Pandemic pr-2

by James Barrington

  But it wasn’t the food that was concerning him. Ever since the man calling himself McCready had begun that briefing in the safe house in Arlington, Elias had been wondering what the hell he was doing getting involved in this thing. Not, he reasoned, that he had been given much of a choice. His superior officer had told him to attend. Any dissent would reflect badly on Elias professionally. And, in any case, his role had seemed simple enough.

  All operational matters, McCready had told them, were the sole responsibility of Krywald and Stein, with Krywald as the senior officer. Elias was simply along for the ride, and to carry out a solo dive – possibly a deep solo dive – once they reached their destination.

  That, too, had been a surprise. All Elias knew about Crete was that it was a popular holiday destination in the eastern Mediterranean. As far as he was aware, the Company had no assets on, or interest in, the island, and McCready had been carefully non-specific about the purpose of the dive. Krywald, he had said, would brief Elias when the time came. For the moment, Elias didn’t need to know more.

  He may not have needed to know, but Elias was certainly curious. He was also aware that the bulk of the briefing in Arlington had been completed well before his own arrival – he had been told almost nothing about the true purpose of the operation. All he did know was that some thirty years earlier an aircraft had crashed somewhere near Crete, and there were indications it had been found recently by a local diver. He presumed that the wreck was the focus of the dive he was going to have to undertake, but that was about all.

  He was also puzzled by the haste involved. Less than two hours after the briefing had concluded, the three of them were sitting in the 747 out of Baltimore on a direct flight to London Heathrow – the first available aircraft across the Atlantic – and with onward connections to Crete. He’d presumed he would be given time to go back to his apartment to collect some clothes before departure, but that hadn’t been allowed. A carry-on bag filled with clothes, pyjamas and washing kit had been provided, together with five hundred euros in cash and a new credit card issued under his real name.

  If the sole purpose of the operation was to look for a thirty-year-old crashed aircraft, it all seemed unnaturally hasty. There had to be more – a lot more – to this business.

  Sea Harrier ‘Tiger Two’ and HMS Invincible, Ionian Sea

  As soon as the Harrier had cleared the airfield boundary, Richter pulled back on the control column and continued his climb to thirty-five thousand feet. He also, as a precaution, switched on his Guardian radar warning receiver, but he doubted if the Italians were likely to send anything up after him.

  Richter didn’t know exactly where the Invincible was, but he knew the ship had to be somewhere between the heel of Italy and the Peloponnisos at the southern tip of Greece, so he set an initial course of one six zero magnetic. As he reached top of climb, and passed abeam Lecce, he selected Homer’s discrete frequency and called the ship.

  ‘Homer, this is Tiger Two.’ For a few seconds there was no reply, and Richter repeated the call. ‘Homer, Homer, this is Tiger Two.’

  With no planned flying, the Operations Room was almost deserted. Lieutenant John Moore, one of the two Air Traffic Control officers on board, was sitting in his usual seat, but with his feet up on the swivel chair next to him and reading a book. His headset was draped over the top of the console, and the Homer and Guard frequencies were being relayed through a speaker. The delay in replying was caused simply by the time it took Moore to put down his book and don his headset.

  ‘Tiger Two, this is Homer. Good afternoon, Spook.’

  ‘Good to hear your voice, John. OK, Tiger Two is at Flight Level three five zero, heading one six zero magnetic and approximately twenty-five miles south-east of Lecce in Italy. Request ship’s position and pigeons. Note that my NAVHARS is non-functional and I’m using only the E2B magnetic compass.’

  ‘Roger, Tiger Two,’ Moore replied, looking up at the RDF display, which shows the direction from which a radio transmission has come. ‘Steer one five five magnetic for Mother. Understand your NAVHARS is unserviceable?’

  ‘Negative,’ Richter responded. ‘It’s working, but I had to leave Italy in a bit of a hurry and I didn’t have time to set it up.’

  The Sea Harrier’s inertial navigation system – the NAVHARS – requires the pilot to input both an accurate geographical start position and the aircraft’s heading to enable it to function correctly. Without accurate start data, it’s virtually useless. Richter hadn’t had time to do anything with the system when he left Brindisi – he’d had other things on his mind.

