0631 hours, 28th April. RAF Marham, Norfolk. Lt. Colonel Hoover looked out forlornly at the wreckage of his B-52J still lying by the side of RAF Marham’s main runway. The aircraft had burned out shortly after coming to a halt on the runway and had been un-ceremonially bulldozed onto the grass by the RAF in an effort to reopen the air station; all that was recognisable now was the nose with its mission markings and the tall tail, the LA still visible.
The attack by the Soviet Mig when it came had been a complete and total surprise. Evidently the ‘Fulcrum’ had been tracking the B-52 cell with its IRIST rather than radar as the first warning Hoover and his crew had gotten was the number three aircraft turning into a fireball that lit up the night’s sky as it was hit by the R-73/AA-11
Archer missile.
Evidently this was the Mig-29’s last missile, as it did not immediately swat the two other Buffs out of the sky, however its single 30mm cannon would probably be enough to get at least one of them.
“Hold on, I’m taking her down!” Hoover warned his crew, as he and the co-pilot put the big bomber into a steep left-hand corkscrew.
The old aircraft had creaked and groaned in protest at this treatment, but held together. However it was not quite enough to escape.
‘BANG!’
The Buff shook violently and turned even tighter to port as a couple of 30mm shells smacked through the port wing to explode in the outer RB211, smashing it to smithereens, two more shells hit the port drop-tank, causing it to explode, taking part of the wingtip with it.
“Fire in one!” The co-pilot yelled as he tried to help Hoover regain control of the aircraft.
“Pull the extinguisher and shut it down!” Hoover shouted back.
His order was rather redundant as by now the remains of the engine had burned through the pylon mounting it to the wing and had begun a wholly separate, albeit short, career. It eventually impacted in northern Jutland where it would be blown up several hours later by a Danish Army EOD team who believed it might be an unexploded bomb.
The Buff was still turning into its damaged port wing when the Mig-29 began a second attack run. This time the pilot was sure that he could not miss; in fact he was so fixated on his target he did not see the RDAF F-16 slip into his six o’clock before it fired a two second burst of 20mm shells that cut the Mig in half.
“We’ve got a friendly back there, Pilot!” The gunner, who had been frantically trying to engage the Mig without success, called out.
“I think he may have saved our bacon, Guns.” Hoover had replied.
Hoover and the Co-pilot finally managed to right the bomber with not a lot of altitude to spare. With that worry gone they began to diagnose what was wrong with the Buff.
It soon became clear that the flying surfaces on the port wing were badly damaged, making it hard to keep the B-52 straight and level, and the number two engine was beginning to overheat, suggesting that perhaps it had been hit by fragments.
“We’re not going to make it back to Lajes by the looks of things.” Hoover declared. “Navigator, I’m going to need an alternate air base with a long enough runway to take a sick Buff.”
“Give me a couple of minutes, Pilot and I’ll give you a few alternatives.” The navigator replied.
A minute later the navigator came back with an answer.
“Based on our current fuel state and heading, I have two alternatives for you, Pilot. Firstly there is RAF Fairford, which has a long runway and we’re used to operating out of, however it’s likely to be swarming with returning Bones from the 28th Bomb Wing. Secondly there is RAF Marham, which has a slightly shorter runway, but has been used for Buff operations in the past; it also has the added advantage of being closer.”
Hoover thought for a second.
“We’re in no state to manoeuvre around a bunch of Bones looking to land.” He said, making his decision. “Navigator, give me a course for Marham.”
The landing when it came had not been as smooth as Hoover and his Co-pilot intended. The bomber had lurched to the left as it touched down and without the port outrigger there was nothing to stop the port wing hitting the tarmac. The aircraft had immediately begun to spin, the damaged port wing snapping off just outboard of the number two engine, spinning through 180 degrees before coming to a rest with its back broken.
A fire caused by leaking fuel ignited by a spark from the damaged electrical system had broken out within seconds of the Buff coming to rest and the crew had made a swift exit as fire and rescue crews raced to the stricken aircraft.
*
“I’m sorry about your aircraft, Colonel.” The Group Captain who was Station Commander of RAF Marham remarked. “But at least your crew made it out.”
