by Ian Slater
There were a few awkward grunts.
“The objective is simple. Doing it, not quite so easy.” He took the pointer. “As you can see, the Kremlin is an odd shape — five sides, none of them the same length — but we are only concerned with the northern triangular-shaped section up here.” The pointer moved to the top of the map. “This is made up of the arsenal tower at the top left of the triangle, Trinity Tower and Gate further left, to the west, Spasskaya or Savior’s Tower and Gate on the right, on the eastern side of the triangle.
“Whatever you do, try to avoid the onion-shaped domes down here south of the triangle. The domes are not your target. No reason you can’t abseil down from them, but this will consume precious time, and we estimate you’ll have twenty minutes maximum from point of landing to complete the mission.” Rye paused. “Questions so far?” Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the map as Rye waited a few seconds, then continued.
“For the last month, U.S. Second Air Force and RAF have been flying bombing missions out of our most forward airfields around Minsk, hitting Kolomna, fifty miles east of Moscow. This has diverted the mobile SAM and AA batteries away from Moscow as well as drawing off Moscow’s fighters. At the same time, we’ve been flying two or three Hercules — very high, under radar-jamming protection — dropping propaganda leaflets. Usual kind of stuff from NATO Psychological Warfare Unit, telling the Russian population at large that ‘while you are fighting the war, your leaders are living in luxury.’ The Russians already know that, of course. Personally, I think that this sort of thing is highly overrated and indeed counterproductive, but in our particular case, it does serve a very real purpose. By running these propaganda flights over the central Moscow area on a fairly regular basis, it’s caused the Russians, when their radar does manage to penetrate our jamming, to pay less and less attention to the Hercules they’re used to and instead to concentrate their mobile SAM sites and AA defense units around outlying industrial targets like the Likhachev Works that once produced Zils and are now busy turning out armor, et cetera. In any event, they’re understandably much more interested in having their expensive SAMs and AA batteries engage our bombers, not three transports that have been dropping leaflets over the last few weeks, which we’ve been using as a decoy for your drop. Even so, once you land inside the Kremlin, you’ll be up against SPETs elite guard units.”
David Brentwood suddenly looked across at the major. “We have any idea how many, sir?” he interjected.
“Three companies, we believe — in all, plus or minus three hundred men.”
“Whew! That’s all right then,” said Aussie. “Thought there mightn’t be enough to go around.”
The major grinned politely but quickly returned their attention to the triangular section — at the Kremlin’s northernmost end, which was roughly wedge-shaped — the arsenal that would contain the SPETS on the left-hand side of the wedge, the Council of Ministers where the STAVKA meeting would take place, on the right — in between them, a relatively open section of several acres with some tree cover.
Tapping the open area at the bottom or widest part of the wedge, Rye told them, “This’ll be your landing zone. Remember, too far west and you’re on the roof of the Palace of Congress. Too far southwest and you’re into a thicket of spires. Landing atop the Palace of Congress wouldn’t be so bad for Laylor’s Troop A. It has a very good overview of the open area below it — the middle of the wedge — as well as a view of the arsenal on its left and the Council of Ministers to the right. But Troop B and Troop C, on the other hand, must avoid wasting time by landing on the palace and having to rappel down. Oh yes — too far south altogether and you could find yourself over the wall in queue for Lenin’s mausoleum.”
“Have to pay to get in, sir?”
“Well I’m sure,” quipped Rye, “that whatever currency was required, Lewis, you’d have it.”
Rye turned back to the map. “Before I discuss the job of the other two groups — B and C — a few more points you all need to know.”
