by Paul Kane
Oh, was he in for a shock.
Yet Bohuslav didn't really want to be here. As much as he loved the thrill of slaughter — though it would never replace the kick he got from capturing and killing people on a one-to-one basis — he was uncomfortable about this whole operation. He was proud The Tsar had left him in charge of such a legion, but couldn't help wishing he was with his superior right now. The thought of that bastard Tanek whispering in his master's ear was almost too much to bear. Bohuslav knew the swarthy giant was trying to worm his way in, but there was only room for one second, for one murdering psychopath on the team. Once this was all over, Tanek might well find his throat being slit in the night… If Bohuslav was quick enough to take him. He remembered back to the hovercraft, the knife Tanek was about to stab him with even as Bohuslav had his own blade poised to strike. Not much scared Bohuslav, but the thought of killing Tanek was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.
But that was for the future. Right now, there was one small thing to do and he needed to keep himself sharp to accomplish it.
Before he could turn his attentions to Tanek, Bohuslav must rid the world of this new version of Robin Hood.
No sooner had Bohuslav thought this than he saw something down below, not much bigger than his thumb from this distance. It was a man on horseback — who had appeared, quite literally, out of nowhere. His head was bowed, but even if this wasn't the case, Bohuslav wouldn't have been able to see his features because he had a cowl pulled over them.
This man, Bohuslav saw, had a bow slung over his shoulder, and a quiver on his back. He also had a sword by his side, dangling near the horse's flank. He looked like he'd stepped out of a time warp. In no way, shape or form a match for any of Bohuslav's soldiers or their weapons.
Nevertheless, the sight of that lone figure gave Bohuslav pause for thought. He didn't fear him, at least not in the same way he did Tanek (though he would never admit it). But it made the serial killer at least think twice about giving the order to attack.
Is the man insane? he wondered — which was rich coming from someone who used to have imaginary conversations with his gagged and bound victims. Or, Bohuslav thought, does he know something we don't? Does he have something up his sleeve?
When all was said and done, this was the person who'd defeated De Falaise's army. A different fight, a different place, but Bohuslav couldn't help thinking: what if…
Then he smiled. If Hood wanted to play, he would oblige.
So Bohuslav ordered one of the T-90 battle tanks to target the man and blow him to kingdom come.
Robert held his position.
He knew they'd be firing any second, but this was more than a matter of drawing a line in the sand, showing both sides what they were up against. It wasn't about weapons, either, or about who was right and wrong. It was about courage, standing up for something you believed in.
Even if you were a solitary figure on the landscape.
Robert patted his horse's neck, holding her steady. Then, right at the very last moment, he pulled the steed around and rode her away, back out of range. He heard the shot from behind, the whizzing sound as the shell flew through the air.
It exploded in the spot where he'd been idling his horse only moments before. The animal protested, but was used to this type of noise. Robert urged her back round and they stood there again.
This time, though, Robert held up his hand — and dropped it again. Giving his order, just as the commander of these troops (the man he'd seen De Falaise morph into, or maybe Tanek?) had obviously done.
Like snowflakes they fell from the sky. But they were the wrong colour for snow. And they originated from the ground not from the air. Huge rocks rained down on the vehicles from strategic, hidden positions on either side. From catapults they'd brought with them, made over the last few months to defend the castle, but wheeled and easily transportable. The rocks landed heavily on the tanks, jeeps and other armoured vehicles, not doing a vast amount of damage, but proving that they weren't the only ones capable of firing projectiles.
It also had the effect of provoking the army into rushing them. Now the jeeps, bikes, tanks and Armoured Fighting Vehicles were moving forward into position. They began firing at the trees, at the point where the rocks had appeared — but Robert knew his men were camouflaged enough that they probably wouldn't be seen. The cannons might have fired ahead of them, but there was nobody apart from Robert on the battlefield to engage yet.
That's how it would stay for a little while, until they'd finished sending their message.
From the trees, now came hails of flaming arrows. These hit the vehicles, exploding on impact — their tips filled with a special sulphur brew. The flames spread across the metal, engulfing some vehicles almost entirely. Others were hit with mini-paint bombs, aimed specifically so that they would break against windscreens and viewing slats, obscuring vision. One driver rammed his jeep into the side of a tank, scraping along until it got in front and the bonnet of the smaller vehicle was crushed under the tracks of the other.
Meanwhile, the bikes, jeeps and other vehicles with tyres were discovering the presents Robert and his men had left. Clusters of barbed wire, which not only burst tyres, but tangled up around them, causing drivers to lose control of their vehicles. Bikes wobbled and keeled over, jeeps ground to a halt, armoured fighting vehicles could do nothing but sit there and offer covering fire.
Those that got away were introduced to holes the men had dug and covered over, much like the ones Robert had used to trap animals he survived on back in Sherwood. They didn't have to be really deep, just enough for the vehicles to dip forward into and be brought to a standstill.
