The Black Effect (Cold War) (28 page)

Ch
apter 36

How do you protect your family from a nuclear attack?

Build a fallout room
– You need to protect your family against the heat and blast of a nuclear explosion. Choose the right place. It could be on the ground floor, but a cellar or basement would be better. Keep as far away as possible from an outside wall or the roof.

How to strengthen your fallout room
– Strengthen the weak points, such as doors and windows. One way is to fill bags with sand or earth and stack them outside your windows. If those materials are unavailable to you then push a large bookcase or a wardrobe up against the space you are trying to block off. If you have enough time, you could board up your windows on either side, filling in the gap with earth or sand, or, even better still, brick the windows up completely.

The core
– Inside this fallout shelter build a ‘core’ to protect your family further. It could be a lean-to up against one of the walls, protected with sandbags. Or you could use a cupboard beneath the stairs, making sure you have a layer of sandbags on the stairs and the surrounding area of the cupboard.

Protect your Family - Handbook 2

1400 8 JULY 1984. CHANTICLEER, UNITED KINGDOM GOVERNMENT EMERGENCY WAR HEADQUARTERS, CORSHAM.

THE BLACK EFFECT +10 HOURS.

The Prime Minister took her twice-daily walk through the main areas of the complex where she had spent a good part of her days and nights since the launch of the Warsaw Pact invasion of the Federal Republic of Germany. Her circuit of the underground bunker, followed at a distance by one of her close protection team, always started from Area 14, the Prime Minister’s office. It was also the home of the Cabinet Office, Chiefs of Staff and the War Cabinet. No one ever thought the day would come when the Government Emergency War Headquarters (GEWHQ), situated in between the village of Corsham and Lower Rudloe, would ever be used in earnest.

The Prime Minister walked down the corridor, Area 21 on her left, the home of the Government Communications Centre and, on her right, the British Broadcasting Centre studio, along with the Home Office and local government departments. The BBC studio was far from what the news presenters were used to back at Broadcasting House, now having a space no bigger than three-by-three metres. She turned right and was now walking underneath West Road, which was thirty metres above her head. She could hear the footsteps of her CP officer resonating on the solid floor of the large concrete, and sometimes brick-lined, corridor of the bunker. The sounds were not so hollow now as they competed with other sounds of activity as Britain’s Cold War underground headquarters had now come to life to meet the threat on the other side of the English Channel. The dank, mildew smell that had previously tainted the air had also changed. The odour now consisted of a mix of sweaty bodies, ablutions and machinery, mixed in with freshly baked bread and the smells of stale cooking. Although Harriet Willis still scrunched up her nose slightly on occasion, she, like the rest of the 4,000 occupants, was getting used to the environment and its nuances. She turned right onto Main Road, now with Area 15 on her right and Area 8 on her left, looking up as one of the fluorescent tubes above her head flickered. If she missed anything, apart from seeing her children naturally, although adults now, it was natural daylight. She didn’t think she would ever get used to this unnatural glow. Large conduits lined the ceiling, taking cables and pipes to various parts of the complex. New cables had been laid outside of the casing, quickly put into place to ensure that the site was fully operational.

She moved over to the left as one of the yellow battery-powered vehicles, carrying four people, whirred past. A red one came from the opposite direction, a driver taking supplies, piled on the platform at the rear, to another part of the bunker. She popped her head through a door, the buzz and clatter as the operators on the two General Post Office switchboards connected and reconnected numerous cable plugs, putting various departments in contact with the outside world. The two switchboards, set on a black and white tiled floor, backed by the clinically white walls, were fully manned. One was a huge forty-position oak unit, while the other had fourteen positions dealing primarily with international communications. In the background, a bank of teleprinters rattled noisily. One of the exchange supervisors started to get up, acknowledging the Prime Minister’s presence, but Harriet Willis waved her down and carried on with her tour. Her journey took her past the central stores, Ministry of Transport, Ministries of Power and Agriculture, and, finally, the kitchen and dining rooms before arriving back at Area 14.

