Operation Yegorov - Repost

[Jotun]

With many thanks to beaverjohn for providing me with my story.


Operation 'Yegorov' - The attack on the West German Regierungsbunker on D-Day


9th April, 2005, GRU headquarters

"So, comrades, we are finally in agreement, operation 'Yegorov' is a go."
"Yes, comrade General, we will allocate two battalions' worth of desantniki to the operation to augment your Spetsnaz troops."
On the desk of the general commanding the Red Army's own intelligence service, the GRU, lay a file from the archives of this august organization, containing a copy of a master's thesis in military science submitted to Frunze Academy by a certain Major Siegfried Lautsch, NVA of the DDR, titled: "Decapitation Strike - Neutralizing the Enemy High Command using Commando Troops. An Exemplary Case Study Using the Example of the BRD's Government Bunker." It had been graded "A" by the then-Commandant of the Frunze Academy. Its author by now was a Lieutenant General on the DDR's Defense Council. The study had diligently been converted into a war plan by the GRU during the late Eighties, then been forgotten in the upheaval after the death of Mikhail Gorbachev and just been saved from gathering another centimeter of dust a few days ago.

The GRU had approached the Defence Minister as well as the general commanding the Western TVD with the suggestion of including the Regierungsbunker into the primary list of targets to be attacked the very moment hostilities were initiated along the Warsaw Pact/NATO borders. While the installation had never been sufficient to weather direct or even adjacent hits by nuclear warheads - a peculiarity of the shale bedrock the converted train tunnels were located under - the bunker was just too expansive and widespread to be comfortably taken out by non-nuclear airstrikes alone.

"I am still not quite as optimistic as you are," the general commanding the Red Army's paratroopers added, "but the dice are cast. Remember, success has many fathers. Failure, on the other hand..." He trailed off.

"I am well aware of that", the head of the GRU retorted, "and I want to remind all of you of the consequences loose lips might have." The implications of these words were all too clear to the generals present as they picked up their notes and prepared to leave. All that was left to do was preparing the men as thoroughly as possible in the short amount of time that was left. Of course, they had to be assembled first.

"[...]The amount of important individuals and organizations in the bunker at that time made it a viable target for any military planner worth their pay. Had the operation been successful, there would have been a significant leadership vacuum in the West German chain of command and the battle for West Germany might well have taken a different route from the one we know. However, this is something to be debated by the frivolous bunch known in this country as Uchronists.[1]
The Bundeswehr consequently had been aware that a concentration of civilian and military leadership as could be found in the government bunker during wartime constituted such an opportunity as to be almost impossible to resist and had thus been planning and practising the protection of the installation for decades.

The shortcomings of the bunker, inherent in its conception and construction, were well known to the West German government (and by way of the Stasi’s foreign intelligence, also the East Germans and Soviets), however after the demise of tactical nuclear weapons as an imminent threat that made an exchange of strategic nuclear weapons increasingly unlikely, there were numerous smaller and bigger modifications to its physical construction, but also to its defence and inner organization that were, if at all, only partly known in the East and thus contributed to the end result.

[...]

Furthermore, the code name of the mission seems to have its roots in Soviet World War Two myth. The image of the (alleged) eponymous Red Army soldier planting a Soviet flag on the Reichstag at the end of that conflict seems to have clouded the minds of the persons responsible to the point where crucial mistakes were made.

Until early 2005, the mission had been a mere academic exercise, existing only in the minds of maybe two handfuls of high-ranking Red Army and GRU officers and in some yellowing sheaves of paper in the basement of GRU and Army headquarters and, interestingly, a study from the archives of Frunze Academy in the form of a master's thesis in military science penned by an East German student in the late eighties. In the frantic weeks of the Polish Crisis, however, these plans were taken off the shelf, dusted off and one battalion of the 45th Detached Spetsnaz Regiment[2] as well as two battalions thrown together from various Guards Air Assault divisions from across the country were chosen for execution of the mission. The transport planes were to come in at low level on the heels of a major air strike against West German and NATO installations in the general area, the government bunker complex only one target amongst many in order to mask that it was the main target of the operation, performing a combat drop of its occupants directly on top of the bunker’s location.

The Spetsnaz battalion was tasked with breaching the defences of the bunker complex, entering it and killing as many of its occupants as possible while the two "ordinary" para battalions were supposed to provide protection against West German reinforcements and relief forces. After a successful execution of the mission, the troops were to advance on the twin cities of Bad Neuenahr and Ahrweiler, located very close by, occupying vital buildings and infrastructure in another coup de main and (hopefully) bind NATO troops that would be more urgently needed at the immediate front, thus acting as a force multiplier. It was expected of the troops to hold out until the planned "liberation" of the West German capital three or so days after initiation of hostilities.

[...]

The men of the West German Wachbataillon that were known to be tasked with the immediate defence of the emergency government seat were dismissed as little more than glorified parade troops, much akin to the Taman Guards of the Kremlin. Evidence that the core NCO and officer cadre in the companies not on schedule for representative duty had in the past six years been recruited from the elite infantry units of the West German army (paratroopers, light infantry, mountain infantry, KSO), navy (naval infantry and KSK) and air force (object protection battalions) had blithely been ignored or downplayed. The Wachbataillon had also often been pitted against numerous West German and other NATO elite units in field exercises as the defending force and given a consistently high account of itself.
As it happened, the failure of the action helped to galvanize the resolve of most of the bunker's inhabitants, not least of all the West German chancellor himself."

- "Commando Operations of the Red Army in World War Three's European Theatre", Prof.em. Dr. Michael Wolffsohn, Bonn/Berlin 2014



10th April, 2005, the Ahr valley in the middle of a vineyard, on top of the West German government bunker

"GoddDAMNit, you bumbling Honks[3], were you ASLEEP every f****ing time we practiced camouflage and silent movement in the field over the last weeks? You are only marginally less obvious than a NEON sign on the thrice-damned REEPERBAHN!" Hauptfeldwebel Stefan Ahlers, formerly of the KSO and now a platoon 2 i/c in the Wachbataillon, was livid. That was an understatement. Normally one of the most equanimous people in the whole unit, as close to unflappable as possible without actually being dead, the performance of 'his' platoon preparing the defense of the wartime seat of the government was abominable. Maybe the boys had spent too much time in the last quarter year or so 'protting', which was what the troops called the endless and demanding close-order drills for representative or protocol (hence the name) purposes.

Now that by all accounts the Warsaw Pact was getting frisky on the other side of the wire, all nine companies of the Wachbataillon beim Bundesministerium der Verteidigung had put their public role aside, with six of them tasked with preparing and, if necessary, executing the defense of the bunker. The other three guarded the government quarter in Bonn, about 30 kilometers to the north. Officially and ostentatiously, this was just part of a large-scale exercise involving the better part of the NATO troops stationed in and around West Germany. Obviously, the Wachbataillon was in dire need of some practice time in the field. Better to be prepared. All of this might -as usual- end with some foul compromise but nobody will kill the Chancellor on my watch.

The Guards Battalion, with roughly 1.800 men more a regiment in strength than a battalion, was one of the first units to be raised for the young Bundeswehr on 15th February, 1957. The only unit to be exempt from the Traditionserlass -the 'order of tradition' which limits the units the Bundeswehr can refer to when it comes to tradition to those deemed politically acceptable- it can trace its lineage to the Erstes Garde-Regiment zu Fuß and Infanterie-Regiment 9 and thus to the year 1688 and Frederick William I of Prussia's, the Soldier King's, Prussian Giants.
Infantry Regiment 9 is remarkable in that 21 out of the 29 officers who held the rank of captain and up in the unit in 1933 emerged as members of the military resistance to the Third Reich, nineteen of whom were executed for treason after the failed attempt on Hitler's life on 20th July, 1944.
The battalion's stated role was high-visibility protocol duties for visiting heads of state, performing the Grand Tattoo and representing the West German government on other official occasions where a military presence was needed.
Less known but infinitely more important was the role directly derived from its name, guarding the government. To this end, the battalion's soldiers were all trained as light infantry with the NCO posts in the non-protocol sub units being filled by the various elite infantry units of the West German armed forces.

Enough of that. Ahlers shook himself from his thoughts. "Well, then, gentlemen," he shouted ironically, "You know the drill. AGAAAAAAAAIN! Even if the water in your butt is boiling, we stay out in the field until you damn well get it right!"

[1] Uchronia - Synonymous for "Alternate History" (see wikipedia entry "Alternate History" for details)
[2] Based on @’s 45th Detached Reconnaissance Regiment
[3] Honk: Colloquialism that was born during the late nineties/early 00s. Synonymous to idiot or fool. in the Bundeswehr, it is rumoured that it is actually an acronym meaning Heeressoldat ohne nennenswerte Kenntnisse (army soldier without mentionable/meaningful knowledge/abilities).

