Killing Ground tz-7

by James Rouch

  He knew that Taylor had been only a few paces from him, and only fractions of a second slow in taking cover. There was a persistent tinny ringing in his ears, the aftermath of the masses of impacts against the hulk of the Estate. It had been that which had saved him.

  Inches from where he’d lain the road was scored with a mass of tiny furrows that were quickly filling with water.

  Revell had seen the burst of red mist that had marked Taylor’s end. It was only a moment, but it seemed an age before Carrington got to his feet. Without any gesture to indicate he was all right, he took a roll of muddy bandage from the grasp of the dismembered hand beside him and started up the hillside.

  ‘There’s something wrong with that bloke.’ Burke watched a tripwire being carefully marked. ‘No wonder he didn’t bother to check if he was hurt. If he loses any of the ice he’s got in his veins he can always top up with a glass of water.’

  ‘Well, at least he hasn’t got the worry of that Red artillery.’ Garrett cocked his head to listen. ‘They’re putting down a heck of a plastering to either side and ahead of us but we seem to be in the clear so far. Gives him a chance to concentrate on what he’s doing.’

  ‘What sort of a nerd are you, boy?’ Ripper, after rummaging through every pocket, produced a bullet-hard, fluff-impregnated wad of chewing gum. ‘Anybody with half an ounce of the sense they were born with would know why that is, and it sure ain’t good news.’

  ‘It’s not coming down on us.’ Garrett felt the colour rising to his cheeks. ‘So that’s got to be good, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Use your brain, boy. It ain’t just for holding your eyes apart, although maybe in your case…’

  ‘Why don’t you just tell the kid.’ Hyde interposed to prevent friction.

  ‘I was going to, in my own way.’ Giving the wad a cursory inspection and nothing else, Ripper popped it into his mouth. ‘As I was saying before the Sarge butted in, what we’ve got here is a pail of crap held over our heads. That ordnance going down ahead of us ain’t the sort of stuff that’s heavy enough to break a rail bridge but it kinda sounds like it’s ample to stop traffic on it. And that works two ways – stops us getting out or help coming over. You with me, boy?’

  ‘The rest of the barrage is still way off to the left and right. It’s no bother to us.’

  ‘What do they teach you in basic? What we have here appears to be a classic case of a three-sided box barrage. Boxes do two things, keep people out or keep ‘em in. This one is thrown by the Reds. It’s meant to keep our boys out, but it’s gonna keep us in as well.’

  Listening more attentively, Garrett could now make out the three directions where the deluge of explosive was crashing down. ‘So what’s behind us?’

  ‘Well, as the commies seem to want to keep this slice of territory for themselves, I’d say that what’s coming up behind us is a touch more than an army of guys wearing red stars.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shit indeed, good buddy. That’s what I’m gonna do when they arrive.’ Ripper spat out the recycled chewing gum. ‘What have I been doing in my pockets?’

  ‘On your feet!’ Hyde passed among the company, prodding awake those who had been able to rest despite the rain that now lashed the road where they waited. ‘Come on, pull yourselves together. We’re about to take a hike through a minefield, not stroll to the PX or NAAFI. Anyone who does something stupid is making trouble for his mates as well as himself. If you cause your own problems you’ll be left behind, and I’m not kidding. We can’t carry you. Best we’ll do is leave you a grenade so you can make the big decision for yourself. Move!’

  ‘Where the hell can they all have come from?’ Dooley had tried keeping a count of the anti-tank mines they had passed. He’d quickly given up when the difficulties of negotiating the slippery rocks and grass had made it more important to watch his footing than keep a tally.

  ‘Who knows.’ Burke tried to pull together the torn edges of material on his sleeve, where he’d slid the last few meters to level ground once more. ‘I do know that I haven’t seen gear used on that scale for eighteen months or more. Bloody hell, in the past we’ve been lucky to have ten to lay in front of a position, and we’ve had to lift those for re-use before pulling back.’

