The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Juliet, Bravo, over.”

  The call signs for members of the section were the phonetic first letter of their respective first name.

  “Go ahead, over.” Jacko’s voice crackled in reply.

  “We need to get closer, Jacko. Over.”

  “North or south? Over.”

  “North, so find us a route. See you in ten, out.”

  Bradley secured the radio and picked up his pocket tape recorder again and started to recite. “Tanks being unloaded so probably bound for the local unit. Speed they’re working at should take them a couple of hours. This is a new tank type for the unit, so they are probably unsure of them. Maybe more trains arriving, unless this is just a batch for them to train on. Need to keep a close watch to confirm if any T-54/55s or T-62s are sent out at a later date. Moving to get a closer look.”

  He placed the recorder back in his pocket and got back up to a crouching position and made his way into the trees again. The clang of hammers being used by the tank crew to strike the chains and release the tanks continued. He reached the edge of the embankment, checked his surroundings; then, at a running crouch, went up the side and over the top, stepping gingerly over the two sets of railway lines and down the other side. He made his way back to the Range Rover, the steady stream of gases coming from the exhaust indicating that Jacko was ready to move out. Opening the door, Bradley slotted into his seat, peeling the camera and binos off his shoulder and placing them back in the bag by his feet.

  “T-64s, Jacko.”

  “T-64s?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a new bit of kit for this unit then, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and with Mars-Bars,” Bradley responded excitedly.

  “What are those things again?” Jacko asked, remembering being briefed about them some time ago.

  “I’ll tell you on the way. We need to move.”

  “So, we’re going north to get a closer look, yes?”

  “The best place.”

  “I’ll take us onto Zweiessler Strasse. Remember it?”

  “Sure.”

  Chapter 3

  EAST OF THE ‘RAMP’, KARLSHORST, EAST BERLIN. JUNE 1983.

  THE RED EFFECT −13 MONTHS.

  Jacko shifted the vehicle into gear and slowly manoeuvred it through the trees until they were back on Bahn Weg, where he turned left, Bradley constantly checking, making a three hundred and sixty degree sweep ensuring they weren’t being observed or followed. The engine growled as the Range Rover picked up speed, and Bradley, satisfied they were not being followed, pulled his kitbag up onto his knee. He pulled out the camera again and unlocked the large grey 300mm lens. It was the better lens to use in poor light, so he could keep the camera speed high, but it was bulky and awkward to use when trying to remain concealed. It was at least a foot long, shaped like a cone, the tip of the lens the size of a double fist.

  He clipped on another lens, a 400mm one this time. This one was more compact, a mirror lens, black and tubular in shape. Its downside was it needed more light, so would have a negative impact on film speed. The light was getting better, so he would chance it.

  “Well? Mars-Bars?” Jacko reminded him.

  Bradley put the bag down into the footwell of the vehicle, close at hand and ready should he need it quickly. Checked the map and scanned the area yet again. They were now on Arnsberger Strasse, still amongst the holiday homes of the wealthier East Berliners. Probably party officials, surmised Bradley, or their families, or others connected to the Communist organisation that now ran the GDR. The select few.

  “They were designed to defeat our HESH rounds.”

  “High Explosive Squash Head, right?”

  “You do listen then.” Bradley grinned.

  “I live for your every word.”

  “Bollocks. Well, HESH rounds are thin metal shells filled with plastic explosive and have a delayed action fuse. The explosive is squashed against the side of the tank with the force of the strike and spreads out to form a disc.”

  “Like a small pizza?”

  “Yes, Jacko, if you like.” Bloody truckies, he mumbled jokingly. “Milliseconds later, this is detonated and the shock wave is transmitted through the wall of the armour and, once it meets the crew compartment, the inner wall fragments at high speed, basically causing a mess inside.”

  “Now I know why I joined the RCT and not the Tank Corps.”

  “Me and you both. Well these Mars-Bars are designed to defeat HESH rounds. They’re made up of two steel plates,” he held one flat hand above the other, “with a layer of explosives in between them, designed to explode when struck, preventing the explosive ‘pat’ from forming.”