[Jotun]

12th April, 2005, an airfield somewhere in Southwestern Ukraine

An An-70 'Crutch' transport plane touched down on the piano keys at the end of the runway, decelerating and then taxiing to a closed-off part of the airfield which was a hive of frantic activity. Dozens, maybe hundreds of Red Army soldiers milled about several hangars. Most of them wore the sky-blue beret and striped t-shirts of the airborne forces while others, looking somewhat more scruffy and nondescript, were obviously Spetsnaz.

The four-engine turboprop aircraft came to a stop outside a hangar and began to lower its rear ramp, moments later disgorging another company of desantniki who stepped onto the tarmac, looking around, wondering what they had gotten mixed up in. A paratrooper captain accompanied by a warrant officer approached them and, using a bullhorn over the din of the exercising men and running engines, addressed the new arrivals, „Welcome, comrades. I am Captain Novikov. This, on my right side, is Warrant Officer Timoshchuk. You are to follow him to your accommodations. Training will begin shortly. For the duration of your assignment, you will officially be part of the 110th Special Purpose Construction Battalion. Congratulations on having been volunteered for a vital mission.“ The irony of the last part of the short speech escaped the officer, causing the troops to grin, shake their heads and murmur among themselves.

Their former ride began to taxi to a large hangar. Its doors were half-open and another An-70 could be seen, almost completely painted in West German Luftwaffe colours with several men apparently applying the final touches, down to the Iron Cross and the aircraft number. One of the older sergeants in the group of new arrivals thought to himself, West German paint scheme? This is going to be interesting.


Regierungsbunker, 13th April, 2005

Hauptfeldwebel Ahlers was satisfied with the performance of his troops for a change. Hours and hours of daily (and nightly) combat drills would do that, he reflected as he watched his men practice fire and maneuver drills in the wooded area above the wineyards on the southern slope of the mountain the government bunker was located under. Based on what he heard from the other senior NCOs and the more experienced officers, the battalion's troops were beginning to shape up just fine. The daily improvement was almost palpable.

„Moin, Stefan,“ came a voice from behind him, „do you have a second?“ Ahlers turned around and saw the imposing figure of Stabsbootsmann (Senior Chief Petty Officer) Thorge Mühl, a former Kampfschwimmer who still looked the part at 6'2“ tall and seemingly almost as wide at the shoulders. He was the company chief of the Guards Battalion's 4th company which represented the navy. „A handful of the senior sergeants and I had a little brainstorming session yesterday evening – no beer involved, though, don't lift your eyebrow at me like that – and we came up with the idea of doing some work-level acquisitions in our home units for some specialized weapons our boys might put to good use if or when Ivan comes for a visit. I am talking about things like suppressed SMGs and sniper rifles, night scopes and lasers and all that good stuff we do not have available here. If we act quickly, we might get the equipment early enough to teach the lads how to use them properly. I hear you do have an especially good relationship with the KSO loggies. Would you...“
Ahlers performed an imaginary facepalm. Why hadn't he thought of that himself? It might give the battalion the extra edge. The terrain around the bunker was tailor-made for that kind of combat. Lots of cover and concealment, ambush opportunities...
„No need to sell this idea to me, Thorge. I am kicking myself at the moment because it didn't even occur to me.“
„Nah, you had your hands more than full bringing your boys into fighting shape.“
„Right. Uh, I need a phone. Now. Be so kind and tell my company commander I am off doing sergeantly things.“ Ahlers took off at a quick jog in the direction of the bunker complex's main entrance.

Along the way, he saw several off-duty infantry squads doing the rounds of the premises who were apparently familiarizing themselves with the terrain without the by now all too common stress of exercising distracting them, discussing tactics and hiding places. He even saw several lieutenants participating which was gratifying. They even had maps out and were working with them. Maybe the increasingly likely prospect of being directly responsible for the life and health of their men was to thank for that. Or maybe they were just decent young officers. Rumour had it that those actually existed, Ahlers thought, amused.


14th April, Training Site, Ukraine

It was a somewhat chilly day and the paratroopers and Spetsnaz of the 110th Special Purpose Construction Battalion had finally reached a point where they could begin to practice initial maneuvers of their upcoming mission in West Germany. By now, even the most wet-nosed new trooper knew that they were part of something important. The rumour mill was in overdrive as the men kept speculating about what lay ahead of them. Training had until now only encompassed the usual daily fire and manoueuvre drills, armed and unarmed close combat as well as a healthy dose of girevoy sports and running. They had also noticed that their entire part of the air base had been thoroughly cordoned off, with several areas hidden behind 20 feet high fences wrapped in camouflage netting.
Presently, a Zil vehicle with a loudspeaker array mounted on top made its rounds of the closed-off premises, blasting the message, „All units present are to assemble in the gymnasium at precisely 1800 hours for an announcement by the commanding officer and head political officer.“


Regierungsbunker area, West Germany

„Gentlemen,“ the Commanding Officer of the Wachbataillon addressed the troops assembled in front of him, almost all of the six companies allotted to the defence of the bunker save for a skeleton gurad force,“I have grave and important news for you. As you know, yesterday, the State of Tension was announced by the government. Your company and platoon leaders have already informed you about what this means for us. This morning, parliament has invoked the complete mobilization of the Bundeswehr to prepare for an attack by the Warsaw Pact. The chances that the present crisis will pass without serious consequences are shrinking by the hour.

I am certain most of you will want to contact their friends and relatives and make sure everything is okay. We will determine a schedule for those of you who wish to send e-mails or phone home. Effective immediately, the use of private mobile phones is forbidden, for obvious reasons. This includes the NCOs and officers, all of them, not forgetting myself. To ensure compliance, all mobile phones and mobile internet sticks will be collected on company level for the duration.

Furthermore, all troops will be on a crisis footing with the appropriate changes to watch cycles and active troop strength. I urge you all to face this new development with all of your considerable professionalism and heart. Not a single one of us ever believed things could deteriorate this much. Now we have to adapt and master the new tasks ahead of us. I know none of you will let yourself, your unit or your country down. Let us all pray that despite the signs to the contrary, we will be able to go home without having to fight.“

He straightened. "Company commanders, take over. Dismissed." He assumed the 'attention' position, saluting his men, then turned around smartly. "Ach-TUNG!", he heard the battalion XO shout, the battalion coming to attention almost as one man. "Eyes RIGHT!" His face set in a bland mask, his mind was going into overdrive. We need a command huddle as soon as possible. I want to make damn sure we have all bases covered.

[Jotun]

April 18th, 2005, Dienststelle Marienthal

The past four days had been full of work for the Guards Battalion. NATO’s full mobilization had driven home to even the most dense and/or unwilling recruit that things were serious, the situation was bad and steadily getting worse.
To the leadership’s credit, there had been a marked decrease in the usual male bovine excrement work details. Not that there was much choice. Preparing the defence was paramount. The Lieutenant Colonel commanding the Battalion had even encouraged input by all ranks concerning ideas to improve upon the defence measures.

One of the older sergeants had recalled an exercise in the eighties in which the Belgian Para Commandos had been pitted against the battalion and given the defenders of the Regierungsbunker an especially hard time, thanks to reconnaissance the Belgians had conducted in the days before the exercise wearing civilian clothes and posing as recreational walkers. Nearly everybody was aware of Fifth Columnists or pre-inserted Soviet or East German Special Forces likely to roam West Germany and reconnoitering worthwhile targets. As a consequence, the area around the bunker, especially the ground around the three entrances, had been declared military security area and civilians were turned away politely but very firmly.
While the original defence plan had been sound enough, it was clear that it was in all likelihood known to the enemy and that changes were very necessary.

Through informal contacts, a Territorial engineer battalion had been recruited to help with improving the physical security of the bunker’s surroundings. The Pioniere had requisitioned several dozen coils of NATO-Draht or razor wire which were used to seal off every convenient approach to the defence area and to channel possible attackers into easily defensible zones. To this end, the infantrymen and the engineers had also felled several hundred trees to make sturdier obstacles and to clear fields of fire.

A handful of enterprising engineers had turned up with several trucks’ worth of wooden poles and green plastic-coated wire which were used to turn the so-called Luftlandewiese, or air-landing meadow – the only viable place an airborne assault could take place - to the north of the main entrance into a paratrooper’s nightmare by driving the poles into the meadow at varying heights and stringing the wire among the poles. Every broken ankle, spine or leg would be worth the extra work.

The engineers had also given the infantrymen pointers on the construction of hides and small firing positions. Most of the approaches to the bunker had by now been studded with tripwires and Vietcong-style traps that would be further upgraded by antipersonnel mines when the time had come.

