by Andy Farman
“No…and I’d just as soon they didn’t know I was listening either.” He did not want to add to the pilot’s pressure by knowing the boss was looking over his shoulder.
“Who is in the drivers seats aboard 28000, by the way?”
“Lt Col Redruff and Major Pebanet.”
Jaz Redruff and Sara Pebanet had flown the President all around the world, he was confident that if either pilot were on their own, they could still put it down safely if anyone could.
“So what’s the plan, Admiral?”
Gee brought up a map of the west coast of Ireland, and zoomed it in.
“Mr President, they are flying south at the moment and letting down gradually, in the meantime we are scrambling helicopters and rescue craft to the Galway Bay area of Eire. The aircraft will turn again, a wide turn to the right to come around onto a roughly north-easterly heading to line up on the bay and continue letting down…aiming to ditch somewhere between Roadford and Murroogh. The aircraft’s flaps may also be impaired, but we won’t know that until they are extended…if they are screwed, then it will be a higher speed landing than one would wish for. The IRCG, Irish Coast Guard, will be running the show; they will have six Sikorsky S-61s on scene. A minesweeper and a fisheries vessel will be backing up the four inshore lifeboats already in the area. Britain has an ocean-going lifeboat and two inshore's on the way, and of course they have signed off on the Irish using the AWAC for communications and rescue co-ordination.”
The President looked at the aircraft’s icon on the big screen map, and puffed out his cheeks.
“So now we wait.”
As the aircraft got lower, so too did Senator Rickham’s spirits. The Presidential office was situated against one side of the cabin, midway down the airframe. There were people still seated forward of them, but that was only due to the lack of seats in the office. He desperately wanted to be at the rear of the aircraft, he could see in his mind’s eye the Boeing hitting the sea and breaking up, the tail section floating whilst the rest sank, with him still attached to his seat, drowning. Everyone was now wearing life vests, with strict instructions about how, and more importantly when to inflate them. Sgt Palo, the bitch in blue, had come around and personally checked the vests were on correctly, and repeated her trolley-dolly speech, but Rickham had deliberately ignored her.
The Kraut and the Limey were busy talking with members of their cabinets and parties by phone, so he made a decision. The PM looked across as the senator undid his seatbelt and stood up, but his party chairman on the other end of the phone, was speaking in urgent tones so his attention swung back to matters of state. He gave the chairman the location of the combination to the safe in his home, should anything go wrong, and requested that what he had outlined for the country be continued if anything happened tonight. It was all in the safe on paper and floppy discs, ideas and solid plans dating back to the 70’s.
He heard someone sit back down in the senators’ seat, and fiddle with the seatbelt, adjusting its size for a far slimmer person; he glanced across and then did a double take. The senators young aide, Janette something or other, was doing up the belt in jerky, agitated movements, shooting him an ever so brief nervous smile, with eyes close to tears.
The Chancellor gave a puzzled look as the PM left the office; the German was still in conversation with his defence minister so he couldn’t ask. He hadn’t noticed the senator leave so he cast a questioning look at the young aide, but she looked away in embarrassment. A minute later and the cabin door was violently thrown open, and the senator preceded the way inside, the large American politician’s face was contorted in pain as he came through sideways into the office, and then the PM appeared. It almost seemed that they were walking arm in arm, yet the PM had both his hands clasped around the back of the American’s left hand, and his forearm was trapped between the Englishman’s right arm and body. Rickham was leaning to his left in an effort to relieve the awful pain being caused by the gooseneck hold that the PM was applying to his wrist. He hardly heard the Englishman speak to his aide, telling her to go back to her own seat at the back, so great was the pressure that was being applied to the joint. He tried to reach over with his own right hand to pry away the offending fingers but the pain increased sharply, and he screamed shrilly. The young aide hurriedly vacated the seat at the Englishman’s request, then crossed to the door, stopped and was about to say something but then decided against whatever it was, and disappeared from sight. Sgt Palo entered through the doorway that the aide had just vacated, she had been alerted to a scuffle at the rear of the aircraft, and stopped just inside the office. The PM was back on the phone; the Chancellor was still talking and looked for all the world as if all was calm and normal with the universe. Senator Rickham was nursing his left wrist, his face a mask of misery as he sprawled in his seat. Nancy crossed the office and bent to strap him back in, but had to grab the back of his chair as turbulence shook the airframe. Her own crash position was in this office, in a fold down seat against the forward bulkhead, it was her job to ensure that these VIPs got out safely, but she wouldn’t strap in until just before they ditched.
