The Black Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  “Thank you, Staff, a good brief. Right, gather around the bird table, gentlemen, and I will take you through our current positions and my intentions.”

  The assembled officers congregated around the two-metre by two-metre map table, the clink of their weapons audible as they moved.

  “Someone at the back there, open the tent flaps,” called the Brigade Major. “Your hot, sweaty bodies are turning this place into an oven.”

  The group laughed, and a couple of junior officers peeled back the tent flaps, tying them into position, the slight breeze cooling the air inside, which was much welcomed.

  The Brigadier leant over the map and pointed at it with a pen. “Our brigade’s area of responsibility runs from just south of Nordstemmen, here in the north, our brigade boundary line with 7th Armoured Brigade, and to the south our brigade boundary line is with the 12th Armoured, at Alfeld. Our stop line is the River Leine. That’s a twenty-kilometre front we’ve been given to hold. No easy task, gentlemen. Our dispositions are as follows: the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment Battlegroup have got the south of Banteln to Bruggen, and the 1st Battalion Royal Green Jackets Battlegroup will hold the line from south of Nordstemmen to just north of Elze. You have what’s in the centre, Lawrence,” he said looking at Lieutenant-Colonel Lawrence Clark, Commander of the 14th/20th Kings Hussars Tank Regiment and now the 14th/20th Battlegroup. “Elze is your northernmost boundary. You must monitor the RGJ’s position closely. If the enemy manage to push them back north of Elze, the Soviets could cut them off from the brigade and come at you from behind.”

  “When the recce troop pull back from Barfelde, sir, I could position them to the west of Elze.” The Colonel tapped the map. “I have Combat Team Charlie as my reserve near Eime. I could dispatch a troop to support the Scimitars and cover my left flank.”

  “Good, good. What about Elze itself?”

  “Combat Team Alpha is covering the Leine east of the town, and the Germans have at least a company of landwehr troops in the town itself.”

  The Brigadier nodded. “The rest of your Battlegroup?”

  “As I said earlier, sir, Combat Team Alpha, three tank troops, and a mechanised platoon, will hold the Leine east of Elze. The eastern bank to their north has some copses, but none right up against the river. I have liaised with arty, and for the wooded areas we have some pre-planned strikes set up. Major Cox’s tanks have a good view north-east, east and south-east, so will be in a position to pick off any advancing armour.”

  Major Thomas Cox, Commander of Combat Team Alpha, nodded in agreement, chewing on a pipe that he never smoked, but was rarely out of his mouth or his hands.

  “Gronau.” The Colonel tapped the map near the small village that straddled the River Leine further to the south. “The main defensive area will be west of the stop line, where Alpha and Delta troop are digging in. They each have an infantry section. Combat Team Bravo is digging in west of Gronau, covering the western end of the bridge. But, I have taken Bravo-Troop from them and pushed them forward across the water along with a recce troop. Bravo-Troop are dug in along the outskirts of the town, with two 438s to the north. Anything coming from Barfelde, or a 180-degree front, will walk into Bravo-Troop’s tanks and the swingfire-missile carriers. They have an infantry section on the edge of the village with two Milan firing posts plus a Forward Mortar Controller. The Scimitars have been withdrawn and a recce troop of Scorpions have settled around Barfelde itself, which is just a scattering of houses, so they won’t hang around. Half the troop will watch over Gut Dotzum.” He looked up at the Brigadier. “Once they come flying back, the next thing the Soviets come across is my tanks.”

  “Where’s Alex?” asked the Brigadier.

  Lieutenant Alex Wesley-Jones brought himself to attention. “Here, sir.”

  The Brigadier acknowledged him and then turned to the Colonel again. “Don’t keep them on the other side of the water too long, Lawrence. Give the Russians a bloody nose; then get them back fast. Only keep them there if you think there is a risk of the Soviets capturing the bridge intact.”

  “Understood, sir. The engineers have it wired?”

  “Yes, they do, or they’d better.”

  “We have two pallets worth of explosives wired up on the bridge,” informed the Engineer’s commander. “When we get the word, no one will be crossing that bridge.”