In order to scare off unwanted attention, the men had taken up aggressive patrolling at irregular intervals and along changing patrol routes with the patrols now carrying a full war load of ammunition for their small arms. Grenades and explosives were held back until they would be needed.

This morning, Hauptfeldwebel Ahlers had decided to accompany an infantry squad of his company on their patrol. While he did trust the the junior Feldwebel to do his job properly, there was always a possibility that he could teach the men a technique or three from his KSO days that might help them survive later on.
“Okay, Dirk, let’s head out. And do not worry, I am not really here. The patrol is all yours”, he told the NCO who had been in rank for all of eighteen days and who had just returned from the general and specialized Feldwebel training courses and who was still a bit nervous about his new status in the company.

The patrol set out on its way which had been determined by the roll of dice and the throw of coins. Apart from certain points that had to be checked during every patrol such as the emergency exits and the ventilation shafts no two patrols were ever the same. Who would have thought that the battalion XO had been an avid pen and paper role player during his university days who still carried around his collection of dice, Ahlers thought with an amused smirk. He approved of this kind of thinking. Predictability could kill.

It was a very cool and foggy morning, with the mist hanging between the trees and in the valleys. The patrol leader had a new, sophisticated and very expensive IR scope with him that had until two days ago been sitting on a shelf in Calw. Feldwebel Dirk Pavenmeyer periodically held it to his eyes looking at obvious and not-so obvious places unfriendly observers might be hiding. Until now, the patrols had found nothing.
An hour into their patrol, they came to a place that let Ahlers’ acquired instincts tingle. “Dirk”, he called out quietly, “let us halt for a minute. Take a good look around and tell me what you see.”

The young sergeant suppressed his slight nervousness – Ahlers had a reputation as a very demanding but fair taskmaster - and signaled his men to take up security positions. “Take a drink but don’t slack up.” He was surprised to see one of the troopers produce a blue canteen emblazoned with a yellow “13”. Dirk methodically began to scan his surroundings using his naked eyes and occasionally the IR scope. “What you can see, tell me you must, young Padawan”, Ahlers croaked in a passable Yoda voice, the humour setting Pavenmeyer at ease. The Feldwebel looked around some more, consulting the map of the area a couple of times. “The way I see it, there is a very good position from which to watch the western entrance of the bunker complex. There is enough vegetation for concealment over there and the ground looks soft enough for a hide.”
“Anything else?”
“Uhm, I’d split off two fire teams from the patrol, the main group continuing on our scheduled way, with the teams giving that spot a closer look. Iiiiii…”
“Yes?”
“I’d also mark the point for closer scrutiny, maybe mine it so it cannot be used to fire on the entrance and the defenders. It’s a sniper’s or FAC’s wet dream and a natural position for an attacker to take. Amazing high ground.”
Ahlers was very satisfied. “Good job and both thumbs up. The major threw the dice just right today.”

Several minutes later, two fire teams slowly and methodically searched the ground around the vantage point. The men had fixed bayonets and were probing the ground ahead of them. One of them crouched to take a closer look. Damn. It looked just like… Yes. He crept a little closer, crouching down. Yes, there it was. A slit in the surface of the slope, a double layer of Brit camouflage shawl with a spray-painted teleoptic lens poking through just visible. The lens cap had an irregular square cut out. The whole setup was next to invisible from more than two or three metres away. He signaled the patrol, turning to the rest of the detached fire teams to make them crouch and take up security positions.

Ahlers and Pavenmeyer showed up. “Okay, then”, Ahlers half-whispered. “My turn. Dirk, you watch and learn. Have everybody back up at least twenty metres.”

[Jotun]

18th April, "Dienststelle Marienthal"

The patrol was back at their company field camp. Ahlers and Feldwebel Pavenmeyer were doing the debriefing with the battalion XO.
“So, gentlemen, what is your recommendation on how to further proceed with that OP?”
“Sergeant Pavenmeyer had a good idea, Sir,” Ahlers replied. “After we made certain that there was no IED or an alarm circuit in the observation post – which was constructed according to the relevant Soviet field manual, by the way – Mr. Pavenmeyer suggested recording the serial numbers of the camera and the tele-optical lens as well as the computer so they can be tracked down. He also suggested copying the hard disk’s contents so somebody who isn't a grunt can analyze it and maybe find something to help nail the bastards. It could help the police or the BKA or the BfV, whoever has jurisdiction.”

“I believe that would be in the MAD’s purview as the OP is on Bundeswehr turf,” the major remarked.
“As long as there is somebody who IS responsible, sir. Maybe we should ask the blokes in the bunker? There are more than enough representatives of the various agencies in there, after all. There should also be IT specialists who can show us how to best leech the data off the hard disk.”
“So, you are volunteering?” the XO smiled.
“Damn straight, sir!” came the answer from the young Feldwebel, surprising both Ahlers and the major.
“I concur, Herr Major”, Ahlers said, happy with Pavenmeyer’s enthusiasm.
“We should also think of a way to deal with the OP when the Russkies come,” Pavenmeyer added. “Maybe some kind of command-detonated charge? I bet Hauptfeldwebel Ahlers could cook something up.”
Ahlers did indeed have an idea. “Absolutely. Sir, I’ll keep you posted via my company commander. Trust me, you will love it.”
“Okay, gentlemen, if that is all, you are dismissed,” the battalion XO said, nonchalantly adding, “No need for springing to attention. Especially not here in the field.”
Both NCOs excused themselves and left to tackle their new tasks.


Later that night, somewhere over western Ukraine

The repainted An-70 “Crutch” wobbled and bucked alarmingly as it sped over the Ukrainian countryside loaded with one and a half companies' worth of armed-to-the-teeth desantniki, leading a formation of five further An-70s. The planes had taken on their freight, two battalions of paratroopers and a battalion of vysotniki spetsnaz several hours ago and had embarked upon a circuitous course simulating the time it would take the units to be taken to their objective, the “heart of Fascist revanchism and irredentism”, as the head briefer had so succinctly - and uniquely Soviet - put it. Not that many of the men cared about such political slogans. Most were simply itching to fight. If it took out the enemy leadership and shortened the time it would take to liberate West Germany, so much the better.

One of the older Warrant Officers looked about the darkened interior of the plane and reflected that simulating the entirety of the approach to their target under wartime conditions was a sensible idea. It never hurt to assess the fighting capacity of a unit when the men were tired, sore and cramped up from sitting wedged into what could only charitably be called seats for hours on end and shaken about like clothes in a washing machine – and puked empty he added, darkly amused as yet another trooper emptied the contents of his stomach into a barf bag.
The stench in the freight compartment had turned decidedly sour in the thirty or so minutes since the “Crutch” formation had descended to terrain-following altitude.

While he was a veteran who had taken part in the mess in Afghanistan and had hundreds of training jumps and even a handful of combat jumps under his belt, the NCO was nearing the end of even his considerable resistance to motion sickness…the flight was on the verge of turning from mildly annoying to seriously sickening for him.

He looked to the rear of the plane where the jump masters were just getting up and signaled the five-minute mark to the paratroopers.
While the jump masters went through their check list preparing for the jump proper, the ride became even less smooth as the plane descended even lower, to their jump altitude.
Finally, the desantniks got the signal to hook up. They swayed back and forth and to the sides nearly in unison as they stood with their legs slightly apart and bent at the knees, compensating for the movement of their ride.
The occasional puking had died down as training and professionalism took over the minds of the men. They stood upright, faces stolid under their layers of camouflage paint.

At the one-minute mark the jump masters opened the jump doors of the plane and checked the immediate surroundings of the plane as well as the door frames.

Thirty seconds. The lead jumpers stood in the door frames, ready for the signal to hurl themselves into the dark void beneath them. The jump signal turned green. The jump master’s assistants yelled “Go, go, go!” and slapped the lead jumpers on the butt.
The desantniki jumped in carefully determined intervals. As usual, there were one or two men who had to be kicked from the plane but otherwise the jump went off without a hitch. In a matter of less than a minute, over eight hundred men had jumped from half a dozen planes in a letter-perfect night drop, as the political officer overseeing the airborne part of the final exercise jubilantly reported to HQ by voice transmission.
One of the aircrew in the leading plane’s cockpit, the co-pilot, secretly thought to himself as the An-70 banked on course to home base, Of course the jump went well. Nobody was shooting at us and we know the LZ by heart. Say what you want about NATO, but they sure aren’t the slouches our propaganda makes them out to be.

He overheard further snippets of the zampolit’s enthusiastic reporting, turned towards his pilot and rolled his eyes while making a masturbatory gesture with the hand leeward of the political officer. The pilot grinned back and held a finger to his lips. The co-pilot turned back towards his tasks. Only time would tell how the real mission turned out. It was not their place to ask questions.
“Ours is not to reason why, ours is just to do and die…,” he murmured under his breath, in English. A Russian could have written that. He mentally shrugged and concentrated on getting the plane back on the ground. He longed for a shower and a good night's sleep.