  “What about Sabot rounds?”

  “Not sure, but I think they reduce their effectiveness as well. Taking Dohlengrund?” Bradley asked, running his finger along his map.

  “Yes, next left.”

  They turned left into Dohlengrund, very much back amongst the East Berlin version of suburbia. The Range Rover shot past Walslebener Platz on the left and a long right-hand bend took them into Beruner Strasse where they swung a left down Shackelster Strasse coming to a T-junction at the end. They found themselves up against a double railway line that ran north to south across the front of their vehicle, the one Bradley had walked across earlier. The embankment was well grassed but, apart from the odd tree, was fairly clear.

  Jacko spun the steering wheel hard right and they turned down a hard-packed road, the railway line now on their left. He knew exactly where he was going. Fifty metres and they reached what they were looking for: a sharp bend taking them to an underpass that would get them to the other side of the railway line above them.

  Jacko drove carefully through the tunnel, the square concrete walls barely two or three metres apart, his eyes flitting left and right, from wing mirror to wing mirror. Bradley also helped looking through his open passenger window, informing Jacko if he was getting too close. Jacko came to a halt, just before the black nose of the bonnet extended beyond the tunnel. He had deliberately stopped with the driver door as close up against the left wall as he possibly could, enabling Bradley to squeeze through his door and slip out.

  Bradley squeezed between the wall and the vehicle. The underpass was damp with condensation and the walls cool to the touch. He made his way out into the open. Once out, his eyes expertly searched the area, stopping his scan at key points looking for tell-tale movement amongst the undergrowth and trees, his peripheral vision also sensitive to any sudden movement. He listened and could hear the roar of a tank; another was being moved off its rail transport and onto the sidings ready to be driven to the barracks of the local tank battalion, its likely final destination. He waited a few more moments, sniffing the air, smelling the diesel fumes, looking for signs of sentries, police, in particular the transport police and their dogs. He feared the dogs more than anything. They were vicious and he had witnessed that even the handlers were wary of them. He thought of the Mojos who guarded the British ammunition and nuclear weapons dumps back in Germany. The dogs were allowed to run loose in the compound during the night, and the next day the guards would go in with padded suits to retrieve them. The dogs were baited during the day. God help any Soviet spy who thought he would take a quick reconnaissance of those places. Bradley suspected the East German guard dogs were as equally aggressive.

  To his immediate right, not much more than ten metres from where he stood, was a second double railway line, this one running east to west, in a dip that ran beneath the one they had just driven under. Ahead of him, some twenty metres, the track continued through a second tunnel under another railway line running across front of him, almost parallel with the one behind him. This was the one he was interested in: the spur line where they brought tanks and other equipment when going on or returning from an exercise; or, as now, bringing in new equipment for the first time. Looking left, he gazed over the undulating ground, scattered with trees and scrub, trapped between the two converging lin
es. Bradley and Jacko were hidden from the prying eyes of the tank crews, and anyone else for that matter.

  But they wouldn’t be taking the tunnel to get to the other side of the spur; they would be too exposed. He looked back at the patiently waiting Jacko and signalled the all-clear. Jacko had no issues with the wait; he knew the consequence of rushing ops like these.

  Bradley waved Jacko forward and headed left, starting to walk south towards the Ramp and the sound of the tanks some one hundred and fifty metres away. Edging over to the right, he winced as he heard the growl of the Rover engine as Jacko pulled forward out of the tunnel and followed the tour commander’s trail. The growl turned into a steady rumble as the black four-by-four crept after Bradley. Both were nervous. They were in enemy territory, hostile territory; the tank crew would be very protective of their charges. On paper, they were allies; in reality, they were bitter enemies. The basic Soviet soldier, particularly the newest recruits, would know very little about the terms of the joint occupation of Berlin.

