The Black Effect (Cold War) (7 page)

“
Juliet-One, Whiskey-One. Zombies identified. Second flight. Estimate Three-four. Expected target, your location. Batten down. Out
.”

Chapter 9

1030 6
JULY 1984. CORPS PATROL UNIT. SOUTH-EAST OF HANOVER, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −2 DAYS.

The Harrier pilot, Flight-Lieutenant Joseph Tate, flipped his left wing up and banked for a few seconds before straightening up again. Looking right, and down, through the cockpit canopy, he could see the E30 autobahn running east to west. He could make out vehicles travelling along it, but couldn’t identify them specifically by type, but one thing was for certain: it was swarming with military traffic. There were certainly main battle-tanks and mechanised infantry combat vehicles amongst the probable supply vehicles and other troop carriers. His job was to photograph what he could see, then get the hell out of the area and head back home.

Originally from RAF Wildenrath, an airbase in West Germany, his squadron had dispersed, as planned, to sites out in the countryside. Fear of a major strike on that airfield, and other NATO bases, by the Soviet air force, had forced the Harrier units to find alternative sites. The Hawker Siddeley Harrier GR.1, known affectionately as the Jump-Jet, was the first generation of its kind. It was the first close-support and reconnaissance aircraft that had the capability to complete a short take-off and landing (STOL) or even a vertical take-off and landing (VTOL). With its unique fuselage-mounted engine, fitted with two air intakes and four vectoring nozzles, the pilot could direct the thrust vertically allowing for a vertical take-off or, when loaded down with weaponry and to conserve fuel, the aircraft’s nozzles could be angled to give it forward and downward thrust enabling it to take-off on a short runway. If needed, the Harrier Jump Jet could operate from ad-hoc facilities such as forest clearings, like the one he had flown from, car parks and motorways, avoiding being exposed to potential Soviet missile and, even, nuclear strikes. As a consequence of the unique capabilities of this aircraft, Flight-Lieutenant Tate had been able to take off from a heavily matted, but short, runway, in a large forest clearing. This enabled the Harrier Jump Jet to take off with a full weapons’ load, conserving fuel to enable it to fly further afield or stay longer over the target area. On his return though, he would be able to land vertically.

Out of the corner of his eye, Flight-Lieutenant Tate spotted four trails of anti-aircraft fire, the intermittent tracer rounds glowing as they curved up from the ground, almost lazily, yet the 23mm rounds were leaving the four barrels of the ZSU-23-4 Shilka, at the rate of nearly 4,000 rounds per minute, travelling at over 900 metres per second. The Soviet Shilka fired short bursts, its onboard radar tracking the intruder. Tate pulled back on the stick, climbing slightly as he pushed the Pegasus turbofan engine harder, leaving the tracer trail behind him. He dropped down again, needing to keep the Harrier at the right height so the position of the aircraft was at the optimum if the photography he was about to take would be at its best. As this was a reconnaissance mission, fitted beneath the fuselage, mounted on the centreline, was a low-level daylight reconnaissance pod. The pod was fitted with four oblique F.95 cameras, set at a twenty and thirty-degree angle, one pair fitted with six-inch focal length lenses and a second pair with three-inch lenses. A fifth camera was fitted in the vertical mode, an F.135 mount, loaded with five-inch film.

He checked the aircraft’s height again and confirmed his bearings. The Harrier was just passing over a wooded area, about midway between Peine and Lehrte. This aerial photography would give 1 British Corps a better handle on what was coming towards their defensive line on the River Leine. He clicked the button and the cameras started whirring, the rapid shutter movement allowing clear pictures to be taken for up to 500 frames.

The SA-6, NATO codename Gainful, a triple-missile Transporter, Erector and Launcher, TEL, received its tracking data from the battery’s ‘straight flush’ radar, and the missile launch platform turned and elevated the three large missiles.

The curved radar spun round and round on the tracking vehicle, and the operator hunched over the circular scope, watched the rapidly sweeping arm repeatedly showing the blip of the enemy target. More data was transmitted to one of four SA-6s in the battery.

The TEL adjusted the launcher again, ensuring it was tracking the aircraft as well. On command, the crewman launched the 2K12 Missile, a white streak leaving the back of the 600-kilogram rocket as it sped towards its target at Mach 2.8.

