ACV's 1 Operation Black Gold (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

‘Scramble, Scramble!’  The harsh metallic voice crashed through the dispersal hut.  Three men raced through the door towards the concrete bunkers, various pieces of flying gear flapping about their bodies.  Inside the blast-proof bunkers sat two fighter aircraft.  Within minutes, both were racing down the runway.

‘India Sierra one two, Intercept Vector Delta Golf, six bandits inbound at ten thousand feet.’

‘Roger Lima one, moving to intercept, switching to local, out.’ 

Donald Filer tapped a button on his radio and looked over to the bigger version of his own aircraft code named Cobra.  With a top speed of Mach 2, both aircraft had been obsolete before they left the factory.  Anything under Mach 3 these days was considered slow.

‘Deploying hood.’  The voice of Flight engineer Derek Spence filled his ears; he adjusted the volume slightly as he watched the small ridge appear behind the cockpit.

‘Anything yet Derek?’

‘Got them six bandits at ten thousand,’ a warning buzzer sounded in their ears, ‘they are trying to acquire us,’ the buzzer changed to a steady tone.  ‘We have been acquired gentlemen.’

‘George, defensive pattern one prepare for lock up.’

‘Ready Don?’

Don lifted a green flap and pushed down on a yellow button, his H.U.D. turned yellow.  He rested his thumb against a green switch.  ‘I’m ready Derek’

‘Roger three, two, one, lock-up.’

‘Lock up Confirmed,’ both pilots reported.  Derek, or more correctly, his computer, was now flying both aircraft.  They were now flying so close together they would only represent one blip on any radar screen.

‘We have twelve Air to Air, inbound Don.’

‘I see them Derek.  Let’s try defence pattern 5; think that box of tricks will work this time?’

‘Positive, prepare for maximum G turn.  Have good lock on targets, missile deployment on completion of D5 standby 5-4.’  Don took a firm grip of two red-coated handles and gave them a twist, arm restraints came down and held his arms secure.  ‘Three, two, one’

Both aircraft flipped away from one another in a high G manoeuvre, a mile apart they steadied onto even flight again.  Don shook his head to clear the cobwebs. 

‘Wake up Derek, report.’

‘Uh, sorry missiles have separated, seven for us five for you.  Move 2.  Five, four three, two, one.’

Don hated these computerized manoeuvres.  He gripped hard on the red handles fighting the itch to grab the stick; his senses reeled again.  Both aircraft were now heading for imminent disaster, at the last possible moment they executed a half roll and passed, none of the three semi-conscious men had been aware of it.

A sharp twist on the red handles released the pilots’ wrists, and they regained normal control.  Don glanced at his scope.  ‘Derek I want a synchronized release, arm missiles.’

‘Missiles armed.’  Echoed George

‘Weapons free, weapons free.’  Don gave permission to fire.

Derek studied his scope, sweat ran down his ebony skin and pooled round the edges of his sealed oxygen mask.  A light pen in his hand danced between his computer and radar screens.  He now had control over both aircrafts weaponry.  The incoming missiles were about to converge as they followed their respective targets. 

‘This should give them a headache.’  He grinned into his mask depressing a red button under a spring-loaded black and red cover.  Neither fighter had weapon hard points; their bite was stored in their bellies, in revolving drums, eight missiles to a drum.  Six drums in the cobra, four in the sleeker intercept, panels slid back and six missiles from each aircraft were fired down and out of their slipstream, but that wasn’t the only thing on its way.

An electronic pulse, smashed into the converging missiles like a gigantic wave.  Two reared up in a bid to reach the crest.  Another two collided, their exploding propellant claiming a few victims.  The rest, their electronic brains fried, simply fell from the sky.  The electronic wave travelled on as merciless as its liquid cousin, smashing into the following G3 ground attack aircraft.  The cockpits of the grandsons of the famous A10 were wreathed in smoke from shorting circuitry.

‘What the fucks going on back there?’  Demanded the pilot of Red one.

His flight engineer in flinched and jerked his hands away from the sparks that flew from his consoles.  ‘Bastards, they must have something new.  I’ve damn near lost everything back here.’

‘Switch to back up systems.’

‘I did, they’re shot to shit as well.’

‘What have we got left?’

‘Cannons on manual aim and flares.’

‘At least we can still defend ourselves, Red Two what’s your situation?’

‘Same as yours, leader.’

‘Red Three?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Blue section sound off; Blue One?’

‘We’re in the same boat, over.’

‘Blue Two?’