“Thank you, Sir, she was a fine jet, but I’d rather have my crew alive.” Hoover replied.
“You’ll be glad to know that your superiors have arranged transport for you back to Lajes.” The RAF officer continued. “A KC-135 on its way back to the States will pick you up at Fairford this afternoon, so you should be back with your squadron pronto.
“I’ve arranged transport to take you over to Fairford when the time comes, but in the meantime you and your crew are more than welcome to use the officer’s mess.”
“Thank you, Sir, that’s very kind. On behalf of my crew I really appreciate your hospitality and efforts on our behalf.”
0640 hours. ‘Controversial film-maker believed dead’ – Reuters. ‘Documentary film-maker Michael Moore, who was on a visit to the Soviet Union as part of the production of his forthcoming film Sicko, which was to examine the US health system, is now believed to be dead. Moore was reported as being missing on 22nd April, shortly before the outbreak of war.
‘Despite repeated enquiries by Moore’s wife via the American Interests section of the Swiss Embassy Soviet officials have so far refused to confirm his whereabouts, or whether he is still alive. This has led to speculation that Moore may have been shot by the KGB, or has been killed in an accident.
‘As part of preparations for his new film Moore had also recently visited Canada, Cuba and Great Britain before travelling to the USSR, against the advice of the US State Department; before leaving Moore was quoted as saying that the day he took advice from the State Department would be ‘the day it started snowing in Hell’.
0653 hours. The Kremlin, Moscow, RSFSR. Marshal Rybakov, Defence Minister of the Soviet Union put on his peaked cap and straightened his tunic, making sure the rows of medal ribbons were straight and in the right order. He was certain that he could justify all of his actions as Defence Minister, yet it seemed that the General Secretary was not of the same opinion.
“Ready!”
Rybakov looked the commander of the detachment of Taman Guards right in the eye. He was not afraid of death and would not flinch, or request a blindfold.
“Aim!”
The Marshal of the Soviet Union drew himself up to his full six-foot stature and pushed out his chest. He would die like a man.
“Fire!”
Ten Kalashnikov rifles crashed out almost simultaneously. Most of the soldiers had never fired at more than a target before, but their aim was straight and true.
Marshal of the Soviet Union Rybakov, former Defence Minister slumped to the ground with ten 5.45mm bullets in his upper body. The detachment commander stepped forward and delivered the
coup de grace with his pistol.
A rather disturbed Marshal Kulikov and a very satisfied General Secretary watched from a short distance away. Kulikov had been an old friend of the late Rybakov and could not help that he was being used as a Judas Goat for wider failings in the Soviet military, however if he objected he too would end up standing in front of a firing-squad.
Conversely the General Secretary was very pleased with himself. He believed that Marshal Rybakov had failed in his duty to the Soviet State and he was not going to worry about formalities like a trial when he knew the marshal was guilty. Instead he would show potential opponents, such as the new Chairman of the KGB, who was also watching the execution, that he was ruthless and not to be trifled with.
“Excuse me, Comrade General Secretary.” The new Chairman said once the proceedings were over. “But I have a matter to bring to your attention. It is regarding the head of the Moscow section of State Security.”
“Go on.” The General Secretary said, an element of suspicion creeping into his voice; it was no secret that they two men had been rivals for the top job.
“After extensive investigations.” The Chairman said without a trace of irony. “It has come to my notice that the head of Moscow section has been guilty of gross indecency and may have endangered state secrets with his ‘liaisons’.”
“You have evidence of this, Comrade Chairman?”
The Chairman handed the General Secretary a folder containing a series of photographs of the head of Moscow section taken covertly. The Chairman was a man of the world, but these images were shocking in the extreme.
“Has the degenerate been arrested?”
“Arrested, tried, found guilty and executed, Comrade General Secretary.” The Chairman confirmed with some pleasure.
The General Secretary decided that he had to hand it to the new Chairman. He had simultaneously eliminated a rival, demonstrated how ruthless he could be and had manoeuvred the General Secretary himself.