Now came the second wave from the catapults: large gas canisters that hit the vehicles. No sooner had these landed than they were struck by more flaming arrows, igniting the gas. The landscape turned into a series of red and yellow mushrooms. Black smoke was laid down in front of Robert.
He took hold of his bow, grabbed an arrow out of his quiver and notched it, feeling the familiar tension of the string. Welcoming it like an old friend.
Armed men broke through the smoke. He shot the first one in the knee, the second in the shoulder. Given a choice and when not backed into a corner, he would always choose to incapacitate rather than kill — a throwback to his years in the police.
Robert nodded and his men broke free of their cover, some on horseback, some on foot. The firing started moments later, the Russians letting rip with their machine guns.
Robert's men raised their shields; specially made by their blacksmith Faraday, steel plate more than 16 mm thick which their bullets would make a significant dent in, but not penetrate. Sparks flew as the bullets pinged off them. But several of the horses were hit and went down, taking their riders with them. Robert saw some of his men get hit and drop to the ground… only to wait until a Russian soldier was near enough and get up again, taking down the man with a series of martial arts moves.
He grinned again, knowing that each man had the extra protection of specially adapted vests — hard metal-plates fitted into ordinary bullet-proof vests like the ones armed response units wore, found during searches of police facilities. It would give added protection against machine guns and shrapnel. Robert himself was wearing one, and was glad of it too.
The smoke was clearing, making this a fight of bullets against bows. Arrows struck the Russian troops, hitting them in arms, legs, necks, taking them down swiftly. Flaming arrows set them alight and took them out of the battle altogether. Robert looked down and caught sight of Azhar engaging a couple of foot-soldiers, dodging bullets and slicing them with his sword.
Suddenly an AFV charged through, having driven around the trenches, its tyres ripped to shreds but ploughing forwards anyway.
"Dale," shouted Robert to the young man on horseback, "with me!"
Leaning forwards, they urged their steeds on through the combat. An explosion off to their right almost caused Dale's horse to rear up, but he
kept control. The cannon on top of the AFV was spitting out shells one after the other. Robert nodded for Dale to give him covering fire, taking out the armed men on the ground now flanking the vehicle. The AFV turned and started ploughing diagonally through the fighting.
Robert pulled on the reins, then rode his horse up alongside the armoured vehicle. When he judged it was close enough, he jumped from the saddle onto the side of the thing, landing near the back. His horse rode off without him, away from danger. He almost slipped down and under the wheels, but his hands found purchase on the rails bolted to the metal. A stray bullet twanged off the plating near his head — whoever had fired it obviously reckoning that they couldn't do the AFV any harm but might be able to dislodge The Hooded Man. Robert risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Dale take out the shooter with an arrow to the back.
Shot! he thought, then concentrated on getting himself stable. Robert clambered around on the side of the vehicle, looking for a way in, but the hatches seemed to be sealed tight. The cannon on the top swung round in his direction, until he was staring down the black hole of the stubby barrel. Robert dropped down again just as it fired, almost slipping under the grinding remains of the tyres, but somehow swinging himself back along the side so that he was closer to the front. He kept himself low, avoiding the cannon, and climbed round so that he was now on the front of the vehicle — left hand gripping the rail there to keep himself steady.
Two metal flaps were open at the front, obviously so the driver could see. The AFV went over a bump, jolting Robert upwards. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He let out a grunt, but it just made him more determined to put an end to the vehicle's run.
With his free hand, he pulled out his sword — then, wincing as he did so, swung round and shoved the weapon into one of the viewing slats. He had no idea whether he'd hit anything, until he felt the end of the sword slide into something soft. When he pulled it out there was blood on the tip.
The AFV veered wildly to one side, away from the battlefield, heading towards some trees. Robert didn't have the luxury of waiting this time and launched himself off the vehicle, hoping he'd roll far enough out of its way that he wouldn't be crushed. He needn't have worried. The AFV was obviously stuck in forward gear, the driver probably slumped over the controls inside. The hatches opened as other men inside scrabbled to flee the vehicle. It hit a tree, but didn't stop. The second tree was too much for it, though, and the AFV shuddered to a halt.
Robert rose, barely having time to recover before he felt a presence at his side. Ducking and turning, the gunfire above him a dead giveaway that this wasn't one of his men, he brought his sword round and struck the man on the calf, digging the blade in and sending him toppling over.
Sheathing his weapon, Robert had his bow out again and was firing quickly: left, right and centre, putting as many of the armed men out of action as he could.
He noted, with some satisfaction, that his troops were all doing the same: picking targets either with the bow or, in close combat, their swords or knives. He also saw something that gave him pause — bodies of Rangers, laying there on the field. One's head had been blown almost totally apart, another had been practically cut in half by enemy fire. Robert dwelled on these for a second longer than he should have, but then ground his teeth, setting his jaw firm and raising his bow, felling another three Russian soldiers.
More jeeps and armoured vehicles — including tanks — were skirting the traps, wise to the barbed wire and trenches now. A group of Robert's men, about eight in total, charged the side of one tank carrying a tree-trunk like a battering ram. They rammed the wood into the tracks of the tank, jamming its progress. Another team did the same at the other side, given cover by arrows fired into the air above them. A further team was using Molotov cocktails against the vehicles.
