The Blue Effect (Cold War) (20 page)

Squadron Leader Merritt maintained his course as five more 450kg bombs left the bomb bay.

Three seconds.

He heard the shriek himself before the AEO warned him. “Shilka, twenty degrees port.”

“Roger.” He glanced left, knowing he would see nothing unless it was the bright flare of a missile or the flare of tracer rounds. He kept the aircraft’s flight line steady, the dropping of their bomb load the priority.

Four seconds.

Another five bombs had been released.

The aircraft continued on its level course, the pilot gripping the control stick tightly. He had no option if they were to drop their deadly load effectively, and lay waste to the unsuspecting Soviet troops below.

“Chaff fired,” informed the AEO.

Five seconds.

The last of the bombs tumbled from the aircraft. Squadron Leader Merritt could now manoeuvre, taking them away from the ever-increasing number of threats from the many fire-control radars that were lighting up below.

It took twenty seconds for the bombs to touch down, hitting the ground at quarter-second intervals. But when they did, they caused widespread destruction. Flanked by two other Vulcan bombers, Romeo-One-Two and Romeo-One-Three, sixty-three 450kg bombs blanketed the area beneath them. Through the sidewall of the cockpit and above the noise of the engines, they could hear the staccato crump as the bombs detonated. Behind them, eight more bombers would be dropping their bomb loads on the unsuspecting armour and infantry targets below.

Merritt pulled on the controls, pushing the engine throttles forward, powering the engines, taking the aircraft into a full power climb, banking round to the right, inwardly wincing, waiting for a response from someone down below.

“Hotel-Zero. Romeo-One-One. Red light, red light.”

The code word for the strike had now been sent. Now it was time to head for home, picking up a refuelling Victor on the way back, and then a plate of bacon and eggs.

0609, 10 JULY 1984. 47TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION, REMNANTS OF 7TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION, 3RD SHOCK ARMY. STRETCHED FROM MOLLBERGEN TO RINTELN, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLUE EFFECT -12 HOURS

The forty-ton T-80 flipped over, the blast from the 450kg bomb making light work of brushing the behemoth aside. Although shaken badly, with the driver suffering a broken leg, the crew actually survived, their only hope a rescue by their comrades at some point in the future. A second T-80 was torn asunder, the turret ripped from the turret ring, the crew’s bodies also rent apart.

Kovrov could only listen over the radio, the screams of his tankers calling for help, help he was unable to provide. Nearly 30,000 kilograms of bombs had carpeted Kovrov’s battalion and the two behind it, destroying yet even more of his formation.

“All One-Zero call signs. Status? Over.”

He was met with just the crackle of his radio along with a background of unsquelched noise.

“Zero-Alpha, Zero-Alpha. One-Zero. Over.”

“Zero-Alpha…report…under…heavy…air…attack.”

“One-Zero call signs have not responded. Orders. Over.”

“Cx…yx…Alpha….”

Contact with his regiment had been lost. Unknown to Kovrov, a second flight of Vulcans had dropped their bombs right on top of the 3rd Battalion, destroying eleven armoured vehicles, wiping out Barbolin’s T-80K. 197th GTR was rapidly being depleted, and it was questionable as to whether there would be enough time for it to ever recover and reform to become an effective fighting unit again. The forward regiment was then given a reprieve as the last three Vulcans deposited their deadly cargo on the second tank regiment. The regiment that was closing in on the stalled Soviet forward unit, pushed on by its leaders, was not to escape the onslaught. The 450kg bombs landed amongst the compacted force. More T-80s met the same fate as those up front, a tank and Infantry Company all but destroyed. As the closeness of the funnelled tanks and BMPs prevented individual vehicles from racing away from the area of destruction, a flight of German Tornadoes and British Jaguars picked off tank after tank. Allied fighter aircraft overhead had a run-in with the Soviet air force racing to the defence of their stricken comrades below. It was a short-lived fight, the British fighters having to withdraw after losing three of their aircraft. But the ground-attack aircraft, joined by six Harriers, had caused havoc amongst the targets they had been given before they too, losing only two planes, had withdrawn from the fight, leaving the two major elements of 47th Guards Tank Division to lick their wounds.

