War with Russia

The President nodded and considered his options. Then he spoke, looking around the table as he did so. “I understand your concerns about the increasingly difficult economic position, but we have an opportunity to seize the initiative here, to secure the eastern provinces of Ukraine and incorporate them as Novorossiya—New Russia—within the Russian Federation. To that end, I believe that the presence of American and British trainers in Ukraine indicates a clear and present threat to Russia and is more evidence of NATO aggression.”

The Finance Minister raised a hand. “If I may, Vladimir Vladimirovich…” He faltered.

The President did not like being interrupted. “What is it?” he said, with some irritation.

The Finance Minister seemed nervous. “Please forgive me for saying this, but I must put on record my concern that any increased risk of hostilities with NATO will send the ruble into free fall and put the economy under even greater pressure than it is at present.”

“That’s enough, Boris Mikhailovich,” the President cut him off. “You had your say. My decision is to strike now, while we have the opportunity. Once we have Ukraine’s Donbas region, we will have secured a manufacturing area of critical importance to our economy. NATO will be hopelessly divided as to what action it should take and may well start unraveling as we apply ever greater pressure and the nations argue among themselves. We will take more US and UK trainers as hostages and that will further divide them. What we leave of Ukraine will be a defenseless rump under our control. Russia will once again be pre-eminent. And…,” the President now glared at the Finance Minister, “with all this going on the world will take fright. Gold prices will soar and oil prices should go through the roof. That’s exactly what you say our economy needs. Isn’t it?”

The Finance Minister nodded.

The President turned to the Defense Minister. “Alexandr Borisovich, I want to be briefed in detail on the plan for breaking the ceasefire tomorrow morning.”

“At your command, Vladimir Vladimirovich.” The Defense Minister bowed his head as he said it.

Komarov gathered up his papers. “I’ll work the briefing into your program for tomorrow morning. I also suggest we warn this group for an on-call meeting to review developments once the plan is initiated.”

“Agreed. And I’ll see you in the gym this evening. Now, I have a helicopter to catch.”

1100 hours, Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Comprehensive Crisis Operations Management Center (CCOMC), Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE), Belgium

“SIT DOWN, PLEASE.”

General Sir David McKinlay, the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe, or DSACEUR as he was called, entered the conference room with a pronounced limp. A gray-haired Scot, he proudly wore the distinctive Lovat Green trousers of the Royal Marines with his shirtsleeve order. He might be a four-star general, but the vagaries of the British military system meant he continued to wear his Royal Marine uniform, much to the confusion of his allies. Indeed, he recalled with amusement the Portuguese general who had asked him, on the day he had replaced a crimson-trousered cavalryman, if British generals were allowed to invent their own uniform. Vive la difference, he thought as he looked around the room, and McKinlay certainly did not fit the usual mold for such a senior British general.

He had come up the hard way and was commissioned from the ranks. A former Navy rugby prop forward, he was mustachioed, bulky, if not a touch overweight—but battle-hardened as befitted a veteran commando. He looked older than his fifty-seven years and spoke with more than a hint of his native Falkirk accent. He was a man who saw things as they were and unless there was a compelling reason otherwise, and those instances were rare, he believed it was usually better for everyone in the long run if he told it as it was.

After over two years in post at Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, known as SHAPE, he had a good feel for the idiosyncratic world of NATO and the political and diplomatic complexities of high command. In addition to that, in common with most senior Royal Marine officers, he had impressive credentials as a commander up to brigade level. Indeed, his two DSOs from Iraq and Afghanistan bore witness to his extensive combat experience, as did the prosthetic he wore to replace his right leg, amputated above the knee as a result of an IED strike in Helmand province ten years earlier.