by Chris Ryan
Three ks from base, as we were cruising gently, Rick suddenly pointed to his left. There, at the end of a glade with a shallow ditch running out along its base, was a derelict air-raid shelter or bunker a dome of concrete protruding from a bank of higher ground, with a small rectangular opening in the side that faced us.
I felt my heartbeat speed up. At first glance this looked an incredibly promising candidate for the burial of Orange. The perimeter wall of the training area was only a few yards behind it, the nearest dish aerials a short distance farther off. We'd never get closer than this. I could scarcely believe we'd found one site already.
"Black to Grey," I called over the radio.
"Stopping to have a pee. Hang off and watch my back."
"Grey. Roger," came Whinger' svoice.
In the warm afternoon sun Rick and I strolled towards the bunker while Mal stayed at the wheel. Small birds were singing and the place had a peaceful atmosphere. All the same, I was nagged by a feeling that somebody was watching us.
"We won't go any closer," I said quietly to Rick.
"Turn back."
From fifty yards short of the structure, I could see planks and spars of wood piled up inside the opening. The shelter, whatever it was, appeared to be full of rubbish. All the better for us.
We slowly wheeled round and walked towards the car again.
Facing that way, I realised that there was one watch tower in sight, but it was a long way off, and, as far as we could tell, unmanned. To complete the casual picture, I went over and had a piss against a gorse bush, after which we got back into the car.
"Mobile again," I told Whinger.
"Nothing moving your way?"
"All clear."
We returned to base without incident. Had I imagined the unseen eyes? Rick said he had felt nothing and he normally picked up danger signals before anyone else. Once again I started wavering. My first reaction, as we drove away from the shelter, had been. Right, let's go for it. Let's get the damned CND straight in there and not bugger about taking it into the city centre. Then the feeling of unease returned, making me realise how hasty I was being. Obviously we needed to recce the site properly before we went crashing into it. Even though the building looked as though it had been abandoned for years, it could still be the scene of some training activity. Better keep calm, take time to settle in and get the feel of things.
"Carry on as planned," I told Whinger.
"We'll aim to roll into town after dark."
We had a meal Dusty produced a great corned-beef hash with plenty of onions and fried eggs on top and waited till it was fully dark. Then we backed both Volgas as close as we could to our block's rear entrance. I could tell that everyone was on edge, from the way they were talking in short bursts. We put dickers out to watch either end of the building, and when they confirmed that the coast was clear, we began carrying the kit out.
From measurements taken earlier, we knew that one Lacon box would effectively fill the boot of each car, and that the rear doors were too narrow to take one at all. We'd therefore opened the boxes up and brought out the CNDs in their original packing. The main components, in their black steel cases, were forty inches by thirty by twelve, and the SCR, an incredibly heavy lump, was a twenty-inch cube. The cases had built-in handles at the corners for a four-man carry.
Before we left the building, Toad opened up the small compartment in the base of each SCR and brought out its Rat. I hooked one into my belt and gave the other to Pavarotti. Now those two had to stay within a hundred feet of their devices, otherwise the pagers would go off automatically and start transmitting their alarm signal.
I was shitting bricks as we came down the steps with the first of them. Having a thing like that in your hands is no joke. No matter how often Toad had assured us that an accidental impact couldn't set the bomb off, I kept wondering what would happen if one of us lost his footing.
Gingerly we lowered the first case into one boot. That just left room for the SCR box alongside. The second big case had to go on the back seat, and the combined weight put the Volga down on its springs. With two guys up front, the rear mudguards were almost on the tyres.
Sasha had told the guardroom we'd be going out, so we had no problem there. We flashed some big smiles along with our passes, and the sentry raised the baffler, waving us through.
Then, on the main road, it was just a question of turning left and heading down the big highway into town.
The traffic was incredibly light. I thought of Sunday night on the M4, with a million cars all trying to pour back into London at the same time. Here, I realised, most of the poor bastards who lived in the city centre had nowhere to go at weekends.
Whinger drove the lead car, the black one, with me beside him, map in hand. Rick kept the grey Volga four or five hundred yards behind, so that the two vehicles didn't seem to be associated. With him was Pavarotti, and, squeezed into the back seat beside half of Orange, Toad. There was really no need for him to come with us, but at the back of my mind lurked the worry that while we were moving the devices around, something might happen to them. I could hardly imagine what the problem might be, but if one of them started ticking or heating up we might suddenly need Toad to deal with it.
The two cars were in radio contact, in case anyone saw trouble looming. The plan was for Rick to close up in the final stages of the trip, so that he could follow us and not have to worry about navigation. We also had pistols in underarm holsters, concealed beneath our jackets.
When we joined the thin stream of traffic, I realised what good cars the Volgas were to have. Never mind that they had zero acceleration and roared and wallowed like ten-ton trucks:
they were anonymous, and scruffy enough not to arouse anyone's interest. As we kept to the right-hand lane at about sixty ks, any number of identical vehicles surged past on the outside.
