The Blue Effect (Cold War)

by Harvey Black

  It was about half an hour until dusk. They had to keep moving, keep their distance from the pursuing troops, and then, in darkness, slip away. They weren’t on their chinstraps yet, but it was getting close. They were also eating into their ammunition far too quickly. The anger of the Soviet Army commander towards the Special Forces operating behind his lines was being taken out on Wilf’s small patrol. He reckoned there was an entire motor rifle battalion on their tail along with Soviet Ministerstva Vnutrennikh Del (MVD) internal security troops, on their tail. Sent to assist in the subjugation of the civilian population, they had been reassigned to hunt down the enemy saboteurs. On the run for over eighteen hours, the CPU’s only respite had been at the time of the tactical nuclear explosions a couple of hours ago, which seemed to have knocked their pursuers off their stride.

  But now they were back and the chase was on. Bergen’s had been dumped, and all the food, water and ammunition they could carry had been packed into their fighting order, but they were eating into their ammunition at a phenomenal rate. They’d broken contact once, but the enemy had persuaded a Soviet Army General to release two Mi-2 Hoplites, small helicopters, to help in tracking the enemy saboteurs down, and their trail had been picked up again. The four men had been on the run again since dawn and were now just trying to hang on until darkness would provide them with some sort of shield. But the enemy had an advantage: speed. Once Wilf’s CPU had been located, trucks of soldiers could be driven to a point behind them, cutting off their retreat, forcing Wilf to switch his direction of withdrawal. Just as he thought they had broken contact yet again, they would hear the whop, whop of rotor blades as their airborne hunter returned to the scene.

  Badger and Hacker started to put down fire as Tag threw the last of his grenades, and he and Wilf sprinted for cover yet again. Wilf paled as he heard a yelp from Tag as a bullet struck his friend’s leg, causing him to spin sideways, landing in a pile on the floor.

  “Man down! Man down! Cover me!” Wilf screamed.

  Badger fired the last of his grenades from the under slung launcher on his M-16, and Hacker threw the last of their smoke grenades, one they had been saving for this very moment they feared might happen: one of them going down.

  Tag screamed as Wilf heaved him up off the ground, finding strength from deep down inside, throwing his friend over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Smoke billowed out behind them, providing momentary cover, as he collapsed in a heap alongside Hacker and Badger. The two men continued to put down fire while Wilf cut away at Tag’s combats. Tag groaned in pain, and Wilf could see why. The round had shattered the soldier’s lower leg. White pieces of his tibia were poking through the muscle. Even patched up, there was no way he could run with them now.

  Tag reached out and gripped Wilf’s jacket, pulling him close. “You need to go Wilfy. I’m fucked. I’m going nowhere with this.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “Bollocks! I won’t get anywhere with this.”

  “I’ll carry you. We can take it in turns.”

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, Wilfy. Even Badger could only carry me for a short distance. They’ll be all over us.”

  Hacker crouched down. “We’re low on ammo, Wilfy. They look like they’re getting ready for a push.”

  “Tell him, Hacker. I can cover you. Give you a chance.”

  Hacker looked at Tag, saw the blood-soaked leg of his combats and a piece of white bone protruding through the blood. He nodded.

  “Shit!” Exclaimed Wilf, knowing they were both right.

  “Turn me over on my front, guys. Get me in a good position.”

  Wilf went to inject Tag’s with morphine, but Tag objected. “No, I need my wits about me. Leave it here. If I get the chance I’ll use it before they get to me.”

  Tag bit back a scream as they helped him get into a firing position.

  Hacker pressed his shoulder. “See you, mate.” On Wilf’s orders, Hacker ran to a new position, fifty metres west. Badger, who had been keeping in touch with the their situation and that of the enemy, said his goodbyes to his mate; then threw his last grenade, the last the team had, and ran to join Hacker.

  Wilf ruffled Tag’s hair; nothing needed saying really. “Thanks, Tag.”

  “Fuck off, Wilfy, before they get you too.” But Tag said it with a smile. Wilfy returned the smile and shot off to join the other two.

