“Despite the unorthodox nature of your request, Oberstleutnant Ritter, I’ll put you through in a few moments if you’ll be patient…please hold…” Ritter was too surprised to do anything other than exactly that.
Those moments passed with agonising slowness as he waited, unsure now as to how to proceed. He fully recognised the enormity of what he was doing and the logical, rational side of his mind was taking over from the emotional, instinctive reactions he’d experienced earlier. He also realised that he’d caught a proverbial ‘tiger by the tail’: he was scared of proceeding but also knew it was far too late for him to turn back.
“Reichsmarschall Kurt Reuters, Herr Ritter. I hadn’t expected to be speaking to you again so soon. What exactly is it I can do for you?” The Reichsmarschall’s voice at the other end of the phone suddenly brought his mind back to reality.
“I need a favour of you, sir,” Ritter began cautiously, almost humbly. What he was hoping to ask was a great deal and the pilot knew it. “It’s imperative that I meet with you as soon as possible to discuss a problem I need to resolve. It’s something I don’t believe I can accomplish without your help.”
“Another favour…? I’d have thought my efforts this morning far exceeded my responsibilities as it was...?” There was a statement of position in that: the Oberbefehlshaber der Wehrmacht considered the pilot in his debt already for the morning’s intervention, Ritter wasn’t disputing. Yet Ritter could nevertheless detect a strange quality in the Reichsmarschall’s speech. Unlike Schiller’s amused tone, this one carried something the pilot hadn’t expected: an undercurrent of evasiveness. It sounded almost as if the OdW was intimidated by him in some strange, improbable way, and it spurred Ritter on somewhat, his own stance becoming a little more confident.
“I certainly recognise and appreciate the help you provided me this morning, Mein Herr, however this problem unfortunately still exists. It’s only yourself who has sufficient authority within the military to act on my behalf.”
“I’m an extremely busy man, Herr Ritter – you do understand that?”
“I understand completely, Mein Herr...” Ritter replied instantly, but in that moment he knew that he’d won…that battle at least.
“I’m glad you understand that, for I shan’t expect to hear from you in this manner again. Where do you wish to meet?”
“Are you aware, sir, of the new training airbase at Orly that Fliegerkorps has set up?”
“I know of it: you’re going to be there soon?”
“My unit’s transferring there this afternoon for re-equipment with a new type of aircraft – we’ll be there for a number of weeks, I expect.”
“Oh, yes – of course. I’d forgotten it was ‘Horst Wessel’ that was receiving the first operational S-2s.” He’d not forgotten at all in fact, and had given the order himself. “You’ll be there the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes sir, I will,” Ritter stated emphatically, almost breathless.
“Expect me to arrive by air at nine that morning then. Until then, goodbye, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“Thank you, sir...” Ritter began, but Reuters had already hung up.
Thorne was seated with his back to the entrance to the Officer’s Mess that afternoon, an immaculate Maton Messiah six-string acoustic in his arms as he leaned forward in his chair and carefully tested the tuning. He was oblivious as Trumbull entered the mess and quietly approached, the Hindsight CO’s attention completely captured by the superb instrument in his hands as the fingers of his right hand plucked experimentally at each of the strings in turn. Pleased with the result, he nodded silently to himself in approval and proceeded to launch into a quite serviceable rendition of the classical guitar solo from ‘Is There Anybody Out There?’ off Pink Floyd’s The Wall album.
Trumbull moved slowly around into Thorne’s field of vision to provide himself a clearer view of the performance, but it mattered little as the man’s eyes were closed tight and his head lay tilted slightly to one side as the unmistakable note progressions transported Thorne’s mind away to a time and place far from his present location. The faint smile and complete relaxation showing on the Australian’s face was quite a different look to that which Trumbull had become more accustomed to seeing of the man over the last two days. It was clear that Thorne loved what he was doing with a passion that moved beyond mere technical ability, and although he missed the occasional note here and there through lack of practice, it was clear that he was quite skilled with the instrument.
