‘Yes.’
‘Squadron Leader Reilly, 9 Squadron. I believe I’m your driver.’ They walked over to a small building adjacent to a hangar and entered. Inside, another RAF officer was waiting. ‘Flight Lieutenant Peter Marnane, my navigator.’
‘Beatty,’ Richter said.
Reilly pointed to a set of flying clothing draped over a chair. ‘We were given your measurements, so hopefully that lot should fit,’ he said. ‘While you’re dressing, a few questions.’
Richter took off his jacket, and there was a noticeable pause as the RAF officers saw the Smith and Wesson in the shoulder rig. Richter took it off and undid his tie. ‘Fire away.’
‘Have you flown in a fast jet before?’ Reilly asked.
‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘I’m ex-Navy and a qualified Sea Harrier pilot, and I’ve also flown Jet Provosts, Hawks, Jaguars and a MiG–29 Fulcrum.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Marnane.
Richter grinned at him. ‘I was joking about the Fulcrum,’ he said. Richter pulled on the long underwear and long-sleeve pullover, then climbed into the g-suit, designed to keep the supply of blood to the brain as constant as possible during high-energy manoeuvres, while Reilly went through a pre-flight safety briefing. The life-saving jacket was an unusual design with sleeves to accommodate the arm restraints Tornado crews wear to protect them if they have to eject at high speeds. Finally he put on the helmet and gloves.
‘Before we go out to the Tornado,’ Reilly said, ‘I have to remind you that it is a two-crewman aircraft, and isn’t designed to accommodate a pilot plus a passenger. I know you’re a qualified pilot, but not on the Tornado, and there will be some operations that you will have to carry out for me. Obviously I will talk you through them, but Peter has prepared a kind of idiot’s guide to the switches and controls for you.’
‘OK.’
‘Finally, I am aware that you carry substantial authority, otherwise I’d be tucked up cosily at home in Lincolnshire instead of standing in an unventilated hut in the middle of France. But I must emphasize that I am the aircraft captain, and all decisions relating to the safety of the aircraft are mine. You must obey any and all orders I give without question, unless of course you don’t understand them.’
‘Agreed,’ Richter said.
Reilly smiled. ‘And if I say “eject”, and you say “pardon”—’
‘I know,’ Richter finished it for him, ‘I’ll be talking to myself.’
The Panavia Tornado GR–1 was parked on the adjacent hardstanding. Marnane clambered up the steps positioned against the port side of the aircraft and leant into the rear cockpit. ‘He’s switching on the Inertial Navigation System and warming up the radar,’ Reilly said, then walked round the aircraft carrying out external pre-flight checks.
Marnane helped Richter get into the rear seat, which was easier than he had expected. Strapping into the Martin-Baker Mark 10 ejection seat was slightly non-standard. First, the personal survival pack, which actually forms the seat cushion, was attached to a lanyard on the life-saving jacket, and then Marnane fastened the negative-g, lap and shoulder straps. Then he attached the leg restraints which hold the legs firmly against the seat in the event of an ejection and fastened the arm restraints to the life-saving jacket. Finally, Richter put on the helmet, plugged the communications lead into the intercom system and attached the oxygen mask.
Reilly was already sitting in the front cockpit, and as soon as Marnane tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up sign, he called on the intercom. ‘Ready, Mr Beatty?’
‘Ready,’ Richter said.
‘Your mobile is switched off and your weapon and other equipment are stowed?’
‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘They’re in the storage compartment.’
‘OK. Closing the canopy.’ Richter heard the whine as the electric motor drove the canopy down into the closed position, and Reilly talked briefly – and in French, Richter noted – to the ground crew, who were linked to the aircraft’s intercom, and started the starboard engine, then the port. ‘You’ll feel some bumps and shudders now,’ Reilly said on the intercom. ‘I’m running the BITE program.’
‘What’s that?’ Richter asked.
‘It’s a computer-driven pre-flight check which exercises all the flight control surfaces in sequence, plus the intake control system,’ he replied. ‘Once it’s finished, the aircraft lets us know if it wants to fly or not.’