  The three men ran at a crouch as fast as they could, taking advantage of the opportunity given to them by the injured member of the team. They heard burst after burst of gunfire as Tag emptied three magazines off towards the advancing security troops, having the satisfaction of seeing at least two go down. The sound of gunfire receded the further Hacker, Wilf and Badger were from the fight until there was only silence. Should they survive, beat the clock, they would have a few drinks for their friend. But, for now, they would run until their legs collapsed beneath them.

  Chapter 30

  2030, 10 JULY 1984. ELEMENTS OF 2ND SPETSNAZ BRIGADE. RODINGHAUSEN, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT +2.5 HOURS

  A member of the crew spoke into the microphone of the internal communications system, informing the team leader they were five minutes away from the landing zone. The team leader tapped the shoulder of the man next to him, holding up five fingers, and he, in turn, tapped the soldier next in line, repeating the warning until all eight of the soldiers, sitting in the back of the shaking helicopter, were aware that they were only five minutes out. This was the cue to check their weapons yet again, even though they knew implicitly that everything was perfect and well prepared for the operation ahead. The majority carried an AKS-74U, a stripped down version of the AK-74, the standard Soviet assault rifle. Each man also had a spade, the preferred weapon of choice for a Spetsnaz soldier. In fact, it was the only weapon they trained with at the start of their training, and they quickly learnt to use it with deadly effect. One of the team favoured a VSS sniper rifle, and two carried a PSS, a silenced pistol. It only had an effective range of twenty-five metres, but it would assist their covert operation until it went loud. All in all, they could give a good account of themselves when required.

  Next came the two-minute warning, then one. The Mi-8 Hip shuddered and vibrated as the pilot pulled back on the stick, banking hard left, throwing his passengers violently against each other as he brought the helicopter round, pointing in the direction from which they had just flown. Pulling back on the controls again, he brought the Mi-8 to a hover as the crewman in the back pulled the door open. A blast of air whipped around the cabin, and the eight Spetsnaz operators stood up. Two went forward, pushing eight packs out of the aircraft to land on the ground below. The lead man then launched himself from the helicopter, dropped a metre to the ground as the pilot kept the helicopter from landing on the deck, holding it in a steady hover. The first man to drop ran, hunched down. Then, at twenty metres’ distance, he threw himself to the ground, his assault rifle up into his shoulder, ready in case they had been discovered. He heard the grass rustle to his left as one of his colleagues joined him, followed by five more.

  The team leader took one last look around the cabin, making sure nothing had been left behind. He signalled the crewman then leapt out to join his team. The cockpit of the MI-8, seeming to dip down, was, within seconds of the last man leaving, moving, the pilot powering the helicopter, flying it forwards and up in one swift movement.

  The team of eight men then just lay in place, adjusting senses, particularly their hearing, to the environment they were now in. They had been dropped in a clearing, a meadow, west of a path, the Wittekindsweg, that ran along the southern edge of the lengthy Wiehengebirge, north of Rodinghausen. It was twenty minutes before the team leader felt it safe to move, and he led his men to the edge of the meadow. They waited again until a red light, no more than 100 metres away, flashed four times. The leader responded twice with his own red-screened torch and relaxed a little when the other party returned two flashes. His men spread out to provid
e cover as a shadowy figure ran to join them.

  “Gregor?” asked the shadowy figure.

  “Who else?”

  “I thought I recognised the squashed nose.”

  They both laughed quietly as they gripped each other’s shoulders.

  “All clear, Andrei?” Gregor, the team leader, asked as they crouched down.

  “Yes, I’ve been here for three hours. Nothing. How about you?”

  “No problems. We came in with two Rooks. They’ve been attacking a few enemy positions, and the helicopter slipped through their lines as the British were keeping their heads down. We came in nice and low. The pilot knew what he was doing, although he scared the shit out of me at times.”

  “I’ve not heard any alerts going off around here.”

  “Good. Have you found a good route for us?”

  “Of course. Couldn’t depend on you to find your own way.” His grin stood out in the dark.

  “Vadim,” he then hissed, and another Spetsnaz soldier joined them. “This is Vadim. Meet Gregor, our contact and guide.” The two men shook hands.

