The Blue Effect (Cold War) (17 page)

Ch
apter 18

03
10, 10 JULY 1984. SYNTHETIC APERTURE RADAR (SAR) FLIGHT. WEST OF MINDEN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT -15 HOURS

The wings of the Platypus, a twin-engine Islander, wobbled slightly as turbulence caught the aircraft’s squared-off wings. The pilot steadied the controls and continued on his track flying north to south along a line between Petershagen and west of Rinteln.

“Two minutes,” the pilot informed the two crew sitting in the back of what was once a civilian passenger aircraft. But it had been converted for the special purpose to which it was now dedicated.

One of the crew looked up from his workstation. “She’s tracking nicely. Recording in nine-zero seconds.”

The second crewman adjusted a couple of dials and the screen in front of him brightened slightly. The feed from the multi-mode all-weather radar, tucked away in the aircraft’s long, circular, flattened nose, hence its nickname Platypus, was coming through fairly clearly.

“Sixty seconds,” informed crewman 1.

“Acknowledged,” responded the pilot.

Somewhere above, two West German Phantom Interceptors flew with them, providing cover for their vulnerable charge below. The operator turned the equipment up to full power, and the antenna illuminated its target, the microwave being transmitted obliquely at right angles to the direction of the aircraft’s flight. The swathe, the footprint being illuminated, covered an area where tanks of the 197th Guards Tank Regiment of the 47th Guards Tank Division of 3rd Shock Army were assembling en masse, waiting to follow through the gap that 7th Guards Tank Division had created. The short pulse width and the intra-pulse modulation were helping to enhance the picture being created, providing a resolution fine enough to pick out the armoured vehicles and the folds in the ground where they were hiding or on the move. This all-weather system would back up the intelligence already provided by the drones that had been flown the previous day. This next piece of the jigsaw would confirm the early morning positions of the massed forces. The information, once transmitted back to base, would help guide the defence that was slowly being mounted against these fresh troops that were threatening the defence of the entire front of the Northern Army Group.

The aircraft was again buffeted by a pocket of turbulence, a slight blip in the radar tracking but not enough to jeopardise the mission. The pictures were being transmitted to a receiver station, set up as close as possible to the aircraft’s line of flight. Imagery analysts would soon be pouring over the product, putting their expertise to use, pointing out the various armoured formations but, more importantly, the location of each one.

“Ugly Duckling, this is Top-Cover. We are about to get a visit. ET your mission end? Over.”

The pilot of the Platypus called back over his shoulder. “We’ve got company. How much more time do you need, guys?”

Crewman 1 responded, “Thirty seconds. Just keep us steady for thirty seconds.”

“Roger that. Hello, Top-Cover, this is Ugly Duckling. We’re nearly done. Another three-zero seconds. Over.”

“Top-Cover. We hear you. We have unfriendly units on route to us. We’ll leave you in ten seconds to head them off. Once you’ve completed, bank hard right and run. I repeat, once complete, bank hard right and run. Good luck. Out.”

The pilot was nervous now. The BN-2T Islander, a high-wing cantilever monoplane, was not cut out for military operations. It was normally only used as a light troop transport or for minor support operations, not to be right up in the front line.

“How long?” he asked again, his nervousness reflected in his voice.

“Fifteen,” responded crewman 2.

The pilot did the countdown inside his head, his co-pilot readying himself for the sharp turn.

“Five.”

The pilot got ready.

“We’re done.”

“Hold tight. This is going to be a tight one.”

The pilot pulled on the stick and banked hard right, the airframe juddering slightly as the g-force kicked in. Once he had made the ninety-degree turn, the throttles of the two engines were pushed forward, power from engines building up as their speed steadily increased to its maximum of 270 kilometres an hour. Whatever happened now, they had done their job. The information had been passed back; the Soviet tank units preparing to assault had been located. It was up to the more conventional means now to confirm the details. Reconnaissance aircraft would now have to take their turn.

Cha
pter 19

032
0, 10 JULY 1984. ROMEO-ONE-ONE, 1ST AVRO-VULCAN BOMBER FLIGHT, 13,000 METRES ABOVE SPAIN.

