“That I can’t divulge. To be truthful, I’m not even sure I know the actual number myself. They will feed us with information for as long as they are able.”
“We also need to be on the lookout for their opposite numbers,” added the Brigade Major. “I can guarantee you there will be more Spetsnaz activity before the day is out.”
“Right, gentlemen. Any more questions, save them for your CO or OC. It’s time you got back to your units.”
“’Shun,” called the Brigade Major.
“Take a walk with me, Lawrence,” instructed the Brigadier.
The group of officers moved aside; then stood to attention to allow their Brigade and Regimental Commander to pass. Once their seniors had left the tent, they too exited and headed back to their various units, Land-Rovers and Ferret scout cars providing the transport. They left feeling confident, but knew they were about to face the biggest battle of their lives.
Chapter 8
The Royal Air Force Nimrod taxied towards the runway, its four Rolls-Royce turbofan engines whining, impatient to go to full power and launch the aircraft into the skies above.
“Whiskey five, on taxiway two-one.”
“Runway approach is clear.”
The pilot turned to his co-pilot. “This will be a flexible thrust, navigate Vector one-one-two, rotate one-three-five.”
“Roger.”
The white lines down the centre of the runway became visible to the pilot as he peered through the cockpit window, the aircraft swinging left onto the levelled strip of tarmac along which the Nimrod would take off and land. On instruction from the pilot, the co-pilot pushed the throttles forward, the four thrust dials moving to show 100 per cent as the engines powered up. On reaching full power, the brakes were released, and the thrust of the four engines pushed the aircraft faster and faster down the runway, the white lines flashing by rapidly beneath the plane as it accelerated down the runway. Once speed was at the optimum, the pilot pulled back gently on the stick, and the heavy plane started to climb, its wheels parting from the tarmac.
“Control, airborne.”
The pilot slanted his head towards the co-pilot. “Wheels up.”
“Gear up,” he acknowledged.
The aircraft banked left, straightened up, then climbed higher and higher, passing through the cloud layer above them, heading for its patrol station. The radar and electronic networks on board, its airborne-early-warning system, scanned the skies ahead and about them, looking for both friend and foe alike. The higher they climbed, the greater the volume of data being fed into the systems computers onboard. Although not without its problems during the development stage, the Nimrod AEW3 was more than able to fulfil the role it was intended for: watching the skies for any Warsaw Pact air force intrusion into British airspace. Soviet air force TU-95s had already attacked British air force bases, airborne-early-warning sites and naval bases along the east coast of the country. The Tupolev, TU-95, NATO codename Bear, could carry conventional weaponry, or the AN602 Tsar Bomba, the largest and most powerful nuclear bomb ever detonated. The current ones were fifty megatons, derated from 100 megatons available in the sixties. It was the AEW3’s task to spot Soviet squadrons of bombers, and their accompanying fighters, heading for the British coastline, or picked up swinging around behind the continent and attacking the mass of reinforcements steadily pouring into Germany, Holland and Belgium. If seen, they could vector in British RAF fighters to seek and destroy them before they could jettison their deadly cargoes. Attack after attack had been made on the Island of Iceland from the air, and only the presence of both British and American nuclear submarines were preventing the Soviets taking the Island from the sea. Capturing the island would give them a forward airbase and allow their fighters to command the airways, providing protection for their bombers as they targeted the British mainland, or even the convoys moving troops and supplies across the Atlantic Ocean.
“Captain, comms. Routine navigation. We have our waypoint. Steer two-nine-zero.”
“Roger.”
The radar operator, sitting in the rear of the plane, hunched over his consul and peered at the circular radar screen, the light from it bathing his face with a green tint. He watched as a set of bright green digits lit up.
“Captain, radar. I have a contact. Zero-three-zero, thirty-eight miles.”
“Roger, radar. How does that information compare with ground radar?”
The radar operator adjusted the white cloth-covered headphones of his headset and spoke into the boom mike that curved around the left of his face ending up in front of his mouth.
“Captain, radar. It ties in. I have taken the bearing on the contact. Do you accept my steer?”
“Roger.”
The captain turned to his co-pilot. “It will be on our starboard beam.”
“Captain, radar. It is a large target, probably a Bear.”
“Roger. Has an intercept been launched?”
“They’re going up now.”
“Leuchers, launch two Phantoms. Mission number two-eight. Vector zero-three-zero. Climb three-four-zero. Call Buchan as stab two-one. X-ray-zero-two-zero-four. Scramble. Scramble. Scramble.”
The two pilots and their respective navigators raced out of the dispersal room, their green flight helmets swinging in their right hands as they ran at speed towards the aircraft waiting patiently on the runway apron. Light glinted off the clear plastic map-pockets, just above the knee of their green flight suits. Half a dozen ground crew, plonks, raced behind and alongside them, white ear defenders clamped to their heads, ready to be pulled down to protect their eardrums from the noise of the Phantoms’ engines once they had been started. A couple of the ground crew split off and headed for the power supply, disconnecting the power lines from beneath both aircraft, while others removed the yellow caps off the two Sidewinder missiles, suspended from wing pylons, and the four Sparrow missiles situated in the fuselage recesses. The pilot and navigator of the nearest Phantom FG.1 scaled the two short metal ladders, hung from the sides of the dual cockpit, and clambered inside: the pilot to the front, navigator to the rear. They shifted and adjusted their positions until comfortable. Each had been followed by a member of the ground crew, who helped them to strap in and carry out any final instructions given. Once complete, the ladders were unhooked and removed, and the twin Rolls-Royce Spey turbofan engines were started. The Phantom Interceptors were now ready on the starting blocks. Two squadrons of Phantoms, thirty-two aircraft in total, were based at RAF Leuchers on the Scottish east coast. These two aircraft were part of the Quick Reaction Alert, the QRA, ready to defend Britain from attack.
Systems on, weapons locked. The lead pilot signalled with a twist of his hand that they were ready to roll, and his perspex cockpit lowered electronically, sealing him in his domain. They both cast their eyes over the controls and dials, ready to move. A member of the ground crew dragged the yellow blocks from in front of the aircraft’s wheels, leaving it free to move forward. The pilots of both aircraft powered their engines bringing them up to eighty per cent power, and the two Phantoms, now alongside each other, steadily gained speed, the ground crew ensuring their ear defenders were on correctly as the noise from the four engines steadily increased. An RAF corporal, indicating with two paddles, bringing them both to his shoulders, beckoned the aircraft forward, then changed his action to a sweep of his left-hand paddle down and to the right, letting the pilot know he could sweep left and make his way towards the runway.