The Blue Effect (Cold War) (5 page)

“I want you to fully understand there are no political games to play here. Your government are not coming to your rescue.” He laughed lightly. “In fact, they have no idea where you are, or if indeed you are still alive. They will have no doubt logged your lack of radio transmissions by now.” He made eye contact with Bradley, who shifted on his seat trying to get as comfortable as possible, pain lancing through his cramped muscles. “So, Herr Bradley, let’s not mess about. Just tell me what I want to know, and I can have you medically treated and get some hot food inside you. Eh?”

Bradley remained silent, his stomach cramping at the thought of food. He was in constant pain, the hunger and thirst only making matters worse. There was a terrible smell emanating from him, he was sure. His jumper had been removed, but he still wore his No. 2 shirt. It was soiled and slightly damp, as were his green trousers.

Bradley lifted his head up as he heard a clink. The major was stirring his coffee after adding three teaspoons of sugar.

“I don’t know how you English can drink tea. It has no bite to it. Would you like a cup of coffee, Herr Bradley? Of course not. You have been trained to keep a stiff upper lip.” He laughed to himself.

“All I want to know is how many other spies there are in the vicinity of Berlin? And beyond, of course. How many teams do you have out there? Well?”

Bradley remained silent. He knew that he and Jacko were the only Intelligence acquisition team out on the circuit, but there were at least two operatives from the security section. They had a very different task to perform within the confines of the city of East Berlin itself. Bradley had taken two across, individually, over two days, hidden under a blanket in the back of the Range Rover. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done that. He and his section worked closely with their sister unit, photographing buildings of potential significance, completing Close Target Reconnaissance on their behalf; hunting for installations that the Soviets and East Germans tried to keep hidden.

Bradley thought back to the day they had discovered a secret hospital in the middle of the forest of Wernsdorf, surrounded by high walls, topped with barbed wire, and with watchtowers at each corner. The response from the occupants had been aggressive. Within minutes, two Ural-375 trucks had appeared, loaded with MfS troops. Before they could surround the Range Rover, Jacko manoeuvred the vehicle between the trees, pursued by soldiers on foot, one of the Ural-375s crashing through the trees behind them. Just as Jacko and Bradley thought they had made it, a UAZ-469, a Soviet jeep, cut across their front. Jacko twisted the steering wheel, driving the vehicle through a gap in the trees, pressed hard on the accelerator and, with a spray of debris from the rear wheels, extracted them from the trap, but it left them with two of the tyres punctured. The two right-hand side wheels bumbled over the ground as the air escaped. But they kept moving until they could hold up somewhere and review their position. Accessing an abandoned forestry compound, they pulled up behind a small hut and waited. Once they believed themselves to be safe, they assessed the damage: two tyres were shredded, and both of the wheels badly damaged. Another team would have to come out and bring replacements.

“What about a drink?” the major asked as he slid a small glass of water across the desk until it rested in front of Bradley.

Bradley looked at the glass, and then into the eyes of his interrogator, because that’s what he was, then back to the glass. He had been taught to take food and water at every opportunity. His lips and throat were dry, his tongue swollen. He reached out with shaking hands, one badly bruised and swollen after being stepped on by a studded boot. Gripping the glass as best he could, he lifted it to his lips, the glass rattling against his teeth. He closed his eyes and savoured the tepid water, an elixir. His spirits rose slightly and he replaced the empty glass on the table.

“See, there is no need for all this unpleasantness. So, tell me about your friends.”

“24388749, Bradley Reynolds, Sergeant, Royal Corps of Transport.”

C
hapter 5

0
100, 9 JULY 1984. CORPS PATROL UNIT (CPU). SOUTHEAST OF PATTENSEN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

The Corps Patrol Unit was currently positioned in a deep ditch close to a water feature northwest of Heisede, about a kilometre from the east bank of the River Leine. Wilf had chosen their location due to the patchy water catchment areas surrounding the water feature, an unfriendly area for vehicles, and particularly armoured ones. As a consequence of Wilf’s choice of location, they were damp, and Badger’s gripes about it being gopping were fairly frequent, unsurprisingly.

