Because of the white flag the Hornet’s returned to double check, one sat up in a cover position whilst the other repeated the low pass.
The Hornet was only 60’ above the waves when the Strella blew its tail section off and it immediately nosed into the ocean at 500mph, neither pilot nor RIO had a chance to eject.
“Sonofabitch!” swore the E-2C’s operator when the F/A-18F’s track disappeared from his screen two seconds after the covering Super Hornets’ pilot had shouted
“Missile launch!” over the air to his buddies.
Hampered by his dislocated elbow and broken fingers, the Svedlursk’s captain fell the last six feet down the ladder. Air was expelled from her ballast tanks in plumes as she began to dive. Her casing was below the surface when a Harpoon slammed into her forward of her sail, penetrating her outer hull before exploding.
A few minutes later to the east of where the missile boat died, the lookouts of the crippled Pidonirk were keeping a sharp watch for NATO ships, white sheets had been hung over the side of the sail so that there could be no mistaking their intention to surrender. They caught a brief glimpse of exhaust fumes before the surviving Super Hornet’s second Harpoon killed them too, without the aircraft getting a visual, not that it would have made a difference even if it had.
A silent alarm had alerted Pc Stokes to the approach of others, and the small TV screen showed two men and women walking up the path to the front door of the rented house in Scotland.
Stokes knew both men but not the women; however Scott had telephoned earlier to inform them that they were bringing over the crew of the aircraft that would be involved in an operation with the Russians whom they were guarding.
He called out over his shoulder toward the kitchen before striding to the front door and opening it for the guests. Stokes and his partner Pc Pell both wore hand knitted Aran sweaters that Svetlana and Constantine had bought them during a shopping trip to Edinburgh to buy food for tonight’s meal and augment their tiny wardrobes.
Since landing in the forest clearing with Scott Tafler they had been assigned the job of CP, close protection on the couple.
Once the CIA had debriefed the couple at a safe house in Kent, they had written statements on the events before and after the suitcase bomb crisis that were intended for the prosecution of Britain’s former Prime Minister, the former head of SIS and several former cabinet ministers. With the legal and intelligence issues dealt with they were moved up to Scotland to a large house owned by the family of an engineer, currently residing in Dubai.
Due to the involvement of SIS in the plot to murder them, the British Secret Intelligence Service had been kept out of the loop, with the CIA and Metropolitan Police handling all matters relating to the two Russians.
When the SCO19 officers had been informed that they were stuck with the couple for the foreseeable future they were not broken hearted. Both had carried out CP for politicians, royalty and alleged VIPs, many of whom had been so stuffed with their own self-importance that they had treated the officers appallingly. Pc Stokes had been on the CP team for a minister at the time of the Gulf War. That individual had owned a farm and had lain off workers, ordering his protection team officers to carry out tasks about the property in the sacked workers’ stead. The minister was far from being poor either; he was just exceedingly arrogant and greedy. When it had been made crystal clear to the minister that the officers were there to protect him and not make him wealthier, they had to hire a portable toilet, and find their own tea and coffee in addition to going everywhere in pairs. The minister banned them from all facilities on his farm and fabricated stories intended to have individual officers sacked, so having another officer to refute his claims made doubling up a necessity. Never had Cabinet reshuffles been more dearly wished for.
In stark contrast to the minister, the Russians were charming, witty and good company. Plus Svetlana’s daily swims in the indoor pool, workouts and habit of walking around in as little as possible made their days enjoyable.
In the officers’ rooms were presents for their wives and children, all pressed on them by the Russians.
The past week had been one of preparing the Russians for their mission, although neither officer knew the details they had done their part in taking the couple on gruelling cross-country runs, circuit training in the grounds and skill-at-arms. Hand-to-hand combat, communications and other skills had been taught by MOD personnel but both officers were firearms instructors and ex-army, no-one objected to their doing their part so long as the Russians’ safety was not compromised. Surprisingly, it had been Svetlana who had been the more able of the two at handling weapons and when he had asked the Russian major what his preferred weapon of choice was, the pilot had replied.
“Anything that is fire and forget… can you help me out?”
“Certainly sir,” the officer had said and slapped a 9mm Beretta into the Russian's outstretched palm. “Once you’ve fired all the rounds in the magazine, don’t forget to reload.”
Dry handling had taken place at the house, using eastern European weaponry and live firing was carried out at the RAF station ten miles away.
To get them in the correct frame of mind the police officers took the pair into nearby woods and a derelict house with paintball guns. On average, the major had been the first one ‘killed’ far more often than Svetlana, and then on their final exercise she had dispatched both of the highly skilled firearms officers with her last two ‘rounds’. After thirty minutes of stalking, fire and manoeuvre and field craft wearing the protective visors and one piece camouflaged coveralls, Constantine was out of it and Svetlana had been pinned behind the trunk of an old oak tree. The officers were skirmishing forward, one always being in the aim and a finger on the trigger as the other man moved.
Suddenly the girl had stepped out into plain view with her weapon in the aiming position.
“Fuck sake, Stokesy… you were supposed to be covering me!” had been Pc Pell’s reaction to being hit squarely on the visor.
“How do you expect me to shoot that?” Pc Stokes replied, wiping away paint from a pellet that had hit him in the middle of his chest.
Pell removed the paint-covered visor and gawped.
“Oh my giddy aunt!” Beside the tree and armed with her now empty paintball gun, Svetlana was standing boldly and unabashed beside her discarded camouflage coveralls and boots, and wearing nothing but a smile.
“Use any and all tools to gain the advantage boys!” she had said whilst laughing at their expressions.
This night however the policeman wore an MP5 on a harness so it hung down his right side and he had his hand on the pistol grip as he stepped clear of the doorway, allowing the guests to enter.
Captain Patricia Dudley took a deep intake of breath, drawing in the aroma of roast venison. Rationing had not yet been implemented but the plans had no doubt been laid.
Scott led the way into the living room.
“Your cargo is busy doing chef type things, so allow me to do the honours.” Pouring generous measures of twenty-five year old single malt into crystal glasses and carrying the glasses across.
Caroline Nunro and Patricia had settled into the leather sofa whilst Max Reynolds sank with a sigh of pleasure into a deep leather armchair.
A few minutes later Constantine popped his head around the door and informed them that dinner would not be served for another fifteen minutes because the kitchen staff was revolting. He ushered Svetlana through into the living room with a slap on the rump before disappearing.