Making as little noise as possible and not wanting to disrupt the performance for a moment, Trumbull slid into a seat on the opposite side of the circle of armchairs. The tune Thorne played was mesmerising...like nothing he’d ever heard before…and yet it was also entirely different to the other pieces of ‘so-called’ music he’d heard playing on Thorne and Lloyd’s iPods previously. He’d wanted to speak to Thorne about what they’d discussed earlier that day but seeing this completely unexpected side of the man was so incredibly interesting, and he was happy to wait and continue listening.
After just sixty seconds of playing that seemed beautifully longer to Trumbull, the music came slowly to a end and with a final, flourishing strum of the strings, Thorne’s eyes opened and his peaceful smile instantly became a slightly embarrassed expression as he pulled back slightly in surprise at finding the pilot watching him.
“Bloody hell…!” He exclaimed with a start, immediately going quite red as he realised Trumbull had been watching him the whole time. “Ever heard of knocking? You’re like a bloody ninja! We need a friggin’ bell around your neck!”’
“Sorry, Old Man…” Trumbull ventured apologetically. “Didn’t mean to pry…”
“Nah, it’s all good,” Thorne lightened up, waving a dismissive hand and giving a grin as the crimson began to fade from his cheeks. “Just gave me a bloody start, that’s all.”
“That music was amazing…you play beautifully!”
“Ahh, I’m not that crash hot…I just do what I do and enjoy it. Just having a break for an hour or so and taking the opportunity to clear my head a bit.”
“I suspect you’ve had a rather tiring day, Max,” Trumbull observed kindly, smiling. “Difficulties of command, perhaps…?”
“Yeah, you might say that,” Thorne nodded slowly, placing the guitar gently on the seat beside him to his right and stretching as he adjusted his seating position. He stared out through the windows and noted that the sun was now quite low on the horizon, shadows lengthening almost to infinity. “Were you looking for me in particular?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” Trumbull admitted with a smile. “I wanted to speak to you about what we discussed earlier…”
Evan Lloyd was within five minutes of finishing his shift on duty as the beeping alert signal rose from the control unit of the BRT. At first he’d hoped – in vain – that it might simply be an RAF patrol flight or some such that the equipment had incorrectly determined as threatening, however it took just a second or two to determine it was nothing of the sort. The radar had detected an aircraft approaching from the north at extremely high speed, and as Lloyd checked the contact’s information in more detail he came up with some unpleasant figures. It was flying at very low level and at supersonic speed, and had only been detected at a range of forty kilometres or so. Its low altitude and direction of approach meant the main islands of the Orkneys had masked a large part of its approach, and Lloyd’s rough calculations suggested they had less than two minutes before its course would take it directly over Scapa Flow.
“Christ on a fuckin’ bike!” He hissed in vehement surprise and jammed his finger against the nearby switch for the air raid sirens while grabbing for the speaker/microphone clipped at his left collar that was attached to the radio transceiver at his belt.
The conversation Thorne and Trumbull were about begin was cut off quite abruptly as the unnatural wail of air-raid sirens rose all over the base. A radio similar to Lloyd’s lay on the seat to Thor
ne’s left, and it burst into life a moment later.
“Tower here for Thorne…” Lloyd’s voice crackled from the speaker/mike as Thorne reached for it.
“This is Max, Evan…” the Australian replied, instantly recognising the voice and the urgent tone. “Talk to me…”
“We’ve got a single bogie heading in from due north at better than Mach-one, staying right on the deck all the way.”
“Shit!” Thorne swore, then asked: “Range and ETA?”
“Around thirty klicks out and closing fast – no more than ninety seconds at current speed.”
“Got that, Evan – make sure the Tunguskas are ‘linked and sync’ed’ and pass on the details to the conventional air defence units as well – they’ll need to know, even if they won’t be much use. Get yourself to a trench as soon as you can, mate – we don’t need any heroes today!” He turned to Trumbull as the radio went dead, snarling: “That means us too! We’ve got about sixty seconds to find some cover.”