The major paused to make sure every man of the three-troop squadron was watching him before going on. “The raid, gentlemen, is to cut off the head of the snake. It must be a quick and decisive operation. Very fast, very hard. Now, some of you are probably wondering, why not a bombing run? Good question — easy answer. The Kremlin complex covers well over sixty acres. Furthermore, after the U.S. “smart bomb” attack on Qaddafi years ago knocked out everything else but failed to get Qaddafi, which was the whole point of the raid, NATO HQ, correctly in my view, have shied away from delegating this kind of task to a bombing run. Bombing looks all very impressive from postraid aerial photographs. It appears that you’ve taken out everything when in fact half of it remains operational. We learned that with the Ho Chi Minh Trail. And do remember, gentlemen— the day after the A-bomb landed on Hiroshima, trolley cars were running in the city. No, the only sure way is to actually go in and do the job on the ground. Then you’ve got a much better chance of taking them out — whether they’re in the upper chambers of the Council of Ministers or in the bomb shelters below.
“Understood, sir,” put in the Guards officer, Laylor, in command of A Group. “But if the shelters are sealed off, then even if we get some members of the STAVKA HQ upstairs, what happens if the rest scurry to the shelters before we can—”
“Good question, Laylor — so now we come to Groups B and C.” The major was looking around at the eighty men. “Ah, Brentwood, there you are. I do hope you don’t object to leading Bravo Troop? You were chosen because of your experience in the Freeman raid on Pyongyang.
“Good. Now, your job is to get into the Council of Ministers — hereafter designated COM — while Laylor’s Alfa Group is securing the perimeter. Hit them before they know what the dickens is going on. Remember, they’ve at least two companies of SPETS billeted in the arsenal just two hundred yards west of the COM. That’s in addition to regular Kremlin guards stationed at building entrances, et cetera.”
The major turned back to Laylor. “In any event, Laylor, the drill will be that whether or not the STAVKA and other members of the Politburo do ‘scurry’ to the cellars, your job is to secure a perimeter within which Brentwood’s Bravo Troop can clean house.’ Brentwood, your sappers will plant enough plastique to bring down the entire COM if necessary. Whether the STAVKA are shot or asphyxiated by thousands of tons of concrete coming down on their shelter is neither here nor there to us. Your job is to kill them before they get a chance to unleash all-out chemical and biological warfare on our troops and on our civilians.
“Before your departure, all of you will be doing walkthroughs — many, in fact — of a mock-up of Suzlov’s office, et cetera, on the top floor of the COM’s eastern wing. Remember, all you are concerned with is the area bounded by the triangle— the Kremlin’s northern end. You should land within the triangle — hopefully in the more open space between the arsenal and the Council of Ministers. When you open your chutes at low altitude, even with cloud, your infrared goggles should allow you to make out the landing zone area clearly. For a reference point, look for the line of cannons lined up all along here — the eastern side of the arsenal facing the Council of Ministers. We’ll be practicing orientation here, sending you up on the mezzanine and looking down on the model. You’ll be issued flares — short fuse — but hopefully you’ll have the element of surprise and won’t have to use them, as you’d only be presenting yourselves as targets. Most critical phase will be the time it takes the SPETs in and around the arsenal to realize what’s going on. But no matter where you land within the Kremlin complex, remember you’ll never be too far from your targets. So regroup quickly.”
Next Rye turned to Cheek-Dawson, who was designated leader of the remaining twenty-odd SAS. “C Troop under Mr. Cheek-Dawson will surround the Council of Ministers Building, to help Laylor’s Alfa Group bottle up the SPETS in the arsenal while Brentwood is cleaning house. C will also provide a squad of sappers to plant the time-delay plastique which will
bring down the COM, covering its shelters in rubble, should Mr. Brentwood’s group not put pay to everyone at the STAVKA meeting. No use doing only half the job. Captain, you’ll also provide ‘fire teams’ of two, no more than four, men to plug any weak holes in the perimeter.”
“Understood, sir,” said Cheek-Dawson.
“Good. Everyone else — clear so far?”
Rye was wearing such an encouraging smile that for a moment it occurred to the Australian, Lewis, that to anyone walking in, it might seem as if they were merely being briefed for yet another practice HALO jump, except the atmosphere in the room was electric with excitement, laced through with the fear that they were going into the bear’s den.
“I’ll hand this over in a few moments to Mr. Cheek-Dawson for your detailed walk-throughs, but I do have a few closing remarks. We have — I should say MI5 and CIA have — provided us with enough information to arrange a mock-up ‘attack set’ in our Hereford house. You will all do six run-throughs — each fifteen minutes maximum — before you take off tomorrow afternoon for our forward airfields around Minsk.
