The Red Effect (Cold War)

by Black, Harvey

  He decided to get to the other side where he would be less exposed to the tank crews further up the line. He shuffled along the end of the flatcar, gripping the back of the tank for extra support and lurched along, constantly checking about him for any indication of discovery. He clocked the characteristic exhaust vents at the rear for the 6TDF engine, capable of producing over one thousand-brake horsepower, and the ten-metre telescoping antenna lying along the top of the turret. When extended, it would provide a signal for the R-130 radio inside. He eased his way past the pair of supports for the optional fuel-drums that could be carried at the rear. None were present now. He needed to get to the front of this tank, positioning himself in between the two, to secure some of the ERA blocks. Being in between the two T-64s would make him harder to spot. He slipped around the side, placing the tips of his boots on the caterpillar track itself as the tank was so wide it extended beyond the platform. He tottered past the six stamped, small, evenly-spaced, dual road wheels, his elbows resting on the tank sides. The height of the tank reached just below his shoulders. He paused. Moving on the balls of his feet was tiring, although he was conscious that time was passing. He continued again along the side. The T-64 had a drive sprocket at the rear, idler at the front and four return rollers. The first, second, fifth and sixth road wheels also had hydraulic shock absorbers.

  He got to the point where the track guards started to curve down at the front, and hoisted himself up with his elbows until he could squat down on the front of the glacis. He was relieved to finally be able to place his feet on a solid footing. He surveyed the sharply-sloped upper glacis, its V-shaped water and debris deflector partly obscured by the ERA blocks that covered the front of the tank. The large infra-red searchlight on the left of the turret stared at him, and he reached up and touched the barrel of the 125mm main gun. He sensed the latent power and destruction that this smooth-bore gun could deliver. To his immediate right were four 81mm smoke-grenade launchers; a similar unit was positioned on the other side. The tank was also capable of generating smoke by injecting fuel onto the manifold, creating clouds of billowing smoke. This was a technique the tankies had used when Bradley and his team got too close during Soviet military exercises, engulfing them in choking, fume-laden smoke.

  He looked around and, seeing it was all clear, wasted no time in getting the monkey wrench out and attacking the bolted down blocks. The blocks, or bricks as they were called, each about twenty-five and half centimetres by thirteen and a half centimetres, were slotted onto a pin, attached to the armour of the tank. At each end of its length, it was bolted down at each corner. He got to work with the wrench which was proving to be slightly too big for the job, but holding it vertically he eventually managed to undo the first bolt. The first one took him almost two minutes, but the subsequent bolts were much faster to undo. He was conscious that the clock was ticking, and his good luck at being undisturbed could not last forever. Once the final bolt was removed, he was able to ease the ERA block off the pin. It was lighter than he had expected. He placed it and the bolts in the bag he had slung across his chest and shoulders, brought specifically to secure the items he had removed from the tank. He thought about getting a second one, but didn’t want to push his luck too far. Also, he had taken one from the edge, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed for a while, or until at least well after he had gone.

  He was about to clamber down from the tank glacis and drop off the front when his foot caught on the steel towing cable looped along the front, the spanner slipping from his fingers, bouncing off the end of the glacis, striking the rear of the tank in front with a clatter; then rebounding back onto the platform of the flatcar. He froze and cursed under his breath at his stupidity. He quickly looked about him, fearful of discovery. Clang! The gunner’s hatch on the top left of the turret was flung forward and a tank crewman thrust his head upwards. He was wearing a black, padded tank helmet, its iconic tubular-style padding traversing from front to rear, changed little from the World War Two era. The soldier rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stared at Bradley who was crouched on the edge of the tank’s glacis and said something in Russian, completely unintelligible to the intelligence operator. They must have maintained eye contact for at least two seconds before Bradley broke the spell. He clambered down from the turret, awkwardly, onto the flatcar and, ducking under the barrel of the gun, made his way to the far side. He heard the Russian soldier scrambling to get through the turret hatch in order to pursue the trespasser, shouting a warning. Bradley got to the edge of the flatcar, dropped down onto his backside, his legs dangling over the side, and launched himself forward. He hit the ground hard but with both feet together, initiating a parachute landing roll, buckling his knees and rolling onto his hip, following through onto his shoulder, something he had done for real during his parachute training. Saying that, his first ever landing had resulted in him landing on his feet, arse and head. The pain he experienced landing that way ensured that he got it right the second time around. He groaned as the Mars-Bar in the bag dug into his side, metal against flesh and bone, not one he could win. He picked himself up and quickly checked on the progress of his, now, pursuer.

