by Andy Farman
As evenings went, it was a thundering success but at 1am Constantine showed them to their bedrooms, the new working day was only seven hours away, a concession allowed by Pc Stokes who normally banged on the bedroom door at 5.45am.
The following morning Patricia, Caroline, Scott and Max made their way separately to the kitchen for coffee. The two CIA men had elected to come along the previous evening for the PT and run, whilst alcohol was clouding their better judgement. Daggers were looked at Svetlana when she breezed in and out cheerily, having collected her morning coffee.
“She drank exactly what we had, it is not fair,” grumbled Scott.
“They had less sleep than we did too,” put in Patricia.
Scott looked over the rim of his mug at her.
“How so?”
“Didn’t you hear them…bloody noisy?”
Max was almost the last one to reach the realm of Java heaven. “Who the hell was making love until 3am?” he asked, eyeing them all accusingly. “Jesus H…someone’s a screamer.” As he filled a mug to the brim.
“That wasn’t love making Max.” Caroline informed him. “It was Olympic standard rutting…but no one in this room was involved!” She managed to grin as she continued.
“I think it was doctor and patient night, I saw Svetlana walking to the bathroom in a surgical gown…open back.”
“Really?” Both CIA men had jumped four levels in the wake-up stakes.
“Uh huh…she has a butt like two hardboiled eggs with suntans, and a dogs paw tattoo on the right.”
“Slut tags.” Pat scoffed.
“Meowwww.” Caroline responded to her navigator with censure in her tone.
‘Tramp stamps.” Pat offered again with no hint of apology and sipped her coffee before adding. “Well I think she must be a vampire or something, you know…drawing life energy from stolen bodily fluids.”
“Fellatio” interjected the other woman.
“What’s fellatio?” enquired Max.
Caroline deadpanned.
“It’s a Latin term for a form of birth control…us girls practised it a lot in college.”
Max’s blank look reduced both aviators to fits of giggles.
Scott had been trying to keep a straight face.
“Max wouldn’t know about that, Mrs Reynolds is a devout Catholic.” And the giggles turned to full-blown laughter.
Constantine entered the kitchen, looking just as fragile as the Americans did.
“Thank Christ…there is a God.” Scott muttered as he appeared.
The Russian looked at him as he reached for an empty mug. “Pardon?”
“We were just discussing the possible existence of bionic wangs in the vicinity; Major…it seems they do not exist.” Caroline informed him.
Patricia winked at him.
“More’s the pity,” as she and Caroline left for the garden and warming up exercises.
“Scott…what’s a bionic wang?”
“It’s a 24/7, self-sustaining piston drive unit, never happen, Major.”
“Ah.” He replied and ingested caffeine gratefully.
After breakfast, Caroline took Svetlana off to the RAF station for a briefing, equipment fitting and then a one hour flight in the F-117X Nighthawk; the last half hour was a ground hugging flight across the Highlands.
The cockpit ‘windows’, as Svetlana thought of them, were lined with transparent plasma screen material. She was amazed at the information the screen held for the pilot. Whatever information was programmed into the system could be displayed there. Whatever the satellites, AWAC, JSTARS or its own sensors saw was projected on the screen as a symbol with range and speed below.
Too far away to see with the naked eye, an RAF Nimrod was heading in to Kinloss and the range to it counted down. Using the side stick Caroline banked to the left and the Nimrod’s symbol crabbed sideways until it reached the trailing edge of the right hand screen where an arrow icon appeared, pointing aft.
The Nighthawk’s own data was also projected but there was nothing new in that. The whole set-up gave the pilots ‘at a glance’ information without having to lose situational awareness by looking down at instruments.
If Svetlana thought this was standard for all Nighthawks, Caroline did not disabuse her of that impression; the system still had some bugs in it that needed to be ironed out before the rest of the F-117A fleet could be upgraded.
This was the R&D unit's testbed airframe, pressed into operational service for the upcoming mission, losses in the F-117A wing were mounting and by using this Nighthawk it spared the loss of another of its Nighthawks, however temporarily.
They crossed the Moray Firth at wavetop height heading northwest and then lifted to clear Kinnairds Head and drop down the other side to skim across Dornoch Firth.
Caroline’s voice sounded in her ears.
“Look…no hands!”
Her eyes smiled at Svetlana above the oxygen mask as the Nighthawk’s navigation computer flew it towards the first pre-programmed waypoint.
The Nighthawk banked steeply to the left and the land closed in on either side as they entered the mouth of the River Shin. The river curved between high ground until they were heading almost due north and the river widened out into the lake of the same name.
They turned back onto a northwesterly course to fly the length of the lake.
Ben More Assynt loomed over their port wing as they reached the head of the lake and their next waypoint.
This far north into the North West Highlands the weather had changed, cloud hid the top of Ben Hope which was dead ahead as they cleared the mountains to the north of the Shin.
Turning east they wound their way along valleys between the mountains before re-emerging over open water where the River Helmsdale emptied into the sea.
