Blind Fire

by James Rouch

  ‘And when this is done, do we go and hide, like the last time?’ Cradling her M16, Andrea watched the work in progress.

  ‘What would you like us to do, strap grenades to our bodies and chuck ourselves under their tracks?’ It irritated Revell that, in every one of their brief exchanges, he was invariably forced on to the defensive. ‘Well use what resources we’ve got the best way I know how. Now get back to the chopper, we’re almost through.’ The way she always kept him at a distance just had to be deliberate. Not that he’d ever said anything, made any obvious move; but she instinctively sensed his interest, and was wary, avoided giving him encouragement.

  The riverbank had now been treated for a considerable distance on either side of the bridge, and with the last drop of ALX used up, the truck was wallowing back on to the road. Without any sign or acknowledgement from the driver it sped off back the way it had come, not waiting for all the equipment to be stowed away, dragging the hose and injection device behind it.

  Apart from the tracks in the grass, barely visible even at close quarters, there was no sign of the treatment they had given the area. Revell felt the increased draught from the Chinook’s blades as the pilot anticipated the order to pull out.

  It was barely an hour since they’d left the site of the first ambush. Soon the Russian column would be here, and the process would begin all over again. And how many more times after that? The orders said to harass and delay the column. Why in hell’s name didn’t he admit, at least to himself - he had no intention of obeying those orders? He wasn’t going to use the lives of his men just to buy a few minutes. No, he wasn’t about to harass the Soviet armour, he was about to destroy it.

  ‘Suit up. There may be some residual muck down there.’ Revell unrolled his NBC suit and began to put it on. It wasn’t easy to keep balance in the hovering craft, and he constantly had to grab at a bulkhead for support as he pulled on the leggings.

  Until they were right over it, the deserted farm had looked much the same as any other. It was Kurt whose sharp eye for detail had noticed the two-yard diameter dead patches in the surrounding fields, and among the weeds infesting the lanes and courtyards.

  The pilot set them down on the drive leading to the sprawling house, and the moment they’d unloaded their equipment, made off at speed to find a safe place to await their recall.

  A Volvo estate stood rusting on deflated tyres in front of the house, its tailgate up, a storm-toppled pile of mouldering cases nearby.

  ‘Must have been a long time ago.’ Hyde completed his sampling checks of the air and soil. ‘There’s enough residual muck around the impact points to keep the plants down, but no harm to us. Not unless we start eating dirt.’

  ‘Not much chance of that.’ Burke broke off pieces of dead rosebush from the border below the windows. ‘Mind you, smother it in sauerkraut and Dooley would probably try it.’ He toed a fragment of shell casing into a shallow crater beside the door. Elsewhere the chemical rounds had done virtually no damage, beyond a hole in a barn roof and cracked windows in a nearby greenhouse.

  ‘Don’t waste any of this shit by letting it bury itself, do they? Must use some sort of retarding device before impact.’ Cohen turned over what might have been part of a miniature air-brake in his gloved hand.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, and I can’t say I care.’ Dooley joined the others in pulling his respirator off. He sniffed the air cautiously. ‘When this crap comes flying down I don’t stand about making fucking notes. I usually try for a new standing start speed record.’ The first attempt he made to push the partially open front door had met with resistance. He gave a second, harder, shove.

  There was a body just inside, or what was left of one. Severely decomposed where it had been exposed to what weather had found its way in, the still recognisable remains bore the marks of scavenging rats and foxes. A bunch of keys lay among the scattered bones of a hand, and false teeth glared glossy bright in the face of a hollow-eyed skull.

  They entered one at a time, skirting the remains, save for Kurt who slothered through them, kicking bones and scraps of cloth and tissue across the floor.

  ‘Right, we’ll set up in a second-floor front room.’ Revell didn’t bother to investigate any of the rooms leading off the lobby. ‘Cohen, I want you to stay on that radio until you get me air support or the damned thing melts. Dooley and Burke can plant the missiles among those outbuildings beside the big barn. I want the cables run back to the house. Let’s move.’