Both men were bolting for the door in a moment, Thorne ahead by a second or two. Even as they burst from the building and headed for the nearest slit trench, it seemed to Thorne they were already too late. Men were running about everywhere, manning AA guns or diving for cover as were they, but all Thorne could think about were the four aircraft parked out on their hardstands. There was no way they had enough time to protect them, and the loss of any of those planes would damage the Hindsight Unit immensely.
As they dropped into the nearest trench, Thorne caught sight of the nearby Tunguska air defence vehicle behind the main buildings and hangars, squatting in the recessed emplacement atop of its mound of earthworks. Its turret was rotating to point northward under guidance from the main radar unit, patiently awaiting any target within range. All any of them could do now was to wait and see.
The pilot and weapons officer of Hawk-3 were little more than passengers as the black Sukhoi’s automated navigational systems took them through a pre-planned flight path at Mach 1.1, just 100 metres above the surface of the earth. That type of low-level penetration mission, whether carrying weapons or the reconnaissance pod that was slung beneath the aircraft’s belly at that moment, was exactly the type of operation for which the Su-30 multi-role fighter had been developed and exactly what its avionics and software had been designed for.
Terrain following radar (TFR) kept the Flanker at a set height above the water as they’d hurtled on across the empty expanses of the North Sea at faster than the speed of sound, coming in from the east before finally turning southward and trailing a thundering sonic boom across the northern islands of the Orkney chain. Intelligence gathered by Kriegsmarine maritime patrol aircraft prior to the war meant the crew already knew what areas of the base needed to be investigated and therefore, barring any unforeseen circumstances, there’d theoretically be no reason for them to deviate from the pre-programmed flight-plan at all.
“They can see us now…” Weapons Officer Hauser observed. “ELINT is picking up emissions from a NATO-type search system strong enough to return a signal. Distance to target less than thirty kilometres now.”
“They’ll be going nuts right about now then…” Major Schwarz replied from the seat in front of him with a slight grin. “Pity their flak guns will be lucky to even see us, let alone track us! Maybe they can – !”
“Weapon lock…! Weapon lock…!” Hauser shouted his surprised warning, cutting the pilot off mid-sentence. “Target acquisition radar just obtained a lock on us!”
“Scheisse…!” Schwarz snarled in response, taking control from the autopilot in an instant but holding the current course, wanting more information. “What’re we talking about? Guns…missiles…?”
“ELINT is evaluating…” Hauser replied quickly, his eyes never leaving his instruments. “Doesn’t look like standard NATO gear to me though…” the experienced weapons officer was working more on hunch than evidence. “Actually…the emissions look almost…Russian…” Another second and his Electronic Intelligence (ELINT) systems had the answer for him. “Definitely Soviet…!” He advised finally, neither man taking any notice of his use of a well-out-of-date name for what was now the Russian Commonwealth of Independent States. “Closest match are tracking and acquisition radars for a SA-19 ‘Grison’ mobile flak.”
“Interesting…” Schwarz muttered, alternating his gaze between his own instruments and the dark earth streaking past below them. “Wouldn’t have expected Russian equipment. We’ll have to watch that: the SA-19 carries SAMs and guns. Effective range…?”
“Around eight thousand metres for the missiles and about half that for the guns,” Hauser was stretching his memory for details he could barely remember from his pilot training.
“We’ve got a bit of time yet, then…we’ll keep to plan for the moment.” Schwarz banked the aircraft slightly to the west but held to the same low altitude as he thought back over the maps and details he’d memorised before take-off. “I’m going to take us further to the west and use the western heights of Hoy as a shield: there are cliffs along the coast there and also a couple of hills to the north-west the island that rise to nearly five hundred metres. With any luck their radars’ll be blind there: we can pop-up for our pictures and be away again before they know what hit them.”
“We’re going to be fucking close by then,” his partner countered, unnerved by the idea. “We can’t take anything for granted just because they haven’t fired on us yet! I’m working on memory for those bloody range figures…if I’m wrong, we won’t have much room to manoeuvre!”