  “I expected nothing less Patrick.” The Brigadier smiled. He turned back to Lieutenant Wesley-Jones. “Make sure you keep your squadron commander up to speed, Alex.”

  “Sir.”

  “Major Lewis.”

  The commander of Bravo squadron answered, “Sir.”

  “I don’t want you on the wrong side either.” The Brigadier laughed.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Carry on, Lawrence.”

  “Sir. Delta troop, as you know, is with the Green Jackets. Combat Team Delta, the rest of Delta squadron, is based in Banteln.”

  “Minefields?”

  “The bulk, sir, have been laid in front of Gronau, along with some off-route anti-tank mines along the road.”

  “Thank you Lawrence. All I want to add is that I’ve held back a Combat Team each from the Royal Green Jackets and 2RTR. They will be our brigade reserve. Not a big reserve I know, but we have a wide front to defend. I have been given the command of a number of Bundeswehr Jeager units. They won’t contribute a large force, a battalion-plus in total. But, they can fill in some of the gaps and give us the flexibility of shifting our forces to where we need them. I will make sure each battlegroup is aware of their locations and call-signs. So, what else do you need from me?”

  “Nothing, sir, but I do need to tie up with air and arty before I go.”

  “Right. Well, we’ll finish up here. Then I need a few words, Lawrence. Then we can go and stir up the air boys.”

  Brigadier Stewart pulled back his shoulders and caught as many of the pairs of eyes that were staring at him as he could. “Gentlemen, the enemy is less than twenty-four hours away. When they get here, it is going to be a bloody battle. We have to hold them here.” He slapped the table, making it rock slightly. “Pulling back from here, we will be west of Peine and then the Weser. We’re not ready for that yet.” He tapped the table in synch with his words. “We...have...to...hold. Give 2nd Division a chance to get in theatre and the rest of our reserves to cross the Channel. The enemy are already pushing across the Oker. 4th Armoured can’t stop them. They will be banging on our door tonight and will no doubt attack at first light. Questions?”

  “Won’t they need to rest up, sir?” asked a squadron commander.

  “No, they won’t. We estimate that they will throw two fresh regiments at us; that’s nearly 200 tanks. Following that, they will have two full second echelon divisions. They won’t stop. They can’t stop. Momentum is their best option. Keep us on the move; don’t give us time to dig in; hit us before reinforcements arrive from the UK and US. That’s why we have to stop them here.”

  “What have we got, the brigade that is, sir, in support if we have to pull back or get flanked?”

  “A good question, Lawrence. I am led to believe that 24th Airmobile has been released as a Corps’ reserve, available for either the 1st or 3rd Armoured Division, depending who needs them the most. I’ve also asked for a ‘Helarm’ to be on standby. Because of their flexibility, their ability to move to a threatened sector quickly, the choppers will give us the means to break up any tank concentrations that are trying to outflank us.”

  “Are we getting good intelligence on the enemy’s troop movements, sir?” asked Major Mike Hughes, Commander of Combat Team Charlie.

  “Yes, we are. Now the Warsaw Pact are on West German soil, our Corps Patrol Units have started to report in. We are getting some bloody good intel from them.”

  “How many CPU units are there out there, sir?” a young lieutenant at the back of the gr
oup asked.

  “That I can’t divulge. To be truthful, I’m not even sure I know the actual number myself. They will feed us with information for as long as they are able.”

  “We also need to be on the lookout for their opposite numbers,” added the Brigade Major. “I can guarantee you there will be more Spetsnaz activity before the day is out.”

  “Right, gentlemen. Any more questions, save them for your CO or OC. It’s time you got back to your units.”

  “’Shun,” called the Brigade Major.

  “Take a walk with me, Lawrence,” instructed the Brigadier.

  The group of officers moved aside; then stood to attention to allow their Brigade and Regimental Commander to pass. Once their seniors had left the tent, they too exited and headed back to their various units, Land-Rovers and Ferret scout cars providing the transport. They left feeling confident, but knew they were about to face the biggest battle of their lives.

  Chapter 8

  0830 6 JULY 1984. WHISKEY FIVE. RAF KINLOSS, GREAT BRITAIN.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

  The Royal Air Force Nimrod taxied towards the runway, its four Rolls-Royce turbofan engines whining, impatient to go to full power and launch the aircraft into the skies above.

