Pegasus engines running, and both still with telebrief lines connected, so Richter guessed their pilots were getting last-minute instructions from the Operations Room. On the deck in front of them, the Merlin that had served as his personal taxi was shutting down, rotors folding into the fully aft position preparatory to the helicopter being towed over to the starboard side of the deck, close to the island, to clear the carrier’s runway for the Harriers. Meanwhile, right forward, on zero spot just to the right of the ramp, another Merlin was waiting to lift off.
Waiting for him at the bulkhead door in the island – the steel structure containing the bridge, Flyco and other offices on the starboard side of the deck – was a lieutenant wearing 3J rig, a dark blue ‘woolly-pully’ over a white shirt. He led Richter up to Flyco, on the port side rear of the bridge. In fact, Richter knew the way blindfolded, as he’d spent around four years at sea on all three of the CVS carriers when he was a squadron pilot, and on numerous occasions had been required to report to either Commander (Air) or Lieutenant Commander (Flying) and, during Sea Harrier operations, both officers were to be found in Flyco.
‘Mr Richter, sir,’ the lieutenant announced, and a bulky man with a heavy beard, sitting in the right-hand chair, swung round, the three rings on his shoulder epaulettes glinting in the sun. In front of him, the ship’s Lieutenant Commander (Flying) was sitting in another black swivel chair, controlling flight-deck operations.
‘Welcome back, Spook,’ said Roger Black. ‘I wondered if the “Mr Richter” we had been asked to collect from Kunsan would turn out to be you.’
Richter smiled and extended his hand. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Blackie.’ When he’d last seen Black – during a spot of continuation training in the eastern Med that had turned into rather more than the routine two weeks – he’d been Lieutenant Commander (Flying) on board the
‘So what kind of trouble are we in this time?’ Black asked. ‘Whenever you’re around, uncivilized things seem to happen. There were a few bodies lying about on Crete after you left the island, I understand.’
‘They weren’t
‘It seems you know this gentleman?’ a voice interrupted. Black stood up and Richter turned round to face the captain, a tall, slim, fair-haired man with thin lips and a nose that even an ancient Roman might have considered excessively aquiline.
‘Yes, sir, we met on board the
‘Welcome aboard, Mr Richter. I’m Alexander Davidson.’ The captain extended his hand. ‘I gather you’ve some information for us about what’s going on north of the border.’
Richter nodded, with a glance round Flyco before replying. As well as the three senior officers, a naval airman was sitting waiting to execute Little F’s instructions and control the deck lights, and just beyond Flyco, on the left-hand side of the bridge wing, a lookout was standing with binoculars hung around his neck. From past experience Richter knew that rumours spread on warships at almost the speed of light, and what he had to tell the captain now probably shouldn’t be allowed too wide a distribution.
‘Could we perhaps adjourn to the Bridge Mess, Captain?’
Davidson raised his eyebrows slightly, but nodded. He walked back onto the bridge to inform the Officer of the Watch where he’d be, then returned to Flyco and led the way down one deck. Richter and Black followed him into the Mess and the commander slid the door closed.
‘Well, Mr Richter?’
‘I probably don’t know a great deal more than you do because I’ve spent most of the last two days in the air.’
‘Where were you two days ago?’ Black asked.
‘Pretty much in the middle of Russia at a place called Slavgorod North. I was with a GRU general trying to find out who’d stolen about half a squadron of MiG-25 Foxbat interceptors from the Russian Air Force.’
‘And did you?’
‘I think so, yes. We believe Pyongyang coordinated the thefts and that the aircraft are now somewhere in North Korea, probably sitting in hardened shelters close to the DMZ. We also think a theft of around fifty AA-6 Acrid air-to-air missiles from a depot in Dobric, Bulgaria, was orchestrated by the same people. Bolt the Acrids to the under-wing pylons of the Foxbats and you’ve got a very potent weapon system.’
‘Agreed,’ Black observed, ‘but even if the North Koreans have, what, twenty Foxbats loaded for bear, as the Americans would say, that’s still only a tiny number of aircraft in relation to their known air assets. I don’t see why the Foxbats would pose too much of a threat, simply because of the aircraft the South Koreans can operate. So why are you here, and why is everyone so worked up about this business?’
‘I’m here,’ Richter said, ‘because this is where my boss wants me to be, and I don’t have too much say in the matter. But the worry shared by SIS and the Americans is that possession of those Foxbats might encourage the North Koreans to escalate this into a nuclear conflict. And the reason we think that is simple – EMP, electromagnetic pulse.’
Briefly, he explained the design of the MiG-25. Then Davidson asked him almost exactly the same question as Bae Chang-Su had done in Seoul, and Richter gave him virtually the same answer.
‘Are you seriously suggesting the North Koreans will use nuclear weapons?’
‘I really don’t know, but it’s difficult to come up with any other valid reason for them stealing the Foxbats. The aircraft is old – even obsolete – but it’s the only interceptor in the Korean Peninsula that could survive the EMP after a nuclear detonation, and still function. And that’s what’s worrying both London and Washington.’
The Taep’o-dong 2 missile sitting on the launch pad at Ok’pyong had taken the North Koreans almost a year to prepare.
Like its predecessor, the Taep’o-dong 1, its first two stages were liquid-fuelled, but the third stage was powered by a solid-fuel motor. That also contained the payload, and designing that was what had taken the most time. The device sitting at the top of the forty-six-metre-high ballistic missile was special in every way, and designed for a single purpose. As far as the North Korean scientists were aware, it was the first, and quite probably the last, such ‘warhead’ ever constructed.
Alongside the launch pad a servicing gantry had been erected, and white-coated technicians swarmed over it, checking that everything was properly secured and ready for the launch. The final procedure, before the countdown began, was to load the fuel tanks of the first two stages, and for that manoeuvre everybody left the pad apart from the fire crews and a mere handful of other essential personnel.
Four hours later, the Taep’o-dong 2 sat ready. The pad was now deserted apart from the armed guards posted to ensure nobody approached it, and the countdown began in a blast-proof concrete bunker half a mile from the site.
Pak Je-San gazed around the hangar with some small satisfaction. The maintainers had by now got two of the unserviceable Foxbats into flying condition, which was a better result than he’d secretly hoped. He now had seven MiG-25s operational here at T’ae’tan and twenty-two in total, including the aircraft he’d dispersed to the other three airfields.
Even better news was that the forty-eight R-40T missiles his agents had stolen from Dobric had arrived the previous day at the port of Bandar Abbas in Iran, and would be flown from there direct to T’ae’tan. They were scheduled to arrive within hours, before being distributed to the other airfields. That would give them a combined arsenal of over one hundred and sixty missiles and that, Pak Je-San felt confident, was more than enough. If they then ran out of munitions, the war would already be lost.
‘Not exactly a surprise, then?’
‘No, Mr President,’ agreed the Secretary of Defense, walking across the Oval Office and placing a sheaf of papers on the supreme commander’s mahogany desk. He’d just flown back from an emergency session of the United Nations’ Security Council in New York. The President had known the Secretary of Defense for years and trusted his judgement more than almost anyone else in his own administration.
‘What did they say, exactly?’
