War with Russia

In return, Graham told him that PJHQ were getting reports that the Russian Baltic fleet had left St. Petersburg and signal traffic indicated submarine activity off Riga, Tallin, Helsinki and Stockholm. “We need to know what is happening in Riga, Tom,” the colonel continued. “Chief of Joint Operations is briefing Chief of the Defense Staff before he heads into COBRA, the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms, in a couple of hours. Things are likely to move pretty quickly now. Your mission is for you and your team to report back what is happening. You guys are our only eyes on the ground. We need to get confirmation—photos, that sort of thing—that the Russians have landed. Once you have hard proof that it is Russian regular forces, you are to send it here ASAP and then get out. Without getting involved. Do you understand me?”

Morland nodded, but did not speak. He felt diminished, agreeing these instructions in front of Marina. Here she was, willing to put her life on the line to help them. And here he was, obeying orders to get some incriminating photos prior to escaping.

“No heroics,” stated Graham. “The government doesn’t want dead or captured British soldiers in Latvia. That would tie their hands politically…”

Graham stared at Morland down the screen, clearly unconvinced he had accepted his orders. “There’s nothing you can do to help Latvia except get those photos. Do you understand? Proof. Out. That simple.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The colonel continued, “The minehunter HMS Padstow arrived in Riga yesterday with the NATO Standing Mine Counter Measures Group. She’s been told to take you out. But she’s getting ready to leave in a couple of hours, so you’ll need to get your skates on. Head out to Riga International Airport and see what’s happening. We need hard evidence that the Russians are on the ground and that it’s an invasion, before we can properly protest what is happening. Then get back to Padstow.”

“We’ll do our best, Sir. I’ll report back once we’re on Padstow.”

Morland checked his watch: 0355. He thought quickly. The streets were empty so, if Krauja was prepared to drive them, it wouldn’t take more than 45 minutes to get into a place where they could observe the international airport. Then 25 minutes back to the quayside where Padstow was tied up. Add a fudge factor of 30 minutes… and round it up. He looked at Krauja inquiringly. He didn’t need to ask.

She nodded. “Of course I’ll drive you.”

Morland looked back at the screen. “Can you tell the Captain of Padstow we’ll aim to be with him by 0630 latest. Any later than that and something will have gone wrong. But don’t worry, we’ll stay out of trouble. We’re recce. We observe without being spotted.”

“Will do. Good luck.” The Baltic Team faded from the screen and the Inmarsat was quickly packed away.

“Come with me, guys.” Krauja was being as decisive as ever. “I’ve picked up a Land Cruiser from the office. There’s plenty of room for us all and our equipment. I know the back roads to the airport. We’ll take a look and I’ll get you to your ship… then I’ll need to get back to my office. Some of us will have a war to fight.”

Morland said nothing, stung by the barb. He would shortly be returning to safety in England, and despite his direct orders to the contrary, he felt that he would be deserting Krauja.

He suppressed a momentary, idiotic thought, that he could persuade her to join him on the ship and so keep her out of harm’s way. But one look at the determined tilt of her jaw and he knew that to even hint at such a suggestion would be deemed a grave insult. And in that moment, and contrary to all his training, he realized that he was thinking of her as a woman and no longer as a fellow professional.

“The ambassador…,” he almost stammered in his confusion, needing something to say. “I’d… I’d better brief him.”

While the team shouldered bergens, picked up weapons and their other kit and clattered downstairs to Krauja’s car, Morland found the ambassador in his office. He and his staff were gathering files for incineration. Morland quickly explained his new orders, bid him farewell and good luck, then joined the team outside.

“Let’s go, Marina.”

Krauja needed no urging. Ignoring the now-working traffic lights, she drove the packed Toyota Land Cruiser fast through the empty streets, before crossing the bridge over the swollen River Daugava in the growing light of near dawn.

Twenty minutes later, Krauja halted amid a group of high-rise flats on the edge of the western suburbs of Riga and Morland wound his window down. Ahead of them he heard explosions, while occasional flashes and tracer rounds arced into the air. He checked his map. The airport was still several kilometers away to the west, but it was clear that there was a major firefight going on out there.

“I can get closer, Tom.” Krauja showed no fear.

“As long as we can keep under cover, that’s OK,” replied Morland. “We don’t want to get into the open.”