  ‘Roger,’ Moore replied. ‘Ship’s position is forty miles due west of Cape Matapan, which gives you, ah, wait one –’ Moore fumbled with an en-route chart and roughly measured distances using his chinagraph pencil ‘– about a three-hundred-nautical-mile transit from Lecce. Say your endurance.’

  ‘I was tanks full at Brindisi,’ Richter replied, ‘so well over one hour. I should reach you in about thirty minutes.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Moore released the transmit key and pressed the intercom button to Flyco.

  On the port side of the bridge, with a clear and unobstructed view of the whole of the Flight Deck, is Flyco, the Flying Control Position. Manned by Lieutenant Commander (Flying), the second-in-command of the Air Department, or his deputy, the Air Staff Officer, Flyco controls all take-offs and landings, and all flying operations within the visual circuit of the ship.

  Roger Black, Lieutenant Commander (Flying), known as ‘Little F’, was sitting in his usual seat, a month-old magazine in front of him, dividing his attention between that and the Flight Deck below him, where a single Merlin helicopter was lashed down on two spot, carrying out an engine run. As the intercom buzzed he pressed a key. ‘Flyco.’

  ‘Flyco, Homer. I’ve just had a call from Tiger Two. He’s on recovery now, estimating about a half-hour transit from Brindisi.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll get the deck cleared.’ Black selected the deck broadcast and leaned close to the microphone. ‘Flight Deck, Flyco. We have one Harrier on recovery. Estimate for landing is thirty minutes. Ensure two spot is clear by then.’

  On the steel deck below, the Flight Deck Officer raised an arm in acknowledgement.

  Arlington, Virginia

  Once the three-man team was on its way to Crete to try to recover whatever the meddling diver had found, and with firm instructions to bury whatever evidence there was of the thirty-year-old plane wreck, John Nicholson had completed the first phase of the recovery operation.

  McCready – who knew nothing more than the brief outline provided by Nicholson – had given Krywald the most specific instructions: the plane was to be totally destroyed and the diver silenced one way or another. The only thing Nicholson expected the team to recover from the wreck was the steel case and its contents, and that was to be returned to Langley as quickly as possible.

  But his work was far from finished. The men he had dispatched were en route but, without the proper equipment and support on Crete, their mission was doomed to failure from the start. Nicholson ordered a pot of coffee from the kitchen, pulled out a dark blue file from his briefcase, opened it and began making notes. Then he reached for the phone – the number of which was not listed in any directory, anywhere, and that was checked at least once every two days to ensure there were no taps on it – and began making calls.

  Just over an hour later he drank the last of the coffee and leaned back. Through a series of cut-outs, Agency sleepers and even some legitimate channels, he had arranged everything he thought the team would need: the hire of a boat, the provision of a quantity of plastic explosive and under-water detonators, a complete set of diving equipment including extra compressed-air tanks, a hire car, hotel accommodation, press credentials – ostensibly the three men were travel reporters – and personal weapons.

  His final task was handling Krywald and Stein once they had completed their part of the mission: McCready had already issued
instructions to Krywald about Elias.

  Nicholson was fighting a rearguard action, protecting the Company, but also his career and everything he had worked for over the last forty or so years. All other considerations, in his opinion, were secondary, and all the assets he employed were ultimately expendable. He had made plans to ensure the permanent silence of the only three surviving former CIA officers who had been deeply involved in Operation CAIP thirty years earlier, and McCready’s usefulness was already over.

  What he couldn’t and wouldn’t permit was any hint of his activities leaking out. That meant no loose talk, and that in turn meant that all three of the men even then approaching Crete at around five hundred miles an hour were expendable too.

  And even before he’d started arranging the overt and covert support they would need on Crete, he’d made one other, very short, phone call.

  Sea Harrier ‘Tiger Two’ and HMS Invincible, Ionian Sea

  Twenty minutes after Richter’s initial call, and with his radar selected to a one hundred mile radius, John Moore noticed a contact that could be the returning Sea Harrier, close to the edge of the screen and heading directly towards the ship.