[Jotun]

20th April, 0230 CEST, A slope near Dienststelle Marienthal

Two clumps of weeds and twigs were lying on the side of the low shale mountain the West German government bunker was located under. Any casual observer would have dismissed the clumps instantly and subconsciously as just more vegetation on a site replete with it. Looking closer, one would have seen gentle, ever-so-slow and deliberate movement, inches at a time, almost imperceptible. The two clumps were actually two officers of the notorious Staatssicherheit’s Einsatzgruppen, unfortunately named and trained for clandestine action ranging from covert surveillance to assassinations and acts of terrorism deep in enemy terrain.
The two men formed a sniper/observer/forward air controller team and they were headed towards a hide that had been dug into the slope over a period of several months by several low-level agents of the HVA.

The senior of the two men was a twenty-year Einsatzgruppen veteran who had earned his spurs abducting politically important refugees back into the DDR or in some cases assassinating them in the mid to late eighties. By some miracle, he had never been uncovered in the cataclysmic intelligence upheaval after the Chinese solution had been applied to the demonstrations in the DDR and had been reactivated in 1997. The other was a young Leutnant who had excelled in training and had yet to complete a mission in West Germany. In contrast to his jaded and borderline sociopathic team leader, he found it difficult to reconcile his political indoctrination with how he perceived life to be in the Federal Republic of Germany. Maybe his superiors should not have assigned him a deep-cover job as a librarian in the Rhenish Friedrich-Wilhelms-University in Bonn. All those young – and female – students…
Some agony-filled time later, both clumps had converged on the entrance to the hide, and after carefully checking that the tell-tales were still in place, had entered the subterranean chamber.

A few hundred metres away, in a camouflaged tent, a Bundeswehr PFC looked up from a computer monitor. “Herr Oberleutnant,” he addressed the leader of the current guard shift, “There is activity in the hide. Looks like two individuals have taken up residence.” The officer went to the PFC. “Let me take a look, Mr Wollowski.” He fiddled with the controls of the two hidden multi-spectral cameras aimed at the observation post, shifting between the two angles of view and rewinding the footage a few times. “I concur. This tells us something. Ivan is coming.” He gulped. Nobody wanted to go to war. Not him, not the young conscript next to him, nobody.

“Runner, inform HQ that things have gotten real. The vulture is in his roost. Oh, do NOT hurry. Go slowly, smoke a cigarette. Look casual, maybe even bored. We do not want to tell those guys that we are on to them,” he said to another PFC who had been reactivated after exactly fourteen days of civilian life following his eighteen month conscription. The Oberleutnant had an idea. Maybe we can lull those types for a bit. Fake disinterest and sloppiness. They are likely to report to their masters. Yeah. I’ll ask the captain tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the two commandos, unaware that they had been detected already and thus were living on borrowed time, were assembling the tools of their trade after they had made sure the prepositioned equipment, especially the camera and the computer, were still in working order.
The team leader lovingly assembled as VSS Vintorez sniper rifle while his number two did the same with a West German PSG-1 that had been filched from a Border Guards storage site. Both had Ceska Skorpion SMGs as their backup weapons. That done, they began to assemble a compact laser designator . Finally, they sent a short report back home via SATCOM. The time of waiting began.


20th April, 1400 LCL, Ukraine, training site of 110th Special Purpose Construction Battalion

All men designated for the upcoming operation against the West German leadership were assembled and standing at attention in one of the hangars, a jury-rigged platform with a large Soviet flag as backdrop in front of them.

General Viktor Arkadievich Yelchin, officer commanding the VDV and also responsible for the raid – the GRU knew very well to cover their butts even in advance, he reflected cynically – looked down at the almost nine hundred men in front of him, making sure not to look too often in the direction where the youthful face of Junior Lieutenant Anton Viktorovich Yelchin, his only child, could be seen alongside his platoon. Yelchin senior had been through a particularly hard school, including three deployments to the savage highlands of Afghanistan but the thought of sending his own son into danger tied his stomach into painful knots. Not that sending the other men into the maw of the eagle was much easier to him. Known and revered as a father figure to his men, although a stern and demanding taskmaster, he still, in over thirty years of service, had not mastered the aloofness that would allow him to sacrifice the forces under him without blinking. He would do it, of course, but that did not mean he had to like it. There was a high probability that most of the men would be lying in an early grave in just two days’ time.

Yelchin was aware that the Bundeswehr were anything but pushovers, the dismissiveness of military intelligence of their abilities notwithstanding, but of course he would order the mission to be launched. He was a professional, after all and the dice were already cast. He would serve, they would serve. That was the way it had always been.

He straightened a bit more and took a deep breath, preparing to begin one of the off-the-cuff speeches that formed part of his personal reputation.
“Comrades desantniki!” he thundered, “You are to embark on what may well prove to be one of, maybe even THE most vital mission in our glorious quest to finally liberate Western Europe and bring an end to its plutocrat capitalism and fascist oppression of the working class.

“You are the elite of the Rodina Mat’s fighting men. The embodiment of the New Soviet Man, the epitome, the ideal to which many strive but few men indeed ever prove equal to.” He took an artful pause, looked at the gaggle of intent faces before him and struck the lectern with his flat hand.
“Comrades! You will be striking at the heart of the remnants of German Fascism and when you succeed you will be raising the Red Banner over the grave of their leadership like comrade Yegorov did over the Reichstag in 1945. The grave of the successors of those men who raped our beloved Rodina sixty years ago and who would once again dare to try and impose their perverted way of life upon us!

“Comrades! The way to victory will be hard and filled with blood, sweat and tears.” He grinned inwardly as he ripped off Churchill’s famous words, “But you are the best of the best. You have trained for this mission until you bled. You are ready. You are eager. YOU! WILL! PREVAIL!
“In time, history will ring with your heroic deeds which helped to bring about the victory of Socialism. Long live the VDV! Long live the Spetsnaz! Long live the Red Army! LONG LIVE THE MOTHERLAND! URRAH!”

“URRAAH!” The men shouted back.
“Urrah!”
“URRAAH!”
“Urrah!”
“URRAAH!”
The general could see that he had the men. Their faces radiated pride, determination and eagerness. He had nearly believed the claptrap about Socialism’s superiority himself. There was one final touch to be applied. “ATTENTION!” he barked into his microphone. The men were silent at once, knowing what was to come.
Yelchin stood at rigid attention and began to sing the Soviet VDV’s anthem at the top of his lungs, ”Крутые парни по всей стране, Кто связан дружбой с ВДВ.”
The men picked up the song and continued, “Такое братство - надёжный щит Никто Россию не победит!”
The general felt a lump in his throat as the men continued to sing the anthem with one thought running through his mind. I wish I could jump with them.

After the formation which had factually ended the preparation phase of Operation Yegorov, the men saw to their weapons and equipment and in the evening were tretated to a lavish - for Red Army standards - dinner that was topped off with the issue of 150 grams of Stolichnaya vodka to each man. Fortified by the alcohol, even the most apprehensive trooper managed to find some sleep.

[Jotun]

20th April, 1500 CEST, Dienststelle Marienthal

Lieutenant Colonel Langelüddecke (informally referred to as Lalü), commanding offier of the Wachbataillon sat at his desk in the command area of his unit, and looked fixedly at the message printout in his hands. It stated unequivocally that the Warsaw Pact was likely to initiate hostilities within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
Well, duh, he thought with an internal, bitter smirk, Who would have thought it, with the Chunnel being attacked and those two idiots perched in the hide up the slope?
The attack had been too professional for it to have been anything but a premeditated attempt at closing down one of the most important pieces of infrastructure in NATO.

In the background, a muted TV showed the somewhat breathless and clueless news coverage of the Spetsnaz attack on the Chunnel. Due to the British authorities' recalcitrance to convey any more than the most basic of information to the press and the complete isolation of the area around the entrance, information was scarce and what little there was was trampled flat, dismembered and pulled into all directions at once by speculation and sensationalism. Not for the first time, Langelüddecke found himself thinking that sometimes, a controlled press had its positive aspects. It would at the very least, reduce the shrill overtones that were badly masking the utter cluelessness of the media when it came to matters of security and the military.
What was the Chancellor waiting for, anyway? All intelligence estimates the colonel was privy to were as succinct and unequivocal in their assessment that things went downhill fast and war was inevitable, barring a miracle. It still wasn't enough to have the Bundeswehr go to the highest possible alert, apparently.

Thirty or so kilometres away, as the crow flies, in the Chancellery, a Luftwaffe colonel went into the final part of his intelligence brief for the Chancellor and his cabinet and security staff.