The CPU, on receiving new orders from headquarters back at 1 BR Corps, had moved from Lehrte to their current location on the banks of the River Leine, which they now planned to cross. After the aborted reconnaissance of the 12th Guards Tank Division headquarters, their planned return to their Mexe-hide was suspended and they were ordered west. They had moved as far as possible in the early hours of the 8th but, with a heavy Soviet presence and troops crossing the River Leine to reinforce the rapidly growing bridgehead, they had finally been forced to go to ground. That gave the soldiers an opportunity to rest up before moving out again during dusk of the same day. Before the light of day finally died, as they headed towards Sarstedt, they witnessed more of the carnage of the fierce battles that had been fought by the British and West German forces to hold up the pressing Soviet advance. Once they had extracted themselves from the forward headquarters of 12th Guards Tank Division, the team’s next mission was to report on Soviet units crossing the River Leine, looking particularly for reinforcements following on in support of GSFG’s main thrust south of Hanover and Gronau. Following that, a particularly important mission had been assigned to them. It had been a long tab, travelling in the dark for cover but constantly on the alert for enemy forces that were either consolidating in the area or passing through. On occasion, what they took to be campfires of Soviet military units often turned out to be still burning tanks and armoured personnel carriers. Some hulks had been doused and would no doubt be recovered by the Soviet engineers at some point. Up until now, the four SAS soldiers had only seen enemy equipment and soldiers, other than RAF or other NATO countries’ ground-attack aircraft harassing the Soviet forces’ rapid advance. One shock they did encounter though was coming across a burnt-out Challenger tank, with its crew still on board, which brought home to them that they were well and truly behind enemy lines and were becoming more and more isolated from their own forces as every day passed by. The team had considered rummaging through the bodies in order to get hold of their dog tags. But the bodies were so badly burnt, the crew’s clothing practically none existent that, even the hardened soldiers that they were, they couldn’t bring themselves to rummage around the human debris to search for the articles in question. Apart from that, they still had a mission to perform. The Challenger was far from being the only hulk on the battlefield. They came across two more of these latest model British tanks, but the open ground was also strewn with T-80s, BMPs, SA9s, ZSUs and the odd Jeep or box-bodied vehicle. The Soviets had plainly paid a heavy price to take the ground that was now theirs.

As darkness had closed in, all Wilf’s team could see of the still smoking hulks was the occasional flicker of flame or glowing metal. It wouldn’t be long before the Soviet engineers started to recover their own damaged vehicles with a view to repairing those they could and quickly putting them back into the battle.

It had taken the CPU nearly six hours to get to their current location, prepare their kit, and move closer to the riverbank. Their route had been through a golf club, then some wetlands, an area scattered with close-lying mini lakes of water. They made their way down to the riverbank, keeping their movements as quiet as possible. This was difficult when their kit was wet, and they couldn’t help but squelch as they picked their way through the sodden earth. Wilf had chosen this way deliberately. He looked about him, smelling the damp earth and grass around them. Thick clumps of coarse vegetation provided them with good cover. But soon they would have to leave it and make their way across the river and west. While they were heading deeper and deeper into what was now enemy territory, there was a comfort in the fact that they were moving closer to their homeland. All four crouched next to the water, watching and listening. Tag, their strongest swimmer, would go across first and check out the far bank. Wilf had chosen a level stretch of water, with a light-coloured sandbank downstream on the opposite side.

Wilf tapped Tag on the shoulder, and the SAS trooper took his first steps into the water. He, like the rest of them, was stripped down to his underwear and boots. Out in front was his rucksack, all the contents in a waterproof sack inside, helping it maintain neutral buoyancy. An additional bag had been filled with air, tied off, and was adding to the buoyancy of the heavy Bergen. His combat uniform was bagged and tied to the top, along with his personal weapon. He took small steps ensuring his boots had a good footing before the depth of the water forced him to swim, keeping his body as flat as possible, pushing his pack out in front of him. He allowed the slow current to take him, not fighting it, but swimming at a forty-five degree angle, aiming for the sandbank on the other side.

Once across, he heaved his bag out, released his SLR, and moved up the bank. He was cold, very cold, but needed to be sure they hadn’t been discovered. He gave it ten minutes, returned to his pack, put on his dry clothing, and signalled the rest of the patrol with a red-filtered torch. The three men started their crossing. It was 0235, so they still had the cover of darkness to get as far west as possible. CPU headquarters were adamant that speed was of the essence. Once all were across and fully dressed, the patrol crowded around peering at the 1:50,000 map that Wilf had lain on the damp ground.

“Well, boys, it’s a bit warmer now,” he whispered.

“A bloody hot drink would be a godsend,” muttered Badger.

His friends just grinned. All was well if Badger was moaning.

“We need to push as far as we can while it’s still dark. We have to get as close to the Deister as possible. That tab will give our bodies a chance to warm up,” advised Wilf.

“We could just go in a straight line,” suggested Tag.

“Risky,” warned Hacker. “The place will be crawling with soldiers.”

“Yes, but they’ll want to be under the cover of a canopy, near buildings or snug in a barn,” countered Wilf.

“Let’s just do it,” advocated Badger. “Get under some decent cover. We’re pretty exposed out here.”