  ‘Tiger Two, Homer. Transmit for bearing,’ Moore requested.

  ‘Homer, this is Tiger Two, transmitting for bearing.’

  With no flying operations under way, the Ops Room had retained skeleton manning only, but the Air Picture Compiler (APC) on watch had already allocated the label ‘I2’ – Interceptor Two – to this return, based on secondary surveillance radar interrogation, and the RDF bearing confirmed that identification.

  Moore depressed the transmit switch again. ‘Tiger Two is identified. Pigeons one six zero at ninety miles. Flying course will probably be due west, and we have no circuit traffic at present.’

  At six hundred and thirty knots, it doesn’t take long to cover ninety miles. When the return on his radar set reached twenty-five miles, John Moore made a slight adjustment to Richter’s heading and instructed him to descend to two thousand feet, and advise when visual with the ship.

  Moore leaned forward and selected an intercom line. ‘Flyco, Homer.’

  ‘Flyco.’

  ‘Tiger Two is on recovery just inside twenty-five miles.’

  ‘Thank you, Homer.’

  Close liaison between Flyco and the Officer of the Watch on the bridge is essential, for both Sea Harriers and helicopters require very specific wind speed and direction for take-off and landing, and the ship has to manoeuvre quickly and accurately to achieve this.

  As soon as he’d deselected the intercom to Homer, Roger Black bent forward over his flying course calculator, an analogue device designed to predict the course and speed the ship would need to achieve in order to generate the correct wind over the deck. He checked his calculations twice, then called through to the bridge. ‘Bridge, Flyco. I’ve got one Sea Harrier to recover in around five minutes. Request flying course of two seven five, speed eighteen.’

  ‘Flyco, Bridge. We’re well ahead of you. Turning to starboard.’

  Black grinned. Already he could feel the faint vibration that told him the ship was increasing speed, and the bearing on the compass repeater was moving steadily clockwise. Malcolm Mortensen, the young lieutenant Officer of the Watch, was highly efficient and well attuned to the requirements of the Air Department. Black enjoyed working with him.

  ‘Flight Deck, Flyco. Stand by to recover one Sea Harrier, number two spot.’ Roger Black’s voice boomed out over the tannoy system, and two seconds later he received an acknowledgement from the FDO. Black glanced down at the deck to ensure it was clear and ready, nodded to Commander (Air) who’d just appeared beside him, and began looking out to the east for the returning aircraft.

  In the Operations Room the RDF tube sprang to life again.

  ‘Homer, Tiger Two is visual and level at two thousand.’

  ‘Roger, Tiger Two,’ John Moore replied. ‘When ready, descend to six hundred feet and contact Flyco.’

  ‘Roger, Homer.’

  In the descending Sea Harrier, Richter changed his UHF box to Flyco frequency. Invincible was now clearly visible, nine miles ahead and slightly to port, the ship’s wake a slowly straightening white curve against the aquamarine of the sea.

  ‘Flyco, this is Tiger Two. Visual with Mother, request flying course.’

  ‘Tiger Two, Flyco, roger. Steady on flying course of two seven five, speed eighteen. Wind straight down the deck at twenty-three knots, gusting twenty-eight.’

  In Tiger Two, Richter held two thousand feet and aimed straight for the ship, flying directly overhead. As soon as he’d passed, he throttled back slightly and began his descent, simultaneously pulling his Harrier into a hard port turn. He levelled at six hundred feet above the surface of the sea and continued the turn until he was flying parallel with the ship’s course and just off to the port side of the Invincible’s track.

  Six hundred feet, four hundred knots, past the bow. Then throttle back to idle, airbrake out and bank left, hard, into a 4g turn. The speed bled down to three hundred knots, and he heard and felt the growl as the Pegasus hit idle. Then briefly downwind, looking left to check the Flight Deck before pulling the Harrier round into its final approach.

  Richter wound on the power again and pulled back on the silver-coloured lever that controlled the nozzle angle, preparing the Harrier for transition to vertical flight. Astern and to port of the ship, steady on west and down to one hundred and fifty feet, he watched his airspeed carefully.

