Bradley suddenly stood up from his kneeling position, Jacko joining him, recognising the signs that something was about to happen. “Well?”
“A single light. It has to be one.”
He handed Jacko the binos and he confirmed that he too could see the single white light indicating a potential troop train. “It has to be,” he said handing back the binos, his voice excited, the need for sleep forgotten.
They both watched patiently as the light, growing stronger by the minute, crept slowly towards them as it approached the railway junction and the traffic signals. Eventually, they could hear the hiss of the steam engine, the puff of smoke ejected from the black smokestack, and the clanking of the coupling and connecting rods, driven by the steam-powered piston, as they rotated the four large driving wheels. Bradley’s plan was to watch the train pass by, enabling him to check the cargo it was hauling. Then they would scramble down the gently sloping bank, climb back into the Range Rover and race to the next junction further along the line where they could confirm its final direction of travel. The silhouette of the black steam locomotive, the clanking of its rods and wheels, the rhythmic ejection of smoke and steam from its stack as it powered the train slowly towards them. The train started to lose way. As it got closer, they could pick out the two distinctive, familiar, bowed, black-plated shields that stood proud, curved around each side of the boiler near the front of the train. A sudden blast of steam and smoke burst from the stack as the engine slowed down to a walking pace, but still creeping towards their location. Towed behind the steam engine, of World War Two vintage, they could just make out a line of flatcars laden with tarpaulin-covered vehicles whose shape looked familiar, yet unfamiliar, to Bradley as he peered at them, in what little light the moon gave them.
“What are those?” whispered Jacko. “FROG-7s?”
Bradley remained silent, his eyes flickering over the steadily growing line of tarpaulin-sheeted vehicles whose shape grew ever more familiar. “No, they’re not FROGs,” he responded finally. “They’re too big.”
“But look at the spacing.”
The large road wheels could just be seen below the tarpaulin cover.
“Look at the wheels, Jacko. They’re evenly spaced apart. The FROG’s two centremost wheels are closer together.”
The sound from the locomotive steadily increased as it got closer, slowly crawling past them as they ducked down not wanting to be seen by the engine’s driver or the fireman, the smell of smokey hot steam wafting over them. The rhythm slowed down further, becoming more erratic as it came close to stopping completely. Ten metres further on, with an explosion of smoke and steam, it came to a halt, clouds billowing into the early morning air, the clang of the flatcar buffers striking against each other concertinaed down the line as they too came to a complete stop. The noise settled down to a gentle hiss as the locomotive’s crew stoked the fire, keeping the steam pressure up as they waited for the signals to change, giving them permission to continue their journey. Once stopped, likely as a consequence of priority traffic elsewhere on the circuit, they would wait before they either headed straight into the city, which was unlikely, went south, possibly, or turned north. This was the direction the section anticipated this train would go. Bradley scooted towards the flatcar opposite, Jacko remaining behind, keeping watch. Towering above Bradley was a SCUD-B, a ballistic missile and launch system. He looked along the line of flatcars but could see no further than the fourth one. He suspected there would probably be over twenty of them. Eighteen would be carrying the SCUD TELs (Transporter Erector Launcher vehicles); the rest would have either SCUD resupply or supporting vehicles. There was bound to be a goods wagon or two mixed in with the flatcars, carrying accompanying Soviet troops. They certainly didn’t want to get mixed up with them. They would respond aggressively if they saw Bradley and Jacko examining their precious cargo. Looking back, Bradley held up his right hand and signalled, in a circular motion with his finger pointing upwards, indicating Jacko should move to their vehicle and get it ready for a quick getaway. He continued to move along the line, looking for the plate that would likely be attached to one of the flatcars and where, behind a perforated, sprung-metal grill, he would find the paperwork, the distinctive DR ticket indicating the destination of the load. Bradley smiled to himself: Soviet secrecy overcome by the Deutches Reichsbahn’s efficiency.
Looking up, the foreboding missile launchers towering some five metres above him, the TEL itself over two metres, gave him a sense of awe. The launcher vehicle was nearly fifteen metres in length. Called a 9P117MV, it was based on an improved MAZ-S43 chassis, with an uprated 650hp D12AN-650 engine to power its thirty-five-ton weight. Bradley touched one of the eye-level rear road wheels, capable of taking its cargo on roads or across country at speeds of up to thirty miles per hour. He arrived at the middle of the vehicle where he could just make out the bottom of the door of the combat cabin that dipped down in between the two central road wheels. Behind that door, a crew of two or three would sit at the main console that would control the launch of the missile that was positioned above. Bradley knew there was a crew of seven, but was unsure as to how many of them would actually be at the controls at the time of the launch; some would probably be situated in the shielded cabin upfront. The missile it carried was just under forty feet in length, almost as long as the TEL itself. Powered by the Sayev 1KBkh M9D21, liquid-fuelled rocket engine, it had a range of up to 350 kilometres, a perfect delivery means for a tactical nuclear missile that could potentially be used on a European battlefield. Bradley continued to move forward, slightly nervous now, constantly looking about him for an unseen civilian, the Stasi, engine driver, or one of the escorting soldiers. He also felt a shiver when he contemplated the power of the weapons that were within an arm’s reach of him. Never mind the power of the conventional chemical or nuclear warheads it could carry, he knew that the propellant, that would speed the missile to its target at over 1,600 kilometres an hour, consisted of nitric acid, nitrogen tetroxide and kerosene — an extremely volatile mixture in its own right. Should a war break out between the Warsaw Pact and NATO, and should it turn into a tactical nuclear exchange, these very missiles would most likely be aimed at NATO targets in West Germany.
Bradley jumped as the wagons jerked, the connecting chains between the flatcars rattling, the entire length of the train shuddered as the powerful locomotive at the front snatched them forwards.
“Shit,” he hissed under his breath and immediately focused on the task in hand. The train could move off at any minute now. At the end of the flatcar, he could see the paler colour of the route ticket behind its protective cage and rushed towards it. He lifted the sprung-meshed grid that held the ticket in place and extracted it, stuffed it in his pocket and headed back towards the Range Rover on the other side of the embankment just as the train jerked again as if impatient to be on the move.
Another jerk. This time the wheels of the wagons started to turn as the train slowly gathered pace, moving faster and faster. Bradley got to the top of the bank and watched until he was sure he knew which direction it would take. It took the track that curved to the right, taking its load onto the rail ring, heading north. Now certain, Bradley scrambled down the side of the bank and could just make out the puffs of exhaust from the rear of the Range Rover and hear the engine gently ticking over. Jacko was ready. He made one last scan of the area and jumped into the front passenger seat.