“Well, I see I can not fault you for your zeal, Comrade Chairman. However in future I would appreciate being informed of such matters before they reach the stage of execution.”
0701 hours. Outside Katlenburg-Lindau, FRG. Captain Napier could not believe how blind the advancing Soviet motor rifle battalion now advancing towards his Challenger 2 appeared to be. For some reason they had not spotted that the light infantry battalion had been replaced by an armoured battle group.
The Soviets had heavily shelled the former positions of 1 Argylls; Napier had observed a few of the now empty fox-holes and weapons pits take direct hits from 152mm shells; however the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry battle group was in positions slightly to the rear and had not been effected.
Lt Colonel Thompson had come up with a plan which he hoped would not immediately reveal that the Fifes were in position. Until he gave the order only the anti-tank and mortar platoons of the attached infantry were allowed to engage the enemy, hopefully giving the impression that the light infantry battle group was still in place.
Napier continued to watch as Javelin missiles destroyed the occasional T-90, or BMP and mortar rounds exploded on and around the armoured vehicles. Neither were having a significant impact on the rate of advance.
“How much longer is the Old Man going to wait?” Napier heard his gunner, who had a perfect shot on a T-90K lined up, mutter.
“Patience, the Colonel knows what he is doing.” Napier said.
He knew how the gunner felt, however. It was distinctly uncomfortable to be watching so many enemy armoured vehicles heading towards one’s tank.
“All stations, all stations, this is Alpha One Actual.” The radio crackled in Napier’s headset.
“Weapons free, repeat weapons free.” “Gunner, fire!” Napier ordered almost before Lt. Colonel Thompson had finished speaking.
Forty-two Challengers and fourteen Warriors opened fire almost simultaneously, ripping the leading battalion of the Motor Rifle Regiment to pieces. To the commander of the Motor Rifle Regiment the horizon seemed to light up, though he did not have long to appreciate the sight as a 120mm HESH shell hit the turret of his command tank and a fragment of the inner surface of the turret cut him in half.
While his gunner was engaging the T-90K, Napier was already searching for a new target.
“HESH, T-90 on!” He barked.
“On!” The gunner confirmed once the turret swung around onto the new target.
“Loaded!” The loader reported, telling Napier and the gunner that a HESH round was in the breach and that he was safely clear.
“Fire!”
“Lasing now!” The gunner said, the laser making a distinctive whine as it powered up. The tank’s ballistic computer adjusted the position of the gun once the distance was measured. “Firing now!”
‘BOOM!’
The sixty-five tone tank was rocked back on its suspension and Napier’s view of the battlefield was briefly obscured by the dust thrown up by the 120mm rifled gun. When his view cleared again what met Napier’s view was total chaos, dozens of vehicles were on fire, while others seemed to be heading in almost every direction, an indication that command and control had been totally lost.
By now the Fife’s firing had become an almost continuous roar as some tank crews loaded and acquired targets slightly faster than others. The Soviets had been caught completely unawares; they could not see their tormentors and those that might have brought order out of chaos were dead.
*
“Yes, Sir we’re cutting them to pieces.” Lt Colonel Thompson said over the radio link to brigade H.Q. “It seems they didn’t notice that we had replaced the Argylls. Over.”
“That’s good news, John, well done.” The brigadier replied.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, however. The Belgians have formed a new line on the west bank of the Leine River; the Septic brigade and the Frog division are also forming up as part of that line. I’m afraid our orders are to pull back to Beverungen and blow the bridges behind us.
“Our initial engagement here seems to have rocked the Soviets back on their heels, so we should have time to pull back unhindered. Over.” Thompson was speechless for a moment; it had been his battle group that had spilled blood to capture the bridges at Beverungen intact when Spetsnaz had threatened to blow them up. It was not completely unexpected, but it was still a blow.
“Very good, Sir. As soon as we’ve finished our current engagement I’ll make preparations to pull my lads back. Over.”
0710 hours. RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire. Captain Rebecca Fulton, Canadian Forces, had been somewhat surprised to be ordered to take her crew and CC-177 Globemaster III to the RAF Station, best known as the main hub of British aerial tanker operations and the home to the RAF’s own Globemaster fleet.