The radar warning receiver burst into life, indicating his aircraft had been lit up by the enemy, probably a surface-to-air missile tracking radar.

“Shit.” Pushing forward the throttle lever, Tate checked his head-up display and confirmed the plane’s heading, then rotated his head wildly, looking left, right, up and down, and over his shoulder, desperately looking for the telltale signs of a missile heading his way.

“Damn.” He saw the streak of the missile heading towards him, arcing round and heading straight for the Harrier. He stabbed the chaff button, praying he wasn’t too late and pulled on the nozzle angle lever, rotating the vectored thrust nozzles into a forward-facing position: VIFFing, a dogfight tactic he had learnt when fighting against the Argentinian Dagger, a multi-role fighter aircraft, during the war in the Falklands. He used it now to drop his speed and go into a tight turn as a second chaff dispenser was fired. He pulled back on the stick, and his feet controlled the pedals as the G-force applied pressure to his body, tensing his muscles in return to help counter some of the effects. Seconds later, the plane rocked violently as the close-proximity fuse of the missile triggered an explosion, tearing off a section of the wing, ripping open the side of the fuselage, smashing the turbine blades, the engine losing power.

The power loss was almost instant and, as he began to lose height, he spotted a second white exhaust trail leaving the ground. His aircraft was finished, as would he be if he didn’t get out, and quickly. Checking his leg straps, he pulled on the firing handle, and the explosive charge of the canopy-breaker shattered the canopy, splinters flying upwards, wind whistling around his face and helmet. The leg straps and harness automatically tightened and the ejection gun forced the seat up the guide rails, clearing the cockpit, followed by the blast of the rocket pack, speeding the seat clear, flinging him forward violently as the ejector seat forced him skyward. As soon as he was able, he undid his seat belt and kicked himself away from the seat. Within three seconds of pulling the firing handle and leaving the aircraft, the canopy had deployed.

Woompf
. Behind and below him, he heard and felt his aircraft tear itself apart as the fuel tanks erupted, blasting the airframe into hundreds of pieces that would be scattered over a wide area of the ground below. He looked down; the ground was rushing towards him and he braced himself for the impact.

Wilf signalled for Badger to come forward, and they both flinched as the Harrier Jump Jet exploded above and to the right of their position.

“Shit. Look, there he is. Thank God he got out of that in time,” exclaimed Badger pointing at the pilot’s chute that was filling out to support the pilot’s body dangling from the harness below it.

“We need to get to him,” responded Wilf.

They both ducked as two SEPECAT Jaguar Jet ground-attack aircraft screamed by at low level, targeting the tank column that was travelling west along the E30. The first one let fly with its SNEB rockets. Each of the eight Matra rocket pods the aircraft had on its under-wing hardpoints carried eighteen of those 68mm rockets. Wilf’s team had reported the convoy, and the RAF had managed to conjure up these two aircraft that had then, amazingly, got through the Soviet air-defence umbrella by flying extremely low. What remained of the Harrier, a plume of smoke trailing behind it, exploded again, struck by a second missile, pieces of the shattered fuselage and engine landing not more than 300 metres away.

Wilf, deliberately avoiding the temptation to switch his attention to the stricken Harrier, kept his eyes on the pilot and watched as the pilot’s parachute canopy dropped lower and lower until it disappeared from sight. He tracked the last visible position as best he could, mentally calculating on his internal map where he was likely to have come down. The two Jaguar attack aircraft were causing mayhem amongst the Soviet convoy, tens of rockets exploding amongst the armour and trucks. Wilf swung the binoculars round, looking to the south-east, picking out the orange and yellow flashes of the strike followed by plumes of smoke, the sound bombarding his ears seconds later.

“That’ll teach the fuckers,” growled Badger.

“Did you get his bearing?”

“Yes, about three-twenty, north-west.”

He turned to Badger. “Come on then. Let’s go.”

Wilf led the way, picking up Hacker and Tag on the way.

“Going for the pilot?” asked Tag.

“Yes, but we need to move sharpish.”

“Yeah, while they’re a little occupied,” added Tag with a laugh.

“Hacker, point,” instructed Wilf.