That first run-in could hardly have been easier. The only threat was from the potholes which, with the huge load we had on board, could have done serious damage. Whinger often had to swerve to avoid a chasm ahead.
To help with the map-reading in the city centre, I'd made a list of the streets we needed to take. In fact, for most of the way all we had to do was follow the same highway right through, almost until we reached the Moscow River.
Once over the river it was plain sailing along the south bank.
Ahead of us and to the right, the red stars on the towers of the Kremlin glowed in the sky familiar landmarks already, giving me the comfortable feeling that I was back on ground I knew. In a few seconds we passed under the bridge we'd walked across that first night. Having glanced in the mirror to make sure there was only one car behind, I called Rick to say, "Slowing now, and Whinger dropped our speed to twenty ks so that we could get a look at the pink-and-white gateway and the churchyard.
The drive-past didn't yield much. As Rick had predicted, the tall, elaborate wrought-iron gates were open, and through them we caught a glimpse of a small, low church, set back maybe seventy metres from the road. The light inside the courtyard was exceedingly dim, and we couldn't see details, but I got an impression of ramshackle buildings round the sides, and even some bushes.
"Nice and dark," commented Whinger.
"Not too tidy, either. Look out, though. Here we are.
The security guards on the Embassy gate had been briefed to expect us, and let us through without bother. There was a short delay while the Brit guy phoned the duty officer to say we'd arrived: then a message came for us to drive round into the compound. There, an outside light had been switched on, and under it was standing a young-looking fellow with fair hair.
As I jumped out, he came forward.
"Sergeant Major Sharp?
Richard Henshaw."
We shook hands. I introduced Whinger properly, and the others more sketchily.
"Got some stuff for us, have you?" asked Henshaw.
"Well, it's for ourselves really. I'd just like to be sure it's in safe hands."
"Of course. Well, here are your keys. You know where to go.
There are two locks on the cellar door. This key's for the central lock, this one for a padlock that goes through a hasp at the bottom corner. But in any case, the compound's fully secure, so I imagine your equipment will be all right. D'you need any help to unload?"
"No, no. We'll be fine, thanks. Is this the only set of keys you have?"
"No, there's a duplicate set as well."
"Do you mind if I have them too? I'd rather we didn't have anyone else poking around in there."
"Oh all right." He looked a bit sniffy, but disappeared briefly inside and came back with another set.
"There you are. I'll leave you to it. As it happens, I'm quite busy."
"Thanks again, then."
As soon as he was indoors we opened the up-and-over steel door of the cellar and backed the black Volga to the head of the ramp. There was no point in taking the car down the slope, because the approach, between concrete walls, was too narrow for the rear doors to open more than a few inches and we wouldn't have got the boxes out of the back seat. That meant a short carry, and before we began it I scanned round to make certain we weren't being overlooked. No problems on that score: the high wall of the compound blanked off the view from outside. Reassured, I said, "OK, lads. Here we go," and we set about dumping our lethal load.
When all six cases were stacked, Toad brought out the two Rats, switched them off and slipped them back into their compartments in the SCRs. To put the final touch on our security, we replaced the padlock on the foot of the door with one of our own.
Toad was obviously impressed by the size of the Embassy buildings, and from the way he started dry-washing his hands I knew he was coming up with some new idea.
"Now we've got the devices here," he said, 'hadn't I better stay with them? There must be a spare room I could live in."
"Not a chance," I told him.
"The kit'll be fine here. Nobody can touch it. You're coming back with us."
The relief of getting the devices off my hands even for the time being made me feel reckless, and I almost went straight into a recce of the churchyard.
"After all," I said before we reboarded the cars in the embassy compound, 'we're on the spot.
Why not have a look round?"
It was the ever-observant Rick who stopped me.
"When we drove in, there was a guy hanging around out there on the embankment," he warned.
"Where?"
"About a hundred metres beyond the entrance. He looked everything like a dicker, from the FSB or somewhere."
"In that case we'll not piss about in the area," I agreed.
"Especially if he's still there when we pull out."
He was a figure in dark clothes, wearing a cap, leaning out over the river wall as if watching boats go by.
"He's moved this way a bit," said Rick over the radio.
"But it's the same guy."
"Right then," I replied.
"That's it. Next stop Balashit-heap."
*
I found it a pleasure to start the course the next morning. Our team had all slept well, and the weather was still fine. Whinger and I had gone for a four-mile run at first light, and after a shower and breakfast I felt in good shape. But above all I was chuffed to get back to our proper role of soldiering, and passing some of our skills on to others.
The sight of Anna in her DPMs was enough to put a smile even on Toad's face. I'd arranged with Sasha that all our guys would get an issue of Russian combat kit, so that we blended into the local scenery. Naturally, the garments didn't fit too well; we could disguise short or long sleeves by rolling them up, but the blouses hung away from our waists and the trousers tended to be bulky. Anna's kit, in contrast, was immaculately cut to flatter her slender figure, and looked as though it had been styled by some Western couturier. She wore elegant black boots, a black leather belt that emphasised her narrow waist, and a jaunty peaked cap. Even though she wore no insignia you felt instinctively that she was the senior officer present.