"...as such, the situation is cystal clear. All, and I repeat, ALL Western and most of the non-aligned and-or neutral intelligence agencies are in agreement. This is, as an aside, almost unprecedented. Normally, some countries couldn't agree on the colour of," he barely caught himself,"...urmm...the sky. To sum it up and put it bluntly, Ivan is coming, and that right soon. The Americans, Brits, Canadians and French have put their forces at the highest possible alert level, short of a shooting war. I recommend we do the same."

"Thank you, Oberst Bergmann, That will be all." Schröder gestured tiredly towards the officer. "Dismissed." He looked around as the colonel left the briefing room, into the faces of his ministers and not least that of the Inspector General of the Bundeswehr, a four-star armour officer. As the door fell shut behind the departing staffer, Schröder said acidly,"What is it with those military types? Why is everybody so damn eager to go to war?" The Inspector General went beet-red in the face with barely checked fury and frustration at yet another slight against the Bundeswehr. That...lightweight...had been getting on his and everybody else's nerves with his ambivalence and casual subconscious loathing for the West German military, behaviour that had been acquired over long years of service on the left wing of the Young Social Democrats and which was apparently not easily shed.

When would that man get into his carefully-dyed head that not a single man and woman arrayed along the Iron Curtain was welcoming what lay ahead?
"With respect, Herr Bundeskanzler," he began to say but was cut off by Schröder. "Yes, yes, I know. I keep hearing the same song and dance. Noted. But my decision is final for the time being. No further increase of the Bundeswehr's alert status. Until further notice. We cannot be seen to make what can only be interpreted as an aggressive move."

What the - The general twitched. He had to strangle an urge to give the Chancellor a piece of his mind, parade-ground style.
A raised hand by the head of government stopped him. "Stow it, general. My decision stands. There will be no official increase in the alert status. Basta."
Schröder stood. "I shall retire now. I expect constructive suggestions on how to proceed with this unholy mess in our next meeting." Waiting for his audience to stand, he then turned and left for his office which had been fitted with a cot two and a half weeks ago to account for all the midnight oil the Chancellor was burning thanks to the Polish Crisis.

The highest-ranked Bundeswehr serviceman was close to hyperventilating with fury. "That ideological horse dung will be our undoing. Goddamn his lefty conditioning." he muttered, not quite inaudibly. The defence minister came up to the general. "I hear you," he murmured. "Note that the Chancellor said 'official'. Which means, if we interpret his orders correctly, as any good underling should, we can surely find a way to bring about the higher alert level without compromising either ourselves or him."
"Hopefully not too late," came the sotto voce reply. Schröder has a natural knack for leadership. Unfortunately, it is dwarfed by his stubbornness.
"Shhh. Quiet. Now let's go find a way to twist his words, shall we? Nobody wants to get caught with their pants down."
And that was what happened. The resulting 'flash' message contained the phrase 'unit commanders are to draw the appropriate conclusions and act on their own initiative unless otherwise directed'. While this dealt with the immediate problem, the military leadership as well as most of the cabinet were extremely concerned that the Chancellor's reticence in dealing with the situation at hand and his tendency to blame the West for the actions of the Soviet Union would lead to disaster somewhere along the road.

In the course of the following hours, a cabal of flag officers and several ministers began to work on a plan to finally read the Chancellor the riot act. It was to be delivered with all due respect, of course, but all of the stops would be pulled. The existence of the Federal Republic and countless of her citizens' lives hung in the balace. It was well worth risking their boss' ire over.

By 2000 local time, they were done with their preparations and standing in front of Gerhard Schröder's office. But they were politely and very firmly denied entrance by two of his close protection detail. "The Herr Chancellor is feeling a bit under the weather. His physician has recommended an extended period of rest. The Chancellor is asleep right now."
"The sawbone's name wouldn't be Morrell, by any chance, would it?" The deputy commander of the West German navy caustically asked. "Was für ein beschissener Alptraum!"

A few doors down, Schröder lay on his cot, his eyes hidden behind a wet washcloth. He had had an average of three hours of sleep per day for the last two weeks and he was a wreck. He recognized himself - and admitted to himself - that the sole blame was on the side of the USSR.
He also was too tired to make rational decisions. He needed to be at the top of his game and so had gladly taken his doctor's advice to rest. If he had read the reactions of his cabinet and the rest of the council correctly, they would find a way to interpret his words as they saw fit. He chuckled quietly. I still have a trick or two up my sleeve.

He cursed the Russians. And the Brits. And the Americans. The Federal Republic, no, all of Germany was a mere plaything on the tides of world politics. There HAD to be a way to avoid visiting untold amounts of destruction upon the country and its citizens. How he despised the cold logic of the military profession. There must be no war. But how? Acceding to the Russians' demands would mean certain defeat at the diplomatic front. Things did not look good. Finally, the pills given to him kicked in and he fell asleep. His first uninterrupted sleep in weeks. In the meantime, the ship of state sailed on, its pilot tired and in denial.

[Jotun]

Federal Chancellery, 21st April, 1200 Local Time

Gerhard Schröder had slept like a stone for almost fifteen hours, helped a bit by medication from his personal physician. He had actually awoken somewhat refreshed. After a long shower, a good shave and some extra attention to his greying temples, he had called his wife and children in Camp David. Some peace of mind restored, he had entered his office and now awaited the arrival of the Defence Minister and the heads of the three Bundeswehr services. As usual when dealing with flag officers from his country's armed forces, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He had quickly become very aware that the officer corps of the Bundeswehr were by and large not conforming to the warmongering and knuckle-dragging stereotype so overused and beloved by the media and wide swathes of the leftist public. The amount of learning and training present in each and every of these men was actually quite humbling. And Schröder hated to feel humbled. He chafed at dealing with the generals and admirals but he was still honest enough with himself that he would have to work on his attitude if a shooting war was actually to break out, and it still did not look as if one could be avoided.

The chancellor sighed, sipped at his coffee and then buzzed his secreatry. "Martina, please let the gentlemen in. I am ready to see them."
A few moments later, the Defence Minister, Peter Struck, and the Inspectors of Army, Navy and Air Force came through the door and sat down on the chairs around the conference table.

"Well, gentlemen, give me the good news," he said genially and with a trace of irony. "Any change in the security situation?"
"Mr Chancellor," the head of the Army began, "The situation is, in a word total im Arsch and we can see no way in hell how it could be salvaged. We are still expecting an attack some time in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, most likely at nighttime, as these kinds of attacks have occurred since time immemorial. Our reconnaissance assets along the Zonengrenze," he used a derogatory term for the IGB, "are reporting that their border troops hace begun to take up the mines along the death strip. Along with the acoustic intelligence and the reconnaissance flights by the Soviet and Ossi air forces along the border, we assess that an attack is inevitable, as much as it pains me to say it." The four-star general looked the part. He had had even less sleep than Schröder since the Polish Crisis had begun. He then motioned to the Inspector of the Navy.

"Sir, our acoustic intelligence post on Fehmarn has counted and identified half a dozen nuclear and diesel submarines, passing the listening coils submerged and westwards in the last twenty-four hours. Additionally, one of our Fleet Service Boats is in international waters off Kaliningrad and reports steadily increasing harrassment by Pact naval air asssets. They are also shadowed by several missile craft. The captain of the 'OSte' thinks that he will have to hightail it out there quite soon."
Schröder raised an eyebrow. "Harassment in international waters?"
"Of course. And once the shooting starts, it won't matter anyway and the boat will be toast."

"Admiral," the Defence Minister interjected, "tell the captain that he has permission to make for Swedish territorial waters at his own discretion, whenever he feels it is time. The foreign ministry and my people will convince the Swedes to, ahem, 'intern'," he even made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "our boat. Gerd," he addressed the Chancellor with his first name as was customary in the ranks of the SPD, "can you have your secretary tell my staff that the Swedish option is greenlit?"
Peter is showing great initiative. I am lucky to have him. "Of course," Schröder said and proceeded to relay the message to his secretary.
Thirty minutes later, the four men were standing on the corridor outside the chancellor's office. "That went better than expected," quipped the Inspector of the Luftwaffe.
"Yes, but he still isn't behind this with his whole heart and mind. Let us hope he comes around in time. It might really hurt the country and the troops if he doesn't." Answered the Inspector of the Army.
"I see what you mean, gentlemen," said Peter Struck, "I will see what I can do to elevate his thinking."


Eastern Ukraine, 21st April, 19:30Z

The time had come. 110th Special Purpose Construction Battalion had finally been given the order to start Operation 'Yegorov'. The final mock assault against a B category rifle regiment had gone swimmingly - of course. That the umpires had been thoroughly biased towards the strike force and that the Wachbataillon was anything BUT a B category equivalent had been taken in stride as such was the way of the Red Army.
The men had been given almost a day of rest during which they had tended to their equipment and gone over the attack plan again and again, until everybody had it memorized to the last dotted i and crossed t.