  The most critical period during a carrier landing is when the Harrier’s weight is transferred from the lift generated by the wings to the delicate balancing act required to support the aircraft solely on the twenty-one thousand six hundred pounds’ thrust of the Rolls-Royce Pegasus engine. And the most dangerous phase of this procedure comes when decelerating from about one hundred and twenty knots down to around forty. The pilot must progressively increase engine power as lift from the wings is reduced, but ensure that the nose points into wind and that the angle of attack is within limits. Get this wrong and it bites: the aircraft will flip onto its back and hit the sea in a little under one second. Neither the pilot nor the aircraft will survive.

  Richter checked the Flight Deck. As his Harrier approached the stern of the Invincible, slightly to port of the ship and still travelling at over one hundred knots, he pushed the nozzles into the braking stop position – fully forward – and then began using the speed trim on top of the throttle to control his approach. This allowed him to adjust the nozzle angle within ten degrees of the vertical position, and enabled him to position the aircraft with remarkable accuracy.

  Richter made his final landing checks, lowering the undercarriage and checking the engine temperature to ensure that he had sufficient thrust margin to transition the Harrier into a full hover. He was already ‘wet-committed’ – to stop the Pegasus overheating, a powerful pump forces water into the engine during a vertical landing. Once started, the pump cannot be switched off, and it runs for only ninety seconds, so Richter had to be on deck in under a minute and a half.

  Toggling the speed trim backwards, Richter slowed the Harrier until he’d exactly matched the ship’s forward speed. He looked over at the Flight Deck, watching for the signals from the FDO, eased the control column over to the right, then almost immediately moved it left to stop the Harrier drifting too far.

  Richter established his aircraft in the hover, checked the deck markers to ensure he was positioned correctly over two spot, then reduced thrust to start the Harrier in descent. Immediately the aircraft began losing height, Richter increased thrust again. This was essential to avoid the Pegasus engine pop-surging as it ingested its own hot exhaust gases, that were bounced back from the steel deck below.

  The Harrier landed, as usual, fairly hard, bouncing a few inches upwards before settling back on the Flight Deck. Richter hauled the power back to zero, rotated the nozzles to the fully aft position, and wound a little power on again to move
the aircraft away towards the parking area. This would avoid the heat from the deck melting or exploding the tyres on the Harrier.

  The yellow-jacketed ground marshaller directed Richter forward and to starboard into a parking space, and then gave a balled fist gesture to indicate brakes on. Richter waited, engine running, until the ground crew had finished chaining his aircraft to the deck, then methodically switched off all the Harrier’s electrical systems and shut down the engine.

  A detachable red ladder had already been secured to the side of the Harrier when Richter slid the canopy open, replaced the ejection seat and MDC – Miniature Detonating Cord – pins, and climbed out.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday

  HMS Invincible, Ionian Sea

  In his cabin Richter peeled off his flying overalls and underwear, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed straight for the Two Deck showers. He ran the water hot and long, washing the blood off his hands and forearms. Fortunately most of it had dried before he’d pulled on his flying overalls at the airfield, and what stains there were on the material he’d easily brushed off.

  Back in his cabin he dressed in 5J rig – black trousers, white shirt and black pullover – then looked at the plastic bag containing the clothes he’d worn at Matera. Richter was acutely aware that he had attempted to kill Lomas – and he hoped he had succeeded – in full view of a number of hostile witnesses. He had also, without question, left hairs, fibres and who knew what other trace evidence behind at the villa, in the Alfa Romeo and the Agusta helicopter that he had ‘borrowed’, and in the squadron briefing-room at Brindisi, not to mention the blood-stained Kevlar jacket he’d discarded. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about either the witnesses or this evidence.

  But he could at least get rid of the clothes and the knife. What he needed was some kind of a weight that would take that specific evidence straight to the bottom of the Ionian Sea. There was nothing in his cabin that would help, so he locked the door and walked down to Five Deck, opened the bulkhead door and entered the hangar.