a permanent startled look about him, and she wondered if he had even started shaving yet.

Her RIO looked at her
with trepidation. This was his first operational sortie and the driver was a legend, Commander Nikki Pelham.

Absolutely no pressure at all, hey?

“Er, Ma’am…the flight surgeon was looking for you?”

She had felt pretty dreadful these last few days since the air raid, but with her promotion had come the position of XO, and XOs didn’t wuss out. Maybe someone told the flight surgeon she was out of sorts?
Post-traumatic stress disorder after surviving two vaporised carriers and nine months almost constant combat. The only other possibility was the mandatory drink and drugs tests, and she did little of the first and none of the second.

“I’ll catch him later,” she said dismissively “Come on, it is time for the mission briefing.”

He had no idea what today would entail.

“What are we doing, CAP?”

“CAS for the Brits.”

“Is CAS more difficult than CAP?”

“It’s just a walk in the park, Kozanski”

“Johnson Ma’am, my name is Johnson.”

“Yup, that fits.”

Thirty miles north at that same moment in time the most important meal of the day was being eaten cold out of a can of compo and very little time was spent over the washing-up before moving off to the FUPs.

“Company Sarn’t Major Osgood?”

“Sir?”

“You are a tad over-dressed aren’t you?” RSM Tessler stated critically. Oz was cammed up and ready to go, stood beside one of the
company headquarters FV-432s and about to seat himself with the FAC.

Oz had been in the thick of it in the very first battle of the war but had been put in the back seat, as it were, for a rest in Germany. He was now equipped more like a buckshee rifleman in one of the sections instead of someone with a job at the back of the fight.

There was no one else in earshot.

“Take care of yourself out there mate,” Ray offered him his hand.

“You too, and now I’d best get aboard before the grown-ups notice.”

The battalion mounted up and moved out, heading for the forming up point and thence to the start line.

At 0500hrs the artillery opened fire, targeting the Chinese forward positions and at 0530hrs the combined NATO divisions stepped off.

At Albatross Nikki performed the pre-flight inspection on her aircraft as it sat like a brooding bird of prey in its cage of blast walls. It was a D Model, a rare breed these days, and the only one with ‘The Orphans’, the survivors of the
Nimitz
and
Constellation
. Nikki was also of course the last survivor of the
John F Kennedy
, and the last time she had flown an F-14D had been off its deck. This aircraft sported a brand new red star, her twentieth confirmed kill, which made her the navies top serving scorer with a four victories lead on the next nearest contender. Aces of course will still carry out a thorough pre-flight unless scrambled, checking surface condition, panels and fasteners, looking for leaks and misplaced screw drivers, and FOD hazards a tired mechanic could have overlooked. Twenty three headings on the checklist, with sub headings in between, before she signed for it.

Out in the darkness the airfield was very much alive despite the blackout.

British Tornados and Jaguars, Australian and US F/A-18s, and of course the Tomcats. The odd menagerie that had been The Pearce Wing was gone now, and so to had many of its colourful members. Even a skilled pilot is on borrowed time flying elderly F-5s and Hawk trainers against the Sukhois of the Chinese and Russian naval air wings who were their opponents. The half strength wings had been reinforced by new aircraft from China, via Mactan and the tankers based there. That of course had ended with the capture of the airfield and base there.

Over three thousand miles away to the north west the Italian, German and French air forces were operating out of Mactan and Mindanao, where Christians and Muslims had put aside their differences for the time being and ended Chinese occupation with the help of French and British marines. The writing was on the wall for the People’s Republic but saving face seemed more important than suing for peace.

The enemy naval air wings in Australia were the first item of business today for the RAF. The Tornados were bombed up with JP233 runway denial weapons and the Jaguars were the Wild Weasel flak suppressors paying an early morning visit to Illawarra airfield, on the edge of the lake by the same name. It was the last operational airbase in Australia that the Chinese had.

