by Ian Slater
* * *
It was 0957 and eleven seconds when Vladivostok’s Ground Station Four on the Jilin Province-USSR border reported a cluster of aircraft rising from Matsue, Japan, heading across the East Sea at twenty thousand feet and traveling at Mach.9. The operators opined that though these aircraft were traveling at only seven hundred miles per hour, they were possibly a fighter umbrella protecting a larger blip traveling at Mach.7, accompanied by three smaller aircraft farther south of the first group, EIT plus or minus fourteen minutes.
The nine Fulcrums peeled off to engage, not doubting for a moment that what Ground Radar Four had seen were American fighters going slowly to keep pace with the Boeing 747. What they did not realize was that the burst message they received from Vladivostok Control was immediately picked up by two of the fifty-man 747 crew manning the consoles aboard the big 231-foot-long Boeing jet and that via satellite bounce, the positions of both groups of Fulcrums, the six coming straight for the American fighters and the three others “on the deck” staying on course for the 747, were being plotted by the Americans.
Then, for both sides, the fighter pilot’s nightmare happened: The first crack, then rumble, of one of several electrical storms fractured the air above the Sea of Japan with a “splitting” that began to play havoc with the sophisticated avionics of both the hunters and the hunted. The only hope was that in between electrical surges, a quick fix on the opposition might be possible.
* * *
Aboard the Boeing, commander of the aircraft, Frank Shirer, was immediately alerted to the presence of Bogeys, the battle staff correctly assuming, and he concurred, that the six Soviet fighters — too fast to be Chinese — were peeling off to engage the F-14 Tomcats farther north while three who’d been trying to hide in the scatter were the “strikers,” now climbing, fast, toward him, while the bigger American formation would have no choice but to engage the six Fulcrums.
“Damn it!” said Shirer, glancing over at his copilot, “I wish to hell I was in two oh three — my old F-14. I’d give those bastards a run for their money.”
Without any armament, the electronics of the 747 having taken up all available space, Shirer felt naked. Then it started to rain—”like a cow peeing on a flat rock,” announced Freeman.
“He’s cool,” commented the copilot as Freeman left the cabin.
“He’s not driving,” said Shirer.
In the rear of the 747, Jim Norton looked ill. He tried to hide it, but he was a white-knuckled flier at the best of times, and the storm was terrifying. “Jim,” said Freeman, “I ever tell you ‘bout the time I was in Louisiana? Bunch of us on leave, dressed in civvies, went into this greasy spoon. Bill Fryer was with us. You know Bill. Hundred and first Airborne.”
“No,” said Norton, and he didn’t care.
“Well,” said Freeman, “this white waiter ambles up, takes one look at Bill, and says, ‘We don’t serve coloreds here.’ Everyone’s struck dumb, ‘cept Johnny Morgan — my G-2 at the time. Quick as a flash Johnny looks from Bill Fryer to the waiter and says, ‘But he’s a king.”
“ ‘No shit,’ says the waiter, and toddles off. Manager comes down, and now Bill Fryer’s sitting there like he’s King Farouk and we’re all going along with it — kowtowing. ‘Your Majesty’ this. ‘Your Majesty’ that. Manager’s as obsequious as a pimp on a slow day… apologies galore… so’s the waiter by now. What can they do for us? et cetera, et cetera. So we stay and have a big meal. All the time we keep up the act, treating Bill like he’s a goddamned royal.” The 747 lurched violently. Norton closed his eyes. “Well,” continued Freeman, “just as we’re about to leave, the waiter comes down with the bill, all smiles, looks at Bill Fryer, and says, ‘We ain’t never had a king here before.’ Know what Bill Fryer says? ‘No shit!’ “
Norton shook his head.
