by Andy Farman
Both aircraft broke hard right and Kegin looked over and back to see what was on his tail, he saw nothing.
High above the Belorussians a pair of Russian Mig-31 Foxhounds had them locked-up on their look down-knock down fixed pulse-doppler radars, the sophisticated systems picked out the fast moving targets from the ground clutter and the lead aircraft pickled off a pair of AA-11 Archer missiles.
The Mig-31 is capable of the simultaneous tracking of ten separate targets and can engage any four at once. Despite the criticism levelled at the Russian aerospace industry, they can produce some outstanding airframes and the Foxhound is a case in point, it can act as an airborne control platform in a limited capacity. The Foxhound can control a small-scale air battle in the way an A-50 handles a large one, controlling other aircraft’s guided weapons, steering them by data-link, undetected toward their targets.
Maintenance problems have, for some years dogged the eastern blocs air fleets, especially since the fall of the Soviet Union. Russia lost no fewer than ninety-four dedicated maintenance sites throughout the old Warsaw Pact alliance. Specialist technicians, suppliers and tooling were no longer available to the air fleets; it takes time to rebuild a maintenance infrastructure, especially with a dodgy economy. Loose bolts notwithstanding, the Mig-31 Foxhound was superior in its unique ability to any comparable airframe worldwide, certainly as late as 1998.
The AA-11s now homing on Kegin and his wingman were superior even to the US Sidewinder, far smarter and more manoeuvrable.
The Belorussian Floggers went to afterburner, seeking the fragile security of the western bank, whoever was tracking them was not deterred by their low altitude and the AA-11s ignored the last of the Floggers flares and chaff as their dispenser ran dry.
Kegin jettisoned his empty rocket pods to reduce drag and gain a few more knots, he was considering another hard turn to try to break the approaching missiles lock when the first missile exploded his wingman. It both saved him and doomed his aircraft all in one stroke. The second missile detonated in the flying debris of his wingman, Kegin’s Flogger bucked with the force of the explosion and flamed out. At the altitude he was at, Kegin knew the aircraft was unrecoverable and punched out of the fighter-bomber rather faster than the book recommended for ejections.
Germany, west of the Wesernitz: Same time
When CSM Colin Probert left the battalion CP, he had already got a viable plan worked out. He looked in briefly with the RSM to give him a heads up on another matter before heading back to the QR Fs area.
Oz, Sergeant Steve Osgood, was his chosen 2 i/c and he handed him the warning order for the evenings fighting patrol, which consisted on the personnel involved, dress and equipment, special kit (if any), timings and location of the O Group, plus the ‘no move before’ timings.
Colin shook off his fighting order and sat with his back to a tree, writing in his notebook.
Taking out a map and protractor he worked out the route out, keeping to legs of no more than 700m to prevent navigation errors. He chose the site of the FRV, final rendezvous point, where the fighting patrol would separate into three groups, snatch squad, fire support and the rear protection group which would guard their rear and protect the bergens that would be left there. The route he picked hardly touched any roads, tracks or footpaths once past the river. If Colin had ever needed any lesson’s in avoiding the easy routes it had been given in Ulster, he had watched a man disintegrate mid-way across a cattle grid, having chosen not to climb a barbed wire fence instead. A terrorist had watched and waited before detonating the command detonated device hidden there.
With the route out complete, he then planned the return legs bringing them home. He did not just reverse the route, because had they been seen going out it would be a simple matter to lay an ambush for them on their return.
The return journey’s legs were well clear of the outgoing ones.
His next task was to convert the map bearings to magnetic ones due the variance between the three ‘North’s’, grid, magnetic and true. First he checked the date of the map he was working from, the magnetic poles are gradually shifting and the variance had to be added for the correct compass bearings. These days the forces relied more and more on GPS to do the navigation, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the NAVSATs would start to be knocked down by either side, and he wanted his boys to get into practice with map and compass before then.
