‘Command detonation of both missiles confirmed, sir,’ Privalov said. ‘Interceptor Eight reports no damage, and the American aircraft is still flying. It may have been damaged by our weapons,’ he added hopefully.
Kabalin snorted. ‘Don’t count on it,’ he said. ‘Has Eight achieved weapons lock?’
Privalov shook his head. ‘Not yet, Colonel, but at any second – yes! Missile lock acquired, but on one weapon only.’
‘Excellent,’ Kabalin said. ‘And at such close range he cannot fail to destroy the target. Instruct him to fire.’
Aspen Three Four
‘Missile away – single launch from Bandit One. Possible radar acquisition failure on the second bird. Range six miles, directly astern.’
Frank Roberts had few options. The Blackbird was already travelling at close to its maximum speed. He had a little height above the missile, and he had a little distance, so his only hope was to try to out-run it. He levelled the Blackbird at seventy-nine thousand feet and watched as the needle on the Mach meter slowly began to move.
All air-to-air missiles carry a relatively small fuel load, because of the need for guidance systems, radar equipment and, of course, the warhead, and if a target has sufficient speed it can, in theory, out-run the vast majority of missiles fired at it. As most missiles travel in the Mach 2 to Mach 4 range, very few aircraft actually can out-run them, but the Blackbird could. In fact, that had been one of the philosophies behind the design of the aircraft.
‘Missile at six, two thousand below. Bandit One at eight, falling back. Missile has radar lock. I say again, missile has radar lock.’
‘I heard you the first time.’
‘Range five. Missile speed near Mach four. I estimate impact in about eighty seconds.’
Moscow
The Budapesht Hotel on ulitsa Petrovskie was in fact something over a mile away, on the north side of the Moskva river and almost in the centre of old Moscow, but Richter wanted to walk. Moscow was enjoying the brittle sunshine of early summer, but it still wasn’t warm enough to be out without a coat and hat, and he was glad of his leather gloves and fur cap.
He picked up the first tail almost as soon as he walked out of the Embassy grounds. He was on the opposite side of the road about two hundred yards back, heavily – too heavily – muffled against the weather, and as Richter started walking he abruptly lost interest in the newspaper in his hand and began following.
Richter made the second a couple of minutes after he had left the Moskvoreckij Most – the central bridge over the Moskva – and began walking past the eastern wall of the Kremlin. He was about fifty yards in front, walking briskly, and stopping to look around him at irregular intervals like any tourist would, but maintaining his lead comfortably enough. The two of them closed in on Richter as he reached the huge GUM department store opposite the Kremlin and wandered inside, but he wasn’t interested in losing them. ‘Mr Willis’ wouldn’t even have known they were there.
Aspen Three Four
The Blackbird’s nose tilted downwards as Frank Roberts eased the stick forwards, and the aircraft’s speed began to increase more rapidly. Paul James was devoting his entire attention to the radar display.
‘Missile still has radar lock. Range now four. Second missile launch confirmed. Range nine, three thousand below.’
The Blackbird reached Mach 3.3 and levelled at seventy thousand feet.
‘First missile dead astern, range three decimal five and one thousand below. Bandit One now range fifteen, close to maximum engage range. Full power.’
‘This is full power – we’re at our limiting velocity.’
‘I hope it’s enough. Missiles at three and eight, closing more slowly. Bandit One outside engage range at eighteen miles.’
The Blackbird engines howled as the big jet fled westwards. On the ground, thirteen miles below, the supersonic booms from its passage sounded like distant thunder, and people began looking up, puzzled, into the cloudless sky.
‘Birds at two and six, both still closing slowly.’
‘How long since the first missile launched?’
Paul James was silent for a few moments. ‘I don’t know exactly, but it must be around five minutes. Why?’
‘Just wondering how much more fuel it could have.’
‘Enough to catch us, I think.’
Frank Roberts grunted. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that.’
As if linked by an invisible wire, the big black jet and the white-tipped grey missile powered through the sky. Every sweep of the tail radar showed the missile getting closer.