“Remember the whole thrust of your training is that above all, SAS adapts to any situation faster and better than anyone else. Apart from those weapons and techniques that you’ve spent the last weeks honing to a fine point, your greatest weapon will be speed and surprise. If we had thought we could have relied on any other means to do the job, we wouldn’t have asked you. That, indeed, was my first consideration when former C in C General Freeman, who originated this plan and kept it on standby, initially presented it to me in Brussels. And if we thought we could get you in by low, radar-evading choppers, we would have also tried that. But I’m afraid the perimeter defenses of Moscow area simply made that unfeasible. The only way is to go high and drop you in. So far as getting you out — something I venture a few of you at least are interested in doing—” the laughter was short “—Royal Air Force will launch a Harrier-escorted flight of four Sea Stallion choppers for pickup—” he turned to the map “—here at Naro-Fominsk. It’s thirty miles out — closest we can possibly hope to get. But we do have surprise help for you on that score.”
“A bloody compass!” called out the Australian.
“A little better than that, Mr. Lewis,” replied Rye easily. “Sar’Major will fill you in on that. As far as the choppers go, we would have liked to have used something with a smaller silhouette than the Stallions, but each Stallion can carry enough fuel and can get thirty-five of you out in one haul — providing you can reach them. The fourth Stallion will be manned by American medical personnel. I believe they have everything aboard except the kitchen sink.” Another smarter of laughter. “Again, vertical-landing Harriers, the only fighters we can put down without an airfield, will be with them, waiting for you. I won’t insult your intelligence, gentlemen, by pretending that even if you reach Naro-Fominsk, the evacuation’s going to be any picnic. Within five minutes of you hitting the drop zone, I estimate that all SPETS outside as well as those inside the Kremlin will be alerted. Hopefully they will also be confused for a minute or so, at least when you go in, and that should give you a vital edge. Best of luck.”
With that, Major Rye let Cheek-Dawson take over. It was unstated, but the men drew confidence from the fact that the spearhead of the mission — the job of carrying out the “flush-out,” in SAS parlance, of the enemy commanders from their various offices along the eastern wing of the Council of Ministers Building — had been assigned to a veteran of such a raid: the American, Brentwood, and not automatically assigned, as often happened in line units, to the most senior officer, in this case Captain Cheek-Dawson. Every leader, despite his generalist SAS training, had sensibly been chosen because of his experience as well as SAS training, and not his rank.
“Very nice,” said Aussie, looking down at one of the lists of Russian phrases several of the NCOs were handing out. “Very nice — twenty bloody phrases to learn off by heart, but who’s the Russian specialist in our group, may I ask?”
“Why,” said Schwarzenegger, surprised that Lewis didn’t mow. “I am. I speak Russian as well as German, you know. Many Germans do. It’s—”
Lewis turned on him. “You boxhead! You never told me that. Christ — you’ve cost me a bloody fortune!”
“You never asked me,” Schwarzenegger repeated, unruffled. “Besides, I thought you were so sure that we were going to Malaya, then Korea—”
“Ah, piss off!”
David Brentwood didn’t join in the ribbing. The full realization of his awesome responsibility was now upon him like a backpack twice the weight of the 110-pound load he’d take with him out of the aircraft. And now, too, he was confronted by the memories of how he had lain petrified in the shelled moonscape during the botched-up drop of the airborne outside Stadthagen: how he had been unable to move, too afraid to move, until the SPETS bayonet appeared before his face and he’d surrendered. Oh, he’d escaped from Stadthagen, all right, but that, like the actions of so many others, had been motivated more by fear of what would happen to him if he didn’t escape. Physically he felt fit and ready enough for “Operation Merlin,” but that had all been training. Now it would be the real thing—again.
Cheek-Dawson was taking the roof off the model of the Council of Ministers, indicating to the sappers the points of the building where charges would exert most stress with the least resistance. The man in Laylor’s group passing out the list of Russian-English phrases to be memorized and practiced by morning wondered aloud what the word “Kremlin” actually meant.