Now, the individual sticks of paratroopers, weighed down with weapons, gear and their parachutes, stood waiting at the rear ramps of their planes. All that could be said to the man had been said by General Yelchin. He had, as was his custom, insisted on seein them off personally. He went from group to group, greeting the men, joking, waving off salutes and occasionally offering words of encouragement. The senior men were - as usual - more or less okay and seemed calm and collected. The general knew for certain that the Spetsnaz - barely controlled psychotics that they were - actually relished the prospect of combat. Nevertheless, that a four-star general so obviously and truly cared for his men was appreciated all around.

Yelchin wore the green-and-olive paratrooper field uniform, complete with the striped undershirt and jump boots. On his head, he wore his lucky beret which had been with him on every field assignment since he had graduated Airborne School at Kazan more than thirty years ago. It looked, smelled and felt the part but it showed the men that their boss had done it not only once but several times and better than most. He also wore the two gold stars of Hero of the Soviet Union on his breast, both earned in back-to-back tours of duty in Afghanistan as a platoon and company leader.

The final plane was now in sight and he unconsciously slowed his step, hesitating. His only son, Anton, was in the group waiting to board and despite the decades of experience and his consummate professionalism and discipline, Gneral Yelchin wasn't sure he could keep his composure. Anton was still so young. Yelchin Senior was somewhat relieved that a crusty old Warrant Officer who he had graduated Kazan with was actually Junior Lieutenant Yelchin's second-in-command and would do his best to keep him safe.

General Yelchin stepped closer to the men who were still busy putting on the parachutes and buddy-checking each other for incorrectly secured clasps and buckles. The general walked through their ranks and went through his routine of encouraging the men once more. There he was, a small, whippy young man who looked a lot younger than his twenty-one years but who had graduated both officer and jump school with honours, insisting to pass on his own merits rather than invoking his father's name. Almost disappearing under his parachute and equipment, the impression of boyishness was even stronger. Anton's eyes widened as he spotted his father and he drew himself up to something resembling attention, constrained by all the weight.

"Comrade General," he said to his father. The other desantniki knew of course who the young man's father was and looked upon the pair with understanding and sympathy before, by unspoken consent, they drew away a bit to give father and son some privacy. General Yelchin found himself to be immeasurably thankful for that gesture. "Anton, my son, no need to be embarrassed. Your men understand. I...I just wanted to wish you soldier's fortune and success. Come back with all limbs attached...for your mother's sake...and mine. If things go south, stay with dyedooshka Artyom. He saved my hide more than once, as I told you."

"Yes, Father. I promise to do what I can to make it back. Will you give Mother a hug and a kiss from me?" For a second, it seemed to Yelchin senior that his son was six again and going to his first day of school. The two men embraced briefly and when they separated, Anton gave his father a parade-ground perfect salute. "Permission to board the aircraft, Comrade General?" "Permission granted. Go with God." His son lifted his eyebrows at this rarely heard invocation but kept quiet.

While his son's chalk shuffled onto the loading ramp of the "Crutch", his father went to his UAZ where his driver was waiting. Behind him, the six transports were starting their engines, a roar filling the cool evening air. "Boris," he said to the driver, pocketing his beret, "drive to the end of the runway, fifty metres to the side."
The UAZ sped to the designated point, arriving just in time. General Yelchin stood up in the open-topped vehicle, at attention and holding a stiff salute as one transport plane after the other lifted off, a single tear running down his cheek. He sat down when the last plane had departed. "Boris, to the helicopter. I need to be at HQ as soon as possible. It's starting." General Yelchin put all thoughts of his son at the back of his mind. He had a war to fight and could not afford to be distracted.

The formation of An-70s flew a circuitous route that took them over the eastern part of Poland and then the Baltic Sea. During the course of the flight, the planes staggered their formation until they were strung out in a long line. They adhered to the international flight routes over northern Europe and were reported to various western flight control stations as civilian flights to different destinations. This apparent normalcy in the face of the current political climate served to bring them ever closer to their objective.

Once over the North Sea, the "Crutches" closed up their formation again and turned to the south, towards the north of the Federal Republic of Germany. As they went feet-dry, the transponders were turned off and the formation quickly descended to low-level flight. Every plane had a German-speaking GRU agent on board who dealt with military and civilian communications queries. They identified themselves as a flight of Luftwaffe transports on their way to Landsberg air base, delivering urgent personnel and materiel for the West German II Corps.

[Jotun]

Federal Chancellery, Bonn, FRG, 2227 B

Gerhard Schröder had managed to take a short break from running West Germany, a task that now boiled down to preparing the country for war. He still was somewhat ambivalent about the Bundeswehr but he was learning and beginning to recognize its use and purpose. He still hoped for a miracle to defuse the situation and turn the whole awful mess around. Wishful thing, that was, as he recognized himself.
He looked at the coffee urn on the side table and his stomach clenched. He grimaced with revulsion. At the rate I am going through this stuff, my stomach lining will be saying goodbye before long.

There was another meeting scheduled to take place, in, oh, forty-five minutes. Schröder ran his hands through his hair and decided to take a short nap. With the current workload and stress, one had to use every opportunity. He kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket over the back of his office chair. He managed to stretch out on the cot before he was out like a light.

What was that? He sat upright on the cot and it seemed only seconds had passed since he had closed his eyes. He heard a loud, insistent banging on the door and he rolled his eyes. “What!”, he barked and the door flew open, revealing one of his aides waving a message flimsy in his general direction. “Herr Bundeskanzler, there has been a special forces attack on the Marineflieger base in Nordholz!”
Schröder was instantly awake. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, the Bundeswehr brass are. It was, by all accounts, a unit of NVA paratroopers. They tried to bluff their way into the base, were challenged and then killed when their bluff was called. Mostly. There were two survivors. Both are grievously wounded and on their way to the Central Bundeswehr Hospital in Koblenz.”

“Damn it all to hell. That’s a textbook act of war. Are they sure, absolutely sure? What about our guys?”
“Sir, the Bundeswehr are absolutely certain. Military intelligence will have more information ready but there is said to be incontrovertible evidence. By all accounts, there were three sailors wounded in the firefight, none critically.”
“That is something at least. Were there any other attacks? Civil disobedience? Sabotage?”
“Not as of now. We believe that someone, somewhere in the NVA chain of command hat ins Klo gegriffen, up to their shoulder.”
“At least, we have been granted a warning. Thank you. Have the Bundestag convened. We have some momentous decisions to make.”


Bundestag Plenarsaal, Bonn, FRG, 2317 B

The President oft he Bundestag stood at the lectern, reading from a handwritten manuscript.“Concerning the question of whether to declare the State of Defence, of the 397 delegates present, 331 voted in favour,” he instinctively made a pause in anticipation of the customary applause of the ‘in favour’ faction and was surprised an heartened that the result was received with a somberness befitting the situation as nobody clapped their hands. Not even the anti-war faction were voicing their usual protest. He imagined there were a lot of sinking feelings in a lot of stomachs right now.

“37 voted against and 29 abstained.” He took a deep, somewhat shaky breath and steadied himself. “By this vote, it is established that as of 23:17 Central European Summer Time, the Federal Republic of Germany is in a State of Defence. Mr Chancellor, you are now Commander in Chief of the Federal Defence Force. You have the lectern.”
Now that the West German parliament’s decision was official, the first shouts and dismissive gestures came from the Greens, directed at the Chancellor as he made his way to the podium.

“Warmonger!”
“Slave to America!”
“Reactionary!”, and other epithets were thrown at him.
In the visitors’ seats, a small number of Bundeswehr officers were present, along with a large number of journalists. Thanks to the late hour and the security situation, no ordinary citizens were present.

Schröder had reached the podium and addressed the assembled delegates. “Honoured members of the Bundestag……honoured members of the Bundestag,” he repeated, in a loud and firm voice so he could penetrate the disruptive noise emanating from the ranks of the Greens. “This is a sad and serious hour in the history of this institution. We did not arrive at the decision to declare the State of Defence lightly. Our Fatherland has been under threat for weeks now and an actual attack by a foreign, no, ENEMY military has occurred on our soil, only little more than an hour ago. Let history record that we were not…”

“WARMONGER!”
“MURDERER!”