‘Missile speed?’
Paul James didn’t need to calculate the answer – he knew it already. ‘Mach three decimal eight, and it’s still gaining on us. Range now one decimal five.’
The Blackbird’s needle nose dipped downwards as Frank Roberts pushed forward on the control column again and the aircraft’s speed increased to Mach 3.4. Then 3.5. ‘We’re through our limiting velocity,’ Roberts muttered. ‘I sure hope Lockheed didn’t build this baby on a Friday afternoon.’
Moscow
When Richter left GUM ten minutes later, both his shadows were still in attendance, and as he began walking north up ulitsa Petrovka, they dropped back behind him.
The third took a bit more effort to see, but Richter finally identified him as he turned right off ulitsa Petrovka into ulitsa Petrovskie. He was ahead, on the opposite side of the road, wearing loud check trousers three inches too short for him, and carrying a map and a camera – everyman’s Yankee tourist.
Richter had been expecting a tail, of course, in view of the circumstances, but a three-tail was, he thought, something of an overkill. He walked into the lobby of the Budapesht and checked the mail rack – there would be no letters for him, but everyone staying in a hotel checks the mail rack – then turned back to the main entrance and glanced outside into the street. The two tourists were conferring, while the man with the newspaper was once again absorbed in Pravda, leaning against a wall directly across the road. Richter hoped they all had their woolly underwear on, because it looked like being a chilly afternoon.
Richter walked up the three flights to his floor, stopped at the dezhurnaya’s table to collect his room key and watched as she logged the time of his arrival, then walked down the corridor to his room. He didn’t bother trying to decide if anyone had been in there while he had been at the Embassy, and he had taken no precautions against searchers.
The room was hot and stuffy. With some difficulty Richter pushed open the single window, then tossed his hat, coat and gloves onto the bed. He picked up the accident report and the English translation, took them over to the easy chair by the window, sat down, loosened his tie and started to read. The translator hadn’t done too bad a job, only making three minor errors of little importance.
Richter read the report through twice, and was little wiser then. The only conclusion that could be drawn from the stark official phraseology was that the late Mr Newman had been either criminally irresponsible or suicidally inclined, if the facts as stated were correct. He had, it seemed, been travelling at a speed in excess of fifty miles an hour in a narrow back street when he encountered the tailboard, and totally unyielding load, of a parked lorry. Richter smiled humourlessly. Despite the official line, he knew exactly what had happened. He knew the answer, but what he didn’t know was the question. He stood up, straightened his tie, tucked the report into his briefcase, locked it and then headed downstairs towards the dining room.
Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk, Confederation of Independent States
‘Sir, both interceptors dropping back, but the missile is still closing the American aircraft,’ Privalov reported. He looked suddenly at the digital display that showed the time each missile had been running.
Kabalin noticed his glance. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’
‘The AA–9, Colonel,’ Privalov said. ‘If that run-time figure is accurate, it only has fuel for another two or three min
utes’ flight.’
Kabalin nodded decisively. ‘You’re right, Lieutenant. How far behind is the missile?’
Privalov spoke into his microphone, then turned back to his superior officer.
‘Interceptor Eight estimates under one mile, sir.’ Kabalin thought for a few seconds. ‘That’s not close enough,’ he said. ‘Order Interceptor Eight to monitor the missile. If it doesn’t catch the American aircraft, instruct the pilot to command-detonate the warhead the instant the AA–9 runs out of fuel.’
That order was the first mistake Colonel Kabalin had made since the Blackbird had been detected, because he had forgotten to allow for just one thing – the Foxhound pilot’s reaction time.
Aspen Three Four
Paul James suddenly let out an exclamation. ‘Yes! It’s out of fuel. Half a mile astern and five hundred below, and falling away.’
