The Black Effect (Cold War) (3 page)

Whoosh, whoosh...whoosh, whoosh.

Trusov and Barsukov looked up at the sky-blue underbellies of two pairs of Sukhoi SU-25s as they shattered the silence that had lasted for a mere few seconds. The shoulder-mounted trapezoidal and conventional tailplane gave the jet a unique silhouette. Weapons were slung beneath the five hardpoints beneath each wing. Two carried 57mm rocket pods, more death to rain down upon the enemy. In addition, a 30mm cannon, with 250 rounds of ammunition, was located in a compartment beneath the cockpit. Nicknamed Frogfoot by NATO, the single-seat, twin-engined jet aircraft was specifically designed to provide close air support for Soviet ground forces. They would be expected to perform between eight and ten sorties a day. This was the first one of today’s attacks.

“The bloody
Grachs
(Rooks) will sort them out if the artillery hasn’t,” crowed Barsukov.

Trusov didn’t answer, but checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He pointed downwards to Barsukov who then slid into his gunner’s position on the left.

Pulling on his padded helmet, he now had communications with Kokorev, the driver and his gunner. “
Fifteen seconds
.”

“Sir,” Kokorev responded.

Ten seconds.
A ripple of 57mm rockets, smoke trails behind them, left the aircraft pods. Two aircraft targeted the southern edge of Braunschweig; two attacked the northern edge of the forest.

Kokorev looked up at the barrel of the tank gun above him, just to his right, and pulled on the hatch handle and heaved the driver’s hatch closed.

Five seconds.
Over 100 missiles, fired by the Rooks, struck their targets, laying a carpet of high explosives and shrapnel along the periphery where any remaining British troop would be waiting for the expected enemy advance.

“Go, go, go,” Trusov yelled into his mouthpiece.

Kokorev peered through the three vision blocks in front of him, his left hand raising the engine-idle lever and his right foot pushing on the accelerator pedal, the T-80’s 1,000-horsepower gas-turbine engine powered the tank forward. They pulled out from behind the two-storey house they had been secreted behind; their camouflage netting had been removed earlier. T-80s along the entire length of 62nd GTR front appeared from their hiding places and slowly gathered speed.

As for Trusov’s battalion, Vagin’s third-company was on his left, Ivashin’s company on the right, and Mahayev’s out in front, followed closely by two mine-plough tanks. Earlier, during the hours of darkness, a Soviet reconnaissance patrol had identified a probable minefield. The British had laid a carpet of bar mines between the forest and Braunschweig, hoping to hold the Soviet tanks up while their Milans picked them off from the side. The engineers had just completed their survey when they were bounced by a British fighting patrol. They barely made it back to the Russian lines, losing a third of their small force on the way. Under the cover of a smokescreen, the two mine-plough tanks moved forward rapidly and started to plough a passage, the width of two tanks, through the minefield. The remaining tanks of the battalion would pass through the gap, fanning out either side, the fuel injected onto their manifolds providing additional smoke; much needed cover from the eyes of their NATO enemies.

“
Two-Zero, Two-One. One down, one down!
”

“Two-One, understood. Keep moving.”

Another T-80 casualty
, thought Trusov. He pushed the hatch open and climbed up so his shoulders were well out of the turret, being met by a swirl of smoke, the stench of diesel fumes nearly making him gag. The tank bounced across the open ground ahead, Kokorev heading slightly north-west as instructed. Neither he nor Kokorev could see very much at the moment. The biggest risk was driving into one of their own comrades. Travelling at about twenty-five kilometres an hour, they would step up to forty once they were through the minefield. Although he could see very little, Trusov strained his ears and could pick out the roar of engines ahead as they negotiated the occasional ditch or mound.

“Slow by five; our boys are just ahead,” he informed his driver.

Looking down and to the left, past the other side of the yellow-painted auto-loader, he could see Barsukov, rocking from the hip as he moved with the motion of the tank, his eyes up against the IG42-quantum periscope sight, ready to fire on a target that presented itself. Looking down and right, the visual indicator showed that there was a sabot round loaded and ready.

“
Two-Zero, Two-One. Through the minefield. Over.
”

“Two-One, understood.”

On the internal comms, he called to Kokorev, “Stop, stop, stop.”

The heavyweight tank came to a halt, rocking on its suspension.

“Two-Two, Two-Three, stop, stop. Two-One, leave unit as marker; then move two, zero, zero west. Over.”

“
Two-One received, smoke thinning. Out.
”

The turret swung right as Barsukov lined the tank’s gun barrel up with the likely direction of the town of Braunschweig.