“…THAT WE WERE NOT the aggressors. Nor were any of our allies, contrary to the tired lies and transparent propaganda so beloved by our esteemed and impartial colleagues of the Green Party of Germany.” With these words, he threw a gesture dripping with contempt in the direction of the Green faction in which a great many furious faces could be seen by now. Schröder felt his temper rise as he let the latest wave of abuse wash over him.
“No, the aggressor is clearly, unequivocally the Union of the Socialist Soviet Republics, out to crush any semblance of dissent and to stabilize their disintegrating power and influence by means of war.”

“LIAR!”
“FASCIST!”
“MAY LIGHTNING STRIKE YOU WHILE TAKING A S***!”

Now the President of the Bundestag interjected, “If the esteemed colleagues of the Green Party are unwilling or unable to maintain any semblance of decorum and comportment befitting this high house and the situation, they are cordially invited to vacate the premises.”
This nearly unprecedented action and the ironically cordial tone of voice in which it had been brought forth actually managed to shut up most of the Greens. Over the course of a minute or so.

Schröder continued. “Make no mistake, we are in for a fight to the knife. We are facing a war of conquest against a ruthless and powerful enemy, but we – our country, our way of living – will survive and we will be the better for it.”
He took a deep breath. “Thank you. I urge all delegates to leave for safety and their assignments. The Joint Committee has taken up work. Stay safe and Godspeed. Gott schütze unser Vaterland!”

As he finished, the amount of abuse from the Green faction started to increase again. Before the President of the Bundestag could intervene, however, a back bencher of the CDU/CSU faction got to his feet and began singing the West German national anthem.

”Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit
Für das deutsche Vaterland…"

While he sang, loudly and with a surprisingly powerful and melodious voice, more and more delegates of the Union, the FDP and the SPD rose and joined in, until even the Cabinet members and the Chancellor, still at the lectern, and most of the observers had joined in. The Greens’ transparent attempt at obstructionism was gradually drowned out. Interestingly, as the faction leader signaled for the faction members to leave the assembly chamber, several delegates remained at their seats, stood and joined in the singing.

Very soon after the vote, the Chancellor, along with his staff and the ministers appointed to the Regierungsbunker, were hustled into several helicopters waiting behind the Bundestag and flown the short hop to Dienststelle Marienthal, guarded by Heeresflieger attack helicopters and Luftwaffe fighters.

[Jotun]

0140B, Dienststelle Marienthal

The two occupants of the small OP overlooking the West German bunker had long since stirred from their observation stance and prepared for the attack they knew was coming. The senior one of the pair had manned a wireless communications set and was in the process of stcking a whip antenna through a small tube in the ceiling while the junior man prepared a West German sniper rifle and a clunky Soviet laser designator.
"Something is wrong," the senior man whispered to his comrade. "I can't seem to raise the bombers. We are not being jammed. There simply is no reply, Schweigen im Walde."
"Try again. I am going to set up the laser."
Down the slope, an unobtrusively placed and very much camouflaged observation pod "loaned" from an armoured reconnaissance unit had been observing the observation post for a long time. When the laser was activated by the junior commando, the soldier manning the screen connected to the observation pod simply called out, "It is time. Fry them."

The duty officer pushed a trigger and several IEDs placed in the walls and floor of the OP by Hauptfeldwebel Ahlers exploded with the force of a kilogram of plastic explosives studded with nails and ball bearings and turned the two occupants into finely ground meat and bone meal, thanks to the "chunky salsa effect" of confined spaces. The largest body part that was later found was a piece of pelvic bone with two attached vertrebrae.
WHUMP!
"That'll show them. Send out word that Ivan is coming."


Somewhere west of the FLET

Major Bernhard "Morbus" Kobold [1] and Hauptmann Simon "Brian" Cohen of Taktisches Luftwaffengeschwader 36, the latter one of twenty-something German Jews serving in the Bundeswehr, were returning in their Eurofighters from what was now the Central Front. They had been part of the first line of defence against the airborne part of the combined-arms assault across the IGB that had started not even twenty minutes ago.
They had each expended six Meteors and two IRIS-Ts in an engagement that only had taken about three minutes but which had surprised both men with its intensity and ferocity. In all likelihood, both had made instant ace, as the Americans would say. Not that they really cared. This was war, war was business and business was not supposed to be fun and games. As they and the other survivors of this first engagement withdrew, the balance of NATO’s fighter squadrons of the Central Region now had entered the humongous airborne fray over the FLET.

Unbeknownst to them, the actions of them and the other NATO interceptors in their sector along the IGB had inadvertently whittled down the air attack on the defences around Dienststelle Marienthal. What remained of the attacking force was further broken up by NATO SAMs on their way westward. The density of air defences in the FRG was second only to that in the Soviet Union. The attack on the West German Government Bunker would have to get by without a preparatory bombardment.

Morbus called Brian over secure voice. "Brian, that was one hell of a fight. I think we have the next one lined up as soon as our ground crew can rearm and refuel our birds."
"Yeah, roger that. Let’s call for a vector home from AWACS."

Just as the major had switched the channel and was about to place the call, a voice came across the ether. "All call signs, all call signs, this is Mordor." It was the AWACS plane which orbited over the Rhine Valley, directing Allied air forces.
"We have unknown aircraft flying low and slow, heading 195, two hundred knots, bearing 100, distance five-seven klicks relative ref point Isengard. All call signs, all call signs, investigate, over."

At the same time, a track marker popped up on the JTIDS display, showing a formation of airborne contacts designated UNK, roughly twenty kilometres from Morbus and Brian’s cur-rent position.
"Mordor, this is Sabaton Two, heading for home base. We are Winchester, but have two half loads of two-seven mike-mike. Investigating, over."
"This is Mordor, roger. ROE is simple. If it looks off, splash it, sending intercept vector now. Over."
"This is Sabaton Two. Roger, out."


Down in the Ahr valley, the defenders of the government bunker had taken up their positions. Hauptfeldwebel Ahlers‘ platoon was part of the company-sized force arrayed in defilade along the edges of the "air landing meadow". Ahlers went from foxhole to foxhole, reassuring his men. The distant rumbling that could be heard from the east told all of them that they were at war. This is ridiculous. For all my training, I have absolutely no combat experience myself, but I need to put on a brave face for the lads. Presently, he knelt next to a machine gun team. "…and remember. When you see paratroopers dangling from their chutes, aim for their feet, that should take care of them. And don’t sweat the Geneva Convention. Shooting paras during descent is allowed. Short, disciplined bursts. Breathe. Think. You will do fine."

The force around the prospective place where the Soviet force would be dropped had also been equipped with several Panzerfaust 3, as the propensity of the Red Army to drop light tanks during airborne assaults was well known.
Ahlers clapped the machine gunner on the shoulder and low-walked to the next foxhole. He had still more troopers to reassure.

On board the six "Crutch" transports, the crews and their GRU radio operators could not quite believe their luck had held for such a long time. To their planes‘ port windows, the entire horizon was alight with the flashes of battle as they approached their drop zone. The Spetsnaz and desantniki were already in the middle of preparing for their combat drop. The loadmasters signalled for the men to hook up their static jump lines to the overhead wires. Only a few more minutes now.

In the second-to-last plane, Lieutenant Yelchin swallowed hard and secretly struggled to keep an outwardly calm demeanor. In a few minutes, he would be parachuting into real combat. He wondered if he would be up to the task or if he would falter. One thing that bugged him the most was the combat drop. He had never told this to anybody, but he absolutely, positively hated parachuting. He knew he was not the only one, and even his father once had told him that jumping out of a reasonably intact plane was not a natural act, but he still had to struggle every time he prepared to jump.

Cued in by "Mordor", the two Luftwaffe pilots flew their rides on a silent approach. They had decided to give the suspect planes a visual once-over before deciding what they would do.
"There they are. Two o’clock low. Let’s approach from their aft quarter and pass them", Mor-bus addressed his wingman. "Mordor, this is Sabaton Two, Query any joy raising them on comms, over?"
As Morbus spoke, a few hundred metres ahead the transports ascended to drop altitude. All was looking good to the crews and the troops.
In the six transports‘ cockpits, the AWACS‘ attempts at establishing communications had not gone unnoticed. This close to the target, standing orders were to simply ignore the calls and press on.

"Sabaton Two, Mordor. Negative on comms. Not even on Guard. This stinks. Over."
"Mordor, Sabaton Two. Eyeballing figure six, say again, six transport aircraft. Looking like Alpha-fower zero zero…. Belay that. Rear stabilizer too low. Ah…whoa. Planes opening rear doors and ramps. Red interior lighting visible. Reassess as Alfa November Seven Zero, airdrop procedures. They just dropped a frigging tank. Designate hostile. Engaging! Out!“

The two fighter pilots acted on long-ingrained training. The flight leader pulled up sharply and accelerated so he could converge on the enemy transports from above and in front while his wingman began to roll up the formation from the rear.
If only we had a missile or two left. Brian thought to himself as he lined up one of the An-70s in his gun sight. And if my grandma could honk, she’d be a bus. Concentrate, dammit!