For most of the war the CC-177s of 429 Transport Squadron had been involved in flying heavy, priority cargo to Canadian troops in Germany, though they had also assisted in the move of the Canadian Airborne Regiment to Zealand.
[1] Now the squadron’s CC-130s and CC-177s were being concentrated for an as yet un-revealed operation.
Fulton’s Globemaster was guided to a distant dispersal, finally parking nearby an RAF Globemaster C.1 which was being loaded with pallets. Fulton and her co-pilot shut down the four Pratt & Whitney engines and turned off the transport aircraft’s electrical system.
“Wonder what they want us here for?” The co-pilot commented, giving voice to what all three crew members had been thinking.
“Damned if I know, Paul.” Fulton replied.
*
Ten minutes later the assembled crews of several aircraft were sitting in a large auditorium.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” A Colonel from Land Force Command and the front of the room said. “You are no doubt wondering why you have been pulled from your normal duties to this rendezvous. I don’t know how much information you know about the situation on the Danish island of Zealand, so let me bring up this situation map.”
There were murmurs amongst the fliers as they took in the symbols denoting the NATO and Warsaw Pact ground units and the red line showing where the front-line was.
“This little symbol here.” The Colonel said pointing at the map. “Is the Canadian Airborne Regiment and as you can see they and a pretty large slice of NATO forces on Zealand are pretty much cut off.
“The Danes have decided that as soon as it is practical many of their troops who are cut-off will disperse into the countryside to act as guerrillas; however a decision has been taken at a high level that an effort must be made to extract our troops if at all possible, and this is where you come in.”
“Christ, it’s a suicide mission.” Fulton muttered.
The Colonel looked up from his notes and right at Fulton.
“You have something you wish to add, Captain?”
“Ah, yes, Sir. I am a bit concerned about potential landing sites and interference from the enemy.”
“Several landing sites have been identified; some of them airfields, but most are strips of road which are suitable for use by both Globemaster and Hercules. We will have the support of one of our own Hornet squadrons from 1st Air Division, plus British, German and Danish fighters.
“I’m not saying that it is going to be easy, but we will do our best to protect you.”
0721 hours. South of Bin Ghashir, Libya. ‘WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!’
The 130mm shells fired by the Libyan M-46 field guns threw up dust and clods of earth, showering the M-8 Bufords of 2nd Tank Platoon, E Troop, 2nd Squadron, 10th Armored Cavalry Regiment (Light) with shell fragments. Fortunately as the crews were ‘buttoned-up’ no damage was done, apart from scratches to the paintwork and the odd severed radio aerial.
The Libyan’s aim was not all that good, but it had still forced the lighter armoured Humvees of 1st Scout Platoon to pull back out of range until. To counter the threat 2nd Squadron had deployed its own artillery battery, which was equipped with 8 of the M142 High Mobility Artillery Rocket System (HIMARS) launch vehicles. Until the Libyan guns were dealt with the Buford crews would need to stay ‘buttoned-up’.
2nd Squadron had been given the tasking of probing towards Tripoli International Airport, which was just outside of the town of Bin Ghashir, thirty-four kilometres south of the capital. Capturing the airport was a major objective for the US forces as it would be a very useful asset for flying in further reinforcements.
While 2nd Squadron was leading the advance of 3rd Brigade, 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) towards the airport 3rd Squadron was supporting a drive by 2nd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division to the west of the city. The 2nd Brigade of the division, supported by the 3rd Battalion, 73rd Armor Regiment, also equipped with the M8, was driving to the east of Tripoli as it strove to link up with the NATO marines.
*
Lieutenant Craig Robb was less than happy at being this exposed. Who knew what was concealed behind this Libyan artillery barrage, perhaps a company of T-72s, or T-62s? Either would be powerful enough to do serious damage to his platoon of Bufords; never mind them a company of T-55s, or even EE-9 Cascavel armoured cars were a threat to the relatively lightly armoured AGS.