‘Really?’ Richter said. ‘Let’s hope it’s in a good mood.’
Reilly chuckled. ‘OK,’ he said, a couple of minutes or so later. ‘Systems check complete, we’re ready to roll. Remove your pins, please.’
As briefed by Peter Marnane, Richter extracted one safety pin from the ejection seat, arming it, and another from the MDC – miniature-detonating cord. This is a single filament cord which runs longitudinally down the centre of the canopy. In the event of an ejection, the cord detonates and blows a hole in the canopy to permit the ejection seat to pass through it.
‘Normally the navigator would input start position data into the navigation computer,’ Reilly said, ‘but Peter has already done that, and it really doesn’t matter much anyway, as Gibraltar’s a bit too big to miss.’
As the Tornado moved along the taxiway, Richter looked at the two screens in front of him. The one on the right was showing a track display, while the left exhibited a plan view of the intended route of the aircraft. At the end of the runway Reilly stopped the aircraft while he waited for take-off clearance, then turned the aircraft on to the runway and lined up. He ran the engines up to maximum cold power, holding the Tornado on the toe brakes, then engaged full afterburner and simultaneously released the brakes.
Just over ten seconds later, as the airspeed indicator reached one hundred and forty-five knots, Reilly rotated the aircraft ten degrees nose-up and they climbed away. Within another few seconds the Tornado’s speed had built sufficiently to allow him to disengage the afterburners, and the noise level dropped considerably. At three thousand feet he levelled out, turned the aircraft south, and instructed Richter to select three one seven decimal six megahertz on the UHF radio box beside his right thigh.
‘I’ll be off intercom for a couple of minutes,’ Reilly said. ‘I have to talk to Mazout Radar to advise them we’re now en route for Gibraltar and to get clearance to climb.’ A couple of minutes later the intercom crackled. ‘Back with you,’ he said. ‘We’re going up.’ The aircraft’s nose pitched higher and they continued the climb to twenty-three thousand feet and increased speed to five hundred knots, heading south in the deepening night.
North American Aerospace Defense Command, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
Construction of the Cheyenne Mountain base began in 1958, following the launch of Sputnik by the Russians, but the base did not become operational until 1966. Workmen used a million pounds weight of explosives and removed nearly seven hundred thousand tons of granite to create the four-and-a-half-acre site. The entrance is located about seven thousand feet above sea level, and leads into a tunnel fourteen hundred feet long. The tunnel cuts a curved path through the granite, and is designed to let the pressure wave from a nuclear detonation traverse its length. More or less in the centre of the tunnel, and parallel to the direction of any blast, are two immense steel doors, each over three feet thick and weighing twenty-five tons, fifty feet apart and set into concrete pillars. Behind these doors lies the NORAD complex; fifteen steel buildings, interconnected by steel walkways, and each resting on huge steel springs designed to resist the effects of shock waves. The complex is effectively self-contained. Electric power is provided by six diesel generators with fuel supplies for about thirty days. Drinking water, food and sleeping accommodation are all available on site.
On a normal day, Cheyenne Mountain is occupied by about eight hundred staff. When Brigadier-General Wayne Harmon had assumed the watch at two that afternoon, the staff tally list showed that twelve hundred and forty-three people were in the complex, either on duty
or waiting to relieve duty staff. Harmon heard the murmured conversations of Air Force officers of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, and the clipped, precise messages they were relaying over their radio and satellite links. NORAD had already passed alert and update messages to its worldwide network of early warning radar sites. These included Fylingdales in Yorkshire, England, Diyarbakir in Turkey, Shemya and Clear in Alaska, Thule in Greenland and the thirty-three sites of the Distance Early Warning system – the DEW line – the ageing warning stations that stretch across the entire width of the northern Canadian border.
General Harmon took a last look around the active suites, then turned and walked into his private office. He sat down in his leather swivel chair and loosened his tie. Despite the air conditioning it was hot, and it had already been a very long day.
