James Barrington - Overkill

‘I’ve never heard of that happening,’ Horne snapped.

Nor had Richter, until he’d said it, but he nodded solemnly. ‘I would also like to inspect the vehicle in which Mr Newman was travelling at the time of his death, and I would like access to his office and his apartment.’

‘Why do you need to visit his office and apartment?’ Horne asked.

‘Nothing to do with the insurance claim,’ Richter said smoothly. ‘As I said, my company has been asked by Mr Newman’s family to collect some small items of a personal nature which they would like returned in advance of the bulk of his effects. That’s all.’

‘It is most inconvenient, but I suppose we have little choice in the matter.’

Richter refrained from pointing out exactly how little choice Horne really had and stood up. Horne climbed to his feet, glanced disparagingly at Richter’s rumpled clothing and extended a professionally limp hand. Richter shook it and looked enquiringly at him. ‘See Erroll. Third door on the right. He will make the necessary arrangements.’

Aspen Three Four

‘We’re being illuminated – I’m getting intermittent detection of low Hen House lobes, probably from Pechora.’

‘Roger,’ Major Frank Roberts acknowledged briefly, and again checked his flight and engine instruments. Fifteen miles high and travelling at three times the speed of sound, it was almost entirely silent in the cockpit of the SR–71A Blackbird, the rolling thunder of its two massive engines left far behind. A little over six minutes passed; the Blackbird flew two hundred miles closer to Russian airspace.

‘Thirty-centimetre radar,’ Paul James, the Reconnaissance Systems Officer, reported.

‘OK. Keep it quiet as long as you can.’

Four minutes and one hundred and thirty miles later they couldn’t keep it quiet any longer. ‘Another thirty-centimetre. And I’m getting two ten-centimetre radars and faint unclassified missile fire control radar. They obviously know we’re here. Jamming ten- and thirty-centimetre bands.’

‘Yup. The question is, have they got anything around here that can catch us?’

‘I hope not. Approaching target area. Stand by starboard turn. Turn starboard now, steady heading two three zero. Cameras and sensors now activated.’

The reconnaissance cameras and radiation detectors started working as the aircraft passed over Vorkuta at 1049, and began to cross the Bolshezemel’skaya Tundra. They would continue to operate until Shenkursk, on the river Vaga south-east of Arkhangel’sk, provided nothing happened to stop them.

Voyska IA-PVO Unit, Arkhangel’sk, Confederation of Independent States

Russia possesses the largest and most comprehensive air defence network in the world. Its Radar Surveillance Intercept Unit organization covers the entire frontier of the huge Confederation of Independent States and comprises literally thousands of air defence radars and surface-to-air missile sites. The colonel at Pechora had been quick to deduce the type of the unknown aircraft, but the IA-PVO Headquarters in Moscow already knew about the intruder when he got through on the direct line. Two of the northern border radars of the RSIU had simultaneously detected the Blackbird at around two hundred and eighty miles north of Amderma. Of course, detecting it and stopping it were two entirely different matters.

Standard operating procedures call for a minimum of two interceptors to be available at every PVO base at 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.’

British Embassy, Sofiyskaya naberezhnaya 14, Moscow

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.