Out loud, he announced that he was going to „Guns, guns, guns!“ and triggered a two-second burst at the rearmost transport that hat just begun to disgorge its load of paratroopers. The An-70 never had a chance. The 27mm FAP ammunition turned into supersonic clouds of pre-formed shrapnel upon impact with the fuselage, cascaded into an ever-expanding cloud of progressively smaller fragments and dismembered or destroyed whatever was in its way. The last bunch of shells in the burst impacted on the wing spar, weakening it so much that the vibrations and stresses from the low-level flight caused the wings to snap off and up at their seams and the body of the "Crutch" to tumble gracelessly to the ground about 600 feet below.

In the same instant, Major Kobold dove on the lead An-70 and obliterated the cockpit and its occupants with a two-second burst of his own. The transport plane immediately began to spin out of control, turning rapidly on its back and crashing into the ground at the edge of the LZ, where it exploded, killing all of its occupants – more than three dozen paratroopers – and a platoon of the Bundeswehr Wachbataillon.

The next "Crutch” received a long burst of fire along its fuselage by Hauptmann Cohen. Inside the plane, pandemonium reigned as the remaining sticks of desantniki and Spetsnaz were grievously wounded or killed by the hits. Lieutenant Yelchin barely managed to clear the jump door and haul himself into the void as the cockpit team threw their plane into violent evasive maneuvers in an attempt to escape what looked like certain destruction.

As he hung under his parachute, Yelchin barely had time to orient himself and drop his equipment bag in preparation to the landing. Those preparations proved to be moot as the equipment bag caught one of the latter-day Rommel’s Asparagus erected on the LZ and turned the line it was attached to into a slingshot which catapulted the poor Lieutenant face-first into the ground where he hit another wooden post with his chest. The impact instantly crushed his breastbone and broke most of his ribs.
He died several minutes later of blunt traumatic asphyxia.

[1] Morbus Kobold: Kobold is a well-known vacuum cleaner model in Germany. Morbus Kobold is the informal and just-as-well-known medical designation for injuries to the male private parts incurred by...ahem...auto-erotic actions with a vacuum cleaner. I just had to put that into the story when I thought of pilot nicknames
 

[Jotun]

Whew. I had no memory of the sttory being this long.

Enjoy.

MFL. Hopefully...

[Bernard Woolley]

I’d forgotten how good this is. Great to see it again.

Bit of a shame about the friendlies getting a plane dropped on them!

[jemhouston]

that's what happens when you underestimate the enemy.

[bobbins66]

Great to re read this. Any chance of continuing it?

[Jotun]

Great to re read this. Any chance of continuing it?

When I reposted this, I also resolved to bring the story to a satisfying end.

[bobbins66]

Fantastic! Thanks.

[Jotun]

0203 B Dienststelle Marienthal, Chancellor’s office

Gerhard Schröder once again sat behind his 70’s vintage office desk in the small excuse for a proper office the Regierungsbunker held. After having been flown from Bonn to the helipad close to the main entrance and having ascertained that there was little to do but wait until the hammer finally fell, he had sent his secretary and assistant to their bunks so they could catch forty winks.

He felt he needed the solitude. He needed to get his thoughts in order so he could do his duty.
There was a sharp, single rap at the door. What now? “Yes! Come in.” It was Peter Struck, the Minister of Defence. He looked as if somebody had just punched him.

“Gerd, it is official. The Warsaw Pact just initiated World War Three. They crossed the IGB at precisely 0200, guns blazing.”
Schröder exhaled deeply, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “This is confirmed, yes?”
“Of course it is, Gerd. We are at war. I suggest convening the defence council.”
“Yes, do that. Will you send for my assistant and and secretary, please?”
“Will do. You coming?”
“Hmmm? Yes, I’ll be right at your heels.”
When the Minister of Defence had left the room, Schröder sank back into his uncomfortable chair and proceeded to rub his face with his hands. His mind was whirling with veritable fireworks. Thusl, he spent several minutes and had to admit to himself that he was pretty much lost in the woods.


0210 B

CRASH!
Whoa. Schröder flinched and looked up from his desk, surprised. The Inspector General of the Bundeswehr stood in front of him, in camouflage uniform, a handgun on his thigh, with Peter Struck on his heels. Both were agitated.
“Mr Chancellor,” said the general, “we have enemy paratroopers making an assault jump just north of here, estimated regiment strength. They are going for a decapitation strike. The Luftwaffe has managed to beat up on the transport planes, but enough paratroopers made it down to be a threat.”

Schröder looked at the highest-ranking soldier in Bundeswehr service with slitted eyes. He felt his helpless confusion make way for a wave of red-hot fury.
“What? Decapitation strike? Ha. They are going for MY ASS, dammit! Just call it as you see it! Who do those Russkie freaks think they are? They already killed my father sixty years ago. Tell you what. I am going to kill these assholes myself! Gimme a gun! Gimme a f***ing gun right f***ing now so I can waste those blankety-blank bleep blank bleep bleeping blank bleeper blankers!” Schröder sprang to his feet, hands balled into fists.
The four-star general had to stop himself from gawking. I knew he had a temper to him. But this… Schröder’s cursing vocabulary would have been at home on any parade ground. Impressive.

“Herr Bundeskanzler, please calm down,” he managed to get out before a new battery of inventive and original invective spewed forth from the IBUK’s mouth, followed by “Calm? CALM? I’ll give you calm, general. Get me to the nearest weapons locker. I’ll show them. Kill ME? ME??”
Schröder swept the papers off the office desk with his arms and now actually vaulted over the table.
“Sir. SIR. Dammit, Mr Minister, I need help here!”
Struck chimed in, “Gerd! Shut the hell up and leave the fighting to the pros outside! STAHWP IT!”

The general and the minister looked at each other for an instant, nodded and advanced on their boss. Struck managed to wrap the Chancellor in a bear hug and half-shouted, “Gerd. Calm. The F***. DOWN! Alright?”
The Generalinspekteur simply put a firm hand on Schröder’s shoulder and quietly spoke directly into his face, “Boss,” he said firmly, having dumped all decorum, “Quit raging, please. This isn’t just about you. Or even anybody else in this godforsaken hole in the ground. We are all replaceable here. That’s what lines of successions are for.”

“Listen to him, Gerd. You know who is not replaceable? Ever single one of the boys directly above us who are now fighting and dying for somebody they maybe did not even vote for, if they even could vote in the first place. All the 1.3 million men and women in the Bundeswehr who now physically stand between Ivan and their loved ones. Of whom there are another 60 million. And all of them are depending on you taking your head out of your ass and doing your job. So, in the name of all that is sacred to you, get with the program”
He loosened the bear hug. “We cannot do this without you being behind this 100 percent.”

Something must have clicked in Schröder’s mind. He took a deep breath, gave himself a shake, nodded and said to Struck, “You are correct. You can let me go now.”
When the minister and the general had backed off a step or two, Gerhard Schröder did a Jean Luc with his suit, and said to the Inspector General, “Herr General, please do accept my apologies for being an intransigent, cantankerous and opinionated ass these last few weeks.”
The general nodded. “Accepted.”

“I shall also convey my apologies to the heads of the three services. Personally.”
“One question, however,” he went on. “How safe are we here?”
“Safe enough, I should think. If things turn to shit, there are several evacuation routes available.”
“Okay, so let us stay for a bit. I think I do need a lot of catching up to do concerning military matters…”

[jemhouston]

I almost feel sorry for the Russians, but getting dropped into a shredder set to emergency war power is what normally happens to them,

[Jotun]

I just remembered that the Luftwaffe company of the Wachbataillon had twelve twin 20mm autocannons (light flak/anti-Spetsnaz artillery) in its TO&E. They would theoretically have been enough to smash the entire air drop on their own or at least take out most if not all BMDs the desantniki could have brought to bear.
I thus decided that in their infinite wisdom, the MoD took away the autocannons, maybe during the Lafontaine years, rationalizing that the improved "cluster“ AD system in Germany would be enough to deal with airborne threats - forgetting their secondary role. After Oskar L. gets s*itcanned, the MoD simply forgets to give the cannons back thanks to having to scramble retaking lost ground and rebuilding trust in West Germany in NATO.
Are you guys happy with that?
I may allow for half a dozen single-barreled Rh-202 to miraculously turn up before the balloon goes up thanks to midnight requisitions by the NCO corps. The Rh-202 is remarkably easy to operate and be trained on, as I can personally attest to, so a somewhat efficient use during the assault would be conceivable.
Thoughts?

[Bernard Woolley]

Seems reasonable to me.

[jemhouston]

If you can't get Ma Deuce, 20mm will work