Gibraltar
At eleven thirty-three local time the Tornado banked to port as Reilly turned left base leg. There was no view ahead, because the pilot’s seat completely obscured it, but out of the left-hand side of the cockpit Richter could see the lights of Gibraltar, with La Linea just to the north, the two complexes separated by the dark mass of the airfield, its landing and approach lights barely distinguishable at their present range. The Tornado was at four thousand feet over the Bahia de Algeciras, about two minutes from touchdown.
Five minutes later the whine of the engines stopped as Reilly applied the parking brake in the dispersal area they had been allocated. A C–130 Hercules was parked about a hundred yards away, so Richter assumed that the SAS had arrived. Richter replaced the seat and MDC pins, on Reilly’s instructions, then unstrapped, opened up the storage locker and grabbed the pistol and toolkit, and clambered out. The ground marshaller gestured towards a Sherpa van with ‘Air Traffic Control’ written on the side, and they walked over to it and climbed aboard.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thursday
HMS Rooke , Gibraltar
‘Before we start I think we should just establish the ground rules, as it were,’ Richter said, looking across the Wardroom dining table at Dekker and the senior SAS officer, Major Ross. ‘My instructions in this matter are quite specific. We are to seize that vessel, and we are to disarm the weapon it carries. All other considerations are subordinate to that. If we encounter any resistance we are to overcome it using whatever force we consider necessary. That’s the official terminology. In real terms, it means that we shoot the bastards, starting with any sentries they’ve got posted and finishing with the ship’s cat. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Like crystal,’ Ross nodded.
‘Right, Major,’ Richter said, ‘where’s the Anton Kirov?’
The ship was alongside the North Mole, which made the approach easy. If it had been at anchor in the bay or alongside the Detached Mole – an elongated hyphen almost linking the encircling concrete arms of the North and South Moles – they’d have needed boats.
Ross considered two different attack strategies. ‘As I see it we have only two choices,’ he said. ‘Either we try a diversion – a fire or something on or near the Mole – which might allow us to get aboard undetected or we go for a straight frontal assault. Let me clarify that – a quiet straight front assault. Colin – your recommendations?’
‘I agree about the two options, but I don’t favour a diversion,’ Dekker said. ‘It would either involve additional personnel who might get in the firing line, and who we haven’t got anyway, or we would have to use some of our troopers which would deplete the number available for the assault. And diversions tend to attract attention. I wouldn’t want to wake up the entire crew of the Anton Kirov to watch a bonfire on the Mole, say, on the doubtful grounds that while they’re watching that they aren’t going to be watching out for us.’
Ross nodded, then turned to Richter. ‘Mr Beatty?’
‘I agree with Colin. Don’t forget that, according to Modin, the crew have been instructed to defend the vessel against any possible assault. The crew are experienced Spetsnaz personnel who probably outnumber us by slightly more than two to one – if we start a major diversion, my guess is that at least some of them will realize that it is a diversion and actually expect an attack. And that’s the last thing we want.’ He paused. ‘However,’ he added, ‘perhaps a minor diversion would assist.’ Ross nodded, so Richter told him what he had in mind.
Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt
‘At last,’ Modin muttered, as the Russian convoy, now equipped with new tyres and with Gendarmerie vehicles in front and behind, was finally waved out of the parking area, en route to Calais. The articulated lorry was still there, waiting for the arrival of the tug and escort that had been sent from Britain.
‘Where will they take it?’ Bykov asked, glancing back at the lorry as the limousine pulled away. He had been very subdued since the convoy had been stopped, worried, Modin supposed, about his future career. Modin wasn’t worried. He knew his own career was over.
‘Britain, I expect,’ Modin said. ‘No doubt they will want to examine the weapon.’
‘I wish,’ Bykov said, ‘that we had been able to contact Moscow. The Minister will want to be informed.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Modin replied. Minister Trushenko would not, he hoped, be informed about the seizure of the London weapon for some hours yet. Once he found out what had happened, Modin was not at all sure what Trushenko might do.