  Scully too had been thinking it over. ‘How come in the middle of nowhere we stumble on a mass of state-of-the-art nastiness, but when we’re pulled out of the line for delousing and clean underwear we can’t get our hands on so much as a decent T-bone?’

  ‘Because everywhere out of the line is packed with all the guys who don’t want to be in it, and they scoop all the goodies before we get there.’ Sampson opened his mouth to catch a drink, but turning his face to the sky sent rivulets of water down his neck and inside his rain cape. ‘Since we’re in a minority out there there’s got to be a better than even chance we’ll trip over any shit that’s lying around.’

  They reached a crossroads, and halted as a set of tracks were examined.

  ‘Four-wheel utility, quite recent.’ Even as he watched, Hyde saw the steep-walled ruts crumbling and becoming less distinct. ‘Could be that Hummer again.’

  ‘If it is, then they must have known about that minefield. The tracks run off down that little side road. The way we’ve come would certainly have been the quickest, the most obvious route to where they bumped into that reception committee.’

  ‘Knowing about it didn’t do them any good. One dead and one in the cage, or worse.’ With the toe of his boot, Hyde idly made a dam of leaves where water was overflowing from a puddle into the tread-patterned rut. ‘They came from the direction we’re heading.’

  ‘I hope our luck holds better than theirs.’ Burke muttered that under his breath. The novelty of the unspoiled scenery had worn off for him.

  As they moved off, Scully cut a slice from the turnip he had washed in a shallow stream beside the road, while the others had refilled their bottles. He’d hacked the skin from it in a series of thick chunks, reducing its weight by nearly half. He bit into it, and grimaced. ‘It’s fucking terrible.’

  ‘You’re supposed to cook them.’ Sampson enjoyed their self-appointed cook’s disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you try a carrot? You can eat them raw.’

  ‘I know that. I was a chef in civvie life…’

  ‘Wouldn’t have know that from the last meal you did.’ As he walked, Garrett broke tiny pieces from a chocolate bar in his pocket and surreptitiously slipped them into his mouth.

  ‘What was wrong with it? That was borscht, and it came out all right, considering the conditions under which I was making it.’

  ‘What were those little bits of meat floating in it? They were tough as old boots.’ Finishing the last of the bar, Garrett balled the foil and wrapper together, and when he thought he wasn’t being observed, flicked it away.

  ‘Cat.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.’ Garrett tried to recall the taste but could only remember the texture, or lack of it. ‘The only cat I’ve seen in the Zone in the last six months is that one the major’s APC went over… Oh, sweet Jesus, you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Why not? Think what it would have been like if it hadn’t been tenderized that way. Made skinning a bit messy though.’ Scully crammed the remains of the turnip back into the bag. ‘Hey, Boris!’

  Farther down the line the conversation had been hardly audible to the Russian.

  ‘Yes?’ He was surprised to hear his name called.

  ‘What did you think of my cabbage soup?’

  Hesitating, Boris considered his answer. He could not be sure that Scully, who had never talked to him before, was not simply involving him so as to score some obscure point. He hedged. ‘I did not have very much, but… it was quite good.’

  And it had been, too. Boris had been surprised. Of course it did not have the special touch that made the dish so distinctly Russian, but it had been close enough to bring back many memories…

  ‘Pity I didn’t have any sour cream.’ Scully s
ought to excuse Boris’s slightly less than enthusiastic response, for the sake of appearances in front of the others. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes…’ Sensing what Scully wanted, and pleased to be involved in any conversation, Boris sought the right answer.

  ‘But then every cook in Russia has his own recipe, and your cabbage and beetroot were perfect.’ That was not the perfect truth, but Boris had been so glad to be taken off the permanent cooking detail he would now have said anything to maintain the current happy arrangement.

  It had been hard for him, after he had settled down in the post of signaller for the company and had begun to gain the men’s grudging respect, if not Andrea’s, to be taken off such sensitive work because of orders from headquarters. There was still so much distrust toward those who had changed sides. Yet they were the ones who had most to fear from a Communist victory. A NATO soldier, if he was lucky, might survive as a prisoner; for him that was not an option.

