The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “I will, Comrade General Secretary. I won’t rest until I know what they’re up to.”

  “Now to other matters, Yuri. I want to talk to you about Poland.”

  Chapter 2

  CHECKPOINT CHARLIE, AMERICAN SECTOR, WEST BERLIN. JUNE 1983.

  THE RED EFFECT −13 MONTHS.

  The black Range Rover came to a halt on the eastern side of the barrier, which quickly lowered behind them. The barrier had the new vertical struts intermittently spaced along its length, which had been introduced after an escapee had accelerated their car, a low, open-top sports car, beneath it, escaping from the German Democratic Republic to the American Sector of Berlin in the Federal Republic of Germany.

  A Grenztruppen officer, as usual, stood opposite the passenger door and looked at the two occupants inside. After waiting a few moments, he did a circuit of the vehicle, going through the pretence that he could make the decision to prevent the representatives of the British Government from passing into East Berlin. He came back to the passenger’s side window and looked in again. He stood proud in his grey uniform, green piping on his jacket and cap, along with a band around his lower left sleeve declaring him to be Grenztruppen der DDR.

  “He’s new, Jacko,” the mission commander said to his driver, a member of the Royal Corps of Transport. He was an experienced driver who knew how to handle the 2,000-kilogram heavyweight vehicle at speed, particularly when the Soviet or East German Army attempted to prevent them carrying out their tasks by ramming them, or attempting to block them in with various vehicles.

  “His uniform looks pretty new,” responded the driver. “Straight out of officer training school, I reckon.”

  “He’s certainly making a meal of it,” chided Bradley who was in command of the operation they were going to conduct today. He too was badged as Royal Corps of Transport, RCT, but was in fact from the ‘Section’, the specialist unit tasked with intelligence gathering and acquisition in the Eastern Sector of Berlin.

  “Here we go,” informed Jacko. He put the vehicle into gear, as the border guard raised the barrier and indicated with a flick of his wrist that they were free to pass through.

  Jacko manoeuvred the black, four-wheel drive Range Rover around the chicane of concrete blocks, wire fencing and barbed wire. Once free, he went through the gears as they increased speed leaving Checkpoint Charlie, situated on the junction of Friedrich Strasse, Zimmer Strasse and Mauer Strasse, behind them. “Where are we going?”

  “Karlshorst.”

  “Sneak around their railway sidings, eh?” Jacko changed down and swung right onto Leipziger Strasse, slotting in with the small blue and white Trabants and the occasional Skoda or Moskovich car that were going about their day-to-day business. The occasional Trabant rattled past, its 500cc, air-cooled, two-stroke engine sounding like a demented sewing machine, their occupants peering up at the black vehicle that towered above them; some putting a hand up in a discrete wave.

  “Let’s hope the bloody dogs aren’t out today,” responded Bradley.

  “I think even the transport police are afraid of them. Just a poke around?”

  “Yeah, we’ve not been for a couple of weeks. Just a quick in and out visit; then I want to try Pankow sidings.”

  Jacko pulled out and overtook a few cars before slotting back in again, heading east along Spittlemarkt, Gertrauden Strasse, crossing the River Spree, a long barge passing beneath them.

  “I’m just going to check in. Phoo, phoo.” Bradley blew into the black handset, initiating a signal. “Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over. Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”

  “Three-Zero-Bravo, this is Three-Zero-Alpha. Go ahead, over.”

  “En route. Delta, Hotel, Zulu, Echo; then Papa, Yankee, Kilo, Lima. Roger that, over?”

  “Roger that. Go easy. Three-Zero-Alpha, out.”

  Bradley placed the handset back in its cradle.

  “The big cheese, eh?” Asked Jacko.

  “Yes. He thinks there’s something up.”

  “He’s always had a good nose for the Russkies’ tricks. We’ve got company.”

  “Where, Jacko?”

  “About four cars back. One’s a black Skoda and the other a cream Lada. Two-up in each.”

  Bradley peered in the additional mirror he had fixed by the side of his sun visor, giving him a better view of what was behind them. “Got them. They wouldn’t happen to be wearing black leather jackets would they?” He laughed.