  “Whiskey five, on taxiway two-one.”

  “Runway approach is clear.”

  The pilot turned to his co-pilot. “This will be a flexible thrust, navigate Vector one-one-two, rotate one-three-five.”

  “Roger.”

  The white lines down the centre of the runway became visible to the pilot as he peered through the cockpit window, the aircraft swinging left onto the levelled strip of tarmac along which the Nimrod would take off and land. On instruction from the pilot, the co-pilot pushed the throttles forward, the four thrust dials moving to show 100 per cent as the engines powered up. On reaching full power, the brakes were released, and the thrust of the four engines pushed the aircraft faster and faster down the runway, the white lines flashing by rapidly beneath the plane as it accelerated down the runway. Once speed was at the optimum, the pilot pulled back gently on the stick, and the heavy plane started to climb, its wheels parting from the tarmac.

  “Control, airborne.”

  The pilot slanted his head towards the co-pilot. “Wheels up.”

  “Gear up,” he acknowledged.

  The aircraft banked left, straightened up, then climbed higher and higher, passing through the cloud layer above them, heading for its patrol station. The radar and electronic networks on board, its airborne-early-warning system, scanned the skies ahead and about them, looking for both friend and foe alike. The higher they climbed, the greater the volume of data being fed into the systems computers onboard. Although not without its problems during the development stage, the Nimrod AEW3 was more than able to fulfil the role it was intended for: watching the skies for any Warsaw Pact air force intrusion into British airspace. Soviet air force TU-95s had already attacked British air force bases, airborne-early-warning sites and naval bases along the east coast of the country. The Tupolev, TU-95, NATO codename Bear, could carry conventional weaponry, or the AN602 Tsar Bomba, the largest and most powerful nuclear bomb ever detonated. The current ones were fifty megatons, derated from 100 megatons available in the sixties. It was the AEW3’s task to spot Soviet squadrons of bombers, and their accompanying fighters, heading for the British coastline, or picked up swinging around behind the continent and attacking the mass of reinforcements steadily pouring into Germany, Holland and Belgium. If seen, they could vector in British RAF fighters to seek and destroy them before they could jettison their deadly cargoes. Attack after attack had been made on the Island of Iceland from the air, and only the presence of both British and American nuclear submarines were preventing the Soviets taking the Island from the sea. Capturing the island would give them a forward airbase and allow their fighters to command the airways, providing protection for their bombers as they targeted the British mainland, or even the convoys moving troops and supplies across the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Captain, comms. Routine navigation. We have our waypoint. Steer two-nine-zero.”

  “Roger.”

  The radar operator, sitting in the rear of the plane, hunched over his consul and peered at the circular radar screen, the light from it bathing his face with a green tint. He watched as a set of bright green digits lit up.

  “Captain, radar. I have a contact. Zero-three-zero, thirty-eight miles.”

  “Roger, radar. How does that information compare with ground radar?”

  The radar operator adjusted the white cloth-covered headphones of his headset and spoke into the boom mike that curved around the left of his face ending up in front of his mouth.

  “Captain, radar. It ties in. I have taken the bearing on the contact. Do you accept my steer?”

  “Roger.”

  The captain turned to his co-pilot. “It will be on our starboard beam.”

  “Captain, radar. It is a large target, probably a Bear.”

  “Roger. Has an intercept been launched?”

  “They’re going up now.”

  0840 6 JULY 1984. RAF BUCHAN, SCOTLAND.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

  “Leuchers, launch two Phantoms. Mission number two-eight. Vector zero-three-zero. Climb three-four-zero. Call Buchan as stab two-one. X-ray-zero-two-zero-four. Scramble. Scramble. Scramble.”