“Two-Three, Two-Zero. One minute, then move through. Two, zero, zero south-west.”

“
Two-zero-zero, south-west.
”

“Two-Two, Two-Zero, wait two, then two, zero, zero north-west.”

“
Two-Zero, Two-Two. Yes. One unit dropping out, mechanical
.”

Shit
, thought Trusov. But he couldn’t complain. They had been exceptionally lucky in keeping most of their tanks on the road. He scanned what little he could see ahead; but the smoke was definitely thinning out. He felt a slight southern breeze on his left cheek, indicating the smokescreen would move across the town, but expose his left flank to the forest.

Boo,boo,boo,boo,boom. Boo,boo,boo,boo,boom.

A ripple of explosions came from their front left and right flank as Frogfoot ground-attack aircraft laid into the defenders yet again. Any survivors from the previous artillery, missile and air attacks kept their heads well and truly down.

Good, Trusov thought, that would keep the British gunners’ heads down. He could see more and more clearly in front of him. Although cover was a good thing to have, they also needed to see where they were going and pick out targets that may threaten their advance. He tapped his fingers sequentially on the edge of the turret hatchway, listening intently for any sound of movement. Off to his front right, he could not only hear tanks moving but could also see the shadowy shapes about 100 metres away, heading at speed for the gap through the minefields.

“Standby, standby,” he called to Kokorev.

Barsukov heard the call and turned the turret so it was now at a forty-five degree angle to the left, the likely area where he would find a target and where the smokescreen would disappear first. He was nervous, as was his comrade up front in the driver’s seat. Stationary, they would be a sitting target; he would be pleased once they were on the move again.

Off to the left, Trusov heard the whine of gas-turbine engines as Two-Three started their journey towards the gap they must pass through. He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his left eye as one of Savva’s tanks sped across their front, not more than twenty metres ahead. He resisted the temptation to order Kokorev forward, knowing there would be a high risk of a collision.

“
Two-Zero, Two-Two. Through.
”

Trusov did not acknowledge; too much radio chatter was unnecessary. The tank company raced west, through the gap; then dispersed to their planned positions, spreading out to make less of a target.

“
Two-Zero, Two-Three. Through, deploying.
”

Savva would be taking his company south-west, covering the battalion’s left flank.

The turret of Trusov’s command tank moved slightly, Barsukov’s impatience telling.

“Keep it still,” snapped Trusov. “Kokorev, pull forward slowly.”

The engine built up power, Kokorev manipulating the accelerator, engine idle and the gear shift on his right, and the tank built up speed. Peering through the vision blocks, he too could see dark shadows ahead as they caught up with Savva’s company and made their way through the minefield. One of Mahayev’s tanks and one of the mine-plough tanks marked the entrance, the commanders in the turrets waving them forward.

“Go for it,” ordered Trusov.

Kokorev didn’t need to have the order repeated. He put his foot down, taking the tank up through the gears, the battle tank lurching forwards, ripping up the earth beneath its tracks. Savva’s company cut left as Kokorev manoeuvred his tank out of the gap on the other side. They were followed by the guard tank which quickly overtook them to catch up with its mother unit.

Trusov was almost blinded as they drove out of the smokescreen into full daylight. The tanks had now stopped generating smoke, ready to use their engines for their true purpose: to power the T-80s into battle. Leaving the rapidly dissolving smokescreen behind them, Trusov’s battalion fanned out. He could see the forest ahead, now occupied by their motor rifle battalion. The battalion had encountered no resistance. In fact, the biggest challenge was not the British army but negotiating the shattered ground with their BMP-2s. The motor rifle battalion commander, Lachkov, would have been astounded if there had been anyone left alive in this hellhole, to have prevented his men from taking their objective: the western edge of the forest where the River Oker would be a mere 2,000 metres away.

The T-80 lifted up as a shell exploded less than twenty metres away and rocked back down, Kokorev fighting with the two steering sticks to get it back in control. Trusov ducked as clods of earth pounded the tank and fragments zinged off the turret, and he quickly dropped down into the compartment closing the hatch after him. He peered through the right-hand vision-block and could see columns of earth being thrown into the air as shell after shell peppered the ground around his battalion. It was the British army’s turn to retaliate and hammer the advancing Soviet forces. Reports started to come in from the R-173 radio transceiver. Two-company on the right flank had lost one tank to artillery and a second to a Milan missile.