The Vulcans, taking advantage of the distraction created, left the area. Only one aircraft was lost, that due to mechanical failure, the crew parachuting to safety behind their own lines. A second was to be lost over the English Channel, taking a Victor tanker with it after a collision caused by a lack of concentration for a few seconds by one of the weary pilots.

Kovrov pushed open the hatch. A sea of destruction as far as his eye could see surrounded him. Burning hulks lay strewn across what was once arable farmland. The food being grown to feed the German population was now burnt, tainted and blackened. The silence was overpowering after the constant hammer of anti-tank missiles, artillery shells, and now the bombers had finished their run. There was little sound, other than the occasional crackling of small-calibre rounds set off by the white-hot heat as the T-80s burned. His gunner joined him in the turret, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. One minute, he was part of an effective powerful battalion, an element of a much larger and more powerful force; then he was in the centre of a scrapyard, the might of the Soviet army immobile, many of the crew dead or dying.

“What do we do, sir?”

“We need to assess the damage, see if we can get back on the road,” Kovrov said, tapping the armour of the tank. “We’ll be needed much sooner than we think.” His thoughts, dark and clouded earlier, brightened, despite the destruction that surrounded him. Blame could not be pinned on him for this. Perhaps he would get away from being a scapegoat after all.

Six kilometres away, the remnants of the TA battalion, keeping ahead of the now battered juggernaut, had a clear run to the Weser. They knew they had done a good job, but would be pleased to get to the relative safety across the fast-flowing waters. They were to find out later the consequence of their actions: the destruction of a major Soviet formation.

C
hapter 23

What do you do if a Nuclear War occurs?

RED WARNING – There is an imminent danger of attack. This will be of a siren, consisting of a rising and falling note. If you are outside or driving a car, then park off the road as soon as possible. But do not park where you may obstruct emergency vehicles. Take cover in a building close by, or find a depression in the ground, or a ditch. If you are at home, turn off the gas, turn off any fuel oil and disconnect any electric heaters. Shut the windows and go to your fall-out room.

GREY WARNING – Fall-out expected within an hour. This will be a siren with an interrupted pitch, a continuous sound. If there is no siren nearby, you may hear the sound of church bells. If you are at home, complete any last-minute preparations, such as turning off the gas, fuel oil, water supply at the stopcock, and tie up the ballcock in the WC cistern. If outdoors, get home if possible. If not, seek safer surroundings before the fall-out comes down.

BLACK WARNING – Imminent danger of fall-out. Maroon flare, gong or whistle sounding a morse code ‘D’. Dash…Dot…Dot. If you are at home, you must go immediately to your fall-out shelter. If you are outdoors and away from your home, you must immediately seek the best cover available. If there is no warning, the first thing you will experience is a blinding flash of light and heat lasting up to twenty seconds. This will be followed by the blast wave. Do not look at the flash and fling yourself down immediately and take cover.

Protect your Family – Handbook 3

0
600, 10 JULY 1984. PRIME MINISTER, UNITED KINGDOM.

THE BLUE EFFECT -12 HOURS

The lead vehicle turned onto the main road, the Prime Minister’s Jaguar following suit. Behind her, a second vehicle with the rest of her close protection team followed. The convoy drove at speed. The country was at war, and there had already been an attempted assassination on the Home Secretary and a senior army general. Fortunately, both attempts had failed, but the Spetsnaz sleeper teams had come very close. There was a real concern for the security of Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Defence. Military Intelligence Department 5, commonly known as MI5, had warned that they couldn’t guarantee that all sleeper teams within the country had been accounted for. They were certain that some groups had been landed, probably covertly by Soviet submarine, on the mainland, and were waiting for the appropriate opportunity to strike again. Both MI5 and the Ministry of Defence had insisted the PM had additional security, but she had resisted, advocating that too much security would only draw attention to her location. With very little choice, they had climbed down, but her close protection team had been increased to six officers.

She spoke to the Defence Secretary, sitting on her right in the rear of the Jaguar. “Lawrence, you’re not happy with the final decision.”

He shrugged his shoulders, defeated. “Any use of nuclear weapons, whether strategic or tactical can only lead to an all-out nuclear escalation.”