The F-16 known as Chain Gang Lead had followed the Boeing through its last turn, and now edged down toward the cold seas as the airliner did.
County Clare was at the three o-clock position, and five thousand feet below, to the left was nothing except the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Chain Gang Lead…Military One Four Eight, on Guard.”
“Go ahead One Four Eight?”
“How’s your fuel state Gang Lead, you gotta be getting close to bingo?”
Arndeker didn’t bother checking his gauges; he knew he had enough to recover to RAF Aldergrove in Ulster, to refuel and then head back to Germany.
“Gun Lead is fine…I haven’t flown this slowly since I soloed in a Cessna, I think at this speed I could make Alaska without topping off…it must be real peaceful for you old folks, tooling around at a walking pace in big ‘ole buses like that one.”
The last remark was answered by a snort of laughter.
“For your information junior, that toy you think so highly of couldn’t catch my last ride to kiss its ass.”
“And what would that have been One Four Eight?”
“It was black, it was beautiful, and it cruised at over two grand at eighty-five thousand.”
Only one aircraft on the air force inventory had ever been able to do that, the 90th Strategic Reconnaissance Wings SR-71A.
“I’m impressed One Four Eight…it’s a real shame they retired the Blackbirds.” He had to touch the rudder pedal to ease away a fraction, as a particularly rough patch of turbulence caught the aircraft. Between 30,000 and the cloud ceiling at 6000
Wings move, they are supposed to, but for the uneducated/nervous flier it can be a worrying sight. Lt Col Arndeker wasn’t a signatory of either category, but he was worried about the movement in the Boeings damaged wing with that last piece of bumpy air.
“One Four Eight, Gun Lead…I’m going to look you over again…don’t go away now, hear?”
“Rog.”
He brought the F-16 back to a position behind and below the airliner, where its slipstream wasn’t going to slap him around. The big tail section loomed above and ahead, as he concentrated on the two wings before him. Updrafts from the ocean were making for a less than smooth ride, he had to jockey to stay in position, but he could only imagine what it must be like for the pilots aboard the Boeing, they had to working like hell to keep trim and hold their course. After three minutes of observation he was certain that what he was looking at was not good news, and changed frequencies on his main RT to one the Boeing would not be monitoring.
“Overview Four Nine, Chain Gang Lead on Local Tactical Two.”
“Go, Chain Gang Lead.”
“I am sat aft of Military One Four Eight, and observing more play in its starboard wing than its port, whenever there is turbulence present.”
“Roger Gun Lead…how m
uch variation are we talking about?”
“Enough for me to feel right uncomfy about being sat just behind.” He edged back on the F-16 throttle, sliding back and to the right before applying power once more.
“Gun Lead, this is Overview.”
“Go ‘View.”
“I think we’ll be in agreement that there is nothing more we can do to help, that we aren’t doing already…28000s AC already intends to favour his starboard side when he puts down.”
Arndeker thought about that, asking himself if he would want to know, if he were driving the Boeing? Yes, of course he would.
“Thanks Overview, I’ll break the news…Gun Lead out.”
The AC aboard the Boeing received the news without any apparent emotion, factoring it in with everything else they had to allow for. They had let down to just below the cloud ceiling and he had previously decided to continue a gradual descent, but now held at their present height. Major Pebanet leant forward in order to crane her head around to look back at the wing, she couldn’t see all of it, but being able to see it wouldn’t help a damn if it failed. As she stared at it the aircraft hit more turbulence, and she winced involuntarily before sitting back upright.
