The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  The liutenant looked up at the missile that towered above him, the warhead over eleven metres high. It stood there, dominant, waiting for the ignition sequence that would set it off on its journey to cause mayhem and death. With a range of 300 kilometres, the warhead could be launched at numerous NATO targets, from communication centres and airfields to what the Soviets believed were storage sites for NATO nuclear warheads. As part of the 3rd Shock Army, the targets to strike would be specifically in support of the initial advance by the 10th and 7th Guards Tank Divisions. The lieutenant in command of the TEL checked in with brigade one more time, confirming that they were now at Readiness Level 1. The two Praporshchiks joined their commander in the combat cabin; the rest of the crew sat in the main vehicle cab. All they could do now was wait for the call that would spring them into action. Close by, three other SCUD-Bs sat, immobile, waiting for the command to launch. Half a kilometre away, four more SCUD-Bs sat lingering, and 400 metres in the opposite direction, four more. The Warsaw Pact had nearly 600 SCUD-B TELs. Nearly a quarter of those would be targeting the NATO forces opposite, across the Inner German Border, this morning. It was three thirty in the morning of 5 July 1984.

  LAPPWALD, NORTH-EAST OF HELMSTEDT, EAST GERMANY. 62ND GUARDS TANK REGIMENT/10 GUARDS TANK DIVISION/3 SHOCK ARMY. 0300 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT −1 HOUR.

  A BRDM-2 and BMP-1 negotiated the tracks through the Lappwald Forest. Further south and further north, moving parallel, a second and third group made their way wast through the forest. Behind the central column, a BRM-1K reconnaissance vehicle followed close behind, with the motorcycles following up at the rear. Although the motorcycle platoon of the regiment’s reconnaissance company would be better able to weave in and out of the forest, the noise they made was very distinctive, and stealth was important. Although thirty tanks were creeping through the forest, the trees were able to dampen much of the low growls of the engines as they moved through at a crawl.

  The reconnaissance company of the 62nd Tank Regiment of 10th Guards Tank Division was leading the way. Five hundred metres behind the recce company, Lieutenant Colonel Trusov’s tank battalion was following. Trusov’s T-80BK command tank was leading one of the platoons of his first company. Although the battalion commander, he preferred to lead his men from the front, not only setting an example but also ensuring that his lead company of ten T-80s got to the right position for when they launched the attack. They were already across the Inner German Border, north-east of Helmstedt, probably no more than three kilometres from the town itself.

  It was now three thirty on the morning of 5 July. Trusov’s battalion had been ordered to push forward to their start line, as far forward as was safe before the barrage started, the barrage that would signal the beginning of the war. He was sitting in the turret, his shoulders above the turret-hatch as he peered into the gloom ahead. His unit was making good progress. The East German Border guards had cleared the border obstacles during the night, taking down the fences, removing any mines, moving any crocodile teeth aside that had been loosened days previous, giving the tank battalion a clear passage through.

  He had ordered one of the soldiers from the recce unit scouting ahead to walk in front of them with a red-filtered torch to guide the armoured column along the track and through the thinly scattered trees. He could picture Kokorev, his driver, scrutinising the route, keeping one eye on the soldier upfront and another on the darker shadows of the trees that seemed so incredibly close. Not that a tree would bother the forty-five-ton giant, but the embarrassment of slowing the column by crashing the battalion commander’s tank and throwing a track would be too much for Kokorev. Trusov trusted his driver to not make a mistake. They had been together as a crew for nineteen months and, during that time, he had proven his worth. Although he had anticipated being out of the army in five months, his two years’ conscription over, his driver found himself driving the commander’s tank into battle.

  The soldier walking in front waved his torch frantically, glad when the crawling T-80 came to a halt; a slight panic that he would be the first casualty of war, trapped between a tank and the BMP-1 parked up ahead. A second soldier appeared out of the gloom, a major, his black, padded, ribbed tank-crew helmet causing his white face to stand out even more. The major climbed up onto the front of the battalion commander’s tank, holding onto the barrel of the tank’s main gun as he made his way to the turret and saluted his senior officer.