With that task finished he took out his ground sheet, spreading it on the ground and moving to the side the patrol would be sitting, he created a model. Undergrowth was tucked underneath to raise it in correspondence with the high ground they would see on the patrol and blades of grass were clumped on top in the shape of woods and copses. Colin used solid fuel tablet’s to represent buildings and from an old tobacco tin in his webbing he produced coloured ribbon, laying out the course of rivers, streams, roads, tracks and paths. Twigs mirrored the fences and hedgerows before finally he added nametags from the tin, marking each leg, RV, FRV and position of the three groups. They had seen much service, those items from the tin, and the nametags were covered in clear Fabulon or ‘sticky back plastic’ to the Blue Peter generation.
He checked his watch, picked up his webbing, rifle and walked 100m to await the patrol members arrival.
When he had taken over the QRF he’d let them all know the way it was going to be. He was a thinking man’s soldier, brought up in the army that had faced the old Red Army across the Iron Curtain and not impressed by the modern way of thinking being spouted by the MOD.
He couldn’t do anything about the US style reorganisation of the infantry platoons organisation, but he could about the way they fought and lived.
“Forget all the bollocks you were fed about the Q Bloke always being there with replen's of ammo, rations and water, whenever you need it.” He’d told them, referring to the quartermasters department.
“There are a lot of blokes over here shooting at a lot more blokes over there. The depots, convoys and trains are going to come under attack and you bunch of Charlie’s are not going to use the rifles on automatic without my say so. Don’t hold yer breath on that one either because I want single aimed shots from the riflemen.”
‘Options for change,’ the innocuous name for a massive reduction in Britain’s armed forces, had gone almost hand in hand with the new weapons and tactics. Someone, probably a politician had thought that the countries enemies wouldn’t notice how small the army now was if the troops fired their weapons more frequently. Anyway, that was Colin’s cynical opinion.
“The same goes for water and rations, never count on a replen, and husband what you have, as you may not get anymore.”
This afternoon the patrol was inspected for loose equipment, anything on them that rattled or reflected the light, and weapons of course. He’d done a full weapon inspection in the morning; part of the daily routine that started with the stand-to before dawn and ended once the sun had risen. Dusk and dawn are favourite times to attack your enemy because the half-light confuses human eyes, makes it harder to distinguish objects or judge distance.
In the British army the dawn stand-to is followed by personal administration, washing and shaving, removing the previous days camm cream and applying new. The soldiers then feed themselves before taking it in turns to strip and clean weapons. The usual rule is two to a trench, one man’s weapons is good to go whilst his oppo cleans his own, that way half are ready to fight whilst the others weapons are reassembled hurriedly if it comes to a ruck.
The morning inspection also took in the comms cord that ran from trench to trench, allowing the silent passing of signals without betraying positions to the enemy. 24 hours’ a day, sleeping or awake, one man per trench would have the cord attached to his wrist. The signalling system was simple, because there was only one signal sent, and that was the rapid tugging on the cord that meant ‘stand-to’. On receipt the message would be passed to the next trench along. All other messages were passed verbally, by NCOs
crawling from trench to trench.
The patrol where informed of their individual tasks and the whole bunch numbered from one to twenty, with Colin being ‘1’ as the commander of the fighting patrol. He designated two navigators, those who would memorise the features of the map and steer the patrol along the compass bearings they marched on. The two pacers he next chose would gauge the distance, human tripometers if you will. He sent them both to walk the 100m he had already measured out, in tactical night fashion, the slow and careful paces known as Ghost walking. They needed to know how many paces they walked per hundred metres. Colin issued them palm sized, thumb operated mechanical counters which they would depress with every pace they took on the patrol and inform the navigators when they had covered the distance for each leg.
