Overkill

Arkenko was silent for a moment, then he grasped his friend’s hand tightly. ‘This will work, won’t it, Dmitri?’ he asked.

Trushenko nodded. ‘We haven’t come this far to fail. The Americans can do nothing, and once the last phase is complete we will be able to walk into Europe as if we owned it.’

Hammersmith, London

Amongst the other junk that had accumulated in the bottom non-lockable drawer of Richter’s desk was a dog-eared atlas. It was an elderly and somewhat inaccurate document when it came to statistics, populations and political systems, but it served its purpose well enough. After a brief search Richter found it and dusted off the cover. A rapid flick-through revealed the bulging mass of western Russia. Richter opened the pink file Simpson had given him, and noted down the start and stop points of the Blackbird’s surveillance run.

He scanned the north coast and soon pinpointed Vorkuta, then he found Shenkursk to the south of Arkhangel’sk. With the start and stop positions identified, Richter took a pencil and ruler and drew a straight line between the two. Then he sat and stared at the map.

After a couple of minutes, Richter realized that either he was missing something or he’d drawn the line across the wrong bit, so he re-checked the data from the file, this time using the latitude and longitude figures given. The first line had been a little out, but not enough to make any significant difference. That didn’t make sense, so he rang the Registry and got them to send up the Basic Intelligence Digest (CIS), a remarkably useful document that listed details of every known military or quasi-military installation in the Confederation of Independent States, including those under construction, with maps showing their locations.

When the courier had departed, Richter checked the list attached to the front cover, and noted that the last insertion had been made a matter of ten days previously. Then he opened it up at the map section and carefully compared it with the line he had drawn in the atlas. Then he compared it again.

Ten minutes later, Richter rang for the duty courier and returned the BID (CIS) to the Registry. He sat for a few minutes, looking through the SR–71A file, and staring at the atlas. Then he rang Simpson.

‘Yes?’

‘Richter. I’m coming up.’

‘What for? Have you found something?’

Richter paused. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. Then he put the receiver down and headed for the stairs.

That Simpson was busy Richter inferred from the pile of pink files in front of him, obscuring his view of the cactus forest. Richter sat down and waited for him to finish the sentence he was writing. When the sentence looked like turning into a paragraph he put the atlas and file down on the floor. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said.

‘You’re not,’ Simpson said, continuing to write. He finished the note, closed the file, initialled the front cover and tossed it into his ‘Out’ tray. Then he looked at Richter. ‘I’m busy,’ he said, ‘so make it snappy.’

Richter moved three pink files to one side and force-marched the front rank of cacti two paces backwards. Into the space vacated he placed the atlas, open at the appropriate page.

‘This line,’ he said, ‘is the route followed by the Blackbird. According to the USAFE, anyway.’

Simpson looked up sharply. ‘Why do you say that? Do you think it isn’t?’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t think why they would try and fob us off with a false route structure – JARIC would bowl that out as soon as they got a decent look at the films. But, assuming for the moment that the route is correct, I don’t see why the Americans risked incurring the wrath of Moscow by over-flying that bit of Mother Russia.’

‘Explain.’

‘There’s nothing up there,’ Richter said. ‘It’s just hills and tundra, with a few small towns within camera range, but nothing – assuming that the Basic Intelligence Digest is more or less correct, and it usually is – that is of any military significance whatsoever. And I don’t think it’s a question of risking the wrath of the Russians. There are details in the route notes of a mid-course acceleration to dash speed, and five gets you ten they didn’t do that just to watch the numbers move on the Mach meter. They were being chased by something.’

‘Something that didn’t catch them.’

‘No, but I’m not too surprised at that. The Blackbird was not exactly notorious for hanging about, and the crews weren’t fresh out of flying school either. The only things the Russians have got that can get high enough and go fast enough to catch the ’bird are MiG–25s and MiG–31s, and neither of them can match the Blackbird for sustained high speed.’

Simpson sat silent for a few moments. ‘So?’

‘So I’m curious. As I see it, there are only two possible explanations, assuming that the USAFE Command hasn’t fallen off its collective trolley. First, the aircraft was hopelessly off-route, which I don’t believe.’ Richter paused. ‘What do you know about the Blackbird’s navigation kit?’

‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied, ‘but I assume it’s comprehensive.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. The Blackbird’s principal navigation tool is a computer that permanently tracks fifty-two stars and is accurate enough to guide the SR–71A to any target on earth with an error of under a thousand feet. The aircraft definitely wasn’t off-route.’

‘So what’s the alternative?’

‘The only other explanation is that, somewhere along that line, there’s an installation that the Americans have detected, but which in their infinite wisdom they haven’t seen fit to tell us about.’

Port of Odessa, Chernoye More (Black Sea)

The ten-thousand-ton coaster Anton Kirov had been built twenty years ago to run general cargo through the Mediterranean, and time did not seem to have been kind to her. The ship’s sides were streaked with rust, the superstructure was pitted and discoloured, and she wore an indefinable air of neglect. In most respects, the appearance of the Anton Kirov was an accurate reflection of her condition and usage. The exterior of the ship had been neglected – quite deliberately, because what the ship looked like had no effect upon the vessel’s efficiency. But the engines and equipment were a different matter.

The main engines and generators were serviced and overhauled frequently – usually well before the runtime interval specified by their manufacturers – and all the deck machinery, the winches, windlasses and cranes, were in proper working order. The rationale was simple. Efficient engines minimized the length of time the vessel was at sea and made for efficient passages, while the cranes and winches speeded the loading and unloading of cargo, resulting in a shorter turn-round time in port. That made the Anton Kirov more efficient, and hence more profitable to operate, than most of her contemporaries.

Unusually, the ship was still secured to a loading berth in Odessa’s outer harbour, although the stowage of all her manifested cargo had been completed that morning. All the crew were aboard, but their kitbags and suitcases were stacked neatly on the jetty, and the master, Captain Valeri Nikolaevich Bondarev of the Russian Merchant Marine, a short, stout man with a face reddened by years at sea, was irritably pacing the bridge, waiting.

It was nearly six in the evening before he sighted the grey coach approaching the outer harbour, and he immediately called the engine room and told the chief engineer to prepare to leave harbour. Then he descended to the deck, walked across to the harbour-side guard-rail and watched as the coach drew to a halt beside the ship.

The front and side doors of the vehicle opened and men began to file out. In front of him, his entire crew, with the exception of his chief engineer and the navigator, started walking down the gangway and on to the jetty. They picked up their bags and formed a line near the coach. This was one voyage they were not going to make.

A tall, thin-faced man with short-cropped black hair had been the first to get out of the coach, and stood watching the new arrivals preparing to board. He was wearing a grey civilian overcoat, but there was no mistaking his military bearing. He noticed Bondarev on deck and strode briskly over to the ship, climbed the gangway and walked over to the captain. ‘Captain Bondarev?’ he asked, politely.

‘Yes,’ Bondarev snapped. ‘Who are you?’

The man noted the angry edge to Bondarev’s voice. ‘My name is not important, Captain,’ he said soothingly. ‘I’m very sorry for having to inconvenience you like this, but I have orders from the highest authority.’

Bondarev nodded. ‘Yes, yes, so have I. Just tell me one thing. Have any of your men actually sailed on a