He was probably not the only one in the regiment that was worried that those in command were employing the regiment as if it were equipped with Abrams and Bradleys rather than Bufords and Humvees. While the majority of the Libyan Army’s armour was in the east of the country trying to stem the Egyptian invasion there was bound to be some in reserve protecting the capital.
Suddenly the barrage stopped as if someone had thrown a switch, the HIMARS equipped battery had proven very effective. However out of the smoke and dust Robb spotted something moving about, through the thermal sight he could see that it was a pair of BDRM-2 scout cars.
“Gunner, target scout car! Load HEAT!” He yelled.
“Identified!”
The gunner selected a HEAT round and while the autoloader was ramming the round into the breech of the M35 105mm gun, he lased the leading BDRM-2.
“Fire!” Robb ordered.
“On the way!”
‘WHAM!’
The HEAT shell made short work of the lightly armoured BDRM-2 and Robb was already lining his site up on the second vehicle before the autoloader had finished spitting out the base of the cartridge. However one of the other Bufords had beaten him to the punch and the scout car was already a mass of flames.
With the Libyan artillery eliminated it was now safe for the Humvees of 1st Scout Troop to move forward again, meaning the advance could commence again.
“Okay, Billy-Bob, time to move forward again.” Robb told the driver. “Just take it easy, this ain’t the NASCAR.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”
Feeling it was safe enough Robb opened the commander’s hatch, letting some of the cordite fumes out of the vehicle. Climbing onto his seat he surveyed the ground ahead through a pair of binoculars, he could just make out the airport ahead where there were several buildings on fire and also what looked like the burning carcases of several airliners.
“We’re nearly there, boys!” He told his crew exultantly.
‘WHANG!’
0733 hours. RAF Scampton, Lincolnshire. The black and yellow Griffin HT.1 helicopter approached the air station at low level.
[2] As it got closer a couple of Hawk T.2s providing point defence to the station dove down from their CAP position just to verify that the helicopter was indeed the one that was expected and not a potential hostile.
Air Chief Marshal Johnson craned his neck to watch the two Hawks climb back to altitude once they had made a couple of passes above the helicopter.
“Good to see they’re on their toes.” He commented.
“I’m glad they recognised us, Sir.” Flight Lieutenant Jackson commented. “Be a shame to be shot down by our own side.”
*
RAF Scampton was perhaps best known as being the air station from which 617 Squadron had taken off to perform ‘Operation Chastise’, the famous ‘Dambusters Raid’ and for being the home of the ‘Red Arrows’. Now it was being used as a dispersal base for Strike Command assets from 1, 11 and 38 Groups, as well as having to house a squadron of USAF F-15Es.
*
As the helicopter touched down on one of the station’s dispersal sites a black and white Dominie T.1 took off, heading off for a short-range maritime patrol mission over the North Sea. The Dominie was unarmed, but several Soviet submarines had been sunk because they had been spotted by the trainer, which would direct and available ASW helicopters, or warships to prosecute anything they came across.
“Good morning, Sir, welcome to Scampton.” The Station Commander said, saluting, once Johnson and his ADC had gotten out of the helicopter.
“It’s nice to get out occasionally, Brian.” CINCUKAIR replied. “Now I take it this is the officer you wanted me to meet?”
“Yes, Sir, this is Wing Commander McQuade.”
Johnson noticed that McQuade was perhaps a little old for a Wing Commander, though the wings marked him out as a pilot, and that his uniform was of a slightly older cut, though he noticed that the rank rings on the cuff were new, indicating that McQuade had recently been promoted. These were both signs of a retired officer called back to the service by Queen’s Order Two.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sir.” McQuade said. “Group Captain Sands said it was probably best I put my proposal to you directly than have it get lost between here and High Wycombe.”
“Okay, I’m happy to listen.” Johnson replied. “But I think somewhere a little less draughty than the flight-line would be in order.”
*
“So Wing Commander.” Johnson said in the comfort of the Station Commander’s office. “What is this proposal you want to put to me?”
“Well, Sir, it runs something like this…”
***
[1] See
here for a history of 429 Transport Squadron.
[2] The official RAF Scampton website can be found
here.
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