  Standing on the turret, he was screaming his head off in Russian, jabbing his finger in Bradley’s direction and calling to his comrades further along the sidings. The soldier, seeing Bradley looking up, made his way to the front edge of turret and dropped down onto the glacis. The chase was on.

  Although Bradley’s legs had been jarred by the jump and his side was throbbing from the impact of the ERA block, he set off at a sprint. One hundred metres to the Rover and potential safety. He heard the tank crewman’s boots hit the ground and the grunt as he collapsed in a heap, obviously not parachute trained. Bradley smiled to himself. The Russians’s curses got louder, along with shouts coming from the direction of the Ramp. Bradley looked over his shoulder on hearing more shouts and could see two or three soldiers pounding down the track towards him, yelling insanely, desperate to get to him. He was twelve seconds away from the vehicle and hopefully, although not always, safety. Ten seconds. He couldn’t see the back of the Range Rover just yet, but he knew he was getting closer. He heard more yells behind, but didn’t look back. Nothing could be allowed to inhibit the speed he had built up.

  Eight seconds and his breathing was starting to labour as he pumped his arms up and down, his boots pounding the ground beneath, his eyes searching for any ruts that could trip him up and effectively end his escape.

  Seven seconds. He could just make out the back of the vehicle through the gaps in the trees.

  Six seconds. Jacko’s silhouette could be seen through the back window. Alerted by the shouts from the area of the Ramp, he was peering through binoculars, trying to seek out Bradley or any other disturbance he should be concerned about.

  Five seconds. On seeing the speed his tour-commander was running at, Jacko knew there was a problem. He threw the binos onto the passenger seat, made sure all but one of the doors were locked, and started the engine.

  Four seconds. The pounding grew louder behind Bradley as more Soviet soldiers joined in the chase. He swallowed hard and urged his legs to move faster. His thighs burned, his heart thumped, and his lungs felt like they would burst as he put one last effort into keeping a gap between him and his pursuers. His bag slapping against his side, reminding him of the contents and the consequence should he get caught.

  Three seconds, he would make it. He heard another yell off to his right and could see what must have been the Soviet sentry on foot patrol responding to the calls from his comrades. The sentry dropped to his knee, pulled the AK-74 into his shoulder and took aim.

  Two seconds. Zip, crack: the two sounds almost instantaneous. Bradley ducked automatically, losing his footing and stumbling forward, crashing to the ground, causing further yells as the pursuing enemy realised they had just been given an opportunity to capture the British upstart. He rolled forward, thumping up against the back wheel of the Range Rover, and quickly pul
led himself up its side.

  Jacko leant across the seat and pushed the passenger door open, revved the engine and screamed at Bradley, “Come on, for fuck’s sake, come on! They’re on you!”

  Bradley threw himself bodily into the vehicle, his head practically landing on Jacko’s lap. Jacko pressed the accelerator to the floor and the Rover pulled away, clouds of dust billowing behind them as it roared through the trees, branches slapping at the windscreen, before Bradley had even managed to drag his legs inside.

  Zip, crack, zip, crack. A small branch dropped onto the bonnet, sliced off the tree by a 5.54mm round from an AK-74, fired too high. They roared away, almost comically, like something out of a Keystone Cops movie: door still open, Bradley’s head in Jacko’s lap and his legs still dangling outside, being flung from side to side as Jacko weaved through the trees.