Freeman laughed so loud, Norton felt obliged to offer a weak smile, convinced by the turbulence and the oncoming Soviet fighters that it might be the last joke he’d ever hear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
From the train, David Brentwood looked out on the rolling green hills of west England’s Herefordshire. He thought it the most beautiful country he’d ever seen. And as the train passed on through Hay-on-Wye over the English-Welsh border, winding its way between the brooding black mountains deep into Brecknockshire toward Brecon at the foot of the two windswept mountains known as the Beacons, slowly and inexorably, everything changed for David. It was as if he had been in this place before. It wasn’t only the smell of the fresh winter air, the earthy dampness that reminded him of the wet winters in the Pacific Northwest in Washington and Oregon, but the wild beauty of the place. The wind-riven hillsides of flattened grasses spoke to him, as they did to few others on that train. Though brought up by his mother in the Protestant faith, which viewed God in deeply personal ways, David could not believe as she did. The suffering of children, the death of Lili — how could there be any good in that? “We all have to die,” his mother would say. “The timing and circumstance of it, David, are only things we fret about so long as we see this life as all there is.” Was this war all there was? he wondered. If so, then winning it seemed more important than ever before, for in mourning Lili’s death, he’d realized in a way he never had before how short life really was. It had been a thing his parents and grandparents had always told him — an old person’s cliche, repeated to the young so many times, it became nothing more than a bore, because inside him there had been the secret belief of all youth that they would not die — at least not before their time, a time which in their own minds was always secure and far in the future.
For a moment he had doubts about volunteering for the SAS force. If this life was such a transitory thing — why bother? Because, he answered himself, corny as he knew it might sound to others, he believed it was right to fight evil. If you didn’t, then people like Lili, Melissa — damn her — would live in a far worse world, a world where there could be no honor, no love, only subservience to the kind of brutality he’d seen as a child the day the newscasts had shown the Communists crushing the movement for democracy with tanks in Tiananmen Square.
As the train carrying him, Thelman, and the other ninety-six volunteers who had been interviewed for the SAS training program pulled into Brecon, David looked up again at the grass-covered sandstone slopes, the sweeping line of the high hills broken now and then by woods of gnarled trees deformed by the wind, and cottages that had looked picturesque from the distance but which now appeared to be deserted and run-down. High above the three-thousand-foot Beacons, buzzards circled, ever patient, waiting, he presumed, for any of the black-faced sheep grazing on the steep slopes to fall. Still, the scene did not depress him, and inhaling the fresh mountain air, he closed his eyes, the better to impress it upon his memory as a new beginning, a place that, whatever happened, would always be close to his heart. Perhaps it was not so much the place at all but that it was a new place where he might regain the old surety of action he’d known before the nerve-shattering experience of Pyongyang and Stadthagen. A new beginning.
“You okay?” asked Thelman.
“Fine,” said David. It was the first time Thelman had seen his old buddy of Parris Island days smile since they’d left France aboard the overnight Hovercraft, the Channel still blocked by the massive explosion that had closed it in the first weeks of the war when a SPETS cell, one of them posing as a cross-channel truck driver, had set off the bomb that had collapsed the two main tunnels, concussion killing most of those in transit, the North Sea pouring in and drowning the rest.
“Nice little town,” remarked Thelman. “Somebody told me Wales was full of slag heaps.”
“Well they’re not here,” replied David. He had no inkling that within forty-eight hours he would hate the place, cursing the moment he had agreed to “try out,” as the English Captain Smythe had so casually put it. Yet the beginning of his time at SAS gave no hint of how quickly he would feel he’d made a mistake, for at first it wasn�
�t at all like Parris Island or Camp Lejeune. Indeed, when he first stepped out of the train, he and all the others had been struck by an angelic singing, male voices in a harmony he wouldn’t have believed possible outside of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir — voices raised, singing ancient Welsh hymns. It did sound like How Green Was My Valley.
As David looked around at the other ninety-odd volunteers, he saw unit badges from every kind of regiment, including several Dutch and German troops, sappers to engineers, even a Seabee, and at least six men from the Coldstream Guards, all brought to a standstill by a chorus they could hear somewhere beyond the station. Even Thelman, though an avid fan of what David’s father, the admiral, would have described as “moron thump,” stood on the station platform, listening in rapt attention.