“I know that, God damn it!” Schwarz snarled back, his own fear shortening his temper. “But if The Eagles want pictures of what they’ve got down there, I’m damned sure we’re going to get them! Those bastards took out Hans, Jürgen and the others, remember!” He reminded his partner of the friends they’d lost over Dorset the evening before. Significantly, although neither would never notice, he’d referred to Reuters’ New Eagles group as their command rather than the Wehrmacht High Command as a whole. That situation was common among those who’d arrived with Neue Adler originally but now ostensibly operated within the normal German armed forces.
“Doesn’t mean we have to end up like them as well…” the weapons officer growled sullenly, no happier than the pilot over the loss of their comrades.
The jet roared around and then up across St. John’s Head, the sheer face of the vertical cliffs invisible in the darkness but clear on their TFR systems. It took no more than thirty seconds before they were skirting the hills to the north-western end of Hoy Island, just fifty metres above the ground as radar mapped the course ahead with no need for vision. The Flanker hurtled past to the south-west of Ward Hill and the Cuilags – Hoy’s highest points – and followed a set of shallow, winding valleys east as they disappeared into ground clutter on the search and tracking systems at Scapa Flow.
“Ten seconds to window…” Schwarz announced and Hauser, no less capable at his job, prepared himself for the short ‘pop-up’ manoeuvre that would allow them to take their all-important reconnaissance pictures. “Nine… eight… seven… six… five…” as the countdown continued, he rechecked the camera pod’s systems once more to reassure himself all was working perfectly, which they were.
As the pilot’s countdown reached zero, the Flanker’s autopilot suddenly launched the aircraft into a tight climb, both passengers gasping for air as G-forces pressed suddenly down on them and their automatically-inflating flight suits fought to compensate. A second later and Hawk-3 was once more clearly visible for any radar to see.
“Search systems have us again…!” Hauser warned instantly, eyes glued to the main screens on his instrument panel. “UHF and EHF tracking have acquired us…” he advised with slow professionalism, his cool tone hiding the nervousness he inwardly felt. “They have target lock… now… now… now…!”
“Guess we’ll see what they’ve got then…”Schwarz observed through clenched teeth, mostly to himself.
&n
bsp; The western Tunguska’s search systems had reacquired Hawk-3 the moment it climbed out of the protection of the valleys south-east of Ward Hill. The original operational variant of the 2K22 Tunguska, also known by the NATO reporting name of SA-19 ‘Grison’, had originally been fitted with eight 9M311 radar-guided surface to air missiles with a nominal effective range of around eight kilometres (double the range of the twin 30mm cannon also fitted). As the closest match available, the software of the SU-30’s ELINT systems had thusly identified the weapons on the ground at Scapa Flow.
Several years out of date by the time the Sukhois had been acquired by the New Eagles, their ELINT systems were completely wrong. The pair of vehicles Hindsight had brought with them had been upgraded extensively and were instead armed with an advanced, modular weapons system known as the Pantsir-S1, also known by the new NATO reporting name of ‘SA-22 Greyhound’. A vastly-upgraded variant of that original 2K22M, the pair of cannon remained but were now complemented by no less than twelve missiles of a newer and far more capable type known as the 57E6. Fifty percent faster than the system it replaced, the missile was also possessed of a far greater effective range: almost twenty kilometres.
Although Hawk-3 was well out of range of the Tunguska’s cannon, it was easily within the reach of its missiles. As the vehicle’s turret turned with its target, one of the six launch tubes on its right side spewed smoke and fire and a missile burst forth into the sky at incredible speed. It streaked into the night sky on a bright flare of exhaust before quickly reaching the summit of its low, fast trajectory and spearing earthward once more at lightning speed in pursuit of its target, appearing as no more than a pinpoint of light trailing smoke to the onlookers at the base. The distant horizon suddenly lit up with a spray of incandescent orange flares that followed fast behind the track of the invisible Flanker, the shuddering sound and force of the jet’s engines and sonic boom audible a few seconds later as the missile detonated downrange.
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