  Andrei pulled a map out of a pocket in his black waterproof jacket and unfolded it. Then, taking a cape from a small rucksack on his back, he pulled it over their heads as the three men crouched down together, heads touching as Gregor played a smaller white torch over the map.

  “We go north for about two and a half kilometres; then east for about 500 metres. The first part is a dip between two pieces of high ground. We just need to stay in the treeline. When we hit the northern edge, we follow it round towards the east, and the British unit is about 500 metres away.”

  “What have they got?”

  “Standard comms vehicles, but the company defending it has those boxy-looking armoured vehicles.”

  “Saxons?”

  “They’re the ones.”

  “Size?”

  “I’m pretty certain it’s a Brigade Headquarters.”

  “Good,” added Vadim. “That will be the one controlling the battalions defending the river and the troops further back.”

  Andrei looked at his notebook. “15th Brigade. It’s a reservist unit. We need to go. Lead on, Gregor.”

  Andrei packed the cape away as the rest of the group were briefed. They were less than two kilometres as the crow flies from their objective, but had about a three-kilometre march ahead of them. All they had to do was move silently, ensure they were undetected, and then strike the enemy hard. This was just one small mission, part of a much larger operation right across the NATO front. The aim was to stun the enemy, blind them, and confuse them. Two thousand Spetsnaz soldiers, operating in teams from as few as four men to as large as twenty, would be a thorn in NATO’s side from as far north as Bremen and south to Kassel. A few teams had been flown in by helicopter, the sparse number of NATO troops along the front line making it easier than anticipated. Others were parachuted close to their targets, but far enough away to ensure stealth. Many teams had been in West Germany for the past two months; sharing homes or other accommodation with sleepers that had been living in the West for anything up to twenty years. A small core of GRU assets had been living in West Berlin and West Germany since the Cold War began almost immediately after the end of the Second World War.

  After just over two kilometres of threading their way through the trees, the team arrived at an empty building. Two Special Forces soldiers approached the small farmhouse, waiting for thirty minutes as they watched the main entrance but, after no sign of movement, they moved in closer, peering discreetly through windows, the blinds purposefully left open, no sign of life visible. The sergeant signalled to his comrade, and they moved to the front door. As had been agreed, the door was unlocked, and they entered slowly. After a quick check of the rooms downstairs and upstairs, clearing all the rooms and wardrobes, or anywhere someone could be secreted, they were satisfied the property was empty.

  The sergeant sent Stepan to fetch the rest of the detachment. Within ten minutes, two of the nine men were on sentry duty outside while the remainder sorted through the supplies and equipment that had been placed there by one of the GRU agents who had come across four weeks earlier as a member of the crew on an Aeroflot aircraft. The supplies had been smuggled across the border in one of the thousands of lorries that transited between East and West Germany. The driver, also a GRU operative, coordinated with the agent, Gregor, and the supplies were deposited in the farmhouse that belonged to yet another Spetsnaz sleeper. The cache contained additional ammunition, two RPG-16s, a Strela-2 shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile, landmines and plastic explosives.

  The sleeper wouldn’t be in attendance: another task had been assigned to him in order to keep the pressure on the already overburdened NATO forces.

  “Yulian, Dmitry, sort the mines out. Ilia, Marat, I want a patrol out to 100 metres.”

  Acknowledging their orders, two men went to pick up a handful of small landmines that would be placed at strategic points around the building. On their return to this location to restock with ammunition and supplies, should they need them, the detonated mines would alert them to the location being compromised. The two other Spetsnaz operators would complete a 360-degree circuit of the building.

  On their return, and with the mines prepared and armed, the lieutenant ordered his men to move.

  After consulting the map one last time, the detachment commander was satisfied it would take them no more than two hours to get to the site where they would find their target.

  Ninety minutes later found them skirting the edge of a small complex, the patrol moving more slowly the closer they got to the target. Signalling his men to halt, he was sure that the British brigade headquarters was close.