“Not necessarily so,” responded the PM, leaning forward, turning her head towards him. “We will issue them with notice of our intention and the reasons why we’ve had to resort to such measures.”

“But only minutes prior to the strike, Prime Minister,” he responded, frustration clear in his voice.

She leant her head back against the cream leather headrest. “What do you suggest we do? Resort to chemical weapons? Thousands of German civilians already lie dead in the streets or are clogging up civilian and military hospitals, victims of blister gas and nerve agents. If we respond in kind, it will just add to the misery and is unlikely to prevent the flood of troops swamping our front line.”

“It is a big risk for just a ruse, Prime Minister.”

“Of course it’s a risk,” she responded, leaning forward again and fixing him with a stare. “And, yes, it’s a ruse. The Americans are hanging on by the skin of their teeth, and in the north it’s about as fragile as it can get. How long do you think the Dutch army is going to hold up, or the Belgians for that matter?”

“But the French—”

“Lawrence, you’ve seen the latest estimates of the enemy’s strength. At least three Soviet Military Districts have been mobilised and are on their way. How many troops is that? I’m led to believe tens of thousands.”

“Over half a million, Prime Minister.”

“Be it so. And what about the rest? Yes, it’s a ruse. Hit them with six tactical nuclear strikes followed up with a counter-attack and we can do them some real damage.”

“And casualties?”

“Yes, Lawrence, casualties. As many as if we started to use chemical weapons? I doubt it. Another thing. And please don’t try and tell me otherwise, I’m not naive. Yes, we train for fighting in a chemical and nuclear environment, but have we done enough? It is the right thing to do.”

“And the Soviet response?”

“That’s up to them. But if we don’t so something drastic then a strategic nuclear exchange may be the only option left open to us. Unless you want to join the Communist Party…”

0700, 10 JULY 1984. BALLISTIC MISSILE EARLY WARNING SYSTEM STATION, FLYINGDALES, UNITED KINGDOM.

THE BLUE EFFECT -11 HOURS

The Specialist-four operator called to the duty officer, Major Dixon, and pointed at the circular screen in the centre of his consul. The information was being passed down from the three radomes above.

“What have you got, Specialist?”

“We have an incoming, sir. Signal seems a bit weird, but there is definitely something there.”

“Trajectory?”

“Picking it up from 2.5 and 5 degrees, sir.”

“Pass the phone. We’d better make the call.”

“Sir.” The operator reached down to the phone console, took the black telephone suspended low down on the left-hand table leg of the situation display and passed it to the officer.

Major Dixon pressed the bottom right button marked ‘MOD’ and informed RAF Strike Command at RAF High Wycombe. Once the message had been passed, he pressed the top right button and contacted the United Kingdom Warning and Monitoring Organisation (UKWMO) at Preston.

0710, 10 JULY 1984. UNITED KINGDOM WARNING AND MONITORING ORGANISATION (UKWMO), COWLEY, OXFORDSHIRE.

THE BLUE EFFECT -11 HOURS

The lamp illuminated, and the incoming message was slowly perforated onto a reel of white paper tape. The operator got up from her chair and walked over to the tape-perforator, hovering while she waited for it to complete its task. Once the clacking of the machine had stopped, the message complete, she tore the tape from the punch and checked the header. It was routine. She transferred the paper tape. The strip of message tape used a 5-bit baudot code to punch a five-hole code for each character in a straight line across the width of paper strip. The tape was then inserted into the reader, and the teleprinter started to tap out the message onto a much wider roll of paper. Once complete, she tore the sheet from the machine and walked over to the desk of the duty officer who read it and then picked up the phone.

0720, 10 JULY 1984. ROYAL OBSERVER CORPS, ELEVEN-POST, HORSHAM, UNITED KINGDOM.

THE BLUE EFFECT -11 HOURS

Charlie Watts clattered down the steel rung ladder in a vertical shaft taking him to an underground chamber seven metres below ground level. Showing above was a raised mound covered in turf, with only the green painted vents, sensors and entrance showing. He stepped off the last rung into the chamber below, and passed the WC compartment with its chemical toilet. The sound from above was excluded, replaced by the steady hum of the fans powered by a 12-volt battery, circulating the air through two grilled ventilators. The chamber was far from big, a mere five by two metres and, being just over two metres in height, there was very little headroom. Watts called to his fellow Royal Observer Corps volunteer.