The fire support group under Oz had the most kit to carry, two NLAW single shot, 94mm anti-tank weapons would provide their only protection from armour. Two M203 grenade launchers, two LSWs and two gimpys, on permanent loan from the Yeomanry QMs surplus stocks without their knowledge, half-inched by Oz the previous day. Colin would have liked some means of air defence whilst they were out from under the friendly AA umbrella, but their loads heavy enough as it was.
His own snatch squad was armed with SA80s, all they carried as additional kit were nylon ‘plasticuffs’ similar to that electricians used for strapping cables together, and fabric backed black masking tape, to gag and blindfold the prisoner or prisoners.
With the preliminaries sorted out he led them to the model, which he used as a tool whilst giving his orders, the model was the picture that was worth a thousand words and more informative than a map. After each phase had been explained he would pause to ask questions, in confirmation that the information was getting home. Once done, there then came the daylight rehearsal, a walk-thru-talk-thru of how they would move, go into RVs, rendezvous points, divide and reform at the FRV.
‘Action’s On’ is a very important feature of both the O Group, and the rehearsal’s; it covered the expected, the unexpected and the worst-case scenarios.
Colin and Oz were quite vocal at times during the daylight rehearsal, slapping down on bad practice and sloppy fieldcraft before the men were released to eat before returning for a night rehearsal after which they would move out.
Oz joined Colin who had an old ½ pint metal mug resting on two blunt, fire blackened 6” nails over the tiny solid fuel cooker before him. Without asking, Oz dumped the contents of a small tin of stew in on top of whatever Colin had already put in. The rations they were issued were the boil in the bag variety but both had their own small private stock of shop bought food. Oz was just lightening the load of what he would have to carry that night. They shared their food, ate with the same utensils and took turns cooking when they were tactical, it was the buddy-buddy system, not the height of hygiene but it saved on the housework.
As with anything that was done by good soldiers in the field, nothing was left out of their kit that wasn’t in immediate use, everything was stowed away in pouches and the straps done up tight. If you have to move, fight or bug-out in an instant, your kit is already packed and ready to go.
After stirring in some obligatory curry powder, both men produced their ‘racing spoons’, sharpened on one side to replace the need of a knife and they both tucked in, eating from the one mug. Neither man spoke as they ate.
The washing up of the mug was combined with a beverage to wash down the meal, water was splashed into the dirty mug and brought to the boil before powdered coffee, sugar and powdered ‘non-dairy whitener’, the poor man’s ‘Marvel’ were added. The coffee had a delicate bouquet and after taste of curried chicken and beef stew, but it all went down the same way.
Colin knocked out the still burning remnants of solid fuel tablet from the flimsy, folding stove. A splash of coffee quenched the flames and using a twig he hung the stove from a branch to cool rapidly before the fragments of now cooled fuel tablets were scooped into a small bag for reuse at a later date.
With the coffee finished the mug was packed away in Colin’s webbing and the empty tins stamped flat, a turf was lifted and the tins buried beneath it.
The last item on the agenda was personal camm for the patrol, face, neck, ears, throat, hands and wrists as far as mid forearm. The skin got the Brecon treatment, a complete covering of dark, grey brown camm cream to eliminate reflective surfaces. Dark green camm cream was added in patches and streaks to break up the shape. Black elastic about the arms and legs, prevented billowing material brushing against undergrowth and then they were ready to go. Carrying their bergens, webbing fighting order and weapons, they headed for their Warrior APCs and the night rehearsal before the trip to the FLOT, forward line of troops.
Belorussia, near the Dnieper River: Same time.
Despite the artillery and air forces best efforts, tanks took the west bank and APCs using their amphibious capabilities to ford it and fight through the remaining resistance. Forming a bridgehead they prevented direct interference with the engineer and bridging units as they constructed prefabricated ribbon bridges along the front.
The Belarus army had preserved its T-64, T-72 and the few T-80 MBTs in order to contain and counter attack in precisely these circumstances; however they were reliant on friendly air keeping the enemy fighter-bombers and tank killer helicopters of their backs. Their enemy now had total air superiority over the battlefield after their trap had reduced the Belarus air to twenty-seven fixed and thirteen rotary wing combat aircraft, all battle damaged to various extents.
