Overkill (8 page)

‘Three Four is subsonic and in the drop to two thousand on twenty-nine eighty-one.’

Passing ten thousand feet, the Blackbird crew unsealed their visors and raised the faceplates. As usual, the cockpit smelt of burnt metal. At fifteen miles range, the squall that had been
gathering to the west of the field finally hit, reducing visibility to under a mile.

‘Aspen Three Four, Director. We’ve been hit by a squall and visibility is under one mile with full cover cloud at three hundred feet. This will be a precision approach to runway two
three. Turn left heading two five zero.’

The Director broke off as the Radar Supervisor touched his shoulder and spoke to him. Rather than risk losing contact with the aircraft on a frequency change, the Supervisor had decided that the
talk-down would be carried out on the Director’s frequency.

‘Aspen Three Four, you have twelve miles to run to the field. Confirm you are now level at two thousand feet.’

‘Confirmed. Level at two.’

‘Roger. Squawk standby, carry out final landing checks and listen out on this frequency for your Final Controller.’

Twelve miles out, the profile of the Blackbird altered as the landing gear was extended, and the aircraft adopted a pronounced nose-high attitude.

‘Aspen Three Four, this is Lossiemouth Final Controller. I hold you on precision radar at range ten. Turn left heading two four five.’

‘Two four five, Three Four.’

Unlike the clipped and precise instructions given by all other controllers, a precision approach has almost a conversational style about it. This is at least partly due to the fact that the
controller talks constantly to the pilot from just before the aircraft starts its final descent until it reaches the runway. ‘You’re slightly left of the centreline, closing gently on a
heading of two four five. Approximately one mile to run to the descent point.’

The talk-down controller paused for a few seconds, then pressed the transmit key forward into the locked position, and began talking. ‘Aspen Three Four, seven miles from touchdown, and
approaching the descent point. Heading two four five. Slightly left of centreline, closing gently. You need not acknowledge further transmissions unless requested.’

On the twin precision radar displays the Blackbird’s return was small and painting faintly, but it was visible. Still below the electronic glide path, the right-hand edge of the return was
nearly touching the centreline. The controller watched the return on the elevation screen touch the glide path. The trick was to start the aircraft in descent a little before the centre of the
return intersected the glide path. This allowed for delays in the pilot’s reactions and the physical time taken by the aircraft to transition from level flight into a descent.

‘Six and three-quarter miles from touchdown. Begin your descent now for a three-degree glide path.’ The standard three-degree glide path meant that the aircraft descended at the rate
of three hundred feet for every track mile flown. ‘Six miles from touchdown. Turn left five degrees heading two four zero. You’re now on the centreline, but still very slightly above
the glide path.’

By five miles out, the Blackbird had settled down on the glide path, and the controller had no need to give descent corrections. As the aircraft got closer to the ground, however, the gusty wind
made frequent heading changes necessary. ‘Three miles from touchdown, heading two three five, very slightly right of centreline but on the glide path. Confirm final landing checks complete
– Aspen Three Four acknowledge.’

‘Three Four has checks complete.’

‘Roger. Heading two three five, on the glide path. You have been cleared to land on runway two three.’

Passing one mile and three hundred feet above runway elevation, the controller broke transmission. ‘Aspen Three Four inside one mile. Centreline and glide path. Confirm visual with the
runway.’

In the cockpit of the Blackbird, Frank Roberts was dividing his time equally between monitoring his instruments and looking ahead for the airfield approach lights and runway. He looked ahead
again. ‘Negative.’

‘Roger. I will continue to pass advisory information. Centreline and glide path. Three quarters of a mile.’

Frank Roberts ignored his instruments, concentrating all his attention on the view ahead. Blank, featureless grey murk met his eyes. Then it was as if a carpet had been dragged out from under
them, the grey cloud dispersed as if it had never been and the high-intensity approach lights shone clear and bright, directly ahead.

‘Centreline and glide path. Half a mile.’

‘We have the runway, we have the runway. Thank you, sir.’

‘Roger, Three Four. Call Tower on three three seven decimal seven five.’

‘Three three seven decimal seven five.’

