The Alouette dropped out of the darkening sky and settled on to a concrete hardstanding to the north of the main runway at Reims airport. The ground marshaller dropped his light wands into the ‘park’ position – in a cross below his waist – and the pilot commenced the shutdown sequence. As the clattering of the rotors died away, Richter unstrapped and climbed out. A figure standing beside the marshaller walked over to him. ‘Mr Beatty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Squadron Leader Reilly, 9 Squadron. I believe I’m your driver.’ They walked over to a small building adjacent to a hangar and entered. Inside, another RAF officer was waiting. ‘Flight Lieutenant Peter Marnane, my navigator.’
‘Beatty,’ Richter said.
Reilly pointed to a set of flying clothing draped over a chair. ‘We were given your measurements, so hopefully that lot should fit,’ he said. ‘While you’re dressing, a few questions.’
Richter took off his jacket, and there was a noticeable pause as the RAF officers saw the Smith and Wesson in the shoulder rig. Richter took it off and undid his tie. ‘Fire away.’
‘Have you flown in a fast jet before?’ Reilly asked.
‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘I’m ex-Navy and a qualified Sea Harrier pilot, and I’ve also flown Jet Provosts, Hawks, Jaguars and a MiG–29 Fulcrum.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Marnane.
Richter grinned at him. ‘I was joking about the Fulcrum,’ he said. Richter pulled on the long underwear and long-sleeve pullover, then climbed into the g-suit, designed to keep the supply of blood to the brain as constant as possible during high-energy manoeuvres, while Reilly went through a pre-flight safety briefing. The life-saving jacket was an unusual design with sleeves to accommodate the arm restraints Tornado crews wear to protect them if they have to eject at high speeds. Finally he put on the helmet and gloves.
‘Before we go out to the Tornado,’ Reilly said, ‘I have to remind you that it is a two-crewman aircraft, and isn’t designed to accommodate a pilot plus a passenger. I know you’re a qualified pilot, but not on the Tornado, and there will be some operations that you will have to carry out for me. Obviously I will talk you through them, but Peter has prepared a kind of idiot’s guide to the switches and controls for you.’
‘OK.’
‘Finally, I am aware that you carry substantial authority, otherwise I’d be tucked up cosily at home in Lincolnshire instead of standing in an unventilated hut in the middle of France. But I must emphasize that I am the aircraft captain, and all decisions relating to the safety of the aircraft are mine. You must obey any and all orders I give without question, unless of course you don’t understand them.’
‘Agreed,’ Richter said.
Reilly smiled. ‘And if I say “eject”, and you say “pardon”—’
‘I know,’ Richter finished it for him, ‘I’ll be talking to myself.’
The Panavia Tornado GR–1 was parked on the adjacent hardstanding. Marnane clambered up the steps positioned against the port side of the aircraft and leant into the rear cockpit. ‘He’s switching on the Inertial Navigation System and warming up the radar,’ Reilly said, then walked round the aircraft carrying out external pre-flight checks.
Marnane helped Richter get into the rear seat, which was easier than he had expected. Strapping into the Martin-Baker Mark 10 ejection seat was slightly non-standard. First, the personal survival pack, which actually forms the seat cushion, was attached to a lanyard on the life-saving jacket, and then Marnane fastened the negative-g, lap and shoulder straps. Then he attached the leg restraints which hold the legs firmly against the seat in the event of an ejection and fastened the arm restraints to the life-saving jacket. Finally, Richter put on the helmet, plugged the communications lead into the intercom system and attached the oxygen mask.
Reilly was already sitting in the front cockpit, and as soon as Marnane tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up sign, he called on the intercom. ‘Ready, Mr Beatty?’
‘Ready,’ Richter said.
‘Your mobile is switched off and your weapon and other equipment are stowed?’
‘Yes,’ Richter replied. ‘They’re in the storage compartment.’