  Bradley finally managed to pull himself into the vehicle, straightened up and pulled the door shut just as it was about to be sheered off by a rapidly approaching tree. He looked back over his shoulder. The tank crew seemed as if they had given up the chase, although another weapon was aimed in their direction. He saw the muzzle flash and winced. They both heard the crack but didn’t see or hear any evidence of a strike. Both knew from experience that trying to level an assault rifle, steady your breathing and hold the outward breath halfway out as you squeezed the trigger was not as simple as it sounded. After any major exertion, especially running flat out, it made it much harder, particularly trying to zero in on a moving target. It had been their lucky day.

  Jacko spun the wheel to the right, the Rover tilting to the left as he took them straight over the double railway line of the spur where they had crossed earlier. He revved the engine as they bounced over the two sets of railway lines, the cab rocking violently as Jacko negotiated the steel tracks and the thick wooden sleepers. There was no time to slow down and take it easy on this return journey. Once across to the other side, Jacko careered left, this time the Rover’s body lurching to the right, and headed for the underpass they had come through earlier. Bradley slipped his seat belt on over his shoulder and chest. He knew they were going to be in for a rough ride. He turned to look back over his left shoulder again, cracking the back of his head on the window as one of the front wheels struck a deep rut, the steering wheel torn from Jacko’s hands.

  “Fuck! Sorry about that,” cursed Jacko, but quickly regaining control and getting them back on track.

  “Shit! That bloody UAZ 469 is on our tail!” Bradley called out.

  Behind them, a trail of dust streaming behind it, Bradley could see the Soviet Army Jeep tearing after them. It was probably more capable than the Range Rover across country, but on the roads there would be no competition. That’s where they needed to get to.

  “How far?” yelled Jacko above the growling engine and rattling of the vehicle as they bounced and jolted ever closer to their escape route, not taking his eyes off the ground ahead even for a second.

  “About fifty metres, but they’re closing.”

  “We’ll have to slow down for the tunnel; either one.”

  “Go right, right,” instructed Bradley.

  Jacko spotted the concrete opening up ahead and swung left, taking a wide sweep so he could come at the entrance straight on. This gave the UAZ the opportunity to close the gap, just as Jacko nosed the bonnet into the opening.

  “Hold on,” he shouted.

  Thwack. Screeeeeech.

  The Range Rover ploughed through the narrow gap, the wing mirror on Bradley’s side shattering as it struck the concrete wall. The front right wing caught the wall as well, scraping a layer of paint off down to the bare metal. They shot out the other side like a cannon ball out of a gun and Jacko turned hard right, the Rover feeling as if it would topple over at any moment but settling back down as he straightened her up.

  The Soviet Jeep was not so lucky. In his desperation to close with the intruders, the driver failed to take a wide enough sweep and approach the entrance full on. His right wing struck the unforgiving concrete wall of the entrance, the forward momentum swinging the back end round, and the left rear struck the opposite wall. The Jeep ground to a halt. The Soviet NCO in the passenger seat cursed the driver for his stupidity.

  Jacko turned left onto Shackelster Strasse and built up speed until he was doing in excess of fifty miles an hour. “Clear?”

  Bradley looked back again. “Yes, so far anyway.”

  Jacko drove down the street for about half a kilometer; still no sign of pursuit. He turned left to go under the continuation of the west-to-east railway line, bringing them onto Grabensprung.

  “Where to?”

  “Margate Bridge, Jacko.”

  “Why there?”

  “We need to hide this stuff just in case we get bounced. We can come back for it later.”

  Margate Bridge was one of many bridges that crossed over the railway lines that circuited East Berlin. The city was a major rail junction. Beyond Margate, there was ‘the-bridge’ and, beyond that, ‘a-bridge-too far’; places they would hide up by to watch for troop trains either coming into East Berlin or transiting through to go on exercise – or the worst case scenario: a troop build-up for the invasion of West Germany. It would allow them to keep a low profile for a while, well outside the confines of the city.

  Jacko maintained a high speed, weaving in and out of the traffic. The word would be out by now, so the MFS and the VOPO – Volkspolitzei, East German Police, would be looking for them.

  Bradley picked up the radio handset and puffed into it while he leafed through the code book on his lap. “Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”

  A pause.