Gibraltar Harbour
The black combat suit supplied to Richter by 22 Special Air Service Regiment wasn’t exactly Savile Row. The bulletproof vest was bulky and heavy, but the Smith in its shoulder rig nestled comfortably under Richter’s left armpit. As well as a Hockler MP5SD – the version of the 9mm MP5 fitted with a silencer – on loan from 22 SAS, Richter carried a grey nav-bag he had borrowed from Peter Marnane. Inside that he had stowed Professor Dewar’s wire-cutting pliers and the contents of his socket set, carefully wrapped in four linen napkins borrowed from the HMS Rooke dining room. In their steel box, Ross had said, they rattled, and he was very keen on not having anything around him that rattled.
Ross had also made it very clear that he was as far as possible to stay out of harm’s way, which Richter thought was an excellent idea. Richter had briefed Colin Dekker on the disarming sequence for the bomb and given him copies of Professor Dewar’s notes, in case he did get taken out, but Dekker hadn’t looked enthusiastic about doing the job himself.
They were ready to go at one twenty. Richter rang Air Traffic Control and extracted a slightly sleepy promise to send the van to the Wardroom immediately. It arrived ten minutes later, and by one fifty they were all assembled at the harbour. There was virtually no moon, and there was a good deal of cover on the North Mole – piles of crates, cables, wires and even a few cars and vans – and they got to within about seventy metres of the Anton Kirov without any possibility that they had been spotted from the ship. Ross, Dekker and Richter crouched behind a large crate that smelt strongly of fish, even through the filtering effect of their anti-gas respirators, and studied the target through night-vision glasses.
The Russian freighter was moored bow-on to them, a rather rusty ship that looked deceptively peaceful through the glasses. Richter could see no sign of life on board, but Colin Dekker had better eyes. ‘Two sentries,’ he said quietly, his voice sounding hollow through Richter’s earphones. ‘One on the bridge – I saw his cigarette – and one aft, by the gangway.’
‘Options?’ asked Ross.
‘The bridge is sealed, and the glass is armoured – against the weather, not bullets, but the effect is much the same – so we can’t take him out from here. I think the decoy option offers us our best chance.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ross. He turned and waved a hand.
A minute or so later a couple of SAS troopers staggered past them, arms round each other’s shoulders, and exhibiting all the characteristics of a pair of happy drunks, even to the loud and tuneless singing. Their combat outfits were discreetly hidden beneath dark blue R
oyal Naval raincoats that Richter had liberated from the cloakroom at HMS Rooke. They watched in silence as the two men approached the ship. Richter saw a flash from behind the bridge windows and tapped Dekker on the arm. ‘Got it,’ Dekker murmured, and focused the night-vision glasses again. ‘We aren’t the only ones using these,’ he said. ‘The bridge sentry is watching our two amateur thespians very carefully.’
The two men had reached the stern of the Anton Kirov and appeared to be having an argument, the sound of their voices carrying clearly in the still night. Richter saw the second sentry for the first time as he moved into the glow of the deck lights. The men clutched each other, weaved about, and then began making their unsteady way up the gangway. The sentry immediately moved forward to stop them. Dekker was ignoring the drama and still watching the bridge through the glasses. ‘The bridge sentry’s gone,’ he whispered. ‘With any luck he’s on his way down to help the guy on the gangway.’
The three men met more or less in the middle of the gangway, and Richter could clearly hear the Russian’s voice as he remonstrated with the intruders. ‘This wrong ship,’ he said, in heavily accented English. ‘You must get off.’
‘It’s a bloody foreigner,’ one of the troopers said, in a thick Glaswegian accent. ‘Where’s Jock? He should be on duty tonight.’
‘What have you done with Jock, you German bastard?’ shouted the other, and lunged clumsily at the Russian. Richter saw a second figure approach the gangway from the deck, and as he reached the side of the ship the decoy operation was completed. Richter heard two almost simultaneous subdued coughs from the silenced Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistols carried by the troopers, and both the sentries fell.
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