‘The same, over.’

‘Blue Three?’

He was greeted by silence.  ‘Blue Three, respond over; Blue Three.’  An edge was creeping into the leader’s voice.

‘I’ve got something Red Leader; I’m trying to clarify it now, over.’

‘Roger Blue Three; try and make it snappy, over.’

‘Wilco Red Leader.’  The flight engineer in Blue 3 had a circuit board out and was arcing circuits with a spare piece of wire and his metal squadron insignia.  He found the two circuits he wanted and cross-fed the power into them, the results weren’t great, but the vague picture on his radar screen was enough to give a brief warning.  ‘Red One this is Blue Three, we’ve lost all our hardware and have twelve incoming, ten miles out nine, eight, seven, Shit I’ve lost it.’

It was enough.  ‘Break, Break, Break.’  Red One screamed into his mike.  Red section went right, blue left.  Six throttles slammed home in unison, clouds of chaff and burning flares filled the sky in an instant.

Derek was grinning into his mike, ‘All incoming has been defeated enemy detection and acquisition gear in-operative, you can light up your attack computer now Don.’

‘Roger, well done Derek, now let’s see what the nasty’s are up to.’  Don watched the antics of the enemy ground fighters on his radar, then scanned earth and sky; a thin layer of cloud at twenty thousand seemed their best approach.  ‘Let’s get into that cloud George and see if we can get round behind them; I’ll go right you go left.’

‘Roger that Don.’  Braking right and left, both aircraft raced for the cloud cover.

In a race against death both sections broke for the other’s chaff clouds, firing more chaff and flares on the way.  Missiles streaked across the sky in hot pursuit.  One hit a flare and exploded, taking its partner with it.  Others confused flew through the chaff clouds, shut their motors off, and gently glided towards the ground.  Red One banked hard right and a missile flashed past his tail, as it tried to follow he slapped down his air brakes and turned sharply inside it.  His wingman overshot and the missile reacquired him.  He pulled back desperately on the stick but was too late, there was a brilliant flash of light and Red Two began to fall from the sky. 

Red Three successfully decoyed a missile into a flare cluster and raced up to join his leader.  Blue Three never stood a chance, two missiles had locked on to his intermittent radar emissions, there was an almost simultaneous double flash of light, and then he too slid gracefully from the Combat arena.

Blue One and Blue Two split left and right, firing flare clusters.  Blue One cut his engines and threw her into a spin, the desperate manoeuvre worked.  Blue Two panicked and hit his afterburners to get away.  It was a mistake, the last missile receiving such a strong signal homed in, seconds later, he too fell away

Don watched the melee on radar as they passed overhead.  As soon as the three remaining aircraft had resumed their original heading, he gave the order to attack.  They flicked over onto their backs and dived vertically through the clouds, levelling out two thousand feet below their intended targets.  Throttles were slammed forward and the five miles that separated them were quickly eaten away.

‘Three minutes to target.’  Red One’s engineer announced.

‘Red Three, roger.’

‘Blue One, roger, where the hell are they, over?’

‘Red One, keep your eyes peeled on that cloud….’  A ribbon of fire laced across the fuselage of Red Three.  ‘Shit’, he pulled back hard on his stick.  The G3 lanced skywards in a half roll; he pulled the stick backwards and went inverted.  Both his Wingmen were out of it.  The intercept aircraft had peeled off in different directions.

‘There’s the snake on the left boss.’

‘I see him.’  The target was forgotten.  The self-styled mongoose decided to add another cobra to the seven stencilled beneath his cockpit, he kicked his rudder hard over.

‘George, George that last one’s trying to get inside us.’

George threw his head round and a glint of sunlight bounced off the G3’s canopy.  ‘Oh shit Don, that last bastard’s after my balls.’

‘On my way.’

Derek was almost turned backwards in his seat.  ‘He’s almost on us man, you’d better do something!’

‘You just sit back and play with your box of tricks and leave the driving to me.’  George started throwing the cobra around the sky.  The more agile G3 followed easily, gaining with every turn.

Don shoved his throttle home.  The thrust slammed him back in his seat.  Ahead he could see a ripple of fire from the G3 nose cannon and a twinkling of light from the Cobra’s wing tip as he threw himself out of the line of fire.  ‘George when I give the word, bank hard to port.’

‘Be fucking quick about it then, this guy’s good.’

Don lined up on his sister ship; it would be a long shot at maximum deflection.  ‘Get ready George.’

‘Hurry up man.’