The Belorussians pleaded with NATO for immediate air support to cover their counter attack but NATO had other ideas. NATO prevailed on the Belorussians to delay the counter strike; help was coming but not quite yet.
The enemy forces arrayed against them had the upper hand in MBTs but a fair proportion were the modern T-90s, these were stop-gap tanks, of the same basic design as a T-80 but inferior in quality to that tank, essentially a cheap export model from Russia.
The Belarus generals had no option but to trust NATO and so they watched the enemy and waited.
All natural barriers such as rivers cause traffic jams, the advance slows as the obstacle is negotiated. These can leave assets vulnerable to enemy air and artillery attack, so field police are kept busy organising ‘harbour areas’, where the vehicles and units can be dispersed in relative safety.
The E-8 JSTARS had been watching and plotting the positions of these sites, suspected headquarters, repair shops and artillery gun-lines.
The enemy was not totally unaware of NATOs intelligence gathering abilities; they created AA traps of areas seeded with radar reflectors that had smouldering barrels of petrol soaked earth beside the reflectors, providing an IR signature to go with the radar return. These areas had AAA plotted up nearby to close the traps. In turn the JSTARS intelligence gatherers knew that there was a possibility of such traps being set, it was a mind game of second guessing the other guy and trying to sort the wheat from the chaff.
Major Johar Kegin regained consciousness in considerable discomfort, as he hung from his parachute in the darkness. His left shoulder was causing him a lot of pain and when he ran his right hand over it, it had not felt right, his best guess was that had been dislocated. He had other aches and pains too, certainly some cracked ribs and his neck hurt, probably whiplash.
There was precious little he could achieve from where he now was, suspended in some trees and he could not even see the ground in the dark.
He managed to snap of a twig from a nearby branch of the tree he was hung up in. He dropped it into the dark but could not hear it land, the helmet he wore did not help matters but he was loathe to take it off one handed unless he dropped it, he might need it to prevent further injury getting to the ground.
The only sounds were from the west, high explosives in the distance. He knew which way to go even without looking at his tiny survival compass.
In the escape and evasion lessons he had attended over the years, it had be
en stressed that it was preferable to get on the ground and evade rather than hang from a tree expecting to be rescued. You were more likely to be used for bayonet or target practice as you swung helpless in the breeze. Johar tried to swing himself closer to the bole of the nearest tree, he managed it but could not hold on to it with one arm. There was nothing else for it, he would have to hope the ground below was soft and just drop down.
As he prepared to undo his harness he remember a story about an American pilot in Vietnam, the man had been in a similar predicament and had dropped ten feet onto bamboo which impaled him through the groin. He winced at the thought, squeezing his thighs and buttocks together, he closed his eyes tight and undid the harness.
The silence of the wood was broken by a short, high-pitched scream of shock, then silence returned.
With the virtual destruction of the Belarus air force and NATOs non-return to the battlefields skies, Russia’s A-50 AWAC returned. It was twelve miles further to the rear than before and had six Mig-31 Foxhounds as escort.
The long range jamming over Germany prevented its using its radar to the full but the operators were fairly relaxed. The optimum time for NATO to strike and help the Belorussians had passed, if they hadn’t come back then, they probably wouldn’t come back at all, for now anyway.
Several hours’ before, the USAF 49th Fighter Wing had launched ¾ of its strength from RAF Luchars in Scotland. Major Dewar RM, was walking away from a RAF Hercules, chatting with Flight Lieutenant Michelle Braithwaite and Squadron Leader Stewart Dunn. They had stopped to watch the USAF aircraft lift off into the dusk. “Weird looking things aren’t they?” he’d remarked. As the engine sounds faded, he’d turned to look at the body bags being carried past from the ‘Herc’ and followed them to the transport.