immediate notice at all times. In this context, the word ‘immediate’ means precisely that; the aircraft are fully fuelled, fully armed, and the pilots are pre-briefed and sitting in their cockpits, waiting only for the command to start engines.
The predicted track Colonel Yazov had relayed to Moscow matched that which the PVO had already calculated. Interceptor launch orders had been relayed to the three airfields lying closest to that track – one east of Nar’yan Mar, one south of Salekhard, and the other near Sergino – and operational control of the incident was handed to the Arkhangel’sk District PVO Local Headquarters.
‘Understood. We have control,’ Lieutenant Colonel Kabalin repeated, put the telephone back in its cradle and looked up sharply. ‘Where is it now, Privalov?’ he demanded, sliding his wheeled chair to the right so he could see the screen in front of his chief intercept controller.
The Blackbird had just completed its planned turn to the south-west over Vorkuta. ‘It’s just turned, Colonel. Hostile One’s new track is approximately two four zero degrees true, speed is unchanged at Mach three. Unless it turns again, that will take it—’ the young Lieutenant quickly scanned the display in front of him ‘—across the Bolshezemel’skaya Tundra,’ he finished, with a puzzled frown.
‘Never mind where it’s going,’ Kabalin snapped. ‘Just concentrate on stopping it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Privalov pressed buttons to specify the aircraft types of the six airborne fighters, which automatically input their maximum speeds into the track computer. Then he activated the predict vectors, electronically generated lines which showed an aircraft’s predicted track based upon its current heading and speed. ‘The only aircraft which can get near the American aircraft are the two MiG–29s from Nar’yan Mar, and they can’t reach its level.’
‘No,’ Kabalin agreed, ‘but their missiles can. Privalov,’ Colonel Kabalin ordered, ‘you handle the intercept. Vetrov,’ he called to the second duty intercept controller, ‘issue immediate launch orders for all interceptors we control. Position them at altitude but do not issue intercept vectors.’ Lieutenant Vetrov nodded, pressed a group broadcast button on his console and began speaking into the mouthpiece of his headset. ‘Galkin,’ Kabalin continued, ‘assume control of the four MiG–25s.’
‘Do we recall them?’ Lieutenant Galkin asked.
‘Of course not,’ Kabalin replied sharply. ‘What happens if the American turns again? Keep them in pursuit. In fact,’ he added, ‘order them to chase the American at dash speed, and instruct the lead aircraft to radiate its fire- control radar immediately.’
‘Why, sir?’ Galkin was puzzled.
‘Look at your screen,’ Kabalin said. ‘When he detects the MiG–25 radar, the American might turn away, straight towards the MiG–29s. And Privalov,’ Kabalin added, ‘the orders from Moscow are quite specific. No warning shots, no requests by us for confirmation. Once the MiG–29s have radar lock, they are to engage.’
Simon Erroll, known inevitably to junior Embassy staff as Flynn, looked more like a rugby full-back than a diplomat but proved a good deal more hospitable than William Horne. While he didn’t exactly welcome his unexpected visitor with open arms, he did organize coffee and biscuits while he attended to ‘certain essential matters, old boy. I’m sure you understand’. Richter assured him that he did, and sat and waited. Richter was good at waiting.
Having dealt with the top three files in his in-tray, Erroll gave Richter his undivided attention for the three minutes it took to sketch out exactly what he wanted. ‘No problem. Newman’s body is here, actually – we have a small mortuary in the basement – and the Russians delivered him yesterday. We can go now, if you like.’
In the basement Erroll ushered Richard down an antiseptically white corridor to a pair of slatted wooden doors. He opened the right-hand door, switched on the light, and led the way into a tiny chapel no more than twelve feet by ten, with the whole of one side hidden behind two deep purple curtains. The only decoration was a small silver crucifix on one wall.
‘Hang on a tick, and I’ll get the trolley. Then we can pull him out.’ Erroll pressed a button and with a faint hum the two curtains parted to reveal a floor-to-ceiling mortuary refrigerator and a wheeled trolley. The top of the trolley was fitted with two parallel lines of rollers to carry a mortuary tray. He opened the fridge door, rapidly cranked the trolley up to the height of the single occupied tray, pushed it into place and slid the tray smoothly on to it.
‘Had a holiday job in a mortuary while I was up at Oxford,’ he said cheerfully, as he lowered the trolley to a convenient height and began to undo the safety pins holding the sheet closed over the corpse. ‘Fascinating work,’ he added, ‘if somewhat gruesome.’
He paused before removing the sheet and looked at Richter. ‘Only fair to warn you that he’s not a pretty sight. He was only wearing a lap seat belt and took the impact with his head, so his face is pretty well pulped. That’s the trouble with these cheap bloody Russian cars; they’ve got no padding on the dashboard at all. It’s just bare metal. And then the wreck caught fire, which accounts for the burning of the arms and torso.’
Richter nodded, pulled a notebook out of his pocket, wrote ‘Graham Newman’ at the top of a clean page, added ‘Injuries’ underneath, and underlined all three words.
With something of a flourish, Erroll peeled away the sheet.
Captain Paul James detected the Mikoyan–Gurevich MiG–25 Foxbat at 1053. ‘Fire-control radar – Fox Fire. Full ECM engaged.’
Sophisticated ECM – Electronic Counter-Measures – have to be employed against the Foxbat. Simple jamming doesn’t work because the aircraft’s Fox Fire radar relies upon sheer power – a 600-kilowatt output – and jam-proof vacuum tube technology rather than solid-state electronics.
Frank Roberts pushed the throttles fully open. Speed and height were the only things he could vary. The mission planners had made it very clear that, except as a last resort, the aircraft’s course had to remain exactly as ordered. ‘Where is it?’
‘No contact. OK, contact now. Twenty-five thousand feet below and twenty-seven miles behind. Range is opening. No launch detection, no danger. Ease the speed.’
At 1101, with the Blackbird again holding Mach three and eighty thousand feet, precisely on the planned surveillance route, Paul James detected a more immediate threat. ‘I’m detecting MiG–29 Fulcrum fire-control radar. Two contacts, both green two zero, range forty and indicating fifty thousand feet, climbing slowly and on an intercept heading.’
‘Weapon load?’
‘They’re probably each carrying AA–9 and AA–10 missiles, plus a thirty-millimetre cannon. The missiles are fire-and-forget.’
‘Maximum engage range?’
‘Twenty miles for the AA–9s, ten for the others. Maintain height – the Fulcrums can’t reach us here – but increase speed now to three decimal three.’
The Blackbird surged forward again as Frank Roberts pushed the throttles wide open. Fifteen seconds later the SR–71A systems detected missile launch.
Where it wasn’t black, the corpse was white and waxy, the result of post-mortem hypostasis – the blood draining to the lowest parts of the body after death – and he hadn’t exaggerated the face. There were no discernible features, just a torn and ripped red mess, teeth and bone showing white. Richter extended a hand and touched the skull, feeling the uneven lumps and ridges where the cranium had shattered.
Erroll looked at him quizzically. ‘You’ve seen bodies before, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘I was quite expecting you to keel over. Lots of people do, you know, especially the ones you least expect. I suppose you’ve been in mortuaries before for the identification of clients?’
‘Something like that,’ Richter agreed, writing ‘crushed skull’ in his notebook. ‘Could you remove the rest of the sheet, please – I’d like to see if there are any other injuries.’ Apart from the massive trauma to the head, the body was virtually undamaged by impact. Richter examined the limbs and the trunk, looking for any signs of fracture or dislocation, but with the exception of a broken collarbone and two or perhaps three fractured ribs, he
