“I’m impressed One Four Eight… it’s a real shame they retired the Blackbirds.” He had to touch the rudder pedal to ease away a fraction, as a particularly rough patch of turbulence caught the aircraft. Between 30,000 and the cloud ceiling at 6000
Wings move, they are supposed to, but for the uneducated/nervous flier it can be a worrying sight. Lt Col Arndeker wasn’t a signatory of either category, but he was worried about the movement in the Boeings damaged wing with that last piece of bumpy air.
“One Four Eight, Gun Lead… I’m going to look you over again… don’t go away now, hear?”
“Rog.”
He brought the F-16 back to a position behind and below the airliner, where its slipstream wasn’t going to slap him around. The big tail section loomed above and ahead, as he concentrated on the two wings before him. Updrafts from the ocean were making for a less than smooth ride, he had to jockey to stay in position, but he could only imagine what it must be like for the pilots aboard the Boeing, they had to working like hell to keep trim and hold their course. After three minutes of observation he was certain that what he was looking at was not good news, and changed frequencies on his main RT to one the Boeing would not be monitoring.
“Overview Four Nine, Chain Gang Lead on Local Tactical Two.”
“Go, Chain Gang Lead.”
“I am sat aft of Military One Four Eight, and observing more play in its starboard wing than its port, whenever there is turbulence present.”
“Roger Gun Lead… how much variation are we talking about?”
“Enough for me to feel right uncomfy about being sat just behind.” He edged back on the F-16 throttle, sliding back and to the right before applying power once more.
“Gun Lead, this is Overview.”
“Go ‘View.”
“I think we’ll be in agreement that there is nothing more we can do to help, that we aren’t doing already… 28000s AC already intends to favour his starboard side when he puts down.”
Arndeker thought about that, asking himself if he would want to know, if he were driving the Boeing? Yes, of course he would.
“Thanks Overview, I’ll break the news… Gun Lead out.”
The AC aboard the Boeing received the news without any apparent emotion, factoring it in with everything else they had to allow for. They had let down to just below the cloud ceiling and he had previously decided to continue a gradual descent, but now held at their present height. Major Pebanet leant forward in order to crane her head around to look back at the wing, she couldn’t see all of it, but being able to see it wouldn’t help a damn if it failed. As she stared at it the aircraft hit more turbulence, and she winced involuntarily before sitting back upright.
Far below, fishermen aboard a small smack paused to look up as the airliner and fighter flew over, the sound of their passing lasted long after the poor visibility masked them from view, and the work on the nets recommenced.
Lt Col Arndeker sent the remainder of his flight to the RAF station in Northern Ireland, where they would hot refuel and return to resume their CAP, in the meantime the lone F-16 shadowed the VC-25A on its final journey.
In the Oust Forest, north of their opponent’s line of march, Captain Nikoli Bordenko gave his men the equivalent of a night off, sentries were still posted, or ‘stagging on’ as the Brits called it, but he sent out no patrols. Once they had carried out a clearance patrol to ensure there were no enemy in the immediate vicinity, his men had hacked out shell scrapes and prepared a meal before getting some sleep. Had he had more men, he would have sent out recce patrols further into the surrounding forest, but he hadn’t, so he did not discover the presence of other soviet troops not much farther away than the clearance patrol had ventured.
The battalion had laagered-up for the night, listening patrols, recce patrols and two fighting patrols laying ambushes, had gone out just after last light. The rest of the battalion was dug in, the infantry in a protective ring about the armour and APCs.
Lt Col Pat Reed was curled up in his green maggot when a signaller crunched through the snow to his shell scrape, summonsing him to the mobile CP. His teeth were chattering as he pushed through the blackouts and into the APCs interior, squinting against the light over the communications gear.
“Bollocks… it’s as cold as a tarts heart out there!”
The Adjutant had the duty watch keepers seat, he moved aside for the CO and handed him a signal’s pad, re-seating himself in the shadows and earning a grumble from an off-duty signaller who was sleeping there. The CO stole the Adjutants coffee without any word of apology, sipping at the hot brew and making a face, as he read the decoded BATCO message.
“Who the bloody hell are ‘Address Group, Quebec Kilo’ when they’re at home, Timothy?” and handed back the mug. He next stole the duty signallers, took a tentative sip and again screwed up his face.
“I do wish you children would forget all that health crap, and start taking sugar in your tea and coffee.”
The Adjutant gave his boss a moment and then answered the question.
“They are forces under direct control of SACUER, sir. In this case its ‘Twenty Two’, or at least the G Squadron part of it… their Sunray should be coming through the perimeter shortly, I sent Sarn’t Higgins from the Defence Platoon to guide him through.” ‘Twenty Two’ or ‘The Regiment’, being the names the SAS are often referred to as.
“Oh Christ… no doubt we’ll be reading about ourselves in some book after the war, in unflattering terms that bear no relation whatsoever to reality, and entitled ‘How the war was won by me… and everyone else was a wanker’.”
The Captain laughed aloud and Pat joined him, the tales of alleged real-life daring-do had done ‘The Regiment’ few favours in the last few years, which was a shame because the good soldiers in its ranks far outnumbered the cowboy/authors.
The adjutant looked at his watch.
“Whoever he is, he’s taking his sweet time.”
“Probably on the phone to his bloody publisher.”
A few minutes later Major Thompson did appear, clearing his weapon outside the FV432 before ducking inside and peeling off his white head-over.
“Good morning sir, Craig Thompson… late of 1st Battalion Welsh Guards.” The Adjutant leant forward into the light. “Hello Craig… cut any good throats lately?”
Major Thompson grinned.
“Timbo… how the devil are you?”
“Let me guess.” Pat said. “You were at school together, or Sandhurst, hmmm?”
“Oh, far more wretched than that sir, he’s my brother-in-law.” Admitted the adjutant.
Lt Col Reed did a theatrical double take, now thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Good lord Major… you don’t mean to say you are the… and I quote, ‘Frightful sheep-shagger who owns half of Gwent’ are you?”
“No sir, I think you must be confusing me with another fraction, I’m the frightful sheep-shagger who owns about a quarter.”
The CO turned to the signaller.
“Be a good chap and rustle up a couple of mugs of coffee will you… four spoons of white death in mine, please.”
The FV432 is a box on tracks that saves walking, is the opinion of the Infantry, and it kept them dry until it threw a track, which was about every ten miles, and usually in the biggest, muddiest, puddle around. However, it had exhausts just big enough to accommodate Compo canned rations, which were held inside with the aid of a long stick until heated, and a water boiler on the inside of the rear hatch. Such luxuries were so few and far between that it was rumoured they were built for the American’s, who rejected them for not being gas guzzley enough. The signaller handed his headset to the CO and set about complying, filling two mugs from the boiler and dumping in the makings from a box that held only packets of powdered coffee, tea bags, sugar and non-dairy whitener.