The helicopter swung down above the trees, the gale of its rotors stripping the remaining leaves from the thin twisted branches, ruffling Studley’s clothing and hair. He was pulled to his feet and almost thrown into the aircraft. There was a guard close to him, the man announcing his presence by pressing the cold muzzle of a rifle against Studley’s neck. The feeling of lift was brief before the machine levelled out above the trees and swung across the plain. The flight lasted less than ten minutes.
His blindfold was removed when he had been half-dragged some fifty meters from the helicopter. Its engine roared; he felt the wind of its take-off and heard it slip into the distance. He was inside a rough canvas tent, its square shape disguised by camouflage netting. Three radio operators were sitting beside their equipment, one speaking rapidly in Russian. A number of officers were bent over maps on a long wooden table in the centre of the tent, and clerks and infantrymen were busy around them. They ignored him for sever & minutes; the guard, a thick-set man in brown combat clothing, rigidly at attention by his side.
Eventually, one of the officers straightened himself, stared at James Studley and walked towards him. The guard saluted and handed over a mall cloth-wrapped bundle. The officer tipped its contents on to a narrow desk, and Studley recognized his own belongings and identity papers. The officer examined them for a long time in silence, referring frequently to notes on a clipboard beside him.
Studley knew the man’s uniform, dark green with gold and olive epaulets; a captain of the Soviet Army Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU.
‘You are a lieutenant colonel in the 4th Armoured Division of the 1st British Corps,’ said the captain. His English was good, too good to have been learnt only in the USSR. The man must have had embassy experience.
‘I am Lieutenant Colonel James Studley, and my number is 457590…’
The captain interrupted him. ‘Colonel, you have been watching too many war movies. I know what you consider to be your rights. I am also aware of your name, rank and military identification number. I know also you are commanding officer of a battle group which you have named Cowdray, and that your group consisted of part of the Kings Hussars, a company of mechanized infantry, self-propelled guns and missile launchers. I say consisted, Colonel, because regretfully it no longer exists. It has been wiped out.’ He paused to allow Studley to digest his words. ‘We have also destroyed your field headquarters.’
Studley said, ‘I would like to join my officers.’
‘I doubt if that is the truth, Colonel. There were no survivors.’
So Max must be dead after all, thought Studley. It seemed impossible.
The captain continued. ‘Colonel, like yourself I am a professional soldier. You and I do not make wars, we only fight them at the command of our politicians. We realize you were under orders, and naturally you obeyed them; that is good… it is how a soldier should behave.’
Studley felt himself swaying, his vision was blurring.
‘Colonel you must excuse me… of course, you have been injured; it is always a shock to the nervous system.’ The captain shouted in Russian and a chair was placed at Studley’s side. ‘Please sit down. I will make sure you have medical attention as soon as possible. And now…’ The captain picked up the clipboard from the table. ‘Colonel James Studley, born in Hastings Cottage Hospital, Sussex, 16 June, 1941. Mother, Margaret Elizabeth Studley. Father, James Howard Studley, veterinary surgeon, formerly a captain in the British Army Veterinary Corps and awarded the Military Cross in action in Italy, in 1944. Quite unusual for a veterinary officer, Colonel! You were educated at Winchester, and then accepted in to the British my in August 1959… I have quite a lot here on your military career. Very successful, Colonel…’
Studley felt the rare chill of fear. He had been aware of the depth of Soviet intelligence, but this was frightening; the ability to pull such detailed knowledge out of the computer files so quickly. His capture must have been reported by radio within minutes and the request for all information on his background sent immediately to some distant central military computer.
The GRU captain read his thoughts. ‘You are naturally a little surprised, Colonel.’ The man smiled without humour. ‘I would like to claim we had such information on every NATO officer, but of course you would realize this could not be so. We are satisfied with confining our efforts to those in senior positions of command, Colonel. After all, such knowledge is part of the skill of modem computerized warfare. Know the man and perhaps you know something of the manner in which he will fight. And, Colonel, much of our information is easy to find; your army has a habit of cataloguing most things… promotions, postings… and much of a man’s history can be learnt through your public records offices. The more personal things? They are… tricks of our trade.’ The captain turned a few more sheets of paper. ‘Your medical record… appendicitis in 1981…’ he glanced at Studley. ‘Fully recovered by now, I hope, Colonel? Unmarried… you have lost both your parents, see… sad… and you maintain your parents’ house in Winchelsea. Tidbits, Colonel, just tidbits that enlarge our knowledge of our opponents. Here, for instance: 1980… September… a military exercise, Crusader ‘80… one of your biggest for some time, I believe. When it ended, you went back to Britain on leave, Colonel. But not alone. I see you were accompanied by a lady who was also returning to Britain. A Mrs Jane Fairly. There is a note here that she is the wife of another officer serving with your regiment, a major… of course there is nothing unusual about people travelling together… it is sensible, economical when you are both travelling in the same direction. Also economical that you spent a night in the same hotel and the same mom, in Amsterdam. And then shared a cabin on the overnight ferry.’ The captain was suddenly apologetic. ‘No, Colonel, please be calm. I am suggesting nothing… such things are of no importance to me. What possible use is such information to me, when you are here and they are there?’ He pointed to a wall of the tent as though it were a frontier.
‘Colonel, it will not be long before we require large numbers of skilled administrators… there will be much work for us all, and it will be easier for everyone if we work together. This is not a territorial war where the victor will oppress the vanquished. This is a war of liberation. It is our desire to establish lasting friendship with our British comrades once the existing corrupt system has been removed. The sooner this terrible business is ended, the fewer lives will be lost and life can return to normality once again. We should work together towards this end.’ He spoke confidentially, his eyes meeting those of Studley. ‘I don’t want an immediate answer. Think it over for an hour. Here…’ He passed Studley a typewritten sheet. ‘These questions… simple ones. Relatively unimportant. Read them in private. You can help me with them later. Afterwards, I’ll arrange for you to see one of our doctors. Then you can wash… I can find you a change of clothing… and a good meal, eh, Colonel.’ He signalled one of the guards near the tent door, and Studley was led outside. There were several BMPs parked beneath camouflage netting at the side of a broad woodland clearing. A pair of MAZ-543 cargo carriers with their huge bodies towering above him, were standing only a few meters away, while at the side of the tent was a truck mounted with a tall radio relay pylon with dish aerials.