In the MiG–31, the pilot was closely watching his radar display and missile telemetry. In the second and a quarter it took him to register the fact that the missile engine had stopped, the Blackbird had travelled just over one mile. In that same second and a quarter, the AA–9 had slowed considerably and had already begun to descend under the force of gravity. It took the Foxhound pilot a further second to lift the guard on the master detonate switch, and another half-second to depress it, by which time the Blackbird was nearly three miles from the AA–9 and over one thousand feet above it.
Frank Roberts was jolted in his seat as the Amos detonated in spectacular fashion, and the Blackbird kicked upwards, then he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. I thought that fucking missile was going to bury us. Where’s the other one?’
‘Forget it. Range is four miles, and even if you chopped our speed to three it still wouldn’t catch us before it ran out of gas.’
Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk, Confederation of Independent States
There was silence in the operations room as the Russian officers watched the radar return of the Blackbird receding rapidly towards the west.
When the telephone rang on Colonel Kabalin’s desk, he got slowly to his feet and straightened his uniform jacket before he walked over to pick up the receiver.
Chapter Four
Thursday
Aspen Three Four
Normally Frank Roberts was able to keep a reasonable mental picture of the aircraft’s geographical position, but the evasive action and numerous turns, climbs and descents had destroyed it. ‘Paul, I’ve lost the bubble,’ he said. ‘Where in hell are we?’
Paul James turned his attention away from the radar display and made a swift check of the navigation computer. ‘Coastline at Klaipeda in a little under three minutes.’
‘Klaipeda? Where the hell’s that?’
‘North of Kaliningrad – used to be called Königsberg. We’ve been kicked a long way way south.’ Paul James went back to scanning his instruments. After a moment he spoke again. ‘Boss, we’ve got another problem. We’re losing fuel.’
‘What rate?’
‘Slow but steady – looks like around fifty pounds a minute. My guess is that one of those missile detonations ruptured a plate somewhere on the wings, and that’s popped a tank. You’re getting no handling problems?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll let you know. What are our choices?’
‘I don’t think we can make the tanker.’
‘Which tanker?’
‘Any tanker.’
In reality, the fuel leak had simply compounded the problem. The time spent at full power and the evasions forced on the Blackbird had already driven a major hole through the carefully calculated exit plan. The intention had been to maintain a high-level supersonic cruise westbound down the Gulf of Finland after leaving Russian air-space, across the Gulf of Bothnia, and over Sweden and Norway, before reducing to subsonic speed to link-up with one of two KC–135Q tanker aircraft that were already waiting in holding patterns fifty miles west of Norway’s Atlantic coast.
‘What are our options?’
Paul James was silent a moment or two, consulting the navigation computer again. ‘A rendezvous with either of the tankers isn’t advised. If the leak continues at its present rate we could make it to the southern one, but if we hit any problems with the link-up manoeuvring a flame-out is a real possibility.’ A flame-out, or engine failure, would mean a double ejection and the loss of the aircraft and, more importantly, the loss of the films and sensor records.
‘I’m not happy about a refuel, not with the leak we’ve got. Let’s put it down somewhere.’
‘We haven’t got many alternatives. We could make it to Oslo easily enough, or Bergen, but we’d have to do a lot of fast talking on the ground.’
‘Other options?’
‘Back to Britain, and take a Master Diversion Airfield in Scotland.’
‘Can we make Mildenhall or Lakenheath?’
‘Not advised. They’re right on the limit, according to the navigation computer, and we’d have to go subsonic a lot earlier. Plus there’s a lot of traffic in East Anglia and Air Traffic Control wouldn’t be able to move all of it out of our way.’
‘OK,’ Roberts said. ‘Scotland it is.’
Moscow
The hotel lunch was notable for its quantity, rather than its quality, but it was hot. After he’d finished, Richter returned to his room and spent ten minutes composing a list in his notebook. The first item he wrote down was ‘insurance policy’ and the last was ‘letters’. Then he carried his bags down to the reception desk, paid the bill and sat down to wait in the lobby.