The Blackbird punched out of the murk at a little under one hundred and fifty feet. The Local Controller, looking out to the east through binoculars, saw an unfamiliar grouping of lights
materialize at precisely the same moment that the aircraft called him.

‘Lossiemouth Tower, Aspen Three Four.’

The controller lowered the binoculars, made a final visual check of the runway and pressed his transmit key. ‘Aspen Three Four, Tower. Confirm landing checks complete.’

‘Affirmative. Three Four has checks complete; all green.’

‘Roger. Land runway two three. Surface wind green three five at fifteen knots.’ The Local Controller raised his binoculars again and focused on the aircraft as it approached the
threshold of the active runway. ‘What the hell is it? It’s a – no it isn’t.’ The controller lapsed into silence and watched the aircraft’s profile become visible
as Frank Roberts lifted the nose for touchdown. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘A Blackbird.’

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi
Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow

A little over ten miles south-west of the centre of Moscow, not far from the village of Tëplyystan, a black ZIL limousine pulled off the circumferential highway onto
a narrow road leading into dense forest. The car passed a large sign that warned the curious not to stop or trespass, and announced that the area was a ‘Water Conservation
District’.

About two hundred yards down the road the car stopped at what appeared to be a militia post while the driver’s, bodyguard’s and passengers’ passes were examined by armed SVR
troops dressed as militiamen. As the electric windows hissed closed, the car surged forward and came to rest in a reserved parking space about a third of a mile beyond. The driver and bodyguard got
out immediately and opened the rear doors, but the passengers seemed oddly abstracted, and remained in the car, talking, for a few minutes more.

The two passengers finally emerged, acknowledged the salutes somewhat listlessly, and made their way through the turnstiles in the guardhouse, the only break in the high chain-link fence, topped
with barbed wire. Armed sentries from the SVR Guards Division, wearing khaki service dress uniforms, with blue flashes on the lapels and blue stripes on the trousers, inspected the special passes
each officer showed. They were buff-coloured plastic cards that showed the bearer’s photograph and incorporated coded perforations designating the areas he or she was authorized to enter.

Through the guardhouse, the two officers made their way slowly along the driveway through the lawns and flowerbeds to the SVR building, the former headquarters of the KGB First Chief
Directorate. It was designed by Finnish architects and constructed, at least in part, with materials and equipment purchased in Scandinavia. The original seven-storey structure is shaped like a
three-pointed star, incorporating a lot of glass and aluminium, with a blue stone trim around many of the windows, but is now dwarfed by a twenty-two-floor extension at the end of the western arm
of the building.

The officers passed through the double glass doors and entered the large marble foyer, again showing their passes to armed guards, and walked over to the main group of elevators located in the
centre of the building. Once inside, the older of the two men pressed the button for the seventh floor. When the elevator stopped they got out, walked slowly down the carpeted corridor, and entered
an office suite.

‘Good afternoon, General.’ Lieutenant Vadim Vasilevich Nilov, a fresh-faced and eager officer in his late twenties, greeted his superior with his usual mixture of deference and
respect, and hurried to relieve him of his uniform cap and greatcoat. He snapped to attention and saluted the other officer, and extended him the same courtesy.

Nilov had, as usual, arrived at the headquarters before seven that morning, had spent two hours reviewing all the overnight signal traffic, marking those of interest, and checking the office
schedule for the coming day. He would remain at the headquarters until eight or nine in the evening. General Modin often wondered how much sleep, if any, Nilov needed. He was quite sure he had no
social life whatsoever.

Nilov had been aide to General Nicolai Fedorovich Modin since the day the General had arrived at Yazenevo to head Department V of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate. The metamorphosis of
the KGB into the SVR had caused little change, except that the ‘Department V’ tag had been dropped and the section renamed.

‘There has been priority traffic all morning, General, about the American over-flight. The signals are in the red folder on your desk.’

Modin smiled somewhat tiredly. ‘I would have been astounded, Vadim, if there hadn’t been priority signals. What do they expect the SVR to do? We have no aircraft or
missiles.’

Nilov smiled. ‘I could not say, General.’

‘No matter. Coffee?’