Trusov urged Kokorev on. If he could get two-company into the northern edge of the forest, facing the southern outskirts of Braunschweig, one-company on the western edge of the forest on the right flank of the motor rifle battalion, the third tank battalion would be to their far left and three-company in reserve behind, he would be in a good position to support the advance and the crossing of the River Oker. The entire 62nd Guards Tank Regiment of seventy-eight tanks, its motor rifle battalion and its twenty-four remaining BMP-2s would support 248th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment in making a crossing. All of the regiment’s eighty-two BMP-2s and twenty-six T-80s would be joined by the reconnaissance battalion. Heavy amphibious pontoons, such as the GSP ferries, along with PTS and K-61s, were already speeding to the front, ready to force a daytime crossing. A PMP pontoon bridge company would enable the Soviets to put in place a substantial floating bridge to move heavier units across and get to grips with the enemy. Heavy artillery, air-to-ground support from the air force, missiles and rockets had been committed to make this a fast passage.

It wouldn’t be the only crossing. Further south, 7 Guards Tank Division would be doing the same, increasing the pressure on the thinly spread British 4th Armoured Division trying to stem the flow. The British would continue to fight a delaying battle. The combat teams were already withdrawing from Braunschweig and Wolfenbuttel, to take up positions on the western bank of the river, leaving any further fighting to the West German reserve forces. No effort would be made by the Soviet army to enter the major conurbations; not yet, at least. But follow-on forces would ensure the security of the rear. Two additional elements would help swing the day in the Soviets’ favour, the dreaded Hip and Hind gunships supporting a full motor rifle battalion, provided by the 61st Guards Tank Regiment that would be landed on the opposite bank by scores of Hip and Hook transport helicopters. Trusov was confident they would be able to continue their advance west by early afternoon.

C
hapter 4

0
410 6 JULY 1984. EAST OF BERLIN, EAST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

“Jacko,” Bradley hissed into Jacko’s ear, his hand close to the sleeping soldier’s mouth, ready to clamp it shut should he shout out or make the slightest noise. Jacko’s eyes opened and he was immediately alert, sensing the urgency in Bradley’s voice.

“What is it?”

“Listen.”

They both kept silent and still, the sudden sound of a dog barking in the distance.

“It’s just a dog,” Jacko hissed back.

Then there was a second bark, deeper, followed by a third.

“Shit.”

“We need to bug out, and quickly. Pack your stuff and I’ll sort mine and the radio.”

“What about this?” asked Jacko, indicating the camouflaged mesh frame that spanned the space above them, keeping the foliage above at bay.

“Leave it, we don’t have time.”

Two dogs barked again, sounding closer, and Jacko quickly exited his sleeping bag, immediately flattened it and rolled it up, squeezing it into the haversack. Although cramped, they worked speedily side by side. Speed was of the essence, the barking dogs the only motivation they needed.

“How far?”

“Less than a K, I would say. Here in ten,” responded Bradley. “Finish up here; then bring your stuff out. I’m going to take a look around.”

Bradley poked his head outside and looked to the right as the headlights of a truck flickered by on the autobahn, causing him to flinch. He blinked. He had lost a portion of his night vision, but could see enough until it improved again. The Browning pistol dug into his side as he got up, a comfortable feeling, one of security. He pulled it out of the holster clipped to his belt on the left-hand side of his barrack trousers. It was loaded, with a round up the spout and the safety applied. He dragged his Bergen out of the hide, leaving it at the entrance, and then crept along the upper edge of the railway embankment, making his way west until he came to the edge of the Berlin ring road. It was four ten and there was very little traffic on the road. When it was busy, it was usually long convoys of supplies and troops heading west to join their comrades doing battle against NATO. Civilians were rarely seen on the road, confined to their homes no doubt while the East German military machine went about its business.

Bradley peered across the motorway, turning his head slightly so that his right ear could catch any sound that would be a threat to them. Lights flickered through the trees as the enemy played their torches around the area, making sure they didn’t step onto any hazards. They were looking for them; he had no doubts. The noise from the dogs was getting steadily louder. If he had to hazard a guess, he would say there were three tracker dogs on their scent, and he estimated they would be here in less than ten minutes. And to make matters worse, they were on his side of the embankment. They were obviously doing a sweep along the railway line. But why? Were they looking for saboteurs? Or were they looking for him and Jacko? Or were they just plain old Transport Politzei?

His head snapped round as he heard the bark of another dog off to the left. He looked to the front again. It was clear. He raised his body up higher so he could look back along the road to the other side of the bridge that crossed the railway line. He was startled, seeing more lights. Another collection of torch beams stabbed the darkness as a group, probably soldiers along with a couple of dogs, were moving along the edge of the autobahn.
Fuck
, he thought and immediately dropped back down. They were searching both railway embankments. It was the two of them they were after. They must have found the Range Rover.