  “Something ahead?” asked Trusov.

  “No, sir. We’re close to the edge of the forest. The motorway is about 200 metres away. There’s not much traffic at this time of the morning.”

  “Are there clear sections to cross?”

  “Yes, sir, there are sections that have no barriers or central reservation and can be crossed. Scouts have been forward, and I have allocated three BRDMs to position themselves at the three crossing points once we have your order to move.”

  “Have you recced the town?”

  “A couple of scouts have been to the edge on foot, and there doesn’t appear to be any military activity, but there is a heavy police presence.”

  Trusov thought for a moment. Checking his watch, he could see they had made better time than expected. It suited him, giving him plenty of time to deploy his battalion.

  “Excellent. I will deploy the battalion in three company columns. I need you to allocate some of your men to guide them in. I will be the centre column; then one either side out to 100 metres. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir, 100 metres either side your column.”

  The major clambered down and went to issue his orders to his recce company. Trusov looked right as an MTLB-RkhM-K pulled up alongside just the other side of a tree, the additional aerials that adorned it swaying as it came to a halt. The figure of his regimental commander bounded over to his T-80 and stepped up onto the front of the glacis, stepping over the ERA blocks until he was able to crouch down in front of the turret, his right hand, clutching an AK-74 he lay on the tank’s gun-barrel.

  “You didn’t get lost then, Pavel.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.” Trusov smiled at his commander’s poor sense of humour.

  “Battalion ready?”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel. Two and Three Company are deploying to my left and right and First Company is behind me.”

  “Good, once the shit hits the fan, you need to get out of here in a flash. Don’t give them time to react.” Colonel Pushkin leant in closer, tapping the edge of the turret with his fist to drive home what he was saying. “Don’t worry about minor resistance, Pavel. Just punch through it. Division have agreed to releasing a company from the 248th, so they can watch your back. And if you get into real trouble, 1st Battalion is on your left and right flank. I’ve told Aleksey to hold a company back in reserve, so that’s available to you should you need it. You’ve also got one of the AGS-17 BMPs along with a BMP from the AA platoon, and, supporting them, two ZSU-23/4s and one of the SA-9s. And, because Division think you are so special, they’ve assigned four SA-4s.”

  “That’s good to know. Their aircraft could cause havoc.”

  “Watch out for our aircraft as well. You’ll have two Hind-Ds from Division and eight from Army.”

  “More the better. What about Helmstedt? Who’s taking care of that?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We have a battalion of border guards to secure the town. Let them earn their pay being real soldiers for a change.”

  Trusov looked at his watch. “Not long now.”

  “Just push, push, push. We’ll be right behind you all the way.”

  “If I get stuck, you’ll just overtake me, sir. No bloody chance of that.”

  “You’ll do what you have to. They are expecting us, but deep down the soldiers on the ground don’t think we’ll come. They don’t believe that this is going to happen.”

  “Do we know if NATO has been able to deploy and mobilise their reinforcements yet?”

  Pushkin thought for a moment.
“Command knows they have deployed, but they have left it late to dig in and prepare their defences in full. As for reserves, the Americans have got a lot of men to fly across the Atlantic. That’s some distance. Then they have to get their equipment out of storage. As for the British, they have at least one of their forward divisions based in England. It will take them a few days to get here.”

  “That’s going to cost them.”

  “It will.”

  “And the Dutch and the Belgians have been dragging their feet.” Trusov laughed.

  “They’ve come round, eventually. But that says it all, Pavel: they don’t believe it’s going to happen, they don’t want to upset us, and they don’t want to fight.”

  “1st Guards will have it easy in the north, then.”