  “How did you guess?” Jacko grinned. “What do you want to do?”

  “Leave them for a while. Let them get a bit slack then we’ll make our move.”

  “Karl Marx?”

  “Yes.”

  Bradley didn’t need to look at the map. He had been operating in East Berlin for over a year now. However, he could always find their position on the map, just in case they had problems and needed assistance from the West. Jacko changed down, passing the ‘House of Teachers’, or the ‘Congress Hall’, on their right, the aluminium-coloured dome distinctive, and shortly after turning right into Karl-Marx-Allee. The dual carriageway was a little busier; East Berlin was starting to wake up.

  “Still with us?”

  “Yep, still two cars, but they’ve swapped the cream Lada for a white one.”

  “Looks like they may have a full team on us today then.”

  They shot round a roundabout and past the fountain in Strausberger Platz.

  “Keep your speed steady, Jacko.”

  Jacko looked to his right with a grin. “Are we taking them up the slope then?”

  Bradley returned the smile. “Why not? It’s about time we introduced them to this one. They never learn.”

  They continued east, passing ugly, grey concrete blocks of flats. The Section referred to them as Lego. The components for the blocks were brought into the city by train, on flatcars. The pre-fabricated sections appeared to be of three types: one blank, one with a window, and one with a doorway. They were then assembled into ugly concrete towers where eventually some fortunate East German would make one of the flats their home.

  Karl-Marx turned into Frankfurter Allee as they drove past the Frankfurter Tor. They crossed the bridge taking them over the S-Bahn railway line which ran north-east to south-west beneath them. They would normally have turned right down Am Tierpark to get to Karlshorst but they needed to shake off their tail first.

  So, Jacko turned left into Rhin Strasse, passed the Friedrichsfelde-Ost S-Bahn station, right onto Allee der Kosmonauts, through two long S-bends, forking right down a narrow, hard-packed, dusty road, Elisabeth Strasse, until they came out opposite the Kienberg. The pine mountain, as it was known locally, was in the district of Marzahn-Hellersdorf. Families often went there at weekends or during the school holidays. It was a mere sixty metres high, but it would serve their purpose.

  “See them?”

  “Just make them out through the dust.” Jacko laughed.

  The Range Rover ground to a halt as Jacko expertly applied the dif-lock, locking the front and rear drive shafts together, which would give them better grip for what they were about to do. Foot on the accelerator, the four-litre V8 engine growled and pulled the vehicle forwards, rapidly gaining speed. They crossed the dirt road in front of them, headed straight through the treeline ahead and proceeded to climb at a forty-degree angle up the side of the hill. The jacked-up suspension bounced the cab violently, but gave them better clearance, Jacko gripping the steering wheel tightly for fear of losing control of his charge. The armoured plate beneath, fixed to the underside of the vehicle, ground against the earth and rocks as they passed over them, but it protected the vulnerable chassis from any impact.

  “Whose...bloody idea...was...this?”

  “If I remember...rightly, Jacko...i...t...was yours.”

  Jacko maintained a steady speed, instinct wanting him to slow down, but his training kicking in, and the momentum upwards was maintained. Crunch. Both hit their heads on
the roof as the Range Rover hit a rut and faltered, but the powerful engine pulled it forward again.

  “Shit.”

  “Geronimo,” yelled Jacko, enjoying every minute of it.

  Bradley clutched the grab handle above him as they weaved around one of the pine trees, crossing tracks that helter-skeltered down from the top. They reached the summit but didn’t hesitate as they sped across the crown then careered down the other side. Their bodies shook and their teeth rattled as the vehicle, almost out of control, ran and occasionally surfed down the side of the hill, branches from the trees whipping the sides of the car making both men inside flinch.

  Once at the bottom, they clawed their way to a metalled road. The dif-lock was disengaged and, within minutes, they were heading towards their original target.

  “That’s sorted the buggers.” Jacko laughed as he weaved in and out of the traffic.

  “Well done, mate.” Bradley joined in the laughter. “But I wish I hadn’t had such a big breakfast.”