  ‘I’m going to keep away from you.’ Burke waited for Dooley to pick up two of the heavy missiles, before choosing one for himself. ‘People are beginning to think I’m muscle-bound as well. Wait for me, then...’

  The house was fully furnished, and the curtains and carpets gave off a musty smell and clouds of dust at each disturbance. There were piles of leaves in every corner, and more rustled underfoot on the bottom stairs. Kurt threw open every door they passed, bringing violent sound to a house that had known none since the last shell of the gas barrage.

  A large bedroom provided precisely the aspect required, and while Hyde set up the weapon control box on a dressing table by the window, Cohen produced a huge cloud of dust when he dragged aside a duvet and set the radio on the bed.

  It was stupid really, Clarence admitted that to himself as he wandered along the corridor, looking into every room. He could have done it anywhere, who would ever know, or object. When he did find what was obviously the toilet he hesitated, and out of habit almost knocked before walking in, to a shock that stopped him dead.

  There was a long pause before he could take another faltering pace. The little figure kneeling crouched over the bowl looked so ... so alive. Its pretty print dress had only faded a little, and long blonde hair still fell around a face he was so thankful he couldn’t see. Alone in that room, the child had died and been perfectly preserved, mummified in the tinder-dry atmosphere.

  Everything else forgotten he backed out, carefully and quietly closing the door. Kurt was outside, cramming watches and jewellery into various pockets. A look of interest and cunning came into his face as he misinterpreted the sniper’s behaviour. He grabbed at the door handle, and a rifle butt smacked into the side of his head. Cannoning off the wall his knees began to buckle, until the barrel of Clarence’s Enfield jammed into his Adam’s-apple and forced him to remain upright.

  ‘One step in there and I’ll kill you.’ He rammed the rifle harder into Kurt’s throat. ‘Now get lost, understand? Verstehen?’ Easing the pressure he allowed the Grepo to wriggle free, then prodded him away down the corridor.

  As his brain began to recover from the effects of the blow, it momentarily looked as if Kurt might be harbouring thoughts of retaliation, but the sniper’s eyes were still on him. He hesitated briefly, then wiped the blood trickling from the cut above his ear and went up to the top floor. His boots echoed on the narrow uncarpeted stairway.

  More cautiously than before, Clarence investigated the other rooms. The third he tried held a tableau as poignant as the earlier one. On a rumpled bed sprawled the body of a young woman. Beside it, on the floor, lay a male corpse. Both were quite perfectly preserved. In one hand the man held the woman’s trailing fingers, in the other the smashed remains of a tumbler. A fluffy sheepskin rug still outlined where the spilled water had run.

  ‘The Russians have killed so many. What is it about these that you find... special?’

  He didn’t turn round at Andrea’s voice. ‘Perhaps it’s just that, that there isn’t anything special about them. As you say, there have been so many ...‘ The memories flooded back and Clarence tried to fight them down, force them back into the dim recesses of his mind. The good, distant, past was gone, lost; remembering it would be too painful. The bad, recent, past hurt too, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to forget that, when every day he saw it re-enacted over and over again, like here, now.

  Libby heard the conversation, but hesitated before going in. They were a funny bloody pair. He’d go
t on alright with Clarence before the girl had appeared on the scene, nothing close, but closer than anyone else had ever got to the sniper. Still, at least Hyde no longer regarded him as the sniper’s keeper - that had been a ruddy bind.

  There were times when he could do with a bit of female companionship himself. Even on his last leave he’d managed to keep the promise he’d made to himself, not to have a woman until he found Helga, but it became more difficult each time he was tempted. Christ, he was only human.

  He stuck his head around the door. ‘Been looking bloody everywhere for you two. The Reds are on their way.’ Libby saw the bodies. ‘Left it a bit late, didn’t they? Major says he wants you in place now. Four launchers have been put in the stable block for you.’

  ‘Tell him we’ll be along in a moment. We’re only close-in defence, he can start the killing without us. We’ll catch up.’

