Hearts of Iron : Baltic Bait

Invasion

He must be with MI6. The website for the International Institute for Defence Studies says that Michael Carter is their “Director of Research”, whatever that means but I think it hides his true role. I have met him once, at a symposium in London where we both delivered a paper. Mine was about the practicalities of a Russian invasion of Scandinavia while he spoke about possible future Russian weaponry. We chatted briefly afterwards and I haven't thought of him again until yesterday afternoon when he phoned me.

“It's of a sensitive nature and best dealt with in person. Can we meet tomorrow morning? I'll catch the overnight flight,” he said in a clipped Sandhurst tone..

Why is somebody like him phoning me years after only sharing a few cocktails and flying from London to Cape Town while being evasive about what he wants to see me about?

I turn my gaze from the perfectly flat Table Bay, the Winter morning sun reflecting off of cars on Table Mountain and I look at the blaring television screen. Everyone else in the restaurant is staring at the screen too.

Early yesterday Russia launched a surprise and near-bloodless invasion of Sweden. Apparently the country is firmly and totally occupied, all in less than a day. No footage of the event is available and all that is to be seen on news channels is the usual collection of talking heads speculating. It's as if it hasn't really happened because there is nothing to show. All the talk is of World War Three and nuclear Armageddon. How will the world respond?

I was scouring the internet seeing what I could glean, wondering if the Russians had done it how I described they would when Michael Carter phoned me. It must be to do with the invasion. If he's hoping that I know something I've not made public then he'll be disappointed. All my usually reliable sources know nothing too. Everything I know I put in my paper and articles published since elsewhere have been derivative work.

“Eric?” I hear coming from behind me. I turn in my seat to see Michael Carter striding towards me. I stand to shake hands. He looks like he just stepped off a rough overnight flight, his clothes crumpled, salt-and-pepper hair uncombed and eyes bloodshot. His grip is firm and he's taller than I remember, at least ten centimetres more than me.

“You look like you need a strong coffee,” I joke but he doesn't even smile. I sit down but he remains standing, taking a moment to look around the restaurant, probably checking the faces of the few patrons present, making sure we can't be overheard. Shortly after he sits down a waitress comes over and takes our order for breakfast.

Michael notices the television, winces then looks out over the glassy bay.

“I've forgotten how pretty Cape Town is. I can see why you moved back,” he says without looking at me.

So I'm not the only one to have done my homework. Clearly he's read up on my biography, off LinkedIn probably. After twenty years in Britain working as a defence analyst for anyone who could pay me enough to work for them I had earlier this year moved back to the country of my birth and the city that, in my heart, was always my home.

My research on him was much more opaque by comparison. All I could find out was that he left the British army at the age of twenty-five, already a major and in the Signals Corps. That's quite a rank for a young man, so he's no fool. In the fifteen years since he's been with the International Institute for Defence Studies, initially as an analyst but now having worked his way up to Director-level.

“I assume you're here because of that?” I say, nodding my head towards the television in the corner.

“Why else would I fly all this to meet with Eric Stone, the world's foremost freelance military commentator?” he instantly replies, stoney-faced.

“I don't know. You tell me,” I quip with a smile. Was that too cheeky for this dour Englishman?

Before he can say another word our breakfasts arrive. He goes straight for the coffee first.

“So how did the Russkis do it?” I ask, partly to establish common ground, partly to satisfy my own curiosity and partly to find out what he knows and trusts me enough to tell me.

Carter chews on a piece of bacon, stops to think for a moment and then speaks.

“They did it exactly as you predicted. It started at midnight. Short-range missiles fired from the mainland delivered electro-magnetic pulse bombs on communication hubs and airbases. Low-flying bombers quickly came in afterwards to drop the biggest EMPs on the cities. With Swedish command and control gone, fighter-bombers hit military bases with the latest Russian nerve and gas bombs that rendered all humans unconscious for miles. Thousands of Spetsnaz were already in the country posing as tourists and had weapons stockpiles buried near their targets. They marched into naval bases and barracks to find everyone unconscious. Giant hovercraft and seaplanes brought in vehicles and troops unopposed all day. The only people who died were patients in hospitals whose equipment failed. By noon it was all over. It's the most successful, bloodless invasion of all time,” he says.

I cold chill runs down my spine. The sequence of events he describes is almost exactly what I had postulated a few years. Did the Russians read my paper? If they did, should I feel proud or ashamed? I don't know, but seeing as Carter's being open and honest with me, I'll pry for more information.

“Do you have any idea why the Russians decided to act now?”

“Sweden was about to join NATO. As you know Article Five of the Treaty compels all member states to come to the aid of any member attacked. Last month's military coups in Latvia and Lithuania has shown that NATO countries can change sides. Incidentally, the giant hovercraft used in the invasion were launched from those countries. Russia's subtle aggression of late has spooked the Swedes and they feel the need for protection more than ever before. Everybody in our community knows that for the last two centuries Russian strategic expansion westward has been targeted at Scandinavia. It was now or never for them and they've gone for it,” Carter says.

This guy seems incredibly well-informed. Those EMPs fried anything electronic hence there being no footage or independent information out of Sweden available anywhere. Yet this guy has what seems like current and detailed military-grade facts to hand. What else does he know, I wonder?

“Do you happen to know what seaplanes were used and where they came from?” I ask, pursuing a pet interest of mine and testing him further.