  They drove through various residential areas, Jacko weaving in and out of traffic, turning down different roads, completing circuits, constantly checking in his rear-view mirror to confirm they had truly lost their tail.

  Bradley looked over his shoulder and scanned the cars behind them. “All clear by the looks of it, Jacko.”

  “For now at least.” Jacko heaved a sigh of relief.

  They drove past more of the concrete tower blocks that were trying to pass themselves off as flats, and, after about fifteen minutes, found themselves on Langer Weg. Now they they were amongst row upon row of garden plots and summer houses, some simple one-room structures, others more grand with maybe two or three rooms: places where families could escape the hustle and bustle of the city at the weekend, or those retired staying there for a proportion of the summer months.

  They were close now, and Jacko slowed down as he turned right onto Balzer Weg, a partially metalled road, but he was glad they were in a four-wheel drive vehicle all the same.

  It was still quite early so the road and surrounding area were relatively quiet.

  “Take the next left, Jacko.”

  “Roger.” He turned the wheel and the vehicle leant over slightly as he turned into Bahn Weg, the area quite leafy, most of the plants and trees in full bloom. So, the homes were partly hidden but, more importantly, the two operators were partly hidden from the occupants. They were now travelling south, running parallel with a railway line on their left that ran from north to south. Their target a spur on the far side where the local Russian tank battalion loaded or unloaded their tanks and other equipment if they were going on exercise somewhere outside of the city, or on returning from an exercise.

  “Here will do.” Bradley pointed to a gap in the copse that ran alongside hiding the railway line from view, except for the occasional glimpse of the upper embankment. He wound down his passenger window so that he could listen and smell the air as well as look.

  Jacko steered off the hard-packed road, and the vehicle disappeared in amongst the trees. The Range Rover snaked through the undergrowth, the occasional low branch of a conifer screeching along the bodywork as they edged closer and closer to the railway line.

  “That’s my paintwork buggered,” exclaimed Jacko, proud of the condition he kept his vehicle in.

  “Stop moaning. You’ve had worse,” responded Bradley, tapping the dashboard. “This’ll do.”

  “Engine on or off?”

  “Turn it round so we can make a quick exit; then off.”

  Jacko manoeuvred the four-wheel drive until they were facing the way they had entered the copse while Bradley pulled the kit he would need from his bag. He grabbed a pair of binoculars, a pocket tape recorder, Nikon camera and handheld radio, a Teleport 9. Jacko switched the engine off and ensured his driver’s door was locked.

  “I’ll do a radio check as soon as I’m out.”

  “OK.”

  Bradley eased the passenger door open and slung the binos and camera over his shoulder, put the recorder in his parka pocket, and eased the door shut with a click. Jacko leant over and closed the window, locking the door after him. Bradley moved away from the vehicle and spoke into his handset in a hushed voice.

  “Juliet, Bravo, radio check, over.”

  “Bravo, Juliet, five and five, over.”

  “Roger, out.”

  His driver had informed him that the signal was strong and the clarity perfect. He shivered. Although June, the morning was quite fresh and he was glad of his Bundeswehr, green German Army parka.

  Bradley stopped and listened. He could hear a rhythmic clang of metal against metal coming from the direction of the railway line. He knew it was a good sign. He gave the thumbs up, the excited response from Jacko indicating he knew his tour commander had heard something, which could only mean they might get a meaty target today. It also told him to be on his guard as the Soviets would be more alert than usual.

  Bradley moved west, making his way through the trees in a half crouch, instinctively keeping his profile as low as possible. He arrived at the edge of the copse, the trees giving way to the railway embankment, some twenty-five metres away, that sloped down towards him. He looked left and right; all was clear, and he jogged over to the embankment scrambling up its shallow sides until he could peer over the top. In front of him were two parallel rail lines and, down in the dip on the other side of the embankment, a thin line of trees. Slowly, he moved across the tracks until he was able to see more and more, conscious that he was also becoming more and more exposed himself the closer he got to the other side. He crouched down, pulled his binos off his shoulder and scanned the area through the trees. Apart from some of the larger trees filling the lens of his binos, he was finally rewarded with a view through the gaps that brought a smile to his face. Tanks!