  0840 6 JULY 1984. RAF LEUCHERS, SCOTLAND.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

  The two pilots and their respective navigators raced out of the dispersal room, their green flight helmets swinging in their right hands as they ran at speed towards the aircraft waiting patiently on the runway apron. Light glinted off the clear plastic map-pockets, just above the knee of their green flight suits. Half a dozen ground crew, plonks, raced behind and alongside them, white ear defenders clamped to their heads, ready to be pulled down to protect their eardrums from the noise of the Phantoms’ engines once they had been started. A couple of the ground crew split off and headed for the power supply, disconnecting the power lines from beneath both aircraft, while others removed the yellow caps off the two Sidewinder missiles, suspended from wing pylons, and the four Sparrow missiles situated in the fuselage recesses. The pilot and navigator of the nearest Phantom FG.1 scaled the two short metal ladders, hung from the sides of the dual cockpit, and clambered inside: the pilot to the front, navigator to the rear. They shifted and adjusted their positions until comfortable. Each had been followed by a member of the ground crew, who helped them to strap in and carry out any final instructions given. Once complete, the ladders were unhooked and removed, and the twin Rolls-Royce Spey turbofan engines were started. The Phantom Interceptors were now ready on the starting blocks. Two squadrons of Phantoms, thirty-two aircraft in total, were based at RAF Leuchers on the Scottish east coast. These two aircraft were part of the Quick Reaction Alert, the QRA, ready to defend Britain from attack.

  Systems on, weapons locked. The lead pilot signalled with a twist of his hand that they were ready to roll, and his perspex cockpit lowered electronically, sealing him in his domain. They both cast their eyes over the controls and dials, ready to move. A member of the ground crew dragged the yellow blocks from in front of the aircraft’s wheels, leaving it free to move forward. The pilots of both aircraft powered their engines bringing them up to eighty per cent power, and the two Phantoms, now alongside each other, steadily gained speed, the ground crew ensuring their ear defenders were on correctly as the noise from the four engines steadily increased. An RAF corporal, indicating with two paddles, bringing them both to his shoulders, beckoned the aircraft forward, then changed his action to a sweep of his left-hand paddle down and to the right, letting the pilot know he could sweep left and make his way towards the runway.

  The pilot keyed his mike. “Runway, Two-One.”

  In the contro
l tower of Leuchers RAF base, a Squadron Leader looked through the glass of the 360-degree tower window and clicked on his mike.

  “Bravo-Two-One, Bravo-Two-Two. You are clear for take-off. Wind two-twenty at fourteen knots.”

  “Roger. Two-One rolling now.”

  “Two-Two, rolling.”

  The engines flared as the pilot pushed forward on the levers, the thrust forcing the aircraft ever faster down the runway. Two surges of hot flame were emanating from the rear by the tailplane, the distinctive pulse-like pattern, vibrant with heat and energy surged out, the acceleration forcing the pilot and navigator back into their seats. Eighty knots, 100 knots, 120 knots. The wheels of the first Phantom Interceptor left the runway as the pilot rotated the aircraft, closely followed by his wing man.

  “Two-One. Bravo-Two-One. Airborne.”

  “Two-One. Bravo-Two-Two. Airborne.”

  “Roger. Steer zero-eight-zero.”

  “Two-one Roger.”

  “Two-two Roger.”

  The pilot of the lead aircraft spoke into his face mask, an internal message for his navigator. “Wheels up.”

  Both aircraft climbed up through the cloud layer before turning north in search of their target.

  0845 6 JULY 1984. RAF BUCHAN, SCOTLAND.

  THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

  The RAF base at Buchan, the home of an Air Defence Radar Unit, was located some two and a half kilometres south-west of Boddam. Responsible for coordinating all aspects of Britain’s air defence in the northern sector of the country, it would now take over control of directing the Interceptors in their quest to clear the skies of enemy aircraft.

  The radar operator, deep down in the R3 underground operations block, studied his radar screen, fed from the TPS-34 radar system above and the GL-161 computer system. The faint green background of the circular scope was lit with bright green flickering points of light, numerals and letters tracking aircraft in its region of control. Twice, they had received a visit from Soviet bombers from Murmansk. The first wave of bombers were hit hard; first by aircraft from Iceland, then by Britain’s air defence forces, and again from Iceland on their return. The second wave was more successful and managed to score some strikes on the base, but failed to hit any critical installations. For the sergeant staring at the screen, it had been a nerve-racking experience. Seeing the enemy aircraft on the radar getting closer and closer to their target and hearing the eventual explosions above had brought home the reality of the situation.