  “Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”

  Then, finally, a response. “Three-Zero-Bravo, Three-Zero-Alpha, go ahead, over.”

  “Three-Zero-Alpha, X-Ray, Alpha, Delta, Sierra, Golf, Alpha, Delta, over.”

  There was another delay as control checked the code.

  “Three-Zero-Bravo, confirm X-Ray, Alpha, Delta, Sierra, Golf, Alpha, Delta, over.”

  “Confirmed. Will need Prep Three, over.”

  “The boss will be skipping around the office.” Jacko laughed.

  “Wilco, Three-Zero-Alpha, out.”

  “What now?”

  “They will get EOD out. We’ll need an explosives specialist to check out our package.”

  Jacko looked back into the rear of the vehicle where Bradley had placed his bag containing the ERA block. “It’s not going to bloody go off, is it?”

  “No, Jacko, you’re safe. They’ll also send out another unit to collect the bar, as the VOPOs may well be looking out for us. And they’ll keep a watch on Checkpoint Charlie for any unusual activity.”

  “You mean prevent us from getting back in?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I don’t know about you, Jacko, but I need a drink. Something strong, but we’ll have to settle for my flask of coffee.”

  Chapter 5

  KAL 150, JOHN F KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. 31 AUGUST 1983.

  THE RED EFFECT −11 MONTHS.

  “Air Traffic Control Tower, KAL 150. Is there an update on our departure time, over?”

  “KAL 150, wait, out.”

  The Boeing 747-230B, delivered to the Korean Airlines on 2 January 1973, was now sitting at Departure Gate 15, at the John F Kennedy International Airport. It was 31 August 1983, and flight KAL 150 was waiting to start its journey to Seoul. The passengers waited patiently. Many were seasoned air travellers, perhaps businessmen or women who took delays such as this in their stride. For the ones new to flying, perhaps going on holiday or to visit family, the excitement of the trip countered any feelings of disappointment at the delay. The flight was scheduled to depart at 0350 UTC, Coordinated Universal Time, the old GMT. It was now 0425 on 31 August.

  “KAL 150, control tower. Good news, you are cleared for take-off.”

&n
bsp; Captain Chen Khan, the pilot and first officer of the flight, responded, “Thank you, tower.”

  “Have a good flight. Tower out.”

  He turned to his co-pilot, Pilot Officer Choi, and smiled. “At last, but at least the delay means that the Seoul Airport services will be up and running when we arrive. Take her out, will you?”

  The co-pilot waited while the push-back vehicle moved the 350-ton aircraft away from the gate. Once clear and disconnected, Choi increased the thrust of the engines, and the airliner started to crawl forward towards the runway. Arriving on runway 31L, Captain Khan took over and the aircraft, bound for Seoul, finally took off, heading for Anchorage and the Anchorage International Airport for refuelling, after which it would continue its journey to its final destination: the capital of South Korea. The flight deck crew and the cabin crew switched into their usual routine of ensuring a safe flight and seeing to the needs of their passengers. The time passed quickly and they soon landed at Anchorage to refuel.

  Its fuel tanks now topped up, the Jumbo Jet KAL 150 lumbered down the runway, steadily gathering speed until the pilot was able to rotate the Boeing 747 and lift the laden aircraft off the ground, departing Anchorage Airport at one in the afternoon, UTC time. The Jumbo Jet steadily gained height as it climbed up into the now clear skies, the pilot tilting the plane gently to the left before straightening up and slotting into their assigned route: J501. Now, on the northernmost of the five passenger plane corridors available to them, the pilot and co-pilot confirmed with each other that they were safely in corridor Romeo 20, the North Pacific route that passed within eleven and a half kilometres of Soviet airspace to their north, along the Kamchatka Peninsula, a space fiercely guarded by the Soviet air force. The pilot and co-pilot settled down for the straightforward eight-hour flight, leaving the autopilot to do the bulk of the work and calling the cabin crew for a much needed cup of coffee. The cabin crew themselves were starting their job in earnest, going about their duties in the main body of the plane, ensuring the 269 passengers onboard, one of them being a Democratic congressman, were comfortable.