Willis made her way into the conference room where a reduced War Cabinet was to meet. The demands of the war were pulling her ministers far and wide. Four men stood up as she entered. One was Lawrence Holmes, the Secretary of State for Defence, his shock of greying hair swept back at the top and sides looking lank. Finding the time to groom oneself was not easy. He attempted a smile, but the deep lines in his face barely moved. If he was lucky, he could snatch two to three hours of sleep a night, but the strain was now starting to show. “Prime Minister, we’re ready when you are. Your stroll highlight anything?”

“Thank you, Lawrence. Only the lack of daylight,” she responded. The Prime Minister had managed no more sleep than anyone else, but still contrived to look fresh and alert. Her pale blue, one-piece woolen dress was at odds with the surroundings, and she exuded confidence and command. Even Cabinet ministers who had often been at odds with their leader now found they welcomed her leadership, recognising that she truly was the person, if anyone, who could get them and the country through this crisis. Some were even glad that the full responsibility for running the country in a time of war hadn’t landed on their shoulders. She sat at the head of the conference table. Jeremy Chapman, her Home Secretary, a pearl of sweat running down his forehead, was sitting to her left on the other side of the Defence Minister.

She looked across at the two uniformed soldiers sitting to her right. “Thank you for joining us today, gentlemen. I know you have lots of other duties you feel you need to attend to. We shall be as brief as possible, but information is one of our greatest assets at the moment.”

Thomas Fletcher, Chief of the Defence Staff, the most senior uniformed officer of the British forces and Alistair Hamilton, Chief of the General Staff, were both dressed in disruptive combat uniform, but still with red tabs showing on their shirt collars beneath. The time for full dress uniform would have to wait until the time was appropriate.

“Will you start us off with an update, Lawrence?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

The Defence Secretary picked up the latest report he had been given and scanned it briefly. “The Soviet chemical strike has been confirmed as being launched across the full length of the German Federal Republic. The Germans are hopping mad and are calling for an immediate retaliation.”

“What are they looking for? Chemical, tactical nuclear or a full-blown nuclear exchange?” Harriet Willis responded sharply.

“They have had a considerable number of civilians maimed and killed, Prime Minister.”

“As we have lost many of our brave soldiers, Lawrence. This is not the time to lose our heads.”

“How have the Americans responded?” Jeremy Chapman, the Home Secretary, asked.

“They are also mad as hell,” answered Holmes. “They are asking for an agreement that we at least respond in kind.”

“General Fletcher, do we have those particular munitions available and close to the assets that will use them?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. We can have our artillery units so armed within four hours.”

“A conference call is being convened with all NATO leaders within the hour. I’d like you to attend that with me.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

“And the front, General?”

“It is not going well, I’m afraid. We are about to lose the line we had along the River Leine. The size of the Soviet forces up against us is vast. They have already pushed an Operational Manoeuvre Group across the river, so we are having to adjust our lines accordingly.”

“Retreat, you mean.”

“We are just moving into a better position where we can keep our line together until we are able to counter-attack.”

“Counter-attack?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. NORTHAG has a reserve American Division that will be with us in less than two days. Using that division, elements of our own 4th Armoured Division, and a Panzer battalion from the Germans, we hope to hit them back hard.”

“Hope, General?”

“The Soviets have to be where we want them. Our troops have to be where we need them. Then we can strike.”

“I see. And the bigger picture?”

The General frowned, knowing he had more bad news for his Prime Minister. “The Soviets have surrounded Hamburg and are pushing towards Bremen in the west. The lead division is Polish. In the north, they are already at Nord-Ostee-Kanal, threatening Denmark. A DDR army and a Soviet army will push for Denmark any day now.”

“Any good news, General?” asked the Home Secretary.

“The ACE mobile force has been released. By placing them into Denmark or Husum, they could set up a defence line for when the Schleswig Holstein forces have to withdraw.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to bolster up the forces already there?” asked the Defence Secretary.