‘Now.’  The cobra flashed out of his sights.  Don fired and the G3 ran right into it.  It reared up like a small boy cracked along the back of the legs with a stick.  Don flashed underneath turning quickly, in case he wasn’t too badly damage, but he need not have worried.  Red One was well on his way to joining his comrades. 

‘Reform George, Reform; splash 6 bandits.’  Don grinned into his mask; all three men whooped their delight.  ‘All right lads let’s settle down switching frequencies now.’  Click.  ‘Hello control this is India Sierra one two, all targets engaged and destroyed, no further signs of enemy activity, over.’

‘Control, roger out to you, hello all stations end ex end ex.  Control of all DDA will be returned in five seconds, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1.  Mark all stations DDA, report over.’

‘Red One OK over.’

‘Red Two...’  All the aircraft that were destroyed or damaged during the fight reported in safely.

‘Control, all flights return to base for full exercise debriefs.’

‘Red One, roger out to you, all stations climb to ten thousand and reform on me.’  It took a full five minutes for them all to reform without radar, Don, shepherded in Blue Three last. 

Red One had been watching his birds’ reform, ‘regain formation Blue Three, well done.’

‘Thank you leader.’

Blue Three regained formation and Red One turned his attention to the enemy fighter.  ‘Is that you over there Filer?’

‘Yes sir it’s me.’

‘That’s the third time this year you’ve shot me down.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I believe I now owe you a bottle of Malt Whisky.’

‘Yes sir a bottle of Glenmorangie would go down nicely.’

‘Three times, I must be getting old.’

‘No sir, I’m just getting a little better.’

‘Well done Filer, and your wing man, he put up a good fight.’

‘Thank you sir.’

The combatants separated and returned to their own fields.

CHAPTER 5

When I got off the train at Edinburgh Waverly I was assailed by the smell of hot engines, Eco diesel fuel and then of course the flat damp smell of Edinburgh.  Of all the places I have lived, our fair capital is the place I dislike the most.  I think it’s a cold wet shithole.  Stay there for a few months and the dampness seeps into your bones.  Its only redeeming factor is its natives, if you can find one; they’re friendly and helpful.

The local nightclubs are also noted for their inhospitable attitude towards members of the armed forces.  ‘Sorry, private functional,’ is your normal greeting from the doormen.  So I suppose that didn’t help much.  As for the festival, well if you’re not a little weird, it’s a long cold wet shithole of a posting.  I could only hope this wasn’t going to be a long stay.  Judging by the number of baldy old fat bastards on the station carrying army kit bags I was in the right place.  I joined the melee and shuffled off the platform with the rest into the station.

Now there was a blast from the past, soldiers in working dress were shepherding men towards a triage of tables.  At the back of the station and over to the right of them standing on his own was one very bored looking Company Sergeant Major CSM James Sharp.  I gave the tables with harassed officers and clerks a quick body swerve.  James was studiously tapping away at a cracked piece of slab with the brass end of his pace stick. 

‘Hello James.’  He looked up with an expression of mild surprise.  It took only a second for him to recognise me, it seems I hadn’t changed that much.

‘Jim how are ye doing man?’

‘No bad.’  We shook hands warmly.  ‘You’ve got to watch that James.’  I pointed out his arm holding the pace stick.

‘What?’  He looked a little guilty, thinking I was referring to his casual debasement of public property.

‘A bird’s shit on your arm.’  He looked at the badge of rank sewn to his sleeve and grinned.

‘How long?’  I asked.

‘Oh, couple of years.’

‘Christ man, you’re fair coming up in the world, what next, RSM, officer before ye retire?’

‘Och, don’t know.’  He gave a noncommittal shrug and changed the subject.  ‘You keeping busy?’

It was my turn to shrug.  ‘Aye kind of.’

‘Reporting in?’

‘Aye.’  I looked over at the queuing men.  At the first table, they were quickly getting sent over to another.  I turned back.  ‘Bumped into anyone else yet James?’

He knew instinctively whom I was talking about, and a big grin split his face.  ‘Aye, a few Buff and Ally came in with Nommy, Grizz, Abie and Gigs.  There might be a few others I’ve missed.’

We must have looked stupid standing there grinning like Cheshire cats, but names evoke memories and these names provoked a lot of memories, some good, others hairy, scary and a little crazy.  We talked over these wild times until the queue dropped quite proportionally.

