The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Yes, Lawrence, you can have your trains,” informed the Home Secretary.

  “For the movement of reinforcements, I take it?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. We have commandeered the majority of the channel ferries to transport the heavy equipment, and some troops naturally, but we will need the rail network to get them to the ports.”

  “Air?”

  “Yes. All civilian aircraft are about to be grounded, and we will start to use them to get our troops into theatre.”

  “Numbers?” the PM asked.

  “Providing they can fly to the Continent unhindered, initially five thousand a day, with most of their immediate personal equipment.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  The Defence Secretary twisted in his chair before answering the question. “If we could move all our reinforcements by air, our full complement of initial reinforcements would be there in a matter of a few days. But, they would be without some of their equipment. Without transport, supplies and ammunition, they would be more of a handicap than help. The priority has to be 24th Airmobile Brigade and the infantry brigades for the 2nd Infantry Division. They are the reserves. Also, they will guard 1 Br Corps rear area.”

  There was a rap on the door, and one of the PM’s aides poked his head around the jamb of the door. “It’s time, Prime Minister.”

  “Of course. Thank you. Lawrence, be so good as to turn the television on.”

  “It’s time, then?”

  “Yes, Jeremy. Once the American President has made his speech, the cat will be well and truly out of the bag.”

  The one-and-a-half metre TV screen came to life, and the camera in the airborne Oval Office zoomed in on the American President, sitting with his arms on a small desk, fingers interlocked, the US and President’s flags behind him. He looked directly at the camera lens.

  “My fellow Americans. Tonight I am talking to you from Air-Force-One. It is with a heavy heart that I have to give you the following news. As I speak to you now, the forces of evil are lining up along the Inner German Border. They are intent on only one thing: to crush the country of free West Germany, to place it in manacles, to deny the German people their freedom. As a consequence, relations between the Soviet Union and the free West is deteriorating rapidly and, unless the Warsaw Pact take this opportunity to withdraw its forces that threaten a peaceful nation, a confrontation between NATO and the Warsaw PACT is inevitable.

  “To quote the famous British Prime Minister, Sir Winston Churchill: ‘I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.’

  “I appeal to the Soviet Union and its people: do not put your national interest at the forefront of everything else. To enhance your position in the world should be by your own endeavours, not by trying to subjugate peaceful countries by force. Democracy will always prevail.

  “I have spoken with the other leaders of the NATO forces whose troops are at this very moment lined up in defence along the borders of the Federal Republic of Germany. As one, we will not allow the Soviet Union to flex its military muscle and enslave us. We Americans would prefer death to having our liberty taken away from us.

  My message to the leader of the Soviet Politburo is: we will not sit idle while you believe you can walk over us with military force. We will fight back with such ferocity that you will rue the day the idea ever crossed your mind.

  I plead with you. Turn back from this dangerous path, withdraw your forces and NATO will withdraw theirs. Then, at a table of peace, we can air our differences.

  To the American people, be strong. We will prevail.”

  The American national anthem started to play, and the Home Secretary got up and turned off the television. “Well, the cat is now out of the bag.”

  “Your speech complete, Prime Minister?”

  Harriet Willis nodded her head slowly. “Yes. It will be the hardest speech I have ever had to make. So many people, so many soldiers, on both sides, are going to die if the Soviets complete what they have set out to do.”

  “If it goes nuclear then all will lose,” added the Defence Secretary. “Everything is in place, Prime Minister. Our nuclear fleet are at sea, our V-Bombers are on standby. All we can do now is wait.”

  “When do the BBC start with their Civil Defence announcements?” asked the PM.

  “As soon as your speech has gone out,” responded the Home Secretary.

  She turned to the Defence Secretary. “What indications are we getting of the Soviet movements so far?”

  “The sensors, laid by Brixmis military liaison missions, are indicating heavy movement by Soviet forces, and the Berlin Section has reported heavy rail movement. The opinion of MOD is that troops and equipment from the Soviet Military Districts are being brought forward. The Baltic, Belorussian, Carpathian and Kiev MDs. But also Polish and East German divisions are on the move. That has to mean they’re serious and intend to go through with it.”

  “What about the border?”

  “Our electronic warfare units are picking up nothing. The Soviets are maintaining strict radio silence. The western TVD have—”

  “TVD?”

  “The Soviet Western Theatre of Command, Prime Minister. There’s been significant investment in their command and control structure. We believe there to be several hundred hardened bunkered command posts and communications centres. We also know they have been practising crash-outs, similar to our Active Edge, with complete radio silence, and have proven quite successful at doing so.”

  There was a knock at the door and the same aide entered. “They’re ready for you for a dry run, Prime Minister.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she answered. “Well, gentlemen, let me know when the rest of COBRA arrive. In the meantime, I shall go for a practice run of my speech.”

  Chapter 20

  WEST OF ALIGSE, WEST GERMANY. 3 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT −3 DAYS.