“Concert in town?” one of the volunteers asked the SAS regimental sergeant major who turned up to greet them.
“No,” the RSM replied, his quiet Welsh accent surprising to David. “Cymru versus the Barbarians.” Thelman and Brentwood looked at one another in bewilderment.
“Football!” interjected a captain called Cheek-Dawson, wearing the coveted beige SAS beret with the blue-winged dagger above the emblem “Who Dares, Wins.” “Welsh against the English,” he explained. “The singing you hear, needless to say, is coming from the Welsh supporters. If they lose, I daresay we’ll hear a pretty decent requiem.”
“Ah,” said one of the sappers, a Hispanic American, name tag “Bartroli.” “Soccer, right?”
“No, no, man,” said the RSM, his tone good-natured but intent on correction nevertheless. “Not that sissy business. This is rugby.”
“More like American football, right, Sar’Major?” said Cheek-Dawson good-naturedly.
“Without the ruffles,” replied the RSM.
“Ruffles?” challenged Thelman.
“All that padding.”
“Wonder you don’t kill yourselves then,” retorted Thelman.
“It happens,” said the RSM. “All right, lads — into the trucks with kit. Reception at Senny Bridge in—” he glanced at his watch “—half an hour. Fourteen hundred.”
Thelman reminded Brentwood of the joke they’d heard at Parris Island about the first intake of women into the Marine Corps getting it all wrong when the female DI said she’d give them twenty minutes to get ready for kit inspection.
Brentwood fell silent, remembering the last time he’d heard the story was from the British sergeant who’d been murdered along with Lili on the train to Liege.
An Australian listening in to the joke as the trucks pulled away from Brecon station laughed so loud, Thelman thought he’d fall off the tailgate.
“Heard the one about the kangaroo and the priest?” asked the Aussie.
“No,” said Brentwood. The Aussie was talking to them as if he’d known them all his life. He didn’t get to tell them his joke, however, as they were passing the football ground, and a surge of Welsh patriotism, mainly the voices of old men— most of the young ones having been drafted — filled the truck with such emotion that men who’d never heard of rugby were moved.
“You play that in Australia, don’t you?” asked David.
“Yeah, but Australian Rules mainly,” said the Aussie.
“Australian rules?” put in Cheek-Dawson with good cheer. “I should have thought that an oxymoron.”
“What d’ya mean?” said the Aussie. “Moron?”
“Ah — I meant a contradiction in terms,” explained Cheek-Dawson, “You know — Australians and rules? No offense meant.”
The Aussie grinned. “None taken, mate. The name’s Mick. Mick Lewis. They say that with a name like that, I’m half-Irish and half-Welsh. But I can’t sing a bloody note.”
The first hour was like that — informal, the distinction between officer, NCO, and other ranks not paid anywhere like the attention it received elsewhere, particularly in the British forces, where class differences readily became recognizable to even the most recent arrival from overseas. It was different, too, from Parris Island, which surprised David and Thelman, and no doubt many of the other American recruits. No DIs screaming hysterically at you, treating you like dirt even before you got off their bus. And David couldn’t imagine a regular British officer elsewhere joking with the Australian— there certainly wouldn’t have been any apology so readily offered.
Shortly after 1400, they arrived at the SAS HQ at Senny Bridge, eight miles west of Brecon, the headquarters having been moved forty miles west of Hereford on the English side because of Soviet rocket attacks. The Brecon Beacons were covered in deep, fast-moving shadows and then brilliant sunlight. “A dabbledy day,” said the RSM as he jumped down from the jeep leading the three-tonners, and looked up at the jumbled sky. “All right then, lads. Columns of three. Tallest left and right — smallest in the middle. Shake a leg.”