"You got your cars all right?" she asked.
"Yes, thanks. They'll do well."
"Nothing special, I'm afraid. Not like a couple of BMWs."
"Oh well they're fine for getting in and out of town."
I wasn't sure if she knew that we'd already been in to the Embassy, but I wasn't going to bring the matter up unless she did, so I said nothing on that score and switched to matters about the course.
To open proceedings we got the twenty-four students into the main lecture room and sat them down, while our team lined up across the stage, Sasha hovering at one side. Anna introduced herself to the course, and to the Brits who hadn't met her, with a brief explanation that she came from the FSB and that she had been appointed our liaison officer. I then introduced our lads one by one, using the names they'd chosen to sport on their chest badges. I felt a right prick saying, "J7of Rik, vot Dosti ..
This is Rick, this is Dusty," followed by a couple of words about what each man would be teaching weapons, unarmed combat, explosive entry, house assaults, vehicle drills and so on. When I came to Whinger last, because he was last in the line I asked Anna to explain that Vuinzha was not his proper name but the best approximation we could make of his nickname.
"And what's that?" she asked. When I told her, she immediately came up with, "Well, we've got one of them too."
She looked around the benches and pointed to a tall, saturnine fellow with sticking-out ears.
"He's called Zanuda," she said, 'and that means exactly the same thing. He's always moaning and groaning."
Like us, the Russians were wearing name badges, but I got them to call out their first names all the same. This revealed that we had three men called Nikolai and three called Sergei, as well as two Semyons and two Igors.
"Right," I said, moving along the ranks, "I know that really we should call you by your patronymics, but it'll be easier for us if we give you numbers. You're Nikolai Odin, you're Nikolai Dva, you're Nikolai Th."
I did the same with the Sergeis and the two doubles. All that, coupled with the discovery of the twin Whingers, caused a good few laughs and broke the ice.
Finding that several of the students were from Spetznaz and some from Omon, I deliberately split the two groups, pairing off each man with one from the other organisation, so that they'd all have to mix and communicate.
"It's important you all know each other really well," I told them.
"Your lives may depend on knowing how your partner's going to react in a particular situation. Learn everything you can about each other. Our team have been working together for years, and we're still finding out."
Altogether the Russians looked a lively bunch, and fit: by the glow on them, I guessed they'd all been running that morning.
They were all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five, but they were noticeably bigger than us taller on average, and well built.
There were a lot of broad, wide-cheekboned Slavic faces, and a couple of broken noses. When I asked how many had fought in Chechnya, nine hands went up, and a similar question about Afghanistan produced four.
"Khorosho!" I said warmly.
"Plenty of combat experience."
When Anna translated, the remark brought out self congratulatory smiles all round, and I could see we were going to get on.
The only two I didn't much care for were a pair who, I knew, had come from SOBR, the organisation that had once guarded the prisons and gulags. Sasha told me that, when the camps had broken up in 1992, a lot of these guys were thrown on to the market and some bunch they were, too. They had the reputation of being the nastiest of all Russian special forces, with their own line in brutality and torture. Certainly the two we'd got, Oleg and Misha, looked pretty low-brow and uncooperative.
As I handed round the course programme, written in both languages, I said, "OK, we'll be starting right away, with basic CQB. But first we want to take you on the ranges and make sur
e we're all together on our commands. We want to watch you firing, and see how you do things. This is as much for our benefit as for yours: we need to get to know your methods."
So we began, with magazine changes, stoppage drills and zeroing. Their weapon-handling proved to be good, although, as I'd suspected, some of the safety aspects wanted watching. We delivered a few bollockings on this score, especially after Sergei Two let off an AK47 round vertically into the air after he was supposed to have cleared his rifle.
Over the next few days, with basic range-work satisfactory, we began teaching the theory of house assaults, starting small, with two-man teams, making the students work in their pairs, showing them how to go through a room and clear it. We then moved on to four-man teams, through an assault on a single room to one on a house with four rooms and a corridor, still using one team. Then we progressed to having several teams operating together: eight or a dozen men entering different rooms at the same instant. Next came multi-floor tactics, with guys bursting in through doors, windows and skylights, all their movements precisely coordinated by radio.
At first we worked in classrooms, using magnetic boards and coloured counters to demonstrate formations, but soon we started moving men through actual rooms, and finally took them out for live firing practice in their primitive Killing House. The Russians were full of energy and enthusiasm, and they fairly threw themselves into the work. But what they lacked was precision: several times, when left to themselves to make a plan, they managed to have one assault team come face to face with another in the stair well, and we had to drum into them the vital importance of logical thought in command and control.
All this was interesting and good fun a challenge for both sides, and one that we all enjoyed. But the trouble was that, for me, the days began to slip away at an alarming speed. In no time at all it was Wednesday, then Thursday, then Friday. Our first week had almost gone, and we'd had no chance to recce either of our prospective nuclear sites.