“Fortress,” Cheek-Dawson answered, without looking up.
“Oh, lovely,” said Aussie, “Does that tell you something, fellas?”
“Yeah, long way from Korea, Aussie,” commented a cockney, who, turning to his mate, continued, “Poor bugger’ll owe over three hundred quid, I reckon.”
“Less than that,” said the Welshman they called “Choir” Williams.
“How come?”
“Work it out, lad. Fortress an’ all. How many you think’ll make it in? More to the point, how many of us’ll get out?”
“You’re a cheery one,” said the first cockney.
“Just facing facts, ducky.”
Lewis, listening in, depressed by the ribbing directed his way, was suddenly seized with an inspiration. As if in a vision, he rose, took out his ever-ready purple indelible pencil, knowing its imprint on paper wouldn’t run in either snow or rain, and, licking it, he wandered about the hall, making bets on how many would make it back. If any.
For David Brentwood, the worst of it was that Thelman, Schwarzenegger, and the Australian, Lewis, along with the other sixteen men of his troop, thoroughly approved of his selection as leader of B Troop. His experience on Freeman’s Pyongyang raid now made him feel as he had once at college when, unexpectedly having achieved high grades in several subjects, he was automatically expected to continue to lead the field. Adding to his apprehension was Rye’s mention of Freeman in the past tense, as former C in C.
Approaching Cheek-Dawson with a nonchalance, the very pretense so unlike him, it only further fueled his anxiety, he asked casually whether the general had “bought it.”
Cheek-Dawson didn’t glance up from the model of the Kremlin. Like Gulliver, he was still peering down at the Lilliputian world, making notes on precisely where the charges would have to be placed. “Suspect so, old boy,” he answered. “Apparently the general went MIA somewhere up near the Yalu. Chaps at Brussels HQ say it was typical, though. I mean, doing his own reconnaissance. From all accounts, he was some general.”
“Yes,” said Brentwood with a heartfelt sincerity he doubted anyone else in the room, except perhaps Thelman, who’d also served directly under Freeman, could fully comprehend. “Yes—” David stopped, unsure as to whether he should say, “He was,” or “He is.” Somehow he had always thought of the general as invincible.
The regimental sergeant major was on the hailer before they were due to leave for lunch and then
on to the “house” for the dry run-through with live ammunition and full pack. The RSM was holding an “extra roll” above his head, which he explained would have to be put atop the 110-pound pack that would be carried by each man into the drop zone. There was a collective groan.
“Steady on, girls,” he responded breezily. “No need to get your knickers in a knot. You’ll like this one.” The roll of white plastic was no larger than a tightly compressed hand towel, and, he assured them, no heavier. “This little charmer’ll go atop your main pack.” With deliberate flourish, he unraveled the plastic along the floor. It was a white plastic overlay, the shape of a boiler suit, elasticized at the waist, a fly running all the way up from the crotch to the neck, where two white cord drawstrings were attached to the hood, its design quite different in its hip and shoulder cut from the NATO winter overlay the men had used on all the HALO exercises.
“We’ve already got overlays,” said Lewis.
“That’s for the attack, Aussie. This is standard SPETS overlay issue. Compliments of Captain Cheek-Dawson.”
Momentarily Brentwood felt better. It was simple yet quite brilliant. During the withdrawal, it would be pitch darkness because of Moscow’s air raid curfews — but there would be SPETS everywhere after the attack. Identification of SAS, if they were dressed as SPETS, would be difficult and might buy valuable time, aiding escape.
“How ‘bout me?” It was Thelman, the white overlay a stark contrast to his black skin.
“Yer own bloody fault, Thelma!” shouted Aussie. “Told you blokes to quit suntannin’!”
“Fuck you!” replied Thelman.
“Not to worry, mate,” rejoined Aussie. “Put cold cream on. That’ll do the trick.”
“Smell like a whore,” countered Thelman in the same easy, yet slightly forced, banter.