“Dozens of Lun-class ekranoplans were launched from Lake Ladoga near St. Petersburg,” he answers.

Ekranoplans are not strictly seaplanes but huge 'ground effect vehicles' developed by the Soviet Union in the 1980s. They fly four metres above the water, powered by eight turbojet engines and can carry a hundred tonnes in cargo, troops or tanks at a speed of 550 kilometres per hour.

“The Soviets only built three of those,” I respond.

“Add a zero,” he says.

“Those are big and unique-shaped. How were they missed?” I ask, not sure whether he'll know the answer to this question.

“They weren't missed, just miscounted. The Russians had made it public knowledge that they were going to demonstrate one at next year's Farnborough airshow. Everyone thought that they only had one operational ekranoplan and were readying it for the show. It was spotted regularly by satellite reconnaissance when it was being tested, but what nobody knew was that it was a different one each time it was seen.

This guy has impeccable sources. He has to be with British military intelligence.

“How will the world react? Are we on the brink of World War Three?” I ask.

“Does anyone have the appetite or means to go to war with Russia over this? I doubt it. Are young Spanish or Italian conscripts going to want to die trying to free Sweden? No. I think the world will isolate Russia further diplomatically and economically. Sanctions will eventually start to bite, but nobody will come to the aid of Sweden. The precedent was set when Russia annexed the Crimea from Ukraine,” he replies.

“What makes you so sure?” I counter.

“Well, for a long time Sweden was avidly neutral which annoyed NATO. Some will feel this is their comeuppance. Also this situation will suit the Trump administration. For years now they've tried to get other NATO countries to live up to the three percent of GDP expenditure requirement under the Treaty, so this will shock them into doing it. Since the Trump administration pushed through it's isolationist reforms the price of oil has rocketed, which has benefitted Russia, the world's biggest exporter of oil. They've been on an unprecedented arms build-up and NATO hasn't kept pace but has fallen far behind. NATO just doesn't have the means to win a war of any kind with Russia right now,” Carter explains.

His sombre assessment tastes bitter. None of this tells me why he is talking to me in person.

“I doubt you've come all this way to tell me this. How can I help you?” I ask.

“Even after all that time in England and you're still a direct South African,” he says with a straight face.

I say nothing in reply. Whatever is coming must be serious.

“We need you to do something for us,” he says, reading my face for a reaction.

“I have two questions: who is “us” and what “something” exactly,” I shoot back.

“I think you know who “us” is. I don't need to spell it out surely? The “something” is that we need you to extricate someone out of Sweden for us,” he says, looking around the eatery.

The latter part catches me by surprise and my mind latches onto it. I don't know anybody in Sweden. I need more details.

“Is this some kind of joke? Why me? I'm just a glorified academic. I have no training in extraction,” I blurt out.

“This person has asked that it be you. You know them,” he answers.

“Who?!”

“At the moment I'm not at liberty to share that detail with you,” he replies, almost hissing.

“For fucks sake! Don't give me that shit. You wouldn't go off doing something like this unless you knew who you were rescuing, would you?” I exclaim.

“Calm down and keep your voice down. I said “at the moment”. Only if you are amenable to the idea will details be revealed when it is safe for you to know them,” he snipes back.

“What's in it for me?”

“If you're asking whether there will be remuneration besides from helping out a friend, then the answer is yes,” Carter replies.

“How much are we talking about?”

“How does a hundred thousand Pounds sound?”

“Insulting. My life is worth much more than that,” I reply.

“Hypothetically speaking, how much is your life worth in this instance?”

“At least a million,” I retort, not thinking about it. The number just popped into my head.

“I'll need to make some phonecalls, but I think that can be arranged,” he says to my surprise.

“Before you make any calls, I need to know who it is and I need to know now. I'm not risky my arse for just anybody,” I state.

“Very well. It's Natasha Voronin,” he says, reading my face again.

I'm stunned. I haven't thought of Natasha for years. A decade ago when I was in London and single, we met via an online dating site and things quickly became serious. She was from Estonia but had taken refuge in London after the collapse of the Soviet Union. We shared an amazing chemistry but it was when she said that her highest priority in our relationship was to have a child that I questioned our compatibility. I decided to end it with her while wondering if I had made a mistake. The last I heard of her she had become a prominent human rights lawyer.

“What exactly is she doing for you in Sweden?” I ask.

“You don't need to know that. I've already told you more than I should have,” he says, cupping his hands, signalling that the discussion is now over. He wants a decision from me.

A millions Pounds will ensure that I never need to worry about money ever again. Leaving Natasha to an uncertain fate at the hands of the Russians will play on my mind for the rest of my life. It feels like I don't have a choice.

Carter senses that I need some more coaxing.

“If you're worried about the cloak-and-dagger stuff then don't be. We'll put you through a crash course before we send you in. Besides we know that you did National Service in South Africa and afterwards got the paperwork to join Executive Outcomes, although you didn't follow through. I wouldn't have come here if we didn't think you could handle the rough stuff,” he says with a beguiling smile.

Only a handful of people know that as a younger man I nearly joined a modern mercenary company. Instead I emigrated to London. I always thought that British intelligence was thorough, but now I'm impressed. That don't seem to leave much to chance. They wouldn't be doing this with me unless they thought that there is a good chance of success.

“Okay Mister Carter, you've got me.”