THE BLUE EFFECT -15 HOURS

The three Vulcans, Avro Vulcans, officially known as Hawker Siddeley Vulcans, banked left slowly. Flying at a height of 13,000 metres, they were now bearing north high above southern Europe. Although the Warsaw Pact still threatened Southern Europe, to date they had made no moves to invade Italy, Spain or Switzerland, choosing to coax those countries to withdraw their support from NATO and declare their neutrality. The Soviets were advocating that they only wished to remove the threat of West Germany from their borders, and had no axe to grind with what they referred to as
friendly countries
. In truth, the fight in the central and northern regions of Europe was going so well, they didn’t feel the need to attack NATOs southern flank. The decision had been made by Stavka, the Soviet High Command, to focus resources, including ammunition, fuel and supplies, on the Group of Soviet Forces Germany, with the Northern Group of Soviet Forces attacking Schleswig-Holstein and Denmark, and the Southern Group of Soviet Forces pushing into Southern Germany and Austria, in order to maintain the forward momentum they had achieved so far.

“Romeo-One-One, this is Tango-One. Over.”

“This is Romeo-One-One, ETA. Over.”

“Figures five. Dropping to zero, nine, zero.”

“Acknowledged.”

There was no more that needed to be said. This had been rehearsed, theoretically and in practice, back at RAF Waddington. The Vulcan had a range of 4,000 kilometres. Their journey so far had taken up nearly three quarters of their fuel. A top-up was necessary if they were to hit their target and return safely – Soviet air force permitting that was.

The pilot reduced power, taking them from their cruising speed of just under 900kph to the speed required if they were to be refuelled successfully by an equally ageing Handley-Page Victor tanker, an ex V-bomber, part of Britain’s earlier nuclear deterrent.

The Vulcan was also an ageing V-bomber, and had in effect been stood down from active duty. Operationally disbanded two years earlier, the Vulcans were once again going to be used in anger. Their most recent operation had been during the Falklands War, when single Vulcans flew to the Falkland Islands in order to bomb the runway at Port Stanley and prevent its use by the occupying Argentine forces. But now, only eighteen of the aged Vulcans were serviceable, barely. In order to have enough aircraft available to make a significant contribution to the war effort, additional servicing and maintenance work had been required. Engines and spares were generally plentiful, although some spare parts had been scavenged from every possible source, even reusing items on display in museums throughout the world. Sometimes, it meant cannibalising other Vulcan and Victor aircraft in order to provide enough bombers to participate in the forthcoming action. With engineers working around the clock, the RAF was finally able to wheel out twelve Vulcans that were capable of fulfilling the mission that higher command had lined up for them. There was a mixture of squadrons used: some aircraft and crews were from No 50 Squadron and No 101 Squadron; others were from No 44 Squadron. The question had been asked in many quarters: why? Why use an aircraft that was over twenty-five years old, practically obsolete. Although the Tornado and Sepecat Jaguar ground-attack aircraft were effective in conducting air-to-ground strikes, the number of missions assigned to those squadrons to provide close-air support to the army was ever increasing and far more than there were aircraft and pilots available. Attacks on NATO bases by Soviet bombers, Spetsnaz sleepers and fresh groups parachuted in to bring the battle to the heart of the Western defences, caused major disruption. Also, the consequential loss of airbases as NATO forces withdrew applied more and more pressure to the overstretched air force. With further disruption to desperately needed supplies, the RAF was being pushed to the limit. On top of that, fighting almost continuously for five days, the pilots were on their chinstraps. A solution had to be found. The Warsaw Pact was continuing their advance and they seemed to be unstoppable. The troops on the ground would welcome anything that would slow the Soviet juggernaut down, slow their relentless push west, enabling the allies to catch their breath and regroup.

Unlike the attack on the Falklands, three years earlier, where they had flown distances well in excess of 12,000 kilometres, the shorter European distances would place fewer demands on the aircraft’s airframe, and the number of refuelling top-ups would be significantly less. The navigation requirements were also very different.

“There he is,” pointed out the co-pilot, peering through the three, slanted, very small central cockpit windows, the large V-shaped tail of the Victor tanker visible.

“I see it,” responded the squadron leader and aircraft captain, Ted Merritt.