Just after twelve thirty a black Rover with a familiar crest on the door and red number plates, the badge of a foreign diplomatic car, purred to a halt outside. Erroll climbed out of the rear seat and walked into the lobby. ‘No parking problems,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a driver as well. Here, let me take that one.’ Richter surrendered his suitcase and Erroll walked out to the Rover and put it in the boot. They climbed into the back seat, Richter still clutching his briefcase, and the driver indicated and pulled away from the kerb. Erroll noticed his frequent glances into the rear-view mirrors. ‘Have we got company, George?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. A black ZIL, three up. They picked us up outside the Embassy as usual.’
Richter peered out of the rear window. About a hundred yards behind, a large dark-coloured saloon with at least two people in it was following steadily.
‘We get used to it after a while,’ Erroll said. ‘I don’t suppose you get people following you all the time in your line of work, do you?’
Richter looked at him. Erroll was smiling. ‘No,’ he smiled back. ‘Not all the time.’
Erroll sat back in his seat, then fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Richter opened it, glanced at the copy of the death certificate and put it into his briefcase, where it could keep the accident report company.
Aspen Three Four
The Blackbird stayed at Mach 3 and eighty thousand feet over the southern tip of Sweden and across Denmark as Frank Roberts pointed the aircraft at the east coast of Scotland. Seventy miles out it began to look as if they weren’t going to make it.
‘Boss, the leak’s getting worse. It’s now more like one hundred pounds a minute. I estimate that we’ve got a maximum of twenty minutes up here before it all goes quiet.’
‘OK. Let’s talk to someone. I’ll raise ATC, you tell Mildenhall what’s happened.’
While Paul James opened the secure channel to Mildenhall Operations, Frank Roberts set the aircraft’s secondary radar transponder to squawk Military Emergency and selected Guard frequency on UHF. ‘Pan, Pan, Pan. This is Aspen Three Four with twenty minutes’ fuel remaining. Request diversion to the nearest suitable airfield and a priority landing.’
Scottish Air Traffic Control Centre (Military), Atlantic House, Prestwick
The Scottish Military Distress and Diversion Cell is part of the Scottish Air Traffic Control Centre (Military) located at Atlantic House, Prestwick, on the west coast of Scotla
nd. The network of direction-finding heads responded to the call from the Blackbird and the Laserscan equipment pinpointed the aircraft’s position on the plotting chart on the wall facing the Cell team. As the assistant guided a laser-produced marker to the indicated location of the aircraft, the duty controller selected the nearest forward radio relay. ‘Roger, Aspen Three Four, Scottish Centre. Steer two eight five for Lossiemouth. Request aircraft type and level.’
‘Two eight five for Aspen Three Four. We’re a military twin-jet, sir.’
‘Roger, Three Four. I say again, what is your level?’ There was a pause. ‘We’re in the upper air, sir.’ The controller’s assistant, who had been using the laser marker to update the position of the aircraft with each transmission it made, spoke. ‘Jesus Christ, will you look at the speed of that thing. Hey, isn’t Aspen a U–2 call sign?’
The controller shook his head. ‘That’s not a U–2, not going that fast.’ He tried again. ‘Three Four, I say again, what is your level, and what is your speed?’ Turning to the assistant, he told him to contact Lossiemouth for an actual diversion and fuel priority landing, aircraft type not specified but fast USAF twin-jet, and to stand by to take operational control.
Roberts finally replied. ‘Sir, Aspen Three Four is supersonic this time, and we’re high. There’s nobody up here but us.’
The controller gave up. ‘Roger, Aspen Three Four. You have forty-three miles to run to Lossiemouth. Decrease speed to subsonic, and descend to maintain Flight Level one zero zero initially. Advise when you’re ready to copy the Lossiemouth weather.’
Forty miles east of the airfield, Frank Roberts pulled the throttles back and the big aircraft began to fall, losing height and speed simultaneously.
British Embassy, Sofiyskaya naberezhnaya 14, Moscow
Newman’s office was a little bigger than Erroll’s, an indication of his slightly more exalted official status. With Erroll watching quizzically from the doorway, Richter began rooting through the contents of the desk.
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