Overkill pr-1 Read online

  William Horne, First Secretary to Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador to Russia and the Commonwealth of Independent States, looked across his polished oak desk, then back to the letter of introduction he had been given some fifteen minutes earlier. Horne was tall and thin, and a well-preserved fifty-five. A career diplomat, with a fastidious approach to life and total dedication to his work, he was expecting an ambassadorial appointment the following year. He was keen to ensure the smooth running of the Embassy, and he didn’t like uninvited visitors poking their noses into things that were none of their concern. The man Willis, he was sure, was trouble of some kind – he had a quality of stillness and menace that Horne found quite unnerving – but he couldn’t think of a valid reason for having him thrown out. His instinct, however, was perfectly correct.

  The man calling himself Willis, whose real name was Paul Richter, knew absolutely nothing about insurance and cared less. He sat patiently, saying nothing, and looking at Horne with disinterest. Richter was conscious of his somewhat crumpled clothing, the result of hasty packing and a long flight in economy class, which Horne’s professional elegance threw into sharp contrast. Richter had never been concerned with appearances – his or anyone else’s – and Horne’s immaculate suit and mirror-polished shoes amused, rather than impressed, him. While serving as an officer in the Royal Navy, Richter had once, and with a certain amount of truth, been described as looking like a badly packed parachute.

  Horne removed rimless spectacles from his large and slightly hooked nose and absent-mindedly began polishing the lenses with a spotless white handkerchief. Replacing the glasses, he looked across the desk again and pursed his thin lips. ‘It is most irregular. There was none of this fuss when the Second Secretary passed away last year – although, of course, he hadn’t been involved in a road accident.’

  ‘He also wasn’t insured with my company, sir. We pride ourselves on being as thorough as possible in any case involving accidental death on foreign soil. Unfortunately, there are other companies that take their responsibilities a good deal less seriously.’ Richter leaned forward, and assumed what he hoped looked like the expression adopted by an insurance company representative scenting a sale. ‘If you are interested, I—’

  ‘No thank you, Mr Willis. All my needs in that regard are already satisfied.’ Horne looked at the letter again, then at Richter. ‘Very well. What exactly do you want us to do?’

  Richter smiled. ‘Thank you. I would like sight of Mr Newman’s body – not for identification, as that will have to be done formally by his next-of-kin in Britain – but simply to confirm that the injuries as stated on the death certificate issued by the Russian doctor are consistent with those on the body.’ Richter leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. ‘It is not unknown, Secretary Horne, for some Russian doctors to issue a death certificate without ever seeing the body to which it relates, simply to “oblige” the authorities.’

  ‘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 c
an 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.

  ‘Hang on a tick, and I’ll get the trolley. Then we can pull him out.’ Erroll pressed a button and with a faint hum the two curtains parted to reveal a floor-to-ceiling mortuary refrigerator and a wheeled trolley. The top of the trolley was fitted with two parallel lines of rollers to carry a mortuary tray. He opened the fridge door, rapidly cranked the trolley up to the height of the single occupied tray, pushed it into place and slid the tray smoothly on to it.

  ‘Had a holiday job in a mortuary while I was up at Oxford,’ he said cheerfully, as he lowered the trolley to a convenient height and began to undo the safety pins holding the sheet closed over the corpse. ‘Fascinating work,’ he added, ‘if somewhat gruesome.’

  He paused before removing the sheet and looked at Richter. ‘Only fair to warn you that he’s not a pretty sight. He was only wearing a lap seat belt and took the impact with his head, so his face is pretty well pulped. That’s the trouble with these cheap bloody Russian cars; they’ve got no padding on the dashboard at all. It’s just bare metal. And then the wreck caught fire, which accounts for the burning of the arms and torso.’

  Richter nodded, pulled a notebook out of his pocket, wrote ‘Graham Newman’ at the top of a clean page, added ‘Injuries’ underneath, and underlined all three words.

  With something of a flourish, Erroll peeled away the sheet.

  Aspen Three Four

  Captain Paul James detected the Mikoyan–Gurevich MiG–25 Foxbat at 1053. ‘Fire-control radar – Fox Fire. Full ECM engaged.’

  Sophisticated ECM – Electronic Counter-Measures – have to be employed against the Foxbat. Simple jamming doesn’t work because the aircraft’s Fox Fire radar relies upon sheer power – a 600-kilowatt output – and jam-proof vacuum tube technology rather than solid-state electronics.

  Frank Roberts pushed the throttles fully open. Speed and height were the only things he could vary. The mission planners had made it very clear that, except as a last resort, the aircraft’s course had to remain exactly as ordered. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘No contact. OK, contact now. Twenty-five thousand feet below and twenty-seven miles behind. Range is opening. No launch detection, no danger. Ease the speed.’