Far below, fishermen aboard a small smack paused to look up as the airliner and fighter flew over, the sound of their passing lasted long after the poor visibility masked them from view, and the work on the nets recommenced.
Lt Col Arndeker sent the remainder of his flight to the RAF station in Northern Ireland, where they would hot refuel and return to resume their CAP, in the meantime the lone F-16 shadowed the VC-25A on its final journey.
West of Wuitterlingen, Germany: Same time.
In the Oust Forest, north of their opponent’s line of march, Captain Nikoli Bordenko gave his men the equivalent of a night off, sentries were still posted, or ‘stagging on’ as the Brits called it, but he sent out no patrols. Once they had carried out a clearance patrol to ensure there were no enemy in the immediate vicinity, his men had hacked out shell scrapes and prepared a meal before getting some sleep. Had he had more men, he would have sent out recce patrols further into the surrounding forest, but he hadn’t, so he did not discover the presence of other soviet troops not much farther away than the clearance patrol had ventured.
The battalion had laagered-up for the night, listening patrols, recce patrols and two fighting patrols laying ambushes, had gone out just after last light. The rest of the battalion was dug in, the infantry in a protective ring about the armour and APCs.
Lt Col Pat Reed was curled up in his green maggot when a signaller crunched through the snow to his shell scrape, summonsing him to the mobile CP. His teeth were chattering as he pushed through the blackouts and into the APCs interior, squinting against the light over the communications gear.
“Bollocks…it’s as cold as a tarts heart out there!”
The Adjutant had the duty watch keepers seat, he moved aside for the CO and handed him a signal’s pad, re-seating himself in the shadows and earning a grumble from an off-duty signaller who was sleeping there. The CO stole the Adjutants coffee without any word of apology, sipping at the hot brew and making a face, as he read the decoded BATCO message.
“Who the bloody hell are ‘Address Group, Quebec Kilo’ when they’re at home, Timothy?” and handed back the mug. He next stole the duty signallers, took a tentative sip and again screwed up his face.
“I do wish you children would forget all that health crap, and start taking sugar in your tea and coffee.”
The Adjutant gave his boss a moment and then answered the question.
“They are forces under direct control of SACUER, sir. In this case its ‘Twenty Two’, or at least the G Squadron part of it…their Sunray should be coming through the perimeter shortly, I sent Sarn’t Higgins from the Defence Platoon to guide him through.” ‘Twenty Two’ or ‘The Regiment’, being the names the SAS are often referred to as.
“Oh Christ…no doubt we’ll be reading about ourselves in some book after the war, in unflattering terms that bear no relation whatsoever to reality, and entitled ‘How the war was won by me…and everyone else was a wanker’.”
The Captain laughed aloud and Pat joined him, the tales of alleged real-life daring-do had done ‘The Regiment’ few favours in the last few years, which was a shame because the good soldiers in its ranks far outnumbered the cowboy/authors.
The adjutant looked at his watch.
“Whoever he is, he’s taking his sweet time.”
“Probably on the phone to his bloody publisher.”
A few minutes later Major Thompson did appear, clearing his weapon outside the FV432 before ducking inside and peeling off his white head-over.
“Good morning sir, Craig Thompson…late of 1st Battalion Welsh Guards.” The Adjutant leant forward into the light. “Hello Craig…cut any good throats lately?”
Major Thompson grinned.
“Timbo…how the devil are you?”
“Let me guess.” Pat said. “You were at school together, or Sandhurst, hmmm?”
“Oh, far more wretched than that sir, he’s my brother-in-law.” Admitted the adjutant.
Lt Col Reed did a theatrical double take, now thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Good lord Major…you don’t mean to say you are the…and I quote, ‘Frightful sheep-shagger who owns half of Gwent’ are you?”
“No sir, I think you must be confusing me with another fraction, I’m the frightful sheep-shagger who owns about a quarter.”