I took my leave of James with the promise of meeting for a few beers some time.  I made my way to the end of the queue.  By the time I reached the front I’d deciphered what was going on.  According to the colour of your reservist booklet, you were sent to one of three tables, Army, Navy, or Air force.  Behind those were more tables, these included for the army command and signals, Supporting arms and services, and of course Infantry.  This didn’t look like a few bodies to put up marquees; this looked more like a general mobilisation.  That knot in my gut got a little tighter.  I soon found myself on board a four tonner; as soon as we pulled away, another took its place.

We arrived at Glencourse barracks and debussed at the gym.  It was full of men.  There was a good amount of chairs, but not enough, most lounged about or sat on their kit bags, drinking tea or eating sandwiches.  I decided it was an emergency and poured myself a cup of army tea.  I picked myself a number from a reel and plonked myself down on my holdall to sit it out.

At the bottom of the hall were a number of clerks sitting behind computer consoles.  At one of them, a heated argument had broken out.  A man in an expensive suit was leaning across the G10 table shouting at an extremely harassed looking Clerk.  With every exchange, his cultured accent slipped away and a grating Glaswegian brogue broke through.  ‘Look here you fucking teuchter.’

The shock of recognition was almost physical.  How many times had I heard that very same phrase, thousands?  Davie Whitton, the one and only, I could hardly believe it.  Without thinking, I walked over to the scene of confrontation, and took stock of the man before me.

‘Fit like Davie?’

He stopped in mid flow; you would think I’d slapped him the way his head snapped round.  He was stunned into silence, but not for long.  ‘That’s a’ I need, another fucking teuchter.’

I burst out laughing and another hand shaking back slapping session started.  The clerk was about to start again, Davie caught it and anger flashed across his face.  It surprised me; he’s one of the most unflappable men I’ve ever known.  He had a talent for making men laugh in the most adverse of conditions.  The last time I saw him this angry was the night he dragged me out of the jungle.  Davie had taken on the role of platoon medic and unlike most had taken the job seriously.  I, despite a daily dose of paludrine, had caught malaria.  My own officer had sent me to the doctor’s twice where I was declared fit for duty. 

A week later, I was watching Davie through a haze of delirium, tell not, ask or plead, but tell a sceptical platoon sergeant that on his own authority as platoon medic he was having me casevaced out.

It must have been a powerful scene, as it’s the only thing I remember from that night.  He got his way and saved my life in the process.  It took days of observation and a blood test to confirm the malaria.  My own fitness had been my own worst enemy in the midst of a raging fever; my pulse and blood pressure still registered normal even though I was dangerously ill.  Another week and I would have been dead.  I owed Davie big time.

I found myself leaning halfway across the desk growling at the clerk.  ‘Shut it.’  As I’ve said before I’m not a pretty sight and I’ve been known to intimidate a lot bigger fellows than this clerk.  I held the stare until his face had turned a decent shade of pale.  ‘So what’s up Davie?’

He gave me one of those ‘you’re not going to believe me either looks,’ folded his arms, shuffled his feet then let me have it.  ‘I’m now the Chief Neurosurgeon at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary.’ 

No wonder he was giving me funny looks.  I’d composed myself into a state of total neutrality.  A trick you learn quickly in the taxi business when you’re listening to people’s personal horror stories.  ‘Go on.’ 

He took a deep breath.  ‘We have a twelve year old lass that came in a couple of weeks ago with a rare type of brain tumour.  She was scheduled for surgery this afternoon but my anaesthetist was officer reserve and got a telegram to report immediately.  He wasn’t the only one about a third of the country’s top surgeons, anaesthetist and radiology experts have also been called up.  I’ve been trying everywhere to get help, but everyone’s in the same boat as me.  So I tried here, to see if I can get him back, and now they’re trying to keep me here.  Nobody will bloody listen to me.’

‘Will it no sort itself out in a couple of days?’

‘She hasn’t got a couple of days Jim.  It’s taken me almost the whole fortnight just to get her stable enough to operate.  I have a small window of opportunity and that’s today, tomorrow could be too late.’  The beautifully manicured hands he’d been gesturing with fell to his sides with a weary slap.

‘Thing is this Davie, are you in a fit state to operate.’  I could see a little of the tension seep out of him, his head came up, some of the worry lines smoothed out.  He was under a tremendous amount of pressure but now someone believed him.  It wasn’t much but it was a start.

‘Aye Jim.’  He nodded.  ‘I’ll be fine, believe me.’

I did, but apart from adding my voice to his own, there wasn’t much I could actually do, or that’s what I thought right up until the clerk swivelled his computer screen round to show me Davies’s stats.  ‘He was a buckshee Jock, not even an officer.’