  “Not with a German division acting as a covering force. You know those bastards like a good fight.” Pushkin checked his watch. “Ten minutes, Pavel. I need to get back to HQ. I’d love to stay and join you in the fight, but Division will be screaming for me as soon as it all kicks off. Anyway, someone’s got to win the war and watch your back for you.” He patted the younger officer on the shoulder. “Don’t stop, Pavel, don’t stop. Cleave a way through their covering force so the regiment’s second echelon can get to grips with their main force. 3rd Battalion and the foot sloggers will be right up your arse. I’m depending on you.”

  They both laughed, and Pushkin slipped down from the tank and ran across to the MTLB regimental command vehicle that would put him in touch with his three tank battalions, motor rifle battalion, artillery battalion, and the rest of his tank regiment assets.

  Trusov dropped down inside his tank, into the cramped innards of the turret. Barsukov had his face up against the gunner’s night-sight, checking his arc out front, making sure all the equipment was working correctly. Once they were in a fight, they would need everything to function if they were to make a good account of themselves, or just to survive. He pulled his face away from the scope and turned when he heard the boots of his commander clatter down behind him. Senior Sergeant (ста́рший сержа́нт) Barsukov was an extremely competent gunner, and Trusov had complete trust in him.

  “Just over five minutes, Sergeant. Everything OK?”

  “Apart from being shit scared, sir.”

  “So you should be with Kokorev driving this bloody thing.”

  “Thank you, sir,” called a distant voice, a Junior Sergeant (мла́дший сержа́нт), tucked away upfront, in the centre forward of the tank, just beneath the tank’s main gun.

  “Sergeant Kokorev, we have every faith in you,” called Trusov. Although both of his crew were very junior to him, and often in the Soviet Army were treated badly by senior officers, spending lots of time confined in a tank had the effect of lowering the hierarchical barriers. They had both been with him for over a year, so the Lieutenant Colonel knew their strengths and weaknesses, and they his foibles. He had faith in their skills and they in his as a tank and battalion commander; something they would all need to call on over the coming hours, days or even weeks.

  “Five minutes and we’ll pull forward about 100 metres; then stop and I’ll signal One Company to pass us.”

  He looked at his Senior Sergeant in the dimly lit turret. “Ready?”

  The gunner patted the chipped, yellow-painted auto-loader to his right. “Me and my comrade here won’t let you down, sir. He’s been behaving of late.”

  Like the T-64 and the T-72, the T-80 had an auto-loader. The Korzhina auto-loading system, fed vertically from an ammunition carousel, did away with the requirement for a fourth member of the crew. But it wasn’t without its problems. Barsukov, however, seemed to have the knack of keeping the loader functional.

  Trusov climbed back up into the top of the turret and checked the area around him. Apart from the engines that were still ticking over and the occasional sound of an accelerating gas-turbine engine as a T-80 manoeuvred left of the main column, all was quiet. His two companies, one each side, would be led to their locations by one of the recce soldiers, and, once in place, his battalion would be ready to advance. He checked his watch again: minutes to go.

  TEN TO FIFTY KILOMETRES EAST OF HELMSTEDT, EAST GERMANY. FRONT, ARMY AND DIVISIONAL ARTILLERY. 0355, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT −5 MINUTES.

  The lieutenant received the signal from Headquarters and instructed his two Proporshchiks to carry out their respective tasks. The two warrant officers climbed down from the combat cabin. One went to turn on the missile batteries, the internal guidance system springing into life. The internal gyroscopes started to spin. It was 0355. Now the batteries had been initiated, the launch had to commence within the next fifteen minutes. They had plenty of time though: the launch was due in the next five minutes, giving them a buffer of ten. The other warrant officer checked over the physical state of the rocket. On completion, they returned to the combat cabin and waited, the lieutenant checking his watch frequently, his nerves starting to fray as a consequence of tiredness and the waiting.