The CO turned to the signaller.
“Be a good chap and rustle up a couple of mugs of coffee will you…four spoons of white death in mine, please.”
The FV432 is a box on tracks that saves walking, is the opinion of the Infantry, and it kept them dry until it threw a track, which was about every ten miles, and usually in the biggest, muddiest, puddle around. However, it had exhausts just big enough to accommodate Compo canned rations, which were held inside with the aid of a long stick until heated, and a water boiler on the inside of the rear hatch. Such luxuries were so few and far between that it was rumoured they were built for the American’s, who rejected them for not being gas guzzley enough. The signaller handed his headset to the CO and set about complying, filling two mugs from the boiler and dumping in the makings from a box that held only packets of powdered coffee, tea bags, sugar and non-dairy whitener.
“I am assuming this is not a social call, Major?”
Craig Thompson reached into his smock and removed his mapcase, from which he withdrew a map of the area they now occupied, and the SACEURs written orders.
“You are aware of the soviet special forces who have been active behind the lines?” He got nods from Pat and the Adjutant.
“The majority are army, but one or two groups are KGB Special Forces. The other night, three such groups joined forces to overrun the USAF airfield that the airborne early warning and JSTARS aircraft operate from. It would seem to have been a pre-planned operation, using deep cover operatives with access to the location. German Intelligence raided several homes after the attack and found in one a notebook with the location of safe houses and supply caches…terribly careless of someone, that.” He opened his map and pointed to the forest that was to their north. “We estimate that there are between fifty and a hundred soviet Special Forces in here, near the centre.”
Pat leant across to peer at the map.
“How do you know that?”
“Piss sniffers sir. The Yanks dropped remote devices in the forest after the notebook was found, they detect the ammonia present in urine.”
“Humph!” The CO was not greatly impressed with gimmicks. “I seem to recall they did the same along the Ho Chi Min trail…not a great success really.”
“Perhaps not, but half an hour before first light an MLRS Battery will drop several loads on the forest, and those of your unit not acting as cut-offs, will sweep through and clear it. I have already spoken to General Allain, and your battalion and attach
ed sub units are now tasked.”
Pat had already read the line in the orders that authorised G Squadrons OC to call on assistance from other units, and it took some clout at such a time as this to collar a whole MLRS battery, however.
“Major, admittedly it is a danger having Special Forces loose in the rear areas, but you know where they are now so why not just flatten the wood and have done with it?”
“Geilenkirchen AFB was not the only raid this trio of groups has carried out, but it is the rape and mutilation of prisoners, female and male during the process of each raid, that has made the good general order that they should be, um…annihilated.”
“Major, whereas I can see SACEURs point of view, I am not…not, going to order my men to kill enemy wounded, or those trying to surrender. A war crimes trial will investigate any allegations SACEUR wants to lay against any prisoners taken.”
Major Thompson frowned momentarily.
“Strange, I heard that your men did exactly that at Leipzig airport.”
“Well you heard wrong!” Leipzig had been a hard fight that followed straight after one where the soviets had killed all the wounded when they overran the Guards position. Some men in his battalion had not given quarter, when perhaps it would have been the case had they not lost mates that way in the first battle. It hadn’t been ordered or encouraged, it had just happened.
“You require my men Major, so you will have them.” Pat looked at his Adjutant. “O Group here in one hour, no move before…0330hrs.” he declared after doing a quick mental, time appreciation.
Chain Gang Lead, off the west coast of Ireland: Same time.
The F-16 was maintaining its position to the right rear of the Boeing and it resumed its descent toward the waves. Updrafts caused the fighter to buck and shake, making its pilot stare worriedly at the airliners damaged wing. Hidden by the darkness over to his right, was the sea Lough that led up to Shannon, the land north of that was County Munster, its northern boundary being the Galway Bay. He looked down to his right, seeing the Loop Head light and knowing the Boeing had only forty miles further to go from this point.