  The talk of food had reminded him of his hunger, and his mind drifted back to the last time he had enjoyed a steaming bowl of borscht at home, his last leave before… His mother must have saved coupons for several months to make the meal.

  With the borscht had been a cheese pie as delicate as only she could make it, and there had been fresh black bread and from heaven-only-knew-where she had produced ice cream, and homemade kvass on which, with several glasses of cognac, he had become quite drunk. He pushed the recollection from his mind. He no longer knew if she was alive or dead, or among the living dead in a labour camp.

  They crossed a single-arch stone bridge. On the far side, partially overhanging the road and the water, was an old flour mill. Scaffolding and the rotting boards of working platforms surrounded it on three sides. The attractions of its beautiful setting among the rugged tree-covered hills had not been enough to tempt its owners back into the Zone to complete the restoration.

  For several hundred meters beyond the lone building the road climbed steeply to a brow that gave a rare panoramic view. In the middle distance, perhaps two kilometres in a straight line, a great column of bare granite thrust high above the trees that masked its base. Topping it stood a Disneyland-style Gothic castle.

  Its grey stone walls soared to intricate turrets, spires and battlements. Wisps of cloud threaded between its highest features.

  Clarence unslung his rifle and used its powerful telescopic sight to examine the ancient fortress. The masonry seemed to grow directly out of the rock and in places it was hard to determine the point of transition.

  ‘There sure is a lot of shit going down around us.’ Ripper listened, and recognized the thundering report of an artillery missile impacting. Ages after the heavy report of its one-ton warhead came the distinctive double ‘boom’ of its recent supersonic passage.

  There was no time to take cover when the scream of jet engines filled the air. A contour-hugging MIG fighter-bomber flashed past close overhead and the clouds were lit with the glare of its afterburners.

  ‘He won’t get very far.’ Clarence rejected the instinctive but futile urge to send a bullet after the aircraft. ‘At the rate he’s burning fuel he is going to have to come down soon. One way or another. Something must have scared the hell out of him…’

  Flares ejected as decoys drifted down. The last was barely brushing the treetops when a slim flame-tailed missile lashed under incredible acceleration from the vicinity of the castle and hurtled after the plane. Ignoring the flares, it screeched past and bored into the cloud in pursuit.

  ‘Go on boy, go get him.’ Ripper cheered the Rapier. ‘It’ll get him. It ain’t even a contest. That’s one Warpac pilot who won’t be fretting himself over his fuel consumption for long.’

  ‘Did anyone pinpoint the launch site?’ Even through the field glasses Revell could make out nothing that would betray the missile’s lift-off point. Not for the first time he regretted his thermal imager had been lost with the APC. With it the location, bathed in the residue of the hot exhaust gasses, would have stood out like a neon sign.

  ‘Pretty close to the castle, I think.’ Lowering the rifle, Clarence used his keen sight in an attempt to decide if a smudge he saw among distant high ground was a trick of light or the faint remains of rapidly dispersing smoke. He couldn’t be certain. ‘I’ve got an idea it came from within that circle of hills. If you look, the road runs along the base of its plinth of rock, and the circle of hills is on the other side of it.’

  ‘That’s close enough. So somewhere down there is one of our air-defence batteries, or at least part of one. Their transport allocation is usually generous; maybe we can hitch a lift.’

  Taking the point, Revell was disappointed when they lost sight of the castle the moment they started downhill. The trees prevented more than an occasional tantalizing glimpse. But at least each one showed them that little bit nearer.

  Setting a fast pace, he maintained it even when he began to feel the strain himself. They had to make contact. Even if like themselves it was another bunch of strays, there had to be benefits from their falling in together. For an anti-aircraft unit the advantage would be increased infantry to protect it. For his men it was a lifeline. Transport meant a chance to recover from their weariness, perhaps the opportunity to get sufficiently far ahead of the Russian advance to prepare some hot food. But most of all it offered the opportunity to move fast enough to escape being encircled by the enemy and killed or captured. And being captured by the Warpac forces was merely death postponed.