The other three couldn’t disagree with that so, with Wilf in the lead and Bergen’s on their backs, the four men headed across the cultivated fields that stretched from south-east of Pattensen to the southern tip of the Deister. Weapons were always at the ready: Badger in the rear with his C7 carbine; Hacker next with his M-16 A2; Tag with his SLR; and Wilf’s M-16 swinging left and right as he scanned the route ahead. They stuck to hedge lines as often as possible, stopping every thirty minutes to look and listen. Apart from the popping of guns to the north and the occasional rumble of aircraft at high level, they heard and saw very little.

It was only as they got closer to the village of Hupede that enemy activity increased, so Wilf led them southwest in between the villages of Hupede and Oeire to a small copse where they could hide up during daylight hours. There they could rest, catch up on some sleep, and, more importantly, recce their surroundings as they were sure that the missile unit they were seeking wouldn’t be more than a few kilometres away.

Ch
apter 6

04
30, 9 JULY 1984. CVN-70, USS CARL VINSON, NORTH SEA.

THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS

A Tomcat taxied through the steam given off by the steam-catapult from the previously launched aircraft. The plane handler looked on as a third and fourth Grumman F-14D Tomcat lined up on the carrier’s deck. The plane handler, distinguishable by his blue coat and blue helmet, lined the first one up with the catapult shuttle that lay ready on the four and a half acre deck. Two one-hundred-metre long tubes, an open slit between them, ran along at deck level, a shuttle protruding just above the deck. The nose wheel of the 27,000-kilogram aircraft nudged up against the shuttle, and the pilot lowered the tow bar until it connected with the slot in the shuttle. The holdback was attached to the rear of the nose gear strut. Jet blast deflector-number one was raised as the F-14 powered up its engines. It wasn’t possible to mistake an F-14 fighter, the ‘King’ of the US CVN flight decks: it was both powerful and noisy. Neither was it modest in size with its large wings spread ready for take-off. It dominated the flight deck as much as it did the airways. A green shirt checked the aircraft was correctly hooked up. Once the engines powered up ready for take-off, without the holdback, the brakes would not be able to hold the aircraft on their own. A second green shirt held up a chalkboard, showing the aircraft’s take-off weight for the benefit of the pilot and catapult officer. The pilot, and the catapult officer who is located in the catapult control pod, give each other a hand signal confirming they both agreed the weight being displayed was correct. Final checks completed, Lieutenant Higgs selected full power for the two General-Electric turbofan engines, and both he and his radar intercept officer braced themselves for the force of the launch. The catapult shooter depressed the button in the control pod, the holdback was jerked away from its grip on the Tomcat, and the aircraft was thrown down the aircraft carrier deck at forty-five metres per second, the fighter dipping slightly as it left the deck. Reaching its flying speed of 150 knots, the fighter was finally launched. These two Tomcats would relieve the two already providing a Combat Air Patrol protecting the ‘The Boat’, as they fondly referred to the aircraft carrier.

Their primary mission, air superiority, had a key role to play in defending the carrier and its accompanying ships. One of the key threats was from the deadly AS-4 Kitchen and AS-6 Kingfish Soviet long-range, radar-guided missiles that packed a punch. The AS-6, in particular, carried a 1,000-kilogram warhead. Carried by the Soviet long-range bombers, TU-16 Badger, TU-95 Bear and the TU-22M Backfire, they were a major threat to the aircraft carrier and its escorting ships. The Tomcat’s Phoenix air-to-air missiles, with a range of 185 kilometres, had been specifically designed to counter that threat.

Lining up behind the fighters that had just launched, a selection of aircraft were preparing to support the US Army battling against overwhelming forces that were arrayed up against them. An EC-2 airborne early warning aircraft was already on watch, but a second one would join it soon, moving closer to the proposed target area west of the Fulda Gap. A strike force was being assembled: two EA-6Bs, electronic warfare aircraft, an attack squadron of twelve A-7Es, a fighter squadron of twelve F/A-18s, and three KA-ED tankers for inflight refuelling. A convoy brought safely to the European Continent, the USS Carl Vinson was now tasked with assisting the US air force in supporting the US ground forces.

Six storeys above, on the ‘Island’, in the Primary Flight Control, Pri-Fly, two senior officers watched the activity down below on the flight deck. Surrounding them, windows angled away from the bulkhead providing an excellent view of the flight deck, comms and consul displays, the centre of operations for controlling the air activity in the vicinity of the ship was a hive of activity.

“Any more from Providence, sir?” asked the air boss, Commander Chilvers.

“No, just the emergency signal,” responded Captain Kiely, the skipper of the 100,000-ton aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70).