  FOUR

  Hyde’s right hand moved to the control box and rested lightly on it as the head of the column came into range. The last of the cables from the remotely positioned missiles had been plugged in, and he was all set. It wouldn’t be quite yet though, first he’d wait and see the effect of the charges beneath the bridge, and the mines and ALX. He dimmed the bright daylight display on the screen and pressed his face into the hood, into his own private world.

  The magnified image was only an inch in front of his eyes. He panned along the spaced-out column and made careful adjustments to the focus, until the lead tank showed up with perfect clarity. Now it was just him and it. Strange how he always thought of tanks as living things, almost forgetting their crews. Perhaps it had something to do with the way they reacted to the impact of the powerful warheads he sent at them.

  Some died instantly, grinding to a halt with smoke and flame pouring from them. Others went more quietly, slowing to a gentle stop, main guns drooping. And for a few there was another, rarer way.

  Like huge stricken animals they’d go crazy, moving erratically, lurching and shuddering, even ramming others of their own kind. Sometimes he would fire a second missile to finish them off.

  His total score was about thirty-nine. Whether they were confirmed or not didn’t matter to him; he knew. Out of those, he’d only seen the crews on perhaps six or seven occasions, and then they had appeared no more than parasites leaving a dying host.

  Shifting the nagging weight of the flak-jacket to a more comfortable position, Cohen jotted down the incoming message. ‘Major. I got some news. Which do you want first, the good or the bad?’

  ‘Just give it to me straight. I haven’t got the patience for party games.’ ‘I just found us a pair of Thunderbolts. They’ve given me an ETA of fifteen minutes, but they’ve only got a part load, been diverted from another mission.’

  ‘What do they have?’ Not that it made any difference, Revell knew that. They could find a use for whatever stores the ground attack aircraft were carrying. Anything that helped lower the odds was welcome, they were in no position to be fussy.

  There was the inevitable consulting of the message pad. ‘Four pylons apiece, free fall stuff, an even mix of super-napalm and iron bombs; retarded thousand- pounders. And their drums are quarter-full, so they can give us a short storm of 30mm if we want it.’

  ‘Tell them they won’t be taking any of it back home, and we’ll call the targets as they make their final approach. And you’d better warn them these Ruskies aren’t short of flak-wagons or SAMs.’

  Now the first tank was almost on the bridge. Revell’s hand closed around the radio-control device and, at the very moment the T84 reached the centre of the span, crashed his thumb down hard.

  The bridge disappeared inside a huge cloud of dust, spray and debris. Blocks of stone flew high into the air, towing streamers of smoke. As the rubble fell back, so the dust cloud cleared. One of the strengthening girders, twisted but still in place, was all that remained of the arch. The tank, its tracks gone, all of its road wheels buckled or missing, lay upside down in the river, barely visible among the turbulent water it partially dammed.

  There were several near collisions as the rest of the vehicles turned off the road and deployed in the fields alongside. Revell watched through his binoculars. ‘Seems to be a discussion going on. Any minute now they’ll send some poor devil to test the bank for mines and the water for depth. Hold your fire, we’ll see what happens before we stir them up again.’

  A T72 had lowered the bulldozer blade beneath its hull front and was moving forward to tackle the riverbank, watched by dozens of figures who had appeared at the hatches of other vehicles. As the tank reached the river, the ground erupted beneath it. With both tracks broken and uncurling on the meadow behind it, the T72 slid down into the water, until the flood reached the base of its turret. Hatches flew open and the turret crew baled out. For a moment it looked as if one of them was going to assist the driver, struggling to escape from his submerged compartment, but the tank slid in further and he didn’t, joining the other crewmen in jumping on to dry land.

  There was another explosion and two bodies were tossed high by the blast. The driver finally managed to free himself, crawled up on to the canted engine deck and crouched there, too terrified to step off.

  ‘Looks like it’s a bloody stalemate, don’t it?’ Careful not to disturb the sergeant’s equipment, Burke set the machine gun at the window. ‘They move and the mines get them. We open up and they get us.’

  ‘Fuck off you miserable bastard.’ Dooley brought in three cases of ammunition. ‘Can’t