The remainder of ‘The Pearce Wing’, the Orphans and the Aussies, were providing close air support for the ANZACs and British Army ground units along with USAF A-10s out of Jervis Bay, with USAF F-15s
and 16s flying CAP out of Canberra International, as were the tankers, AWACS and JSTARS. It was set to be a busy day and a crowded sky. 

“Elephant Walk in ten, Commander.” She was hailed by a ground marshal.

“What’s an Elephant Walk, Ma’am?” queried her new RIO.

Nikki couldn’t help it
, and smiled as she spoke, despite thinking sadly of the last person to ask that of her.

“About fifty miles a day, lieutenant.”

  Rangi Hoana was the first to notice.

Sat on a thunder box he saw that there was no-one in the nearest watchtower. The dim electric lighting was still present along the fence top but the sentries were absent. Weak from dysentery, as was everyone in the camp, he finished his business and hobbled to the end of the line of portaloos to look along the fence and then he hurried, as best he could to the Russians container waking Karl Putchev with the news that the gates were still firmly barred but that the guards had disappeared.

“Do you think they shipped out?” Reg Hollis asked.

“Hardly likely, everything is pretty well blockaded, from what we’ve heard…” the sound of the opening barrage began as a distant rumble, like thunder in the mountains.

“No, I think they have gone off to fight.” Karl Putchev stated. “A maximum effort.”

“Where are the work party from yesterday, did they come back last night? Perhaps they heard something?”

Two hundred prisoners had been loaded up and taken away the day before and a check revealed they had not returned. It wasn’t unusual for them to use the prisoners for work details, even in sensitive areas where the men had returned with titbits’ of information Karl Putchev somehow seemed to be able to pass on.

They waited for an hour, to be completely certain that the guards were not coming back from some urgent task, before forcing the gate to the women’s compound and checking they were still safe and well. Finally they forced open the main gate, and took tentative steps beyond it, wary of a trap. It would be a shame to get shot when liberation was just a few miles distant.

The barracks and administration blocks were empty, as was the food store of course.

“I think we should make a run for it.” Someone said.

“Run where, and why?”

They stayed put, within the confines of their stockade, voluntarily this time, and waited.

The engine start up went without a hitch and they sat there for several minutes waiting for the marshals to light their wands and guide them forwards.

Nikki applied the right brake when the marshal pointed to their starboard gear, turning onto the taxiway.

Her RIO was twisting about in his seat, no doubt gawping at the sudden appearance of so many aircraft in close proximity to one another and all plodding along. Not quite nose to tail, but pretty close. Two replacements, both F-14As, were assigned to
‘Smackdown’
flight and they followed the leader.

Royal Air Force Jaguars of No. 54 Squadron took off first, followed by
the flight of three Tornado GR4s from 31 Squadron who were carrying out the runway attack. That was all the Tornados that were left, aside from two damaged aircraft being cannibalised for parts to keep the trio flying. The RAAF F/A-18s followed them, and finally The Orphans.  

Climbing to 12,000ft they tanked over the sea with warships of the allied sat below on its mirror-like calm, waiting to be called upon to lend gunfire support also. It was crystal clear with visibility good enough to watch the specks engaged over the airfield. The Jaguars attacked and the first Tornado went in but sheared off without releasing the ordnance.

“Abort, abort…friendlies….”
A bright flash cut off the rest of the transmission as the aircraft was brought down by ground fire.

A Jaguar finished the transmission. The two runways, north/south and east/west, had POWs penned near to the runways in concertina wire enclosures. The 30 detonating submunitions would undoubtedly cause fatalities among the prisoners and the British pilot did not find that acceptable.

Illawarra was still operational and the Sukhois were now coming up to meet them.

Baz Cotter and 12 Platoon walked slowly north as the darkness gave way to the first rays of daylight, and as that light increased he beheld with some awe the colossal allied effort, with men and machines moving at a walking pace, as far as the eye could see.