Back on the ground at RAF Kinloss, blonde and auburn hair bounced across shoulders as the girls walked laughing and talking animatedly with their arms around each other’s waist. An RAF Group Captain stared at them as they walked past him towards operations; their demeanour was hardly compliant with Queens Regulations or becoming that of anyone in uniform.
Svetlana read his look and returned his gaze with one that smouldered seductively before winking and blowing him a kiss.
Whatever the senior officer was going to say was lost as he blushed deeply and tripped over a kerb stone.
Max and Scott returned to London after breakfast leaving Patricia in the care of Constantine and the police firearms officers.
Pat was put through her paces with the collection of weaponry at the house. Neither American was expected to take any other role except protecting the aircraft on the ground, whilst the Russians obtained the location of their target. They had both qualified with handguns annually but that test did not include stripping and assembling the weapons in the dark or stoppage drills whilst both officers with stopwatches screamed into their ears that the boogieman was coming.
The following day, when Constantine and Caroline returned to the house after the major’s jaunt in the stealth fighter, he had chatted away all evening, having missed the experience of flying combat aircraft whilst performing attaché duties
Ural Mountains, Russia: 2336hrs same day
The bunker where the leadership of the new Soviet Union had cosseted itself was built into the side of a mountain, expanding on the network of old mine shafts that had existed since before the late ‘50’s.
Unlike the bunkers in the West, this one contained all the elements of government under one roof, where the leader could keep an eye on them. Only the KGB chief was allowed to come and go, such was the premier’s conviction that she harboured no high personal ambition.
The Russian Premier's Praetorian Guard were the only armed personnel below ground, the army had a perimeter five miles from the entrance and the Guard had one 500m inside that, their guns pointed at the army.
Below ground they were posted in pairs, they were there to guard and intimidate. Outside the premier's office right
now the two guards on his door were wincing inwardly, it wasn’t often the boss let his temper get away from him, but when it did blood got spilt.
A messenger from the communications centre had drawn the short straw in delivering the bad news to the premier. He had been drinking iced tea when she delivered the message form and now a cleaner was mopping up the trail of blood from the damage left by the glass smashed in her face.
Hurriedly doing up buttons, the army, navy and air force chiefs appeared from the direction of their sleeping quarters and entered the chamber; the premier was sat calmly at his desk as they did so.
“Premier?” queried Marshal Ortan, the army commander.
The Russian premier held out the message form in reply, the marshal took it and noted the blood smears before reading.
“NATO has used nuclear weapons, atomic mines, in the Atlantic and we no longer have contact with the submarine flotillas, gentlemen!” the premier told them. “I want to know what you products of Russia’s finest military academies are going to do about stopping the convoys from reaching Europe…and if you cannot, then how is this going to affect the land battle?” He could see he did not have the undivided attention of the Admiral of the Navy of the Soviet Union.
“Admiral Flota Sovetskogo Soyuza, Petorim…please do not stare off vacantly into the distance when I am talking to you!” Admiral Petorim was thinking of the two thousand plus sailors, and thirty irreplaceable hulls this failed operation had cost his country.
“Please excuse me premier…we have no further units that could fight through the blockade NATO has in place at the North Cape, not without a massive air effort in support of it. I have three first class reserve flotillas’ that is all; the remaining hulls are committed to essential coastal defence or on loan to the Chinese. If I reduce the coastal cover of first class hulls, I can use older vessels to replace them, it will give us between forty and fifty vessels.” He paused whilst he worked out details in his head.
“I do not believe such an operation could prevent the current convoys from arriving; however the next convoys left the United States and Canada this morning, with four more armoured and mechanised divisions on board, plus fuel and munitions of course. Their escort is far lighter than previously, we predict the warships approaching Europe now will turn about and meet them part way. If we can divert air assets from Germany to break the blockade at the North Cape…”
“No!” stormed Marshal Ortan. “We need to pin NATO’s Germany based forces in place, so they cannot disengage before we strike them in the north. To do that properly I need aircraft to keep the pressure on!”
“General of Aviation, Sudukov…these are your assets we are talking about, can you perform both tasks?” the premier asked his air force commander.
“We do have several plans for such an event as the re-attacking of enemy warships at the North Cape, all the equipment required is in place should it become necessary. It would take a day to move the units back to Titovka and Pechenga, northwest of Murmansk. However, it will greatly reduce the support we are able to give to the army in Germany, both in the east and the north where the 6th Guards Shock Army will emerge out of Poland. One plan calls for heavy use of our stealth airframes, but the Tu-160 bombers have been reconfigured for rear area Spetznaz operations, it would be quicker to proceed with that mission than to stop and reverse the configuration. This of course means that we would need conventional fighter bombers to achieve the same aim. If we cannot stem the enemy supply lines then what happens on the ground will be academic anyway.” He paused for a moment.
“May I ask if we know how they located our submarines; do they have a satellite that can see below the waves?”
“There is no such technology yet, and if there were it could not work too well now. If they exploded a bomb under the sea then there is going to be a lot of cloud about for a while, only radar satellites will be any good…this would be a good time to start destroying their satellites. Before, it was not practical because of the number involved, that number has been effectively halved now as we need only target the radar satellites.”