Hacker readjusted his M-16, the barrel mimicking the direction of his eyes as he scanned their route ahead. He took them back into the trees of the forest that straddled the E30, and headed north-west. They were at the south-eastern end of a smaller forest that jutted out to the east, a limb of the much larger one, pointing in the direction of the village of Aligse. Their hide was a mere two kilometres north from their current position.

Hacker forced the pace, knowing they needed to get to the pilot quickly. Although the two Jaguars would be ensuring the enemy kept their heads down and focused on surviving the onslaught, others may be tracking the progress of the pilot’s chute and following him down. At this very minute, they could be homing in on possible landing sites. Anyway, the Jaguars wouldn’t hang around too long.

Hacker weaved through the trees, Badger following behind, then Tag, with Wilf as tail-end-charlie. Wilf would have preferred the patrol to be moving more slowly, but he knew they would have to sacrifice some caution for speed. Options and outcomes swam around his head. They were in an ideal location for monitoring enemy troop movements. The E45, to their west, ran north to south. South of them was the E30 running east to west, where the Jaguars were still causing havoc. The aircraft wouldn’t stay in the area for much longer, thought Wilf. More and more surface-to-air-missiles would be tracking the RAF strike aircraft, and Soviet fighters wouldn’t be too far away. To their north, running south-west to the north-east, was a further autobahn, Route 3. He didn’t want to leave the RAF pilot to the mercy of the Soviet army, but with troops potentially moving in on the area, they were at risk of being compromised. And if the Soviets brought in dogs to track down the enemy pilot, they could well come across their Mexe-hide. Although deep and well hidden, they had learnt from trials, and experience, that dogs had the knack of finding the most perfectly disguised hide. If not the hide, they would pick up on the CPU’s trail at and round about their base. The thought of their primary mission being aborted and potentially the team ending up on the run was not a promising prospect. After about a kilometre, they arrived at the northern edge of the forest, and Hacker waved them down. Tag and Badger kept watch to their rear and flanks whilst Wilf made his way to the front.

“Clear?”

“Yeah. I suggest we go left, keep in the forest, cut across the k122, then north along that hedgeline, that will take us across to the opposite edge.” Hacker pointed ahead of him.

“Going even further west, staying in the forest, then hanging north, but keeping inside the trees would be better,” Wilf countered, scanning the fields to their north-west and north-east, looking for a sign of the enemy, and at the same time looking for the moving pilot, or the flutter of a parachute.

“I know, Wilf, but we haven’t got the bloody time. That pilot is going to be up and away pretty quickly once he’s got his bearings.”

“You’re right as usual, Hacker.” Wilf grinned, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Hacker adjusted his webbing belt; the twenty magazines of 5.56mm ammunition for his M-16 were quite a weight, along with a Claymore mine, grenades, two small packs of plastic explosive, not forgetting food and water. He marched at a pace along the edge of the tree line, completing a recce of the minor road before leading them across it. Once he was satisfied they were opposite the hedgerow, he beckoned the patrol forward and slipped out of the forest, leading the way. Looking left, across the open ground, scanning for any enemy soldiers, he kept close to the thick hedgerow that separated the two fields it crossed. Tag stepped out after him followed by Badger with Wilf following on. Hacker led them at a brisk pace, conscious that all the time they were out here in the open, in broad daylight, they were at risk of discovery by the enemy who were swarming all around this area in preparation for continuing their drive west. The hedgeline ran north for about 400 metres before switching to the north-east, where they crossed over the Bruchgraben, an irrigation canal. A convenient log, probably left by a farmer, acted as a bridge enabling them to cross it and remain dry. Another 500 metres found them back under the cover of trees, to the relief of all four of the SAS troopers.

They lay down in the inner edge of the tree line, each facing outwards towards one of the cardinals, their boots touching. Just waiting, watching and listening, ensuring they weren’t being followed by an unseen force.

“Any suggestions?” asked Wilf, inviting a Chinese Parliament.

“This is fucking mad, Wilfy. We need to do a bunk now. We couldn’t help him even if we can find him in this bloody lot.”

“What do the rest of you think?”

“Badger has a point, but we have to at least try.”

“I agree with Tag,” added Hacker.

“You’re outvoted, Badger,” Wilf informed him.

“Wankers, the lot of you,” Badger grumbled. “But, if we’re going to do it, let’s fucking well get on with it.”

“We split into pairs,” ordered Wilf. “I’ll take Grumpy.”