I stared at the screen and a black fire was kindled in the bowels of my soul.  It had nothing to do with the man’s obvious scorn, or anything to do with Davies’s stats.  It was the layout of the screen itself.  I hadn’t seen that for how long now?

Davie noticed, ‘Jim are you a’ right?’

‘Fine, Davie couldn’t be better.’

I swivelled the screen back to the clerk.  ‘Pull up his file, now.’  My eyes were filled with murderous intent and he visibly blanched.

‘I…I can’t you need a command console.’

‘No you don’t, press the F4 then exit.’  He hesitated for a moment, I leaned half across the desk.  ‘Do it.’

A tremor hit his voice.  ‘Yes sir.’

‘Now go to your numerical keypad and type in 11010111.’

‘11010111.’ His look of fear turned to amazement.  ‘How did-?’

I swivelled the screen back.  There it was, all the evidence I needed.  The bastards at the university had stolen my program.  I forced my anger down, there was more important things to do than wallow in self-pity.  The clerk was looking at both of us a little awed.

‘What’s happening here?’  A small staff sergeant with a Hitler type moustache asked.  The clerk sprang out of his seat and whispered fiercely in his ear.  The chief clerks eyes locked onto the screen and his face danced through a range of emotions.  ‘How did you do this?’  He asked me.

I passed the buck, ‘I didn’t he did.’

‘What, I….’ the clerk stammered.

‘Oh can it,’ I growled, ‘we haven’t got time for this shit a young lassies life hangs in the balance here.  I need an emergency medical call put out.’

‘Flash?’  The Chief Clark asked dubiously.

‘That’s right a Flash.’

‘I can’t do that, I don’t have the authority.’

‘Yes you do.’ 

That caught him flat footed.  ‘Maybe but I still don’t have a command Consol.’

Give yourself a slap James, they couldn’t.  ‘You’re right you can’t but I can.’

He scowled, ‘How?’

‘Get your man to log out and I’ll show you.’

‘You don’t have the authority to use this machine.’

I smiled coldly, ‘If I don’t have the authority then I won’t be able to log on staff and the life of a twelve year old girl is swinging in the balance right now.’

He might have looked a bit like Hitler but his heart was in the right place.  ‘OK, one chance, I’m not going to risk you crashing it.’

It was all I needed.  ‘Log out,’ he told his clerk.  Who did, although he looked uneasy about the whole thing.

I took his place and flexed my fingers.  I hadn’t sat at a computer terminal since I left university.  I logged in using my own binary code.  The picture of a baby in combat’s appeared on screen. 

‘You’ve fucked it,’ stated the clerk.

‘No I haven’t, that’s just my logon logo.’  The screen changed, a list of names became available and the wee fellow retreated up to the top left hand corner.”

‘Oh my god,’ muttered the chief clerk, pulling over a chair.

I took the light pen and started tapping the menus.  ‘Davie I need info.’

He supplied the information I needed; I prepared the flash and sent it.  The questions came at me thick and fast, I answered a few and body swerved others.  ‘Why are you typing in everybody’s details, don’t you have readers?’  I asked the chief clerk.

‘For barcodes, yes.’

I shook my head in dismay.  ‘Do you have one here?’

‘Well, yes but they’re not plugged in.’

‘Go get one.’

While we waited for bureaucracy to swing into motion, I showed them how to get their readers to accept numbers.  The registration process went from ten minutes to two. 

‘Jim something’s happening.’  Davie called.  I sat down again, the chief clerk to; he didn’t want to miss any of this.  The army’s chief surgeon wanted documented evidence, so while Davie danced with rage, I though over the problem.

‘Davie is the lassie’s records on computer.’

‘What, aye of course.’

‘I’ll try a link up.’  I called up a directory typed in Glasgow Royal Infirmary and received a list of numbers.  I highlighted the main computers.  We were connected in seconds; I was worried it might have taken time to catch on to their software.

‘Christ, there’s another one,’ commented the chief clerk.

I was in total shock; another logon logo had joined the first.  I’d never written a program for a hospital so how the hell had this happened.

‘Jim is everything all right?’

I never realised I had my hand in front of my mouth.  ‘Aye, fine Davie.  Here sit down and log on like you normally would, retrieve your data, then gie’s a shout.’ 

I took the chief clerk to the side and grilled him.  I came away with a name.  Microtel, well look out Microtel, because Jimmy’s was now on the hunt.