He duckwalked back to the hide and pushed his head inside. “We need to go now, Jacko. They’ll be here in minutes. There’s a group practically opposite us.”

“How close?”

“Bloody close. Shift.”

“I’m done.”

Jacko joined him outside, and they both hoisted their packs, considerably lighter now they had used up some of their supplies, Bradley’s being the heaviest with the Clansman radio. Jacko dropped down, pointing to the lights of the soldiers crossing the autobahn on the opposite side of the railway line. They were safe for now, but the soldiers’ friends on this side of the embankment wouldn’t be far away, and the two groups could quickly join up if needed. The two dogs were barking frenetically now, sensing something, urged on by their handlers. They would soon pick up the scent of the two soldiers. Then all hell would break loose.

Bradley grabbed Jacko’s arm and pulled him away from the edge and took the lead, taking them east along the edge of the thicket, the same undergrowth where their hide was secreted. It would no longer be a secret, that was for sure. After fifty metres, they found the gap that they had identified during an earlier reconnaissance, when they were logging all the exit routes they could use should they get bounced. Both passed through it, going north, deeper into the forest and further away from the railway line and the dogs. A dog barked, sounding closer, directly opposite the hide they had just left. They could very well be across the railway line in a matter of minutes. The two groups were converging. Soon the hunt would be on.

Bradley picked up the pace, keeping a northerly direction, Jacko tagging along behind him, stumbling occasionally, his lanky legs getting the better of him. The pace got quicker and quicker, speed more important than caution. Bradley broke into double time, his Bergen jumping slightly on his back, secured when he pulled the straps much tighter, shifting the weight high onto his shoulders. The small compass glowed slightly in his hand as he checked they were on course, turning north-west, keeping the autobahn about 100 metres off their left side. East of them were ploughed fields, a stretch of open ground in the centre of the large forest, an area a kilometre long by 500 metres wide. To cross that, they would expose themselves to their pursuers with nowhere to hide and leave a trail of footprints that the dog handlers could easily follow by torchlight. At least in this direction, they would have some tree cover.

Bradley and Jacko stopped suddenly and looked over their shoulders as they heard a commotion, dogs barking wildly with excitement, soldiers shouting, the disturbance coming from the area of the hide they had just vacated. The dogs’ noses would be twitching and sniffing, their senses working overtime. It wouldn’t take them long to pick up their spoor and start to follow.

“They’ve found our spot, Jacko. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Bradley sprinted off, continuing north-west, now at a run, tips of branches flicking against his arms as he weaved in and out of the trees, the sound of dogs barking growing louder, spurring him on. The shouts of handlers also increased in volume, keeping the dogs, yanking at their leashes, under control. The group had been joined by more canines, no doubt from the other side of the railway line. Bradley pushed his body hard, knowing the soldiers would be invigorated now they had found the hiding place of the spies they had been searching for, for the past twenty-four hours. The soldiers and the dogs would also be in a flat-out run. Bradley’s only hope was to keep the two of them moving; keep one step ahead of their pursuers.

A flicker of light caught Bradley’s eye; vehicle headlights on the autobahn to their left, at least two or three trucks, he surmised. Reinforcements. Matters had just got worse. They were at least getting further and further away from the railway line, and starting to put some distance between them and the soldiers behind them. There was a squeal of brakes as more vehicles pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the autobahn, disgorging MFS troops to join in the hunt.

Bradley stopped suddenly, Jacko ploughing into the back of him, as they arrived at a road, Buchhorster Strasse. Left along the road would take them under the autobahn, right to the village of Schonwalde. He did a quick scan left and right; then called to Jacko, “Let’s go.”

They pounded across the metalled road, the sound hollow, turning back on a northern heading, moving away from the roads and deeper into the forest before they got boxed in, although Bradley felt sure it was too late. He could hear Jacko’s laboured breathing behind him, the bark of the dogs indicating the hunters had closed the gap again, keeping pace with them.

“They can’t be more than 500 metres behind,” Bradley called back to him. “Jacko.”

“Yeah.”

“We stop...in five.”

“Right.”

“Drop Bergen’s...take scoot packs.”

“Gotcha.”

“We need...to pick up...speed.”

“I’m...fucked.”

Bradley dropped back alongside him as they made their way down a wide path through the trees. He placed a hand on Jacko’s shoulder. “Come on, Jacko...your lanky legs...and skinny frame...can run faster than this.”