‘OK. Closing the canopy.’ Richter heard the whine as the electric motor drove the canopy down into the closed position, and Reilly talked briefly – and in French, Richter noted – to the ground crew, who were linked to the aircraft’s intercom, and started the starboard engine, then the port. ‘You’ll feel some bumps and shudders now,’ Reilly said on the intercom. ‘I’m running the BITE program.’
‘What’s that?’ Richter asked.
‘It’s a computer-driven pre-flight check which exercises all the flight control surfaces in sequence, plus the intake control system,’ he replied. ‘Once it’s finished, the aircraft lets us know if it wants to fly or not.’
‘Really?’ Richter said. ‘Let’s hope it’s in a good mood.’
Reilly chuckled. ‘OK,’ he said, a couple of minutes or so later. ‘Systems check complete, we’re ready to roll. Remove your pins, please.’
As briefed by Peter Marnane, Richter extracted one safety pin from the ejection seat, arming it, and another from the MDC – miniature-detonating cord. This is a single filament cord which runs longitudinally down the centre of the canopy. In the event of an ejection, the cord detonates and blows a hole in the canopy to permit the ejection seat to pass through it.
‘Normally the navigator would input start position data into the navigation computer,’ Reilly said, ‘but Peter has already done that, and it really doesn’t matter much anyway, as Gibraltar’s a bit too big to miss.’
As the Tornado moved along the taxiway, Richter looked at the two screens in front of him. The one on the right was showing a track display, while the left exhibited a plan view of the intended route of the aircraft. At the end of the runway Reilly stopped the aircraft while he waited for take-off clearance, then turned the aircraft on to the runway and lined up. He ran the engines up to maximum cold power, holding the Tornado on the toe brakes, then engaged full afterburner and simultaneously released the brakes.
Just over ten seconds later, as the airspeed indicator reached one hundred and forty-five knots, Reilly rotated the aircraft ten degrees nose-up and they climbed away. Within another few seconds the Tornado’s speed had built sufficiently to allow him to disengage the afterburners, and the noise level dropped considerably. At three thousand feet he levelled out, turned the aircraft south, and instructed Richter to select three one seven decimal six megahertz on the UHF radio box beside his right thigh.
‘I’ll be off intercom for a couple of minutes,’ Reilly said. ‘I have to talk to Mazout Radar to advise them we’re now en route for Gibraltar and to get clearance to climb.’ A couple of minutes later the intercom crackled. ‘Back with you,’ he said. ‘We’re going up.’ The aircraft’s nose pitched higher and they continued the climb to twenty- three thousand feet and increased speed to five hundred knots, heading south in the deepening night.
Construction of the Cheyenne Mountain base began in 1958, following the launch of Sputnik by the Russians, but the base did not become operational until 1966. Workmen used a million pounds weight of explosives and removed nearly seven hundred thousand tons of granite to create the four-and-a-half-acre site. The entrance is located about seven thousand feet above sea level, and leads into a tunnel fourteen hundred feet long. The tunnel cuts a curved path through the granite, and is designed to let the pressure wave from a nuclear detonation traverse its length. More or less in the centre of the tunnel, and parallel to the direction of any blast, are two immense steel doors, each over three feet thick and weighing twenty-five tons, fifty feet apart and set into concrete pillars. Behind these doors lies the NORAD complex; fifteen steel buildings, interconnected by steel walkways, and each resting on huge steel springs designed to resist the effects of shock waves. The complex is effectively self-contained. Electric power is provided by six diesel generators with fuel supplies for about thirty days. Drinking water, food and sleeping accommodation are all available on site.
On a normal day, Cheyenne Mountain is occupied by about eight hundred staff. When Brigadier-General Wayne Harmon had assumed the watch at two that afternoon, the staff tally list showed that twelve hundred and forty-three people were in the complex, either on duty or waiting to relieve duty staff. Harmon heard the murmured conversations of Air Force officers of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, and the