“No, sir. They wouldn’t be able to hold them. We need time to prepare and for the Danish troops to sort themselves out, because they will need to fight as well if they are to protect their own country.”

“The Danes happy for ACE mobile forces to pass through their country?”

“More than happy, Prime Minister,” answered Holmes.

“As for the rest of NORTHAG, the Dutch, Germans and Belgians are slowly withdrawing.”

“The Americans in the south?”

“They were holding well, Prime Minister, but the chemical attack has thrown them into disarray. They too are having to pull back.”

There was silence in the room. “Do you have any better news for me, Jeremy?”

“I’m afraid not, Prime Minister. We’ve had some major disturbances in London, Bradford, Manchester and Birmingham. They are demanding a ceasefire and that we negotiate with the Russians for a peaceful settlement.”

“Do they not appreciate that the Soviet army has just killed thousands of German civilians with their chemical strikes?” The question was rhetorical; just Harriet Willis releasing some of her frustration. “We’re fighting a war that we did not start; our soldiers are being killed by the hundreds; our very existence is being threatened by a monster-led regime. Have the newspapers been reminded of the D-Notices? We don’t want word of these riots being plastered all over the news, encouraging more to break out.”

“Yes, Prime Minister, they have. The announcement later today will only make matters worse, I fear. We have to introduce major rationing. The Soviet submarines are sinking too many of our merchant ships, and food supplies are running low.”

“What action have you taken?”

“Police officers are already working shifts of twelve on and twelve off, seven days a week. I have asked General Hamilton to provide some troops to provide additional support.”

“And has that been offered, General Hamilton?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. Four battalions that were due to go to Germany have been held back to give that support to the police.”

“Has the call-up process started, Jeremy?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. That will provide us with more resources, but ideally they should be shipped to the Continent to reinforce our troops over there.”

“Are our key points protected?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. Power plants, bridges, communications buildings have all been assigned either police or reserve forces to guard them.”

“How many attacks so far?”

“The current count is twenty-four,” answered the Home Secretary. “We know that at least eleven were the work of Spetsnaz units. We’ve also had attacks on RAF bases and airfields in general. Again Spetsnaz.”

“We believe that some of the special forces’ units have been dropped off on our coast by submarines,” added the Defence Secretary.

“What about the wider picture, Lawrence?”

“Well, in Spain and Turkey, it is stalemate. The Soviets aren’t making any moves at this time, but we daren’t move any of our allies forces to help out further north; otherwise that might just provoke them to attack. We have enough on our plate as it is. The French have finally come off the fence, and some of their divisions are being sent towards Austria. The Soviets are across the Danube and making progress. I’ve also had reports that there are at least twenty-one Soviet warships in the Norwegian Sea. Danish air reconnaissance shows there to be two Krivak-class guided missile frigates and a Kashin-class destroyer. More importantly, there is a Kynda-class cruiser which we believe to be armed with nuclear missiles. No doubt there will be Whiskey-class and Foxtrot-class submarines in support. Also, supply ships and amphibious landing ships. We have a task force on the way now to intercept.”

“Our nuclear option?”

“All available Resolution-class submarines are on the high seas.”

“And that is how many?”

“Three, Prime Minister: Resolution, Renown and Revenge. Repulse is undergoing a major refit and couldn’t be made ready for at least one month.”

“Is three enough?”

“More than enough. Each has sixteen Polaris missiles.”

“And our tactical nuclear option, General Fletcher?”

“Our missile regiment has been deployed. We have four batteries, each with three missile launchers. Those batteries have been dispersed across 1 BR Corps’ area of operation.”

“Well, let’s hope we never have to use them. Who knows what will transpire once those are launched.”

“We’ve already had grumblings from the Germans in regard to the Americans’ use of MADMs,” the Defence Secretary informed her.

“MADM?”

“It’s a Medium Atomic Demolition Munition, hence the acronym. An eighty-kilogram charge.”