  Bradley continued to move forward, edging right, getting closer and closer to the spur line itself, knowing that up ahead the scattering of trees disappeared altogether on this side of the line and that they would then be completely exposed. His hand went up in the air and Jacko stopped moving forward, the sound of the engine gently ticking over along with the occasional clang from up ahead the only sounds. He moved towards the spur line and found the spot he was looking for. Here, the line split into two after this point: one continuing south to rejoin the main line, the one nearest them branching off and ending up at the Ramp where the tanks they were interested in were being unloaded.

  Bradley peered back through the trees where Jacko was watching out for his signal, and he beckoned him forward. The engine growled and the Rover crawled towards the spur, the cab rocking as Jacko negotiated the rough ground. Bradley walked up onto the slightly raised embankment, checking left and right as he did so. The nearest flatcar was about a hundred metres away, and he couldn’t see any activity at this end so he continued over to the other side. Jacko followed in the vehicle, the chassis and body jolting violently as he surmounted the two sets of railway lines. Both were relieved once the vehicle was across the other side. Jacko steered the vehicle into the copse and turned left.

  Bradley moved back to the tour car and looked through the open passenger door window. “Turn her around, Jacko. You’ll have to reverse deeper into the copse from here.”

  “What’s our exfil?”

  “Back the way we came in. If that’s blocked then we’ll go west. If it’s really bad then we’ll just go across country until we can find a clear road.”

  Jacko laughed. “OK.”

  Bradley knew why he laughed. The last time they had gone across country at speed, they were chased by a BMP, an MICV (Mechanised Infantry Combat Vehicle). Thirteen tons of armour coming at you at a speed of thirty miles an hour had a huge impact on your bowels. It was definitely a tanner-a-bob, tanner-a-bob. They got away, but how the Range Rover, or its occupants for that matter, survived the battering they would never know.

  “Zweiessler Strasse would be good though,” responded Bradley, sharing in Jacko’s humour.

  “Let’s get it done then.”

  Jacko turned the vehicle around and, with one arm across the back of the passenger seat, one hand on the steering wheel, he followed Bradley as he guided the reversing vehicle through the trees. Bradley guided him around any deep potholes that would not only jar the vehicle but could require additional power to get out, the noise potentially exposing their presence. Now they were in the middle of not a dense copse but with enough trees scattered about to give them some cover, maybe four or five hundred metres square.

  Bradley held his hand up and drew the edge of his palm across his throat. Jacko brought the vehicle to a halt and switched off the engine. Bradley returned to the vehicle. Both men remained quiet, listening. Nothing; just the hammering up ahead.

  “I’ll do a quick recce first Jacko, then come back.”

  “Radio?”

  “No. If I come running, you’ll see me soon enough and I probably won’t have chance to radio a warning. So, keep focused, mate. We’re in the middle of a hornet’s nest here.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I’ll take the camera with me now, but I’ll need the monkey wrench when I return.”

  Jacko reached across the seat and pulled the camera out of Bradley’s bag down in the footwell of the passenger seat and handed it to him. It was a Nikon F3. Bradley checked the lens and film. He probably had at least fifty frames, more than enough left. Normally he would replace it with a full seventy-two, just in case, but he didn’t want to hang around the area for too long. The drive motor was attached so there was no need to wind it forward manually after every shot.

  “I’ll be about ten minutes.”

  “Watch yourself out there.”

  He made his way south through the trees, feeling alone and isolated within seconds of being away from the Range Rover. After about fifty metres, he turned east, closing in on the spur line. The hammering continued in the distance to his right, and now he could hear the occasional shout in Russian from the tank crew beavering away at their tasks. He made his way towards the edge of the copse, the railway line suddenly appearing in front of him, no more than four strides away. Beyond it, a further three or four metres, the spur line. He was opposite the tail end of the line of flatcars and, on top of the last one, two T64s, one of them a T64BV1K, a command variant, and, more importantly, it was adorned with kontakte armour: ERA (Explosive Reactive Armour) bricks.

  He knelt down, the excitement welling up inside, and looked along the length of the train. The next flatcar had two more tanks on it, as did the third. The fourth had only one on board; its companion had been driven onto the ramp. The remaining flatcars were empty, the tanks lined up ready to be driven to the barracks. It was now quiet. It looked as if the soldiers were taking a break.

