“JARIC?”
The Joint Air Reconnaissance Intelligence Centre, based at RAF Brampton near Huntington in Cambridgeshire, was an imagery analysis intelligence centre. Manned by the Army Intelligence Corps, RAF Intelligence and Defence Intelligence personnel, they were there to exploit available imagery from the assets in the air and on the ground.
“Yes, sir, they’ve been tasked. Satellite photography and high-altitude flights are going to be a key means of intelligence gathering during this exercise.”
“We need to see their analysis in a timely manner, Colin. I need to keep BAOR up to speed on what transpires.”
“It’ll be sorted, sir. Will you be briefing NORTHAG as well?”
Stevens stood up and peered round one of the blinds and looked out onto the huge barracks area, reflecting on what he had just heard. “Yes, the Germans, Dutch and Belgians don’t have the assets that we have. They’ll need to be kept informed.”
“A full NORTHAG meeting?” asked Colin.
“That is my intention, but they seem pretty laid-back about it all.”
“Elections, budgets, unemployment; we can never compete, sir.” Bill laughed.
“Next steps, sir?” asked Major Archer.
The SO 1 strode quickly from his position looking out of the window. “Colin, I want you to put together an intelligence group to track this exercise. I want to pool all the intelligence we can get and keep command updated. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. When?”
“Immediately. I have a bad feeling about this. Make sure you get input from 18 Int, JARIC, the military missions, Berlin Section, military attachés…the full works, Colin.”
“Will do, sir. I’ll get things moving as soon as possible.”
“Now, Colin, today.”
Chapter 11
“This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”
“Oh fuck.” William patted the top of the standard square, yew-coloured, military-issue bedside table blindly, eventually finding his watch and pulling it close to his face, peering at it in the dark through one sleepy eye.
“This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”
The sound that came from outside the block of military flats grew louder as its messenger passed directly beneath the third-floor window of the block of flats.
“What’s a matter, what are doing? I’m trying to sleep. Vicky will be awake any time soon,” his wife muttered as she pulled the sheet and coarse blankets over her head to shut out the noise of her husband fumbling around.
“This is an alert, this is an alert. This is an Active Edge exercise alert. All military personnel report to their units immediately.”
The disruptive-patterned, green, short-wheel-based Land Rover, a flashing blue light at the end of a metal stalk attached to the side of the Royal Military Police (RMP) vehicle, drove slowly through the married quarters on the outskirts of Bergen-Hohne, in the northern part of West Germany, the tinny sounding tannoy attached to the front of the Land Rover shouting out its message.
“It’s a bloody alert!”
His wife wrapped her arm around his waist as he sat up. She hugged him and pulled herself in close. “Do you have to go?” she said sleepily.
“Of course I bloody do. I wish they’d waited until my hangover was clear.”
Pulling himself free of his wife’s grip, he placed both feet on the thin bedroom carpet and heaved his body out of the bed. He would have preferred to shower to help wake him up, clear his head, but there wasn’t enough time. His squadron commander was probably already on his way. Keen as mustard, he muttered under his breath. He stumbled out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, his wife already drifting back to sleep. He looked at his watch and hissed, “Oh…three…bloody ten in the morning. Wankers.”
He headed for the spare room and flicked on the light, screwing up his eyes as he was immediately blinded by the sixty-watt bulb. He eased one eye open slowly then the other as his eyesight adjusted to the sharp pins being stuck into them. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts then a T-shirt, followed by a green woollen shirt, more like a rough blanket, freshly pressed and starched the previous day. He grabbed his combat trousers, a disruptive pattern of green, brown and black, from out of the wardrobe, pulled them on before collapsing on the single bed, and dragged on a pair of thick, green socks. He would rather have worn his coveralls, but the army were increasingly insistent that tankies wore full combats, particularly on exercise. Although he was meant to wear his black, ‘combat high’ boots, he chose to wear his NI patrol boots. They were designed for tours in Northern Ireland and he had worn them while patrolling in Belfast. They were much lighter, designed to make it easier for soldiers to ‘hard target’, sprint between points of cover, making themselves a much harder target around the streets of Andy Town and the Falls Road. His troop commander, Lieutenant Wesley-Jones, usually turned a blind eye. William always carried his heavy duty boots with him though, just in case. Anyway, this might be for real, he thought, the mere flicker of a smile as he started to wake up, his senses and his sense of humour slowly coming to life. He tied off his boots and bloused the bottoms of his combats with green-coated elastic bands, an S-hook at each end.
He stood up, stamped his feet, then bent down and finally adjusted the bloused legs of his combat trousers until he was satisfied. He grabbed his combat jacket and pulled it on, buttoning it up before slinging his 58-pattern webbing over his shoulder, not wanting to wear it until the last minute. All he needed was his SMG (sub-machine gun) from the armoury and he would be ready.
He walked past the bedroom door and shouted bye, but his wife was already in a deep sleep, returning to her dream about Jason Donavan. He went through the main door of the flat, picking up his car keys from the small shelf just inside the door as he left, and headed down the stone steps, exiting two levels down. He shivered slightly. When it was summer in Germany, the weather could be extremely hot, often in excess of thirty degrees Celsius, but in the winter it was just the opposite. He headed for his pride and joy: a brand new Nissan Cherry estate car. Small, but it was his. A great tax-free perk. Now all he had to do was keep enough money in his Sparkasse bank account to stump up the monthly payments to pay for it. Four years to pay didn’t seem long at the time; now though, it seemed endless.
He looked around, seeing other soldiers doing the same as him: heading for their cars. He unlocked the door, threw his kit over to the passenger seat, slipped into the driver’s seat and quickly started the car. It started first time and he roared off leaving the block of flats. Close behind, other drivers and vehicles followed him, all heading to their respective barracks to report in for the Active Edge mobilisation.
On arrival at his destination, after a ten-minute drive, the barracks was a hive of activity. Royal Military Police, as well as the usual camp guard, were there to greet him. Showing his ID card, he was quickly waved through. He was soon at the entrance to the long line of vehicle sheds that housed the regiment’s Chieftain tanks, troopers milling around getting their respective charges ready for action.
Corporal William Patterson, ‘Patsy’ to his friends, parked up and headed for the armoury to draw his personal weapon, the compact SMG, before reporting in. Weapon collected, he headed to his unit
“Morning, sir.” Patsy saluted his troop commander.