  The four men patrolled through the small copse, west of the small village of Aligse, north-west of Lehrte and about eight-kilometres east of Hanover, the patrol leader knowing exactly where to take them. They had been here before, a number of times, on exercise, practising their craft, honing their skills in preparation for when the day came and they would have to do it for real. It was two in the morning on 3 July. They had been on the move for the last two hours, having been dropped off covertly some eight-kilometres away to the north. The ground was quite dry and soft, even spongy, although very overgrown in places, that would make it difficult for vehicles to enter. This will help reduce our signature, thought the patrol leader.

  The troop stepped carefully, placing their feet with as much precision as possible to keep any sound they made to a minimum. It was highly unlikely that anyone would be around at this time in the morning. Although tired after the four-hour flight from Britain to Hanover, waiting around at the airport prior to the flight, then trucked to Braunschweig where they had a chance to sort their kit out, they were still alert. They had been briefed that sleeper agents were believed to be operating in the area, watching for activity such as theirs. A civilian van then drove them to a position north of a copse where they were dropped off in the darkness to make the rest of the way under their own steam. Although the adrenalin was still ploughing through their veins, driven by the anticipation of their mission, finally doing for real what they had been training for for the last five years, but not without a little sprinkling of fear, they would be ready for a breather on arrival at the patrol’s destination.

  Wilf stopped, checked his compass and looked about him. The trees, a mix of coniferous and deciduous, were plentiful, but not too close together for their needs. He scanned the area in front of him, a green shimmer from the image intensifier he was holding up to his eyes as it electronically amplified the ambient light available. He soon picked out the marker he was looking for: a particularly gnarled tree. He lowered the device
, left it hanging on the strap around his neck, hoisted his weapon and moved forward again. Once he was alongside the tree, he marched fifty paces to the south until he found what he was looking for. Signalling the men behind him, they all came to a halt. Hacker, immediately behind him, stood watch while he checked out the mexe-hide. The other two, Tag and Badger, continued past them, their task to conduct a full 360-degree circuit of the site, checking that they hadn’t been followed. Unlikely as it was, they had to be sure.

  Wilf undid his belt and shrugged off his heavy 100-pound Bergen and lowered it gently to the ground before opening up the entrance to the hide. Turning to Hacker, he indicated he was going inside. He placed his weapon on top of the Bergen and clambered down the aluminium ladder, entering through the less than a metre-wide prefabricated entrance, over two-metres below. He remembered digging it out last year as part of a three-week squadron exercise, practising then what they were about to do now for real. At that time though, they were aided by engineers under the guise of building temporary tank-berms, as a lot of spoil had to be removed from the site. He switched on his red-filtered torch and shone it around the interior, checking it for damage and to identify if someone had paid a visit. A dank and musty aroma wafted towards him, disturbed by the opening of the entrance. They had sweated for days, in secret, preparing the hide for operational use, living in it for a week during their squadron exercise, never imagining for one minute that a year later they would be back. This time for real.

  Wilf shuffled forward. Although a substantial size as observation posts go, spending any length of time in this with three other men could become quite claustrophobic. It was T-shaped, the bar of the T measuring over five-metres long, by one-metre wide, with a missile trap and an Elsan chemical toilet at the far end. The offset stalk of the T-bar, three quarters of the way along was much bigger. Measuring two-metres wide by three-metres long, measured from the back of the T-bar, it would be their home until further notice. The key components of the mexe-hide were quite simple: pickets, spacers and arches to provide the frame and a flexible revetting material to cover the assembled framework. The revetting material was special: a layer of PVC coated in jute fabric, reinforced with half-millimetre thick galvanised wire, coated with a layer of soil up to metre thick on the roof. The frame had been sunk down two-and-a-half-metres into the ground. It would even provide some protection against a nuclear blast, providing the detonation was not in the immediate vicinity. The vast amount of thermal radiation would, should any of the material be exposed to it, simply destroy the layer of jute, leaving the wire that had been woven into the fabric to act as a mesh which would continue to support the hide. A direct hit would be another matter altogether.

  At five-foot-nine, even wearing a helmet, Wilf could just about walk around the hide in an upright position. Badger, at six-one, would have to stoop slightly whenever he moved around inside. Wilf moved into the main compartmentt, seven by six, and checked it was serviceable.

  Returning to the entrance at the western end, he clambered up and poked his head outside and hissed to Hacker, “pass the Bergens.”

  Hacker had been expecting the call and picked up Wilf’s Bergen to lower it down into the entrance, followed shortly after by his own. As if on cue, Tag and Badger returned from their recce, giving the all-clear, their Bergens also swallowed up in the ever shrinking space below. Eventually, all four were ensconced in the now cramped space, taking it in turns to empty their bags of those items that would be needed in the immediate future. They had two collapsible camp beds and two maggots (army sleeping bags). These would be positioned along the length of the T-bar. They only needed two, as two would always be on watch while the other two slept or carried out their ablutions or other duties necessary for their comfort and survival. During the day, they would operate a periscope in the roof of the hide and, at night, they would need to use one of the two image intensifiers. At times, they would have to patrol outside, tracking down Soviet headquarters to report back on, or even sabotaging their communications equipment.

