Bradley finally managed to pull himself into the vehicle, straightened up and pulled the door shut just as it was about to be sheered off by a rapidly approaching tree. He looked back over his shoulder. The tank crew seemed as if they had given up the chase, although another weapon was aimed in their direction. He saw the muzzle flash and winced. They both heard the crack but didn’t see or hear any evidence of a strike. Both knew from experience that trying to level an assault rifle, steady your breathing and hold the outward breath halfway out as you squeezed the trigger was not as simple as it sounded. After any major exertion, especially running flat out, it made it much harder, particularly trying to zero in on a moving target. It had been their lucky day.
Jacko spun the wheel to the right, the Rover tilting to the left as he took them straight over the double railway line of the spur where they had crossed earlier. He revved the engine as they bounced over the two sets of railway lines, the cab rocking violently as Jacko negotiated the steel tracks and the thick wooden sleepers. There was no time to slow down and take it easy on this return journey. Once across to the other side, Jacko careered left, this time the Rover’s body lurching to the right, and headed for the underpass they had come through earlier. Bradley slipped his seat belt on over his shoulder and chest. He knew they were going to be in for a rough ride. He turned to look back over his left shoulder again, cracking the back of his head on the window as one of the front wheels struck a deep rut, the steering wheel torn from Jacko’s hands.
“Fuck! Sorry about that,” cursed Jacko, but quickly regaining control and getting them back on track.
“Shit! That bloody UAZ 469 is on our tail!” Bradley called out.
Behind them, a trail of dust streaming behind it, Bradley could see the Soviet Army Jeep tearing after them. It was probably more capable than the Range Rover across country, but on the roads there would be no competition. That’s where they needed to get to.
“How far?” yelled Jacko above the growling engine and rattling of the vehicle as they bounced and jolted ever closer to their escape route, not taking his eyes off the ground ahead even for a second.
“About fifty metres, but they’re closing.”
“We’ll have to slow down for the tunnel; either one.”
“Go right, right,” instructed Bradley.
Jacko spotted the concrete opening up ahead and swung left, taking a wide sweep so he could come at the entrance straight on. This gave the UAZ the opportunity to close the gap, just as Jacko nosed the bonnet into the opening.
“Hold on,” he shouted.
Thwack. Screeeeeech.
The Range Rover ploughed through the narrow gap, the wing mirror on Bradley’s side shattering as it struck the concrete wall. The front right wing caught the wall as well, scraping a layer of paint off down to the bare metal. They shot out the other side like a cannon ball out of a gun and Jacko turned hard right, the Rover feeling as if it would topple over at any moment but settling back down as he straightened her up.
The Soviet Jeep was not so lucky. In his desperation to close with the intruders, the driver failed to take a wide enough sweep and approach the entrance full on. His right wing struck the unforgiving concrete wall of the entrance, the forward momentum swinging the back end round, and the left rear struck the opposite wall. The Jeep ground to a halt. The Soviet NCO in the passenger seat cursed the driver for his stupidity.
Jacko turned left onto Shackelster Strasse and built up speed until he was doing in excess of fifty miles an hour. “Clear?”
Bradley looked back again. “Yes, so far anyway.”
Jacko drove down the street for about half a kilometer; still no sign of pursuit. He turned left to go under the continuation of the west-to-east railway line, bringing them onto Grabensprung.
“Where to?”
“Margate Bridge, Jacko.”
“Why there?”
“We need to hide this stuff just in case we get bounced. We can come back for it later.”
Margate Bridge was one of many bridges that crossed over the railway lines that circuited East Berlin. The city was a major rail junction. Beyond Margate, there was ‘the-bridge’ and, beyond that, ‘a-bridge-too far’; places they would hide up by to watch for troop trains either coming into East Berlin or transiting through to go on exercise — or the worst case scenario: a troop build-up for the invasion of West Germany. It would allow them to keep a low profile for a while, well outside the confines of the city.
Jacko maintained a high speed, weaving in and out of the traffic. The word would be out by now, so the MFS and the VOPO — Volkspolitzei, East German Police, would be looking for them.
Bradley picked up the radio handset and puffed into it while he leafed through the code book on his lap. “Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”
A pause.
“Hello, Three-Zero-Alpha, this is Three-Zero-Bravo, over.”
Then, finally, a response. “Three-Zero-Bravo, Three-Zero-Alpha, go ahead, over.”
“Three-Zero-Alpha, X-Ray, Alpha, Delta, Sierra, Golf, Alpha, Delta, over.”
There was another delay as control checked the code.
“Three-Zero-Bravo, confirm X-Ray, Alpha, Delta, Sierra, Golf, Alpha, Delta, over.”
“Confirmed. Will need Prep Three, over.”
“The boss will be skipping around the office.” Jacko laughed.
“Wilco, Three-Zero-Alpha, out.”
“What now?”
“They will get EOD out. We’ll need an explosives specialist to check out our package.”
Jacko looked back into the rear of the vehicle where Bradley had placed his bag containing the ERA block. “It’s not going to bloody go off, is it?”
“No, Jacko, you’re safe. They’ll also send out another unit to collect the bar, as the VOPOs may well be looking out for us. And they’ll keep a watch on Checkpoint Charlie for any unusual activity.”
“You mean prevent us from getting back in?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“So, what now?”
“I don’t know about you, Jacko, but I need a drink. Something strong, but we’ll have to settle for my flask of coffee.”
Chapter 5
“Air Traffic Control Tower, KAL 150. Is there an update on our departure time, over?”
“KAL 150, wait, out.”
The Boeing 747-230B, delivered to the Korean Airlines on 2 January 1973, was now sitting at Departure Gate 15, at the John F Kennedy International Airport. It was 31 August 1983, and flight KAL 150 was waiting to start its journey to Seoul. The passengers waited patiently. Many were seasoned air travellers, perhaps businessmen or women who took delays such as this in their stride. For the ones new to flying, perhaps going on holiday or to visit family, the excitement of the trip countered any feelings of disappointment at the delay. The flight was scheduled to depart at 0350 UTC, Coordinated Universal Time, the old GMT. It was now 0425 on 31 August.
“KAL 150, control tower. Good news, you are cleared for take-off.”
Captain Chen Khan, the pilot and first officer of the flight, responded, “Thank you, tower.”
“Have a good flight. Tower out.”
He turned to his co-pilot, Pilot Officer Choi, and smiled. “At last, but at least the delay means that the Seoul Airport services will be up and running when we arrive. Take her out, will you?”