“That is already in hand Admiral, please answer General Sudukov’s question.” The premier’s tone indicated his current lack of good humour.
“I would guess that they used their hunter/killer submarines to locate our submarines.”
“Now then, you will put into motion a plan to release our submarines into the Atlantic once more, to reduce the losses to our best submarines in the breakout; you will use older vessels in the first wave. In that way NATO will waste munitions and their submarines will betray their own positions to us. I want this plan put into action before the dawn…start withdrawing what you need from the battle in Germany tonight…do you understand?”
All three officers agreed, they had no choice but to do so.
“I have already spoken with Beijing, what killer satellites we have will begin launching from Baikonur cosmodrome in twelve hours, the People’s Republic has already begun. We will rob the west of their radar and then their communications…they have already blinded their optical surveillance satellites themselves. Now, I believe you have work to do, so…get out!”
Pacific Ocean: 0900hrs, same day
The breeze was still as feeble and fitful as it had been for the past few days and the 60’ ketch barely made steerageway. Behind the old sailing vessel were towed a Gemini, three open one man life rafts and a larger inflatable raft with a domed top to keep out the elements.
Fishing was the principle activity onboard; seeking to add to the supplies which would have been adequate for the owners, Muriel and Eric but with four extra mouths to feed rationing was being enforced.
The day before Sandy and the Americans had been taken aboard; Muriel had heard the plaintive cries of the sole occupant of an open life raft. Had there been anything of a wind to speak of they would probably not have noticed it at all, but sound carries well across water and his hails were heard.
The sun had blistered Lt Fu Shen’s skin and his throat so parched that only a determined effort had made any sound come out at all, when he had seen the sail. If he had ever needed a distress flare then that had been the time, but he had used them all signalling the ships of his own combat group, ships that had ignored them and him as they had forged past.
Being fluent in English is a requirement for most pilots but not for lieutenants in the PLAAF who are unlikely to speak to ATC in any country but mainland China; however the young lieutenant had acquired the essentials of his own volition. Learning a foreign language as spoken by one’s own countrymen is rather different to speaking it with a native and the pirated copy of the language tape he had purchased served only to confuse his ear further. Eric’s “Oye, Fu Man Chu…toss that bluddy gun over t’side, or I’ll brain yer!” did not factor in with the syntax contained in ‘Oxford English for Cantonese speakers’. The only clue he had as to what language was being spoken to him by the elderly man had been the Union Flag, called a Union Jack by the misinformed, that hung limp at the stern.
A comic mime act with the elderly Englishman gesturing at the 8mm handgun in Fu Chen’s shoulder holster, and shaking a boathook threateningly had got the message across eventually. Once the aviator had been helped aboard the Englishman’s wife had given him water and plastered a paste made from corn flour and water over his burnt areas of skin, before finally pressing on him fried pieces of potato between slices of bread, a ‘chip butty’ she had called it.
Returning to China or Russia and re-joining the Mao was the aviator’s dearest wish but he had no idea how to sail. A glance at the fuel gauge for the ketch’s small engine ruled out his motoring the small craft there, even if he could bring himself to overpower the elderly pair. They had undoubtedly saved his life and they were in their twilight years, which demanded respect.
The war had interfered with the couple’s plans to sail up the coast to the Bering Straits and then south along the western coast of North America. Their first planned land
fall on the Russian continent was to have been at Ust’-Kamchatsk, but the BBC world service had changed their minds for them and they had altered course for Midway.
Coming across the Fleet Air Arm pilot and US Navy aviators had greatly taxed the limited stores of fresh water and food. Chubby had an idea about solving the water crisis, but told them all about it without thinking it through properly.
“What if we fill a sail bag with sand and urinate in it…the sand will filter out the impurities!”
Muriel had looked at Chubby and then back to her husband with a knowing smile.
“And where did that daft idea come from, young ‘un?” Eric asked him.
“I think I read it somewhere.”
“Do you see a beach anywhere you daft bugger…where does the sand come from?”
“Chubby mate, it might have been a good idea for you to select ‘brain’ before engaging ‘mouth’.” Sandy said with a laugh.
“Now just one minute fella…”
Eric had left the tiny cabin muttering under his breath.
“Soft ha’puth.”
Nikki spent a lot of time sleeping for the first two days but now the headaches that had accompanied wakefulness had faded.
The relationship between the Chinese aviator and the only survivors of the USS John F Kennedy and HMS Prince of Wales had been distinctly chilly at first until Fu Chen had alleviated the water problem for them by using bowls and pans from Muriel’s little galley, along with dustbin bags and seawater.
The westerners had watched curiously on deck as he had filled the pans from the sea, floated empty bowls in them and carefully sealed the lot in the bin bags before arranging depressions in the top of the bags. The seawater evaporated leaving the salt behind in the pans and condensed on the inside of the bags where it ran down the sides to collect in the bottom or drip off the depression into the bowls floating in the pans.
Eric was grudging in his praise toward any foreigner’s ideas, but as he examined the solar stills he actually smiled at the lieutenant and nodded.