receding rapidly towards the west.
When the telephone rang on Colonel Kabalin’s desk, he got slowly to his feet and straightened his uniform jacket before he walked over to pick up the receiver.
Chapter Four
Thursday
Normally Frank Roberts was able to keep a reasonable mental picture of the aircraft’s geographical position, but the evasive action and numerous turns, climbs and descents had destroyed it. ‘Paul, I’ve lost the bubble,’ he said. ‘Where in hell are we?’
Paul James turned his attention away from the radar display and made a swift check of the navigation computer. ‘Coastline at Klaipeda in a little under three minutes.’
‘Klaipeda? Where the hell’s that?’
‘North of Kaliningrad – used to be called Konigsberg. We’ve been kicked a long way way south.’ Paul James went back to scanning his instruments. After a moment he spoke again. ‘Boss, we’ve got another problem. We’re losing fuel.’
‘What rate?’
‘Slow but steady – looks like around fifty pounds a minute. My guess is that one of those missile detonations ruptured a plate somewhere on the wings, and that’s popped a tank. You’re getting no handling problems?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll let you know. What are our choices?’
‘I don’t think we can make the tanker.’
‘Which tanker?’
‘Any tanker.’
In reality, the fuel leak had simply compounded the problem. The time spent at full power and the evasions forced on the Blackbird had already driven a major hole through the carefully calculated exit plan. The intention had been to maintain a high-level supersonic cruise westbound down the Gulf of Finland after leaving Russian air- space, across the Gulf of Bothnia, and over Sweden and Norway, before reducing to subsonic speed to link-up with one of two KC–135Q tanker aircraft that were already waiting in holding patterns fifty miles west of Norway’s Atlantic coast.
‘What are our options?’
Paul James was silent a moment or two, consulting the navigation computer again. ‘A rendezvous with either of the tankers isn’t advised. If the leak continues at its present rate we could make it to the southern one, but if we hit any problems with the link-up manoeuvring a flame-out is a real possibility.’ A flame-out, or engine failure, would mean a double ejection and the loss of the aircraft and, more importantly, the loss of the films and sensor records.
‘I’m not happy about a refuel, not with the leak we’ve got. Let’s put it down somewhere.’
‘We haven’t got many alternatives. We could make it to Oslo easily enough, or Bergen, but we’d have to do a lot of fast talking on the ground.’
‘Other options?’
‘Back to Britain, and take a Master Diversion Airfield in Scotland.’
‘Can we make Mildenhall or Lakenheath?’
‘Not advised. They’re right on the limit, according to the navigation computer, and we’d have to go subsonic a lot earlier. Plus there’s a lot of traffic in East Anglia and Air Traffic Control wouldn’t be able to move all of it out of our way.’
‘OK,’ Roberts said. ‘Scotland it is.’
The hotel lunch was notable for its quantity, rather than its quality, but it was hot. After he’d finished, Richter returned to his room and spent ten minutes composing a list in his notebook. The first item he wrote down was ‘insurance policy’ and the last was ‘letters’. Then he carried his bags down to the reception desk, paid the bill and sat down to wait in the lobby.
Just after twelve thirty a black Rover with a familiar crest on the door and red number plates, the badge of a foreign diplomatic car, purred to a halt outside. Erroll climbed out of the rear seat and walked into the lobby. ‘No parking problems,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a driver as well. Here, let me take that one.’ Richter surrendered his suitcase and Erroll walked out to the Rover and put it in the boot. They climbed into the back seat, Richter still clutching his briefcase, and the driver indicated and pulled away from the kerb. Erroll noticed his frequent glances into the rear-view mirrors. ‘Have we got company, George?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. A black ZIL, three up. They picked us up outside the Embassy as usual.’
Richter peered out of the rear window. About a hundred yards behind, a large dark-coloured saloon with at least two people in it was following steadily.
‘We get used to it after a while,’ Erroll said. ‘I don’t suppose you get people following you all the time in your line of work, do you?’
Richter looked at him. Erroll was smiling. ‘No,’ he smiled back. ‘Not all the time.’
Erroll sat back in his seat, then fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Richter opened it, glanced at the copy of the death certificate and put it into his briefcase, where it could keep the accident report company.
The Blackbird stayed at Mach 3 and eighty thousand feet over the southern tip of Sweden and across Denmark as Frank Roberts pointed the aircraft at the east coast of Scotland. Seventy miles out it began to look as if they weren’t going to make it.
‘Boss, the leak’s getting worse. It’s now more like one hundred pounds a minute. I estimate that we’ve got a maximum of twenty minutes up here before it all goes quiet.’
‘OK. Let’s talk to someone. I’ll raise ATC, you tell Mildenhall what’s happened.’
While Paul James opened the secure channel to Mildenhall Operations, Frank Roberts set the aircraft’s secondary radar transponder to squawk Military Emergency and selected Guard frequency on UHF. ‘Pan, Pan, Pan. This is Aspen Three Four with twenty minutes’ fuel remaining. Request diversion to the nearest suitable airfield and a priority landing.’
The Scottish Military Distress and Diversion Cell is part of the Scottish Air Traffic Control Centre (Military) located at Atlantic House, Prestwick, on the west coast of Scotland. The network of direction-finding heads responded to the call from the Blackbird and the Laserscan equipment pinpointed the aircraft’s position on the plotting chart on the wall facing the Cell team. As the assistant guided a laser-produced marker to the indicated location of the aircraft, the duty controller selected the nearest forward radio relay. ‘Roger, Aspen Three Four, Scottish Centre. Steer two eight five for Lossiemouth. Request aircraft type and level.’
‘Two eight five for Aspen Three Four. We’re a military twin-jet, sir.’
‘Roger, Three Four. I say again, what is your level?’ There was a pause. ‘We’re in the upper air, sir.’ The controller’s assistant, who had been using the laser marker to update the position of the aircraft with each transmission it made, spoke. ‘Jesus Christ, will you look at the speed of that thing. Hey, isn’t Aspen a U–2 call sign?’
The controller shook his head. ‘That’s not a U–2, not going that fast.’ He tried again. ‘Three Four, I say again, what is your level, and what is your speed?’ Turning to the assistant, he told him to contact Lossiemouth for an actual diversion and fuel priority landing, aircraft type not specified but fast USAF twin-jet, and to stand by to take operational control.