“Well, Bill, is this it or another bloody exercise?”

“You know as much as I do, but it doesn’t matter. We have to take them all seriously in case this is the big one.”

“If it is, Bill, it will be bigger than we would like, that’s for sure. Have you heard from Group HQ yet?”

“Nah, only the standby warning. The wife’s made a flask of tea by the way. Help yourself.”

“Yeah, but what about the butterfly cakes?”

“Hey, she spoils me, not you. But there are some ginger biscuits in the tub. Freshly baked.”

William Jackson sat at a small metal table; more of a metal shelf bolted to the wall with two legs supporting it, and pushed the Tupperware container of biscuits towards his fellow observer. They were one of over 700 observer teams called out on the basis that there was the potential for a nuclear attack on the United Kingdom. Although a uniformed force that came under the command of the Royal Air Force, they reported operationally to the United Kingdom Warning and Monitoring Organisation.

“Have you done a kit check?”

“Somebody had to do it while you took your time getting here. You need to countersign though.”

Charlie picked up the list of kit they had to ensure was on hand, and was needed to fulfil their role as observers. The HANDEL receiver was next to Bill, the handle, used for the hand-operated siren, the pyrotechnic-maroon, a means through which they could warn the local population of an imminent attack. The maroon would explode in the air:
bang, bang-bang
– the Morse code letter ‘D’. They both turned towards the carrier-receiver as it issued the start of a six-second alert signal. Even in the poorly lit chamber, anyone looking would have seen the two men’s faces pale.

“Oh God, no,” uttered Charlie.

Once the initial alarm was finished, the carrier-receiver transmitted the alarm signal for a further six seconds.

Neither man moved as the following words were emitted from the speaker.
“Attack warning red, attack warning red, attack warning red.”

They both stared at the speaker as a high-pitched, uninterrupted tone sounded for four seconds, followed by a lower-pitched tone lasting a full minute, interrupted every four seconds. The entire sequence was repeated, and only then did the two men move, their thoughts disturbed by the arrival of observer three.

“Sorry I’m late,” the third member of the team shouted down the shaft. They heard the ringing bell of a Green Goddess as it roared past on the road above.

“You’ve just made in time. Did you hear the alert as you came down the ladder?” Bill asked the new arrival.

Alfie Rose dropped to the concrete floor from the last two rungs of the ladder. “Yes, I did. Police and Civil Defence teams are running about like headless chickens up there.”

“If you’d left it any later,” responded Bill, the leader and observer one, rather sarcastically. “You’d be a headless chicken yourself, but fried. Right, Charlie, you man the loudspeaker telephone.”

As Charlie made his way to the telephone, a message was transmitted from the post display plotter.
“Horsham, ten, eleven, twelve posts. Standby for message. Over.”

Horsham Ten-Post responded. Then it was Charlie’s turn. “Horsham-Eleven Post. Over.”

“Attack warning red. Message ends. Over.”

“Horsham-Twelve, thank you. Out.”

In the meantime, Alfie, observer three, switched on the fixed survey meter (FSM) and confirmed that the check sequence read zero-zero.

“Confirmed zero-zero, Charlie.”

“Horsham Eleven-Post. Over.” Observer two transmitted to the post display plotter.

“Horsham Eleven-Post. Over.”

“FSM on. Over.”

“FSM on. Out.”

The team of three men would now commence and maintain a continuous watch on the bomb power indicator.

Bill sat on one of the bunk beds up against the wall at the opposite end to the entrance shaft. “Buggers have done it,” he moaned.

“We’ll know soon enough,” added Alfie.

“Come on, you two, it’s not definite,” suggested Charlie.

“Horsham Eleven-Post. This was an exercise. Stand down. Over.”

“Horsham Eleven-Post. Thank you. Over.”

“Horsham Eleven-Post. Out.”

“Bastards,” growled Alfie. “Playing games at a time like this.”

Bill patted both his fellow observers on their shoulders. “Hey, let’s be thankful. It wasn’t for real this time round.”

“Yes. This time round…” added Charlie.