  “Home from home already, eh, Wilfy?”

  “Will be when you get a brew on, Tag,” grumbled Badger. “You know you make the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Right,” interrupted Wilf. “Tag, you make a brew. Badger, you and Hacker do one more circuit before we settle down for the rest of the night. I’ll sort out the periscope and radio.”

  “Fuck, Wilfy, there’s no one out there,” exclaimed Badger.

  “Get on with it, you moaning old sod. There’ll be a brew waiting for you when you get back. Then we sort out weapons and kit. Now bugger off.”

  The two SAS troopers picked up their weapons: Badger his C7 carbine with its C79 optical sight and Hacker his favoured M-16 A2, with an underslung M203 grenade launcher. They headed out and would probably be gone for up to an hour. Badger complained about everything, that was his way, but he knew the importance of securing their position. In a matter of days they could be surrounded by an entire Soviet Army. Ensuring they remained unseen was paramount.

  “Whinging git,” muttered Tag.

  “I didn’t hear you volunteering to go in his place...”

  “Yeah, well I make the best tea, don’t I?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Wilfy, this is going to kick off, isn’t it.”

  Wilf joined his comrade, and friend, at the junction of the T-bar and crouched down, the blue light of the flame powered by the roaring gas from the camping gas canister they had brought with them, destroying his night vision. It was Hexi-tablets when those ran out. He also recognised that they needed to be more disciplined going forward if they were to survive. Hot food and drink during daylight hours only, and quite possibly no hot meals or the luxury of tea if circumstances warranted it.

  “It does sound like it’s for real this time, Tag. The Prime Minister came out with some pretty frightening words on the BBC broadcast. Troops have started pouring across the Channel.”

  “Our briefing gave it less than forty-eight hours. I hope to Christ we get up to full strength by then or we are in some serious shit.”

  “There’s not much a chance of that. There won’t be enough ships or planes to get them over that quickly. It’s not just Two Div, but all the supporting units for the RAF.”

  “Have we deployed yet?”

  “Still in barracks, Tag, as far as I know. Don’t want to go and upset the Soviets when we’re supposed to be having peace talks with them.”

  “Load of bollocks. They could be preparing to attack while we’re sat on our arses.”

  “Very succinctly put, Tag.” Wilf chuckled. “Maybe the politicians can earn their pay for a change and come up with something. But, for now, I need to get the radio sorted so we can check in. I’ll leave you to get that brew going.”

  Wilf felt his way back to the main section, the heat from the gas stove taking some of the chill off the man-made underground chamber. He pulled together everything he needed to set the radio up: their only contact with 1 British Corps, or even the outside world. Once surrounded by enemy forces, it would be the only lifeline with the rest of NATO who would more than likely be pulling slowly back against the sheer might of the Soviet armies up against them.

  Wilf’s team was what was known as a CPU (Corps Patrol Unit), reporting directly to the Commander of 1 Br Corps, one of the Corps of Northern Army Group that would defend the northern part of Germany. In addition, NORTHAG had a German, Dutch and Belgium Corps, along with an American Corps in reserve, once it arrived in theatre.

  The four men of the patrol were from the 21st Special Air Service Regiment, based in England. The hadquarters of the Territorial Army SAS unit was in Regent’s Park, London. C-Squadron, to which Wilf and his men belonged, was quartered in Southampton. Wilf had spent eight years with the Regular SAS at Hereford before moving to 21 SAS as a permanent staff instructor, where so far he had served for three years. Badger, Tag and Hacker were volunteers, with twenty years of service
between them. They trained for one primary role: as stay-behind forces. They would hide until the main Soviet forces bypassed them; then they would come out and start feeding intelligence back to their headquarters: plotting the location of Soviet Divisional and Army Headquarters; movement of Soviet and Warsaw Pact formations; and, of particular interest, any nuclear capable artillery and missile launchers.

  Once the radio was set up, the aerial pushed up alongside the periscope, Wilf called in. This was no ordinary radio. The PRC-319 was a fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver that could transmit in both the VHF and HF bands. He turned on his red torch, clipped it to his combat smock, sat down and pulled the electronic message unit onto his knees. The small alpha-numeric keyboard would allow him to type a message for his commander. As it was a burst transmitter, he could send the message data at high speed giving them significant security over standard Clansman radios. With the short aerial, the radio had a range of about twenty kilometres; with the whip antenna they had brought with them, this could be increased to hundreds of kilometres, allowing them to stay in contact even though they may find themselves dropping further and further behind enemy lines.

  Task complete, now he had informed HQ they were in situ, he moved to the periscope, a narrow green tube just over a metre long. As soon as he looked through the scope, he laughed.

  “What is it, Wilf?”

  “Bloody scope’s filthy; forgot to clean it before we came down. Not that I’d be able to see much anyway at this time of night. I’ll go and do it now before daylight.”

  “Brew’s done, so don’t be too long. Keep an eye out for the lads. The Hacker’s out there and he’ll shoot at anything.”