  Looking back, the major saw that some of the company were straggling. ‘Sergeant Hyde, have them close up, regular intervals. If anyone falls out they’re to be stripped of ammunition and left behind.’

  It worked, as nothing else would have done. Those to whom each step was agony found the strength to withstand the pain; those who felt they were about to drop from sheer exhaustion found untapped reserves of energy.

  Like walking zombies they kept moving. With almost mechanical strides and with laboured breath whistling between gritted teeth they kept going. They knew they had to.

  SEVEN

  Rain dripped from great banks of razor-wire flanking a high spike-topped steel mesh gate. The massed coils of serrated metal strips had been added to at different times. Most strands were heavily rusted; others, though streaked or spotted with the same dull encrustments, could still show lengths that gleamed brightly. A moss-blotched reinforced concrete guard post flanking the gate was unmanned, and the gate itself hung open.

  Above soared a towering cliff of dark granite. The walls of the castle extended it still higher. Tire marks showed a single light vehicle had been through that day.

  ‘Do we knock and wait for the butler.’ Scully felt nervous, overpowered by the sheer scale of the rock face.

  ‘There can’t be anything special in here.’ Checking quickly for booby-traps, Carrington went forward a few meters, but could see the side road for only a short distance where it followed the base of the cliff. ‘They wouldn’t leave the post unmanned and the gate open if there was.’

  ‘Maybe the two guys in the Hummer were the last to leave.’ Ripper also felt oppressed by the sheer scale of their surroundings. When he looked up he had to fight down the fear that the whole mountain was looming over him, falling to crush him.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if this was the entrance to that Paradise Valley?’

  ‘You think they’d leave the gate open if it was?’ Hyde snorted. ‘A place like that would be protected by a battalion at least.’

  ‘We’re never going to find out by standing here.’ Revel checked he had a round chambered and with Andrea at his side led in through the gate. Carrington tagged close behind them.

  Andrea loaded a smoke round into the grenade-launcher slung beneath the barrel of her M16. ‘When I was in the camps there were many stories about a special place that held vast stocks of everything we could ever want. All that we so desperately needed was supposed to be there. Food, clothing, medical supplies, arms, everyt
hing.’

  Though she talked as they walked, Andrea never for an instant relaxed her vigilance. Revell made no response, giving all his concentration to trying to anticipate what lay around the next bend.

  ‘An old man came to one camp I was in. He was crippled and almost deaf and covered by many great scars. Always he spoke of a wonderful valley where anything could be had. If you could get in. Eventually he persuaded some men to go with him. He would not tell them the location in advance, only that it was in this general area. We never heard of any of them again.’

  Still between high frost-cracked walls of granite, the road curved around the base of the cliff. Beside the road there was room only for a shallow stream that crossed and re-crossed the metalled surface, and where they had to wade through it the water lapped ice-cold to their ankles.

  Throwing himself against the illusory cover of the rock, Revell edged back a few paces. ‘No wonder they didn’t bother with the guard post.’ His breath came in gulps and he could feel his heart hammering inside his ribs.

  He had seen it for only a second, but it was locked vividly in his mind’s eye. A massively strong bunker seemed to grow from the rock itself. Perhaps a meter of concrete faced with inches of steel, the snouts of machine guns protruded from step-sided embrasures. The weapons could sweep a hundred-meter straight stretch of road that offered no shred of cover. Even attempts to rush the position using smoke would have been doomed. Firing blind, the guns could not have failed to hit anyone attempting that suicidal run.

  Armour would have been no protection. Niches cut in the rock held well-protected directional anti-tank mines. At point-blank range the hull sides of the toughest main battle tank would be penetrated effortlessly.

  ‘Maybe the Russians are here before us.’ Carrington too had seen what lay in their path. ‘Anybody who strolls that way is going to get creamed. I’m impressed.’