  At 1101, with the Blackbird again holding Mach three and eighty thousand feet, precisely on the planned surveillance route, Paul James detected a more immediate threat. ‘I’m detecting MiG–29 Fulcrum fire-control radar. Two contacts, both green two zero, range forty and indicating fifty thousand feet, climbing slowly and on an intercept heading.’

  ‘Weapon load?’

  ‘They’re probably each carrying AA–9 and AA–10 missiles, plus a thirty-millimetre cannon. The missiles are fire-and-forget.’

  ‘Maximum engage range?’

  ‘Twenty miles for the AA–9s, ten for the others. Maintain height – the Fulcrums can’t reach us here – but increase speed now to three decimal three.’

  The Blackbird surged forward again as Frank Roberts pushed the throttles wide open. Fifteen seconds later the SR–71A systems detected missile launch.

  British Embassy, Sofiyskaya naberezhnaya 14, Moscow

  Where it wasn’t black, the corpse was white and waxy, the result of post-mortem hypostasis – the blood draining to the lowest parts of the body after death – and he hadn’t exaggerated the face. There were no discernible features, just a torn and ripped red mess, teeth and bone showing white. Richter extended a hand and touched the skull, feeling the uneven lumps and ridges where the cranium had shattered.

  Erroll looked at him quizzically. ‘You’ve seen bodies before, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘I was quite expecting you to keel over. Lots of people do, you know, especially the ones you least expect. I suppose you’ve been in mortuaries before for the identification of clients?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Richter agreed, writing ‘crushed skull’ in his notebook. ‘Could you remove the rest of the sheet, please – I’d like to see if there are any other injuries.’ Apart from the massive trauma to the head, the body was virtually undamaged by impact. Richter examined the limbs and the trunk, looking for any signs of fracture or dislocation, but with the exception of a broken collarbone and two or perhaps three fractured ribs, he found nothing else to write down in his notebook. The fire had made a mess of the hands, blackening and twisting them into clutching claws, but had caused surprisingly little damage, other than superficial charring, to the rest of the body. He lingered for a few minutes over the corpse, and jotted some more brief notes into his book, but for all practical purposes he had finished the examination long before. The injuries were almost precisely what Richter had expected to find. More importantly, he hadn’t found the one thing he was looking for.

  Aspen Three Four

  ‘Birds away – four launches detected, almost simultaneous. Probably the AA–9s. Interceptors at sixty-five thousand feet and range twenty.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Jamming and ECM engaged. Missile range fifteen – intercept course confirmed on three. One falling away – probably lost radar lock.’ Twenty seconds passed. ‘Second missile falling away. Remaining two still have radar lock. Engaging the target generator.’

  Radar works by transmitting a pulse towards an aircraft and then receiving the return signal that has bounced off it. The direction from which the return signal arrives gives the bearing of the target, and the time between transmission of the pulse and receipt of the return signal provides the aircraft’s range. Range and bearing locate a target precisely, for engagement by a missile or interception by fighter aircraft.

  The Sanders Associates’ AN/ALQ–100
false target generator is designed to confuse air defence radars by providing a return signal to the radar at exactly the right frequency, but at a much higher strength. This effectively obliterates the real return signal and generates a false target some distance away from the aircraft using it.

  Paul James used the Blackbird’s Enhanced Radar Warning Receiver to detect the precise radar frequency being used by each of the two approaching AA–9 missiles, fed that data into the AN/ALQ–100, and engaged the system. Then he waited.

  ‘SITREP?’ The slight note of tension in Roberts’ voice was the only indication of the strain he was under.

  ‘OK. Radar lock lost by both missiles. They’ve each locked on to the false targets, and they should detonate in under a minute, about ten miles astern. Interceptors now out of effective range. Reduce to Mach three in thirty seconds.’

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

  ‘The interception was unsuccessful, Colonel,’ Privalov said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Interceptor One reported that two missiles lost radar lock, and the other two detonated, but well behind the target,’ he elaborated. ‘Possibly the Americans used decoys.’

  ‘Where are the other interceptors?’ Kabalin asked Vetrov, turning away from Privalov.

  ‘We have six pairs airborne, holding at altitude and awaiting intercept vectors. I have positioned them to try to box the American in.’ Vetrov pointed to the screen, indicating the positions of the fighters which had been scrambled. ‘Here, sir, at Murmansk, Kirov, Gor’kiy, two pairs north of Moscow, and a pair of MiG–31s north of Minsk.’