Robert fired at a jeep heading in his direction, just as he had done the first time he'd engaged in combat like this, back when the market near Sherwood had been under attack. Then he hadn't been able to believe what he was doing, going up against a squad of the Sheriff's men on his own. Now, it seemed like second nature. And even though they were fending off an army, he wasn't alone any more. That made all the difference.
That might make the difference between winning and losing.
Were they winning or losing? Bohuslav couldn't even tell.
What should have been a cut and dried thing had suddenly turned sour. Their enemies were using tactics the men had never come across before, but he certainly had. They were the methods of trappers, of hunters. What should have worked in his side's favour — the wealth of armament at their disposal, the sheer number of vehicles — was actually turning out to be their Achilles Heel. Hood's men were more manoeuvrable, running or riding — on fucking horses for sanity's sake! — between the behemoths, bullets bouncing off what looked like home-made shields. And body-armour! Tanek had conveniently left that detail out of the preparations… unless he hadn't known? It made them harder to kill, harder to kill quickly at any rate.
Hood's men were also able to handle close-combat fighting much better than his, probably because they'd never had to do it before. When The Tsar's troops entered an area, they usually obliterated everything in their path long before it got to that stage.
Bohuslav cursed under his breath in his native tongue, as another explosion went off outside the jeep.
He looked through the windscreen at what was going on ahead of him, and the certainty he'd had when he arrived began to wane. But there was something Hood and his men didn't know — apart from their plan, of course, apart from what was going on while they were all here. Bohuslav had hoped to settle this without having to fall back on them, but The Tsar had brought those special little toys over with him just in case.
Four Kamov Ka-50 single-seat attack helicopters, also known to those in the trade as 'Black Sharks'. Each one boasted laser guided anti-tank missiles located under the stub wings, plus 30mm cannons fixed semi-rigidly on the helicopter's side. One of the most lethal pieces of military hardware known to man. Granted, they weren't being piloted by the most highly trained individuals — at least not as highly trained as they would have been pre-virus — but they knew enough to get the job done.
The time had come to finish this, and if his ground forces weren't capable… Bohuslav reached for the radio, knowing now with complete certainty who would be the ultimate victors here today.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the heat of the battle, even above the noise of gunfire and explosions, another sound could be heard. The distinctive sound of rotor blades in the distance.
Robert looked over the horizon to see four dark shapes advancing, like flying Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Helicopters unlike anything he was familiar with — certainly nothing like the Sioux he'd used to chase De Falaise through the streets of Nottingham. These had double rotors that afforded them a manoeuvrability most pilots could only dream of.
The two helicopters on the edges broke off, heading for the tree-line. Robert could see what was about to happen, but had no way of preventing it — apart from anything else, he was being attacked by two of The Tsar's men who he'd relieved of their machine guns with well-placed kicks.
Missiles were away seconds later, streaming into the trees. The height these monstrosities were flying at gave them a unique view of where the catapults lay. Not only that, they seemed to home in on the targets like a sniffer dog locating drugs. Robert dispatched the soldiers he was dealing with, then closed his eyes as the missiles hit home, killing the men he'd posted there.
Those Rangers closer by had — like him — paused very briefly to witness the lethal onslaught of these newcomers. However, as they did so they also saw more heavy rocks being launched at the chopper closest to the trees. It may not have been quite as accurate as whatever those pilots were using, but it was good enough to give the thing a bloody nose — a heavy projectile glancing across the bridge of the lowered craft knocking it momentarily sideways and off bala
nce. Two more hit it in quick succession before another chopper came to its aid, firing off two missiles which put paid to that particular catapult. But it had already done enough damage to the first helicopter to make it beat a hasty retreat.
"That'll show 'em!" called out one of Robert's lads, a man called Harris who immediately drew back his bow and shot a Russian soldier in the thigh.
But there were still three helicopters left, more than enough to take out the rest of the catapults. Calling on anyone who was free to do so, Robert began to make his way forward, up the field, past the corpses of vehicles — firing arrows as he went.
One of the helicopters had bowed its front, sweeping forwards. Robert ordered his men to duck, shouting that anyone who still had their shield should crouch behind it. He himself dived behind the cover of an upended jeep, dragging a couple of his men with him — just as the chopper's machinegun began spraying the area. It seemed not to care whether its own troops were in the way, so long as it got Robert's men. Several were thrown back by the blast, losing their shields. Then, vulnerable, they were torn to shreds by the second sweep — vests no protection from this kind of intense firepower.
"Damn it all!" growled Robert. Then to his men: "Stay under cover!"
Before they could say anything, Robert had run out from behind the jeep, sprinting towards a tank that was still on fire. Bullets peppered the earth behind him, but he flung himself forward and, taking cover behind the metal hulk, he primed his bow, igniting one of the special payload arrows from his quiver.