“What’s your plan, sir?”

The Captain turned to Commander Chilvers, the commander of the carrier’s air wing, Air-Wing 15. Chilvers’ himself had been a pilot for a number of years, but now commanded over ninety aircraft from the ‘Island’ as opposed to in the air.

“I’ve despatched a destroyer, that’s all I can do for now. I can’t release anyone else. We have the convoy to protect as well as our next mission once we’re released from this babysitting duty.”

“Not sure how many would have made it without us sir. They’ve pulled out all the stops to get submarines in the vicinity to interrupt our progress.”

“At a price, Kyle. We’ve killed two of them.”

“And a possible.”

“Yes, but that one worries me. Let’s hope to God it’s on the bottom somewhere.”

“And we don’t know what kills Providence has under her belt.”

“Losing that fuel tanker was bad news.”

“We’ll need to be on the alert for some more. If Providence has intercepted more of our Soviet comrades, we could have visitors very soon.”

F/A-18 Hornets blasted their way down the flight deck, joining the squadron that was forming up. They would provide a Combat Air Patrol for the ground-strike force that was also in the process of forming up. Two Tomcats would also be sent up to protect the ever-growing array of aircraft circling above. It wasn’t only submarines that the Soviets were sending to prevent the US convoy from reaching its destination, bringing badly needed supplies, equipment and men to the European continent to help stem the Warsaw Pact tide. Long-range Soviet bombers would also be out hunting.

“What have we got up at the moment – for subs, that is?”

“The usual, sir, but I’ve sent two Vikings fifty miles astern. Have a sneak around for any sign of subs trying to creep up on us.”

“Good. We’ve been promised some air cover from the mainland. The Brits have promised us two or three of their Nimrod anti-submarine aircraft.”

“Good, that will take some pressure off the Vikings.”

“Tomorrow, we go through a full debrief of your air group. Once they’ve completed their mission, that is. The convoy will be ready to go any day soon, so the escort needs to be ready for the return journey.”

“My boys will be ready, sir, don’t you worry about that.”

“I know, Kyle. Right, I’ll leave you to watch over your fledglings. By the way, how are the two new boys doing?”

“Fine, sir. Both have good scores on the greenie board so far.”

“Great. Leave you to it.”

The captain left the CAG to control his air ops and headed for the bridge, high up on the ‘Island’ between the flag bridge below and the Primary Flight Control level above it. He passed through an entryway hatch, turning right, stepping over a ‘knee-knocker’, a tall step over one of the many structural members that gave the Vinson its structural integrity. Then he made his way down the narrow corridor, crew coming from the opposite direction stepping aside to allow their captain to pass by freely. The captain clattered down a set of long metal steps taking him to level-09 where he was able to enter his domain, the bridge.

On the port side, the left of the bridge was his elevated leather seat, currently occupied by his Executive Officer, Commander Chuck Summers. The XO went to rise and give up the seat but was waved back down by his commander.

“All quiet, Chuck?”

“For the moment, sir. I’ll feel better when we get some air cover from the land bases.”

“Me too. Our jet jockeys need to be able to slow the tempo if the Aircraft Maintenance Division are to get on top of the backlog of repairs that are building up.”

“Will they have breathing space after the mission?”

“Twenty-four hours, tops. Once we are out of range of the land bases, we’ll need twenty-four-hour top cover again.” He cast his eye over the computer screens that flanked the captain’s chair. All looked to be in order. Over to the starboard side, stood the wheel, chart table, and the conning stations. Lookouts stood peering through their binoculars, backing up the electronic aids that provided the captain with an electronic picture of the surrounding area. “I want to go through the convoy return plans again later today.”

“You worried, sir?”

The captain took off his dark blue baseball cap, bought by his wife for his forty-fifth birthday, and brushed his fingers through his brown but slowly greying hair. Placing his cap back on, he responded, “Our air wing is primarily for defence, Chuck, not attack. Certainly not attacking land-based targets.”

“Our boys on the ground are putting up a pretty good fight by all accounts, but are getting hit damn hard. A bit of help from us won’t go amiss.”

“I know that, Chuck, dammit. Sorry. You saw the last report. The Soviets are right up against the Fulda Gap. If we can’t support our troops on the ground then the enemy could be at the gates of Frankfurt in less than three days. But air-to-ground strikes are not our forte.”

“Kyle’s boys will do the job, sir.”

A young lieutenant interrupted their conversation. “The escort group has a possible sighting, sir.”

“Bearing?”

“One-Nine-Two, fifteen miles, sir.”

“Right, Chuck, you still have the con. I’m going down to the CDC.”