Major Rye, an officer in his midforties with slightly graying hair and a broad, friendly face, dressed in beret, camouflage-pattern battle dress smock and trousers, came out to welcome them. They were all volunteers from every branch of the services — their reasons for volunteering as varied as the men themselves, some bored with life in the line regiments, which, because of the slowdown in supplies occasioned by convoy losses, were now forced to dig in and wait. Others no doubt were escaping domestic entanglements of one kind or other, and some had volunteered because they, as young men, some of them children at the time, had been electrified, as was the whole world, by the riveting spectacle of the first SAS public appearance. There had been rumors that an elite force, called the Special Air Service, had existed, but the first time the world knew the rumors were right was on May 6, 1980, in London in “Operation Nimrod.” The SAS counterterrorist team, covered head to toe in what was to become their telltale black uniform, wearing CS gas masks, which also protected their identity, attacked and, with astonishing speed, ended, in front of the world’s TV cameras, a six-day, twenty-one-hostage drama in the Iranian Embassy. The attack, combining sheer-cliff mountaineering abseiling, stun grenades, and perfect HK MPS submachine-gun kill shots at close range in crowded rooms, was so fast, the Iranian terrorists literally didn’t know what hit them.
Though this constituted the first public view of the SAS, the Special Air Service had already been operating for over thirty years, ever since being formed from an “odd-bod” collection of commando enthusiasts who wreaked such havoc behind the enemy line in the Western Desert, destroying over 380 of Rommel’s German aircraft and vast quantities of oil and ammunition, that Adolf Hitler issued a personal order to the Wermacht regarding the SAS that “these men are dangerous. They must be hunted down and destroyed at all costs.”
After the Second World War, the SAS had carried on its covert service of British foreign policy, involving them in everything from the Malayan Communist emergency to joining the West German counterterrorist CSG-9 in the hostage-rescue attack against the hijacked Lufthansa airliner on the airstrip at Mogadishu in Somalia. The fierce gun battle there lasted for more than seven minutes, but the success of the operation— only one hostage was wounded, and not fatally — was due once again to the extraordinary speed and accuracy of the assault, during which every terrorist aboard was hit in the first bursts of the commandos’ gunfire. And then there were the audacious and devastating night raids in the Falklands War, and later deep inside Iraq, against Saddam Hussein’s airfields.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Over the Sea of Japan, Shirer nosed the 747 down toward the thick cumulonimbus at fifteen thousand, seeking protection of zero visibility against the three breakaway fighters, the 747’s over-the-horizon radar showing the Bogeys were now only sixty miles away, active radars on and coming in arrowhead formation for interdiction at a thousand miles per hour — almost certainly MiG-29 Fulcrums.
Shirer knew the F-14 Tomcats that would try to protect his 747 were good — on afterburner, over a hundred miles an hour faster than the Fulcrums — but, as an ace, he also knew the old rule still held: With the gizmolog
y being more or less equal, over sixty percent of all kills in dogfights went to only the top six percent of pilots.
As the 747 entered the cloud in the pitch darkness, the three Fulcrums now only forty miles away, Shirer called through to the COMCO — countermeasures control officer. “Compute distance from Vladivostok to here and back. Approx.”
The COMCO’s Cray computer had it in four seconds. “Return journey plus or minus one thousand miles, Captain. I say again ‘miles.’ “
As if reading Shirer’s mind, the officer had already computed the Fulcrum’s combat radius of plus or minus eleven hundred kilometers against the distance from Vladivostok, and the arithmetic projection was clear: The Fulcrums could make it to interdiction and back to Vladivostok, but it would leave them little time for the attack. Their wing commander must certainly have taken this into account. COMCO’s conclusion, quickly relayed to Shirer, was that the Fulcrums were probably hauling drop tanks for extended range.
Even so, Shirer knew that during an attack, the Bogeys would, at some point, have to jettison the drop tanks, even if they hadn’t used all of the fuel from them, in order to reduce weight and so engage the Tomcats at maximum speed. This would force the Russians’ fuel consumption to jump to eighteen times normal “suck-through” rate. In four minutes on full war power, each Fulcrum would guzzle more than thirty percent of its entire fuel load.
Shirer flicked on his mike. “Freedom One to Angel Leader. Do you read me?”