‘Also on your desk, comrade General. I will bring another cup.’

Modin nodded his thanks, led the way into the inner office, picked up the red folder and sat down in a leather armchair by the window. He motioned his companion into the other chair. Nilov
returned with a second cup, poured the coffee and set the cups on the low table between the chairs. Then he withdrew, closing the office door quietly behind him. Modin picked up his cup and looked
thoughtfully at the other man. ‘Well, Grigori. What do we do about it?’

General Grigori Petrovich Sokolov was technically Modin’s subordinate, but the two men had known each other for so many years that their working relationship had developed into a firm
friendship. Sokolov was short and slim, with a friendly, open face under thick grey hair. He didn’t look like a Russian, a fact that had helped his career. An old KGB hand, he had headed the
First Chief Directorate’s Twelfth Department, a somewhat unusual and very powerful organization staffed by veteran KGB officers who had a remit to identify and pursue their quarry –
anyone in any Western military, intelligence, business or government organization who might prove useful to the Soviets – anywhere in the world. As with Modin, the metamorphosis of the KGB
into the SVR had changed virtually nothing.

Sokolov put down his cup. ‘I don’t know, Nicolai, I really don’t.’ He paused for a few moments. ‘What can they discover from the films?’

Modin sighed. ‘Not very much, I think. I talked to our technical specialists this morning, as soon as Nilov telephoned, but they do not know how good the American cameras are. However,
even if the cameras are excellent, there was little that they could see. What worries me more are the radiation detectors, and also why they flew the spy-plane at all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sokolov said, looking up sharply.

‘I mean that since
glasnost
the Americans have been very reluctant to carry out any overt intelligence-gathering operations against us. They are very sensitive to world opinion, and
do not wish to be seen in an aggressive light. So why would they risk flying their spy-plane across the tundra now, in broad daylight? Of course, they would have been able to detect the last weapon
test, but we have been exploding devices for the past year or so.’

‘Yes, Nicolai, but they were underground tests. This was the first above-ground test.’

‘The first and the last,’ Modin said, nodding agreement. ‘It is unfortunate that we had to have an above-ground detonation at all, and it wasn’t even a test of the
weapon, just a confirmation that the triggering mechanism was functioning correctly. But even so, why would the Americans risk the flight?’

Sokolov took another sip of coffee, and then looked across at Modin. ‘Do you have a theory, old friend?’ he asked, finally.

‘It seems to me,’ Modin replied, ‘that there are only two possibilities. The first is that the Americans are a lot smarter than we thought, and have deduced the nature of the
weapon from the recordings of their seismographic devices.’

‘I doubt that,’ Sokolov said.

‘So do I.’

‘Of course,’ Sokolov added thoughtfully, ‘the flight could simply have been a precautionary measure. They would obviously be aware from their seismic records that the weapon
does not have the usual characteristics of a strategic fission or fusion weapon, and they might have decided that the only course open to them was to use the spy-plane.’

‘Agreed,’ Modin said, ‘but in the current political climate it seems unlikely.’

‘Unlikely, but it is possible, yes?’ Modin nodded again, almost reluctantly. ‘You said there were two possibilities, Nicolai,’ Sokolov went on. ‘What is the
second?’

Modin lowered his eyes. ‘I do not like this, Grigori, but I can see only one other explanation: someone told them about the project. Someone here, or in the GRU.’

‘Are you serious?’ Sokolov asked. ‘Are you really suggesting that there is a
predatel
– a traitor – here?’

‘Yes,’ said Modin. ‘In fact, Minister Trushenko and I have already discussed this, and we both agree that this is the most probable conclusion, based upon the available
evidence.’

Sokolov looked across the table and uttered a single word. ‘Who?’

‘If I knew that, Grigori, I would sleep tonight. This has been the highest-classified project in the country for the last four years. Until a year ago, only Minister Trushenko, General
Bykov and I knew all the details – the technicians have obviously known they have been working on nuclear weapons, but not how the weapons were to be used.’ He put his coffee cup down
and waved his arm in sudden anger. ‘This project was so secret that it wasn’t even given a name until this year, because if you name something, you acknowledge its existence.’