  He quickly ran across the lines, shuffled down the slope on the other side and made his way to the treeline which was only a few paces away. Creeping through the pines, no more than a couple of trees deep, he soon reached the edge on the far side, finding a good-sized trunk to hide behind, next to a small mound covered with a sprinkling of grass and scrub. It was enough to conceal him, he thought.

  He leant against the tree. In front of him was a line of heavy-duty flatcars, some with T-64 tanks still onboard. There were other tanks on the ramp and a few lined up on the track ready to leave the sidings and head for the barracks, less than a quarter of a mile away. The hammering he had heard earlier was the Soviet tank crew releasing the chains so they could offload their main battle tanks.

  Bradley grabbed the radio from his pocket. “Juliet, Bravo. Over.”

  In a matter of seconds, his radio crackled in response. He turned the volume down although he was sure he couldn’t be heard.

  “Juliet.”

  “Jackpot, I’ll be ten, over.”

  “Roger, but signal three, three. Out.”

  The radio went back in Bradley’s pocket. The embankment and large amount of metal in the area, from the railway lines, was clearly affecting the signal. There was no need for a long conversation. Jacko was an experienced operator and knew the score. Bradley trusted him. In fact, his life often depended on Jacko’s skills and experience. It was only four weeks ago when they had come across a Soviet exercise, and the Soviet soldiers had swarmed around them like flies. They had raced through the wood close by, Jacko’s arms a blur as he kept the Range Rover under control, the back wheels sliding in the mud, missing trees by mere millimetres. They had shot out of the wood, climbing up a verge onto a main road where a three-axle Zil 131, a Russian heavy goods vehicle weighing some six and a half tons, accelerated as the military driver caught sight of them. Jacko had pressed his foot to the metal. Sprays of earth and mud splattered the trees behind them as the Rover finally got a grip and careered onto the road, the Zil clipping the rear wing spinning them around, Jacko’s arms twisting left and right as he fought to get control. He finally managed to straighten up and headed back into the woods
they had just left. It was imperative they escaped as they knew the Soviets would be closing in.

  They had finally managed to break out of the area and hide up to lick their wounds. Punctures in two tyres, the back end dented, but they had got away and then burst into nervous laughter. Ever since that day, when Jacko had earned his tour wings, Bradley had felt more confident when they were on operations. He too had been in a similar situation, driving the Range Rover when being chased, once with three flat tyres. It was a hair-raising experience.

  Bradley moved around the trunk and crouched down behind the earthen mound. He pulled himself forward on his elbows and, once comfortable, scanned the area with his binos again. He could now see the spur line, the sidings the Soviets used to load and unload their tanks for shipping out of the city. The tanks were no more than a hundred metres away. He pulled out his pocket recorder, checked there was a fresh tape and it was rewound to the start and switched it on, recording what he could see.

  “Kilo Sierra, 0725. Ten T-64As unloading. New to the unit. One sentry, AK74, bayonet fixed, mag on. Patrolling the east side, looking pretty pissed off.”

  He zoomed in on the tanks and continued his commentary, his voice sounding more and more excited at having discovered new tanks for this unit.

  “Turret numbers: 607, 608, 603, 602, shit!”

  He dropped the recorder and clutched his binos with both hands, zooming in on one of the tanks furthest away. He picked up the recorder again.

  “Mars-Bars. Three T-64s have Mars-Bars. 613, 615 and 616.”

  Binos went down as did the recorder and he pulled the camera off his shoulder. Zooming in with the 300mm lens, he clicked away at the tanks and their turret numbers, partly as a supplementary record but also as part of the intelligence build-up on the Soviet units in East Berlin. He snapped away, two or three shots of each tank, some close-ups of key parts of the main battle tanks, their optics, tracks, main gun and, of course, the Mars-Bars. Further analysis would be done when back at the operations room, and the boffins back at MOD, the Ministry of Defence, would also get copies to pore over. Satisfied he had taken enough pictures for now, at this range anyway, he replaced the lens cap and slung the Nikon back over his shoulder and grabbed the portable radio from his pocket.