Jacko nodded his head, spit and froth flying from his mouth as his breathing got faster and faster. Encouraged, he lengthened his stride and picked up speed. Bradley stretched out his stride and returned to the front to lead them both on again. They continued north for another six minutes, crossing a track that ran south-west to north-east, Bradley taking them through and around the trees. His intention was to keep moving, remain under cover of the trees for long as possible. He knew they had to lose the dogs. If the war dogs stayed on their tail, the two runners would eventually run out of steam. Although the dogs and their handlers would also tire, additional troops would already be closing in, with fresh dogs ready to take over the manhunt. If only they could get to the farm he knew was a mere two kilometres away, they might stand a chance. Get amongst some cow muck, or silage, overpower the scent of their bodies, make it hard for even the sensitive noses of the dogs to differentiate between the smell of animal waste and men.

Whop, whop, whop, whop, whop.

“Down!” yelled Bradley.

They both dived beneath the canopy of a tree, the helicopter flying directly over their heads before turning left and flying west. Another could be heard off to the east. The net was closing in; it didn’t look good. The Tegler Fliesstal was a large forest for them to hide in, but with helicopters, troop carriers and hundreds of police and soldiers, it was only a matter of time.

But Bradley wouldn’t give up. “We dump the Bergens here.”

They shrugged the heavyweight rucksacks off their shoulders and quickly extracted their scoot packs: smaller packs containing essential items such as water, ammunition, food and some medical supplies. Bradley still persisted with carrying the radio.

“Come on, let’s go.” Bradley pulled Jacko up from the floor and they set off again, the sound of a helicopter to their right and the barking of the dogs behind ringing in their ears.

They picked up speed. Although panic had not yet set in, they were starting to feel that they were running for their lives. Having shed their Bergens, the two men were running hard and fast. Bradley heard Jacko stumble, heard the cracking of branches and twigs as he crashed into some low-lying branches, catching a glancing blow off a tree, crying out as his shoulder rolled over the lumpy ground. Turning back, Bradley was soon crouched at his comrade’s side and could just make out the grimace on Jacko’s face, his bared teeth showing in the half light of the forest, indicative of the pain Jacko was in.

Bradley looked about him, noticing that the dogs were quieter, tiring perhaps, saving their energy for when they got within striking distance of their quarry.

“It’s my bloody ankle, hurts like fuck.”

“Here, grab my arm.” Bradley braced his legs, a smell of mulch and pine reaching his nostrils as he leant over and offered his hand.

“Aaagh, my bloody shoulder!” He hoisted Jacko up, the man crying out again as he put weight on his ankle.

The barking of the dogs suddenly picked up again, seeming much closer now, perhaps getting a whiff of their scent, driving them to pull their handlers ever faster.

“The dogs are getting closer. We need to shift.”

“I’m ready.”

They headed off again, but Jacko made a mere ten metres before crying out in pain as he jarred his badly twisted, if not broken, ankle. He was going nowhere. Before Bradley could say anything, the soldiers suddenly appeared as shadowy figures not more than 300 metres away, a gap in the trees giving them a view of Bradley’s and Jacko’s silhouettes.

“Fuck, run, Jacko.”

Bradley jogged sideways, watching his comrade’s poor attempt at running at speed, his ankle giving way again and sending shockwaves of pain through Jacko’s nervous system. Even knowing the enemy were in striking distance was not enough. Shots rang out.

Zip...crack. Zip...crack.

“Run, Jacko,” he screamed.

Bradley dropped down on one knee, pulled his pistol from the holster at his side, flicked the safety catch, aimed in the direction of the advancing shadows, tried to steady his still heaving body, his hands shaking, and fired a double tap. Now, at 200 metres, he knew the shot was pointless. But it may give Jacko a chance.

Thunk, thunk.
Two more shots rang out, hitting the trunk of a tree.

Zip...crack. Zip...crack.

“Ughh.”

Bradley turned his head to see Jacko tumble forwards, the momentum of his attempted sprint forcing him into a forward roll, hitting the ground hard.

Zip...crack.

“
Halten Sie! Halten Sie!
” The soldiers screamed the order to halt. Less than 200 metres away now, the dogs were barking and yelping, straining at their leashes, forcing their handlers into a sprint.

Bradley rushed to Jacko’s side. His friend’s body was limp. Although he couldn’t see Jacko’s glazed-over, staring eyes, a hand over his mouth didn’t reveal the warmth of his breath, an indicator that his fellow soldier was dead. He couldn’t dally, got up from his crouch, fired another two shots, and ran for his life, jinking left and right, changing direction as snappily as he had seen any hare do.

Zip, crack.

“
Halten Sie! Halten Sie!
”

Zip, crack.