  Bradley scanned for sentries. None could be seen. He edged forward slightly. The tank crews seemed to be congregated around the single structure that constituted the Ramp’s only building. On sneaking around there one dark night, searching for anything that had been dropped or left that may be of intelligence interest, Bradley had come across a senior sergeant educating one of the new recruits in another aspect of his training. The sergeant’s trousers were bunched around his ankles, the recruit bent over a rickety table, with the sweaty NCO thrusting behind him. They were as startled to see Bradley as Bradley was to come across them.

  Bradley pulled his camera off his shoulder, checked the settings, adjusted the ‘f’ stop until he was happy with the speed, and focused in on the tank closest to him, no more than ten metres away. He clicked away, constantly stopping to check he didn’t have company, taking thirty to forty shots in total, covering the full tank then zooming in on specific aspects of interest. Once satisfied, he replaced the lens cap and made his way back to the Range Rover and Jacko. Time for the real work to begin.

  “Everything still OK?” enquired Jacko.

  “Yes, they’re taking some sort of a break.”

  “You going for it then?”

  “You bet. Pass me the monkey-wrench.”

  “I couldn’t find it.”

  “It’s in the black tool wrap in the back. I hid it so the bloody REME couldn’t pinch it.”

  Leaving Bradley to pack the camera away safely, Jacko left the vehicle, checking the area about him as he did so. It had become second nature, and it was surprising how the slightest movement was picked up, often subconsciously. He went to the back of the vehicle and looked about him again. You can get bloody paranoid doing this job, he thought. Lifting up the rear window, he reached into the small compartment they used to keep stuff out of sight and pulled out the black tool wrap. He opened it up and took out the monkey wrench, an adjustable spanner, rewound the wrap and replaced it. Shutting the rear window quietly, he returned to his driver’s positio
n.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bradley left the vehicle, handed Jacko the spanner before he shrugged off his parka and leaned in and threw it onto the back seat.

  “Dressed for speed, eh?”

  “Too bloody right. It’s warming up now anyway.” The stocky, five foot eleven, mousey-haired operator grinned back at Jacko. “Here we go again, eh, mate?”

  Jacko, six foot one, but spindly and with a narrow face and dark hair, returned the smile. The adrenalin was pumping through both of them. Jacko knew what his commander was going to do. Equally, he knew the consequences if it didn’t go to plan. It wouldn’t be the first time they had been rumbled. They took some serious risks at times in order to gather important Intelligence. He handed Bradley the spanner again and wished him luck. Bradley eased the door shut with a satisfying click and Jacko gave him the thumbs up.

  Chapter 4

  WEST OF THE ‘RAMP’, KARLSHORST, EAST BERLIN. JUNE 1983.

  THE RED EFFECT −13 MONTHS.

  Bradley moved past the rear of the vehicle and stealthily made his way back through the trees. With his green barrack trousers, (they weren’t allowed to wear combats as it might be interpreted as aggressive by their Russian allies,) and his light brown No 2 shirt beneath his woolly, green, army jumper, he blended into the background fairly well. He reached the edge of the copse again, where he was earlier, opposite the tail end flatcar. He again searched the area for any signs of a sentry, or indeed any of the crew.

  The quiet was suddenly shattered by the roar of a UAZ 469, a small Soviet utility Jeep as it sped past on the other side of the tank-mounted flatcars, heading for the Ramp, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. The light breeze wafted exhaust fumes over to Bradley’s position. It was now or never, he thought as he loped across the feeder line, a gap of four metres; then he was at the spur line and the last of the flatcars. He was panting as he ran up against the edge of the tank tracks that slightly overhung the platform, more from a sudden increase in his pulse rate than a lack of fitness. He was at the furthest corner. He made sure the spanner was secure and heaved himself up onto the left-hand edge of the wooden platform where he found himself up against the back of the T-64 command tank. The tank was facing left to right, in a position where it would be able to drive along the flatcars to then come off onto the Ramp. In front of it: another tank, facing the same way.