  The three men looked at each other but no one spoke. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said over the past few days. The initial part of the deployment had been done with some excitement. They were getting the opportunity to do what they had been trained for, week after week: firing one of the rockets for real. The two Proporshchiks were fairly well educated, or at least above that of the normal Soviet conscript. They had to be to carry out the more technical role required of them. They had talked to each other about the battle that was to come, out of earshot of the lieutenant, and the initial euphoria of operating in a wartime scenario was rapidly dissipating as they began to think through the consequences of what their country was about initiate. For the lieutenant, educated at the ‘Peter the Great Military Academy of the Strategic Missile Troops’, the realisation of the consequences of his country’s actions had sunk in much earlier: they were going to war with some of the most powerful nations in the world. Once their missile had been launched, they were committed. There would be no turning back.

  A buzz from the consul in front of the lieutenant brought all of them back into focus. It was the signal to launch.

  Twelve seconds: the launch sequence begins.

  Ten seconds: the turbo pump begins to power up.

  Eight seconds: the fuel is pumped into the rocket motor.

  Six seconds: oxidiser is pumped into the rocket motor.

  Four seconds: the rocket motor ignites.

  Two seconds: at thirty per cent power, the rocket blasts into life.

  Launch! The rocket engine switches to full power, like thunder, the TEL vibrating from the force of the thrust pressing down on the deflector plate, the stabiliser pads pressing into the earth, fighting back against the enormous 13,000 kilograms of thrust. A black, yellow and red cloud shoot out horizontally from the base of the rocket, a cloud engulfing the SCUD-B TEL as a fiery yellow flame blasts the rocket skyward.

  The vehicle shook as it was buffeted by the power of the rocket’s engines as the R-17 missile climbed faster and faster, gathering speed until it could reach its maximum of over 5,000 kilometres per hour. Gathering more and more speed, it climbed in an arc, heading for its unsuspecting target. Close by, three other SCUD-B TELs released their R-17 missiles, four bright yellow streaks across a slowly lightening sky. Elsewhere, others were in flight, on a path to attack NATO targets in the West. Across the entire Soviet and NATO front, in the region of 200 R-17s were en route to cause mayhem and destruction.

  The four graphite fins of the thrust nozzle adjusted themselves in minute movements as the inertial guidance system transmitted instructions to ensure it was on the right path and the rocket motor powered the missile to its intended target: the small village of Supplingenburg. Its sister missile was aimed at the same target. The other pair streaked towards Supplingen, further to the south. After a full minute, as the missile was not going the full extent of its full 300-kilometre range, explosive squibs shut o
ff the flow of fuel and oxidiser, the engine losing power. At a height of close to sixty kilometres, the deadly missile and its warhead containing forty-two 122mm, high-explosive fragmentation submunitions fell silently, just the wind rushing past its sleek body and fins. Ready to deliver death and destruction on its target below.

  LAPPWALD, NORTH-EAST OF HELMSTEDT, EAST GERMANY. 62ND GUARDS TANK REGIMENT/10 GUARDS TANK DIVISION/3 SHOCK ARMY. 0400, 5 JULY 1984.

  THE RED EFFECT.

  Trusov jumped as the artillery barrage erupted behind him. Looking back, he could see the glow in the sky, even through the foliage of the trees, almost like a false dawn, as hundreds of artillery tubes fired their deadly shells and missiles overhead, their target the NATO forces that were waiting for them. The rumble grew into a crescendo as first the 152mm 2S3s fired salvo after salvo, joined by the 160mm mortars, 122mm 2S1s, over 600 tubes in total allocated to 10th Guards Tank Division’s breakthrough sector. Higher up, beneath a blanket of rapidly fading stars, Trusov could see streaks of light passing overhead, the image of the havoc and destruction they would cause making him shiver.

  Barsukov popped his head out of the other turret hatch, unable to speak as his mouth gaped open as missile after missile and shell after shell streaked across the sky. The BM-27’s 220mm rockets, one after another, screamed from the eighteen vehicles, one leaving a multiple-rocket launcher system nearly every second, delivering their lethal cargo on top of the NATO troops still in the process of digging in. Two hundred and eighty-eight, each with a ninety-kilogram warhead, would swamp an area with explosives a square kilometre wide. Trusov and his gunner looked on in awe. A blanket of death was about to descend on an enemy that was waiting patiently for an attack they thought would probably never happen.