  They lined up along a shallow embankment, just inside the trees, keeping their heads down while some military trucks drove along the road in the centre of the complex. There was silence once the last vehicles left the compound, somewhere to the north. The Soviet EW unit that had been tracking the radio transmissions of NATO headquarters’ scattered across West Germany had done well in identifying this particular headquarters. Someone had been careless, too loose with their communications, allowing the Soviet army to find them.

  Gregor signalled his team forward, and the group passed from tree to tree, dropping down the gentle slope, keeping their eyes peeled now, looking for signs of sentries.

  Lieutenant Gregor Antonovich dropped to one knee, signalling back to his men to do the same, although the order was not needed: the second in the file had been watching the point man closely. They could now hear the generators running, needed to power the lights and the vast array of communications equipment required by a brigade headquarters to control its subordinate units and keep in touch with higher command. The sound could never be completely muffled, even using dips in the ground or other vehicles to try and mask it. The throb of the motors could be heard for some distance.

  Gregor’s men lined up and split into two teams of four. Andrei would remain there and cover their withdrawal.

  “Let’s go,” uttered Gregor, and the men moved forward silently. Gregor’s eyes darted everywhere, looking for a sentry, or sentries. They will have at least a dozen men on guard at any one time, he thought. His PSS pistol moved from side to side as he edged around one of the buildings. Three hundred metres away, across an open piece of ground, he could see at least six single-storey buildings interspersed amongst an array of trees. He picked out at least two of the ugly Saxon vehicles facing him and could hear at least a couple of generators.

  To his left, 200 metres away, was another building, the one he would make for. He signalled to Yulian, Dmitry and Marat to follow him, and ran at a crouch towards the single-storey building.

  Halfway across, he was suddenly dazzled by the lights of the Saxons opposite, holding up his left hand to shield his eyes as more and more headlight beams banished the darkness. He saw a different sort of light, a flash from amongst the trees, as he was spun round, the sound of a heavy m
achine quickly following. Two more bullets thudded into his body as he dropped to the ground, his pistol falling from his lifeless fingers. One Spetsnaz soldier managed to fire a burst as he too went down, but it was all over. All eight men were killed, some struck by a dozen or more bullets, such was the ferocity of the fire launched at them.

  Andrei look on disbelievingly. Then he gathered his senses and sprinted up the shallow bank, running smack into a British patrol that was closing the trap that had been set for the unsuspecting Soviet Special Forces. Three GRU agents, under scrutiny for the last three weeks, had been caught in the last two days, but they had continued to operate, on pain of death, leaving Soviet high command convinced all was well.

  Chapter 31

  0110, 11 JULY 1984. CORPS PATROL UNIT SOUTHEAST OF BAD NENNDORF, WEST GERMANY.

  THE BLUE EFFECT +7 HOURS

  The SAS trooper eased himself forwards on his elbows until he was ten metres from the sleeping sentry. It would be difficult to take this one out. Not because he was alert; on the contrary, he was sitting on the rear step of a Zil-131 box-body vehicle, his feet on the ground with his forehead slowly dropping towards his knees. When his helmetless head got to a point where he would topple forwards, or sideways, his body would rear up and, still asleep, the young soldier would again rest the back of his head against the door that was situated above the steps. Then, the process would start all over again.

  The trooper rose up and moved quietly across the open ground until he was alongside the main body of the vehicle. Edging along the flat side of the truck, he reached the back end seconds before the soldier would again go through his familiar routine. As the man’s head dropped, Trooper Glover made his move. He whipped around the corner at speed and, as the soldier’s head reared up, as he anticipated it would, wrapped his left arm around the man’s face, clamping his mouth with his hand, jerking the soldier’s head around to the left sharply before he forced the knife deep into the man’s exposed neck. Slicing backwards through the jugular, the blood gushing out as he hugged the man’s head tight into his chest, pulling the struggling body around to the side of the truck where Trooper Mathers’ joined him in subduing and ensuring the death of the Soviet guard. They dragged the soldier’s body across to the trees while their two companions kept watch. Now they could move deeper into the camp, the inner confines of the headquarters of the Soviet 20th Guards Army. They knew it was an Army headquarters by its sheer size.