Probably the most dangerous part of the mission was about to start as the Vulcan bomber slowly gained on the large Victor tanker flying ahead. The pilot of the Victor tanker held the craft steady, although it rocked occasionally when buffeted by a crosswind, but he skilfully kept the large aircraft in place. Merritt steadied the Vulcan bomber, and applied a small amount of thrust, creeping forward until they were in the wake of the Victor. The wavering fuel hose and drogue, at times flickering like a demented snake, was now closer to the cockpit, the tail of the tanker less than seven metres away. The slightest of errors could see an air collision that would cripple both aircraft and put the lives of the crews, and the mission, in jeopardy.

“Steady, steady, steady,” the pilot whispered to himself as probe and drogue got closer and closer, slowly merging as one until the final connection. The red lights on the hose turned to green and the 9,000-gallon tanks of the Vulcan were slowly topped up. Once complete, the two aircraft separated, and it was the turn of the next aircraft in the flight.

“Tango-One, Romeo-One-One. Dropping back, you are clear to receive.”

“Roger, Romeo-One-One. Good flight. Out.”

That was it; the physical and communication connections between the two aircraft were broken, the tanker pilot needing to focus on the next bomber that required his services and already moving forward into position. One Vulcan aircraft, from the third flight back, was already returning to base. The connections linking the probe and drogue had shattered, allowing tons of fuel to wash over the cockpit of the bomber. With an extremely restricted view, and the pilot unable to clear the fuel from the window, along with a flameout in one of the engines, the bomber broke off immediately before the problem was exasperated further, and the aircraft and crew were lost. Four attempts later, the engine was reignited. Disappointed, but alive, they had headed back to RAF Waddington.

Merritt would hold a steady course at the same speed until all three aircraft had been topped-up. Once ready, the flight would climb back up to their cruising height and continue as planned. Within the hour, mid-air refuelling was complete, and the three aircraft climbed back to their optimum cruising altitude of 13,000 metres.

“Romeo-One-One, Juliet-One. Over.”

“This is Romeo-One-One. Go ahead. Over.”

“Ugly Duckling positive. I repeat, Ugly Duckling positive. Over.”

“Roger, Juliet-One. Out.”

“Is that it?” asked the co-pilot.

“Yes, it’s a go.”

The Platypus in the skies over West Germany had done its job, and HQ had just informed the Vulcan captain that the enemy had been sighted and were on the move. The mission was a go.

The navigator plotter, who was sitting behind the pilot and co-pilot in a separate area facing rearwards, spoke to Merritt on the internal comms.

“Stay on course zero, four, nine. Three hundred kilometres, twenty-one minutes.”

“Roger. Do we still have company?”

“Yes,” responded the navigator radar. “Both are with us.”

The three crewmen were sitting in a line, on rearward-facing, green, metal, bucket-like seats, the yellow steel-rung ladder that led to the cockpit behind them.

“What’s below us?” asked the pilot.

The nav-plotter adjusted the flexible lamp that shone down on his charts.

“Bilbao will be coming up on our left; then open sea. The Bay of Biscay will be below us in two minutes.”

“Roger.” Merritt turned to his co-pilot. “Adam, if you reach back, there’s a flask in my bag. Should still be warm.”

His co-pilot reached behind and in between the large ejector seats. It was difficult to move in the cramped confines of the cockpit, perched on the nose of the thirty two-metre long aircraft. He fumbled in the bag and extracted the flask. On opening the top, a spiral of steam drifted upwards, only their facemasks preventing the aroma from tantalising their nostrils. He poured the hot liquid into the screw-top container he had removed from the flask top and passed it to the pilot who removed his mask, sniffed the coffee before taking a drink, then handed it back. The smell of the coffee was a significant improvement on the other smells: of sweaty bodies, electronics and worn leather seats. The mug did the rounds of all the crew. The fifth member in the back of the cockpit, the airborne electronics officer, the AEO, finished it off. In the dark hole of the rear cabin, the AEO then placed a pan on an electric heater. The contents were tomato soup, the smell mixing with stale sweat and fumes; a small treat they would allow themselves. The Vulcan carried a crew of five: the captain, who was also the pilot of the aircraft; the co-pilot, assisting the pilot in the control of the aircraft, but also responsible for control of the fuel supply and communications with the outside world. Further back, there were three additional crew with equally important roles to play: the AEO had numerous responsibilities on-board. His key role was the operation of the Electronics Warfare suite. If required, the AEO could use Electronic Counter Measures such as initiating active jamming of the enemy’s radar, detecting enemy fighters, controlling the launch of anti-radar missiles, and the launching of defensive countermeasures such as ‘chaff’, hopefully confusing any inbound enemy missiles. The navigator plotter, sitting on the right side of the plane, was in charge of getting them onto the target and back home again. Although he would spend hours preparing the flight plan before he took off, he would be kept busy throughout the entire flight ready to plot any changes that were forced upon them due to weather or enemy activity. The last, but not the least, was the navigator radar. Control of the bombing fell to this officer. He would also assist the nav-plotter with his navigation of the aircraft.

This flight had three Vulcan B2s. Behind those were three more flights. Up until 1970, the Vulcan had carried the Blue Steel nuclear standoff missile, until the British Polaris submarines took over that strategic role, leaving the Vulcan to carry the WE.177B, a half-kiloton nuclear bomb, in a tactical nuclear strike role in support of NATO. The Squadron on this occasion though, was not carrying nuclear bombs, but each aircraft carried twenty-one 450-kilogram conventional free fall bombs.

Between the twelve aircraft assigned to this mission, they could drop 85,000 kilograms of conventional bombs on their intended target. Unfortunately, one of their number was on the way back to the UK.

Tactical nuclear strikes were now the provenance of 50 Missile Regiment, Royal Artillery, using the nuclear tipped Lance missile. The RAF Sepecat Jaguar and Tornado aircraft could also be used to deliver tactical nuclear bombs if called upon. After taking off from RAF Waddington, the Vulcans had flown southwest, knowing that Soviet spies would be monitoring all of Britain’s key airfields. The intention was to convince the Warsaw Pact that the aircraft were flying to RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus, a base that had housed two squadrons of these V-bombers up until 1975. Activity at the RAF base was already being accelerated, giving the impression that these aircraft were indeed heading back to their old base. Three other Vulcan bombers were already flying towards RAF Akrotiri. These three remaining aircraft were in no condition to go into battle. Therefore, they were being used for an equally important role: one of deception. There was even some concern that these three, most well over twenty years old and the least airworthy of the aircraft available, might not even make the flight. But it was a gamble that was considered worthwhile.

After an uninterrupted flight, Merritt’s trio of bombers headed further to the east, planning on circumnavigating the outskirts of Paris. The French Government had been reluctant to allow nuclear capable aircraft to fly through their airspace, concerned that, if picked up by the Soviets, they would respond with a pre-emptive nuclear strike of their own. But the British, along with other NATO countries, had convinced them that the subterfuge would work. A raft of distractions and misdirection had been set in motion. Only time would tell if they worked.

The AEO monitored his equipment closely. Should the equipment detect radar lighting the aircraft up, he could not only inform the pilot of that danger, but also let him know which quadrant the radars were in. The pilot could then simply veer away on to a new course. Their biggest threat would be the Soviet fighters with a look-down/shoot-down capability. One of the latest Soviet fighters, the Mig-29 Fulcrum, would be out hunting for NATO bombers of all types. Finding the Vulcans would be the icing on the cake for the enemy. At high level, each Vulcan’s electronic countermeasures supported each other, but down in the weeds, the Vulcan bomber and its crew would be isolated, on their own. One of the weaknesses of the Vulcan when low-flying had been their lack of ability to jam. With height, the footprint of their electronic jamming was wide enough to be effective, but at low level, it would be no greater than the radius of the aircraft. In fact, it would serve to highlight the bomber, not protect it. But lessons had been learnt from the attack on the runway at Port Stanley in the Falklands. In preparation for the bombing of the runway at Port Stanley, the Vulcan had been given a hotchpotch of add-ons to improve its defence. The ALQ-101 electronic countermeasures pod was one of them, taken from a Buccaneer aircraft. Now, they had a chance. When the time came, their ability to jam the enemy radar, such as the Soviet surface-to-air missiles like the SA-2 and SA-3, drop chaff and manoeuvre out of trouble ensured the crew had a good chance of coming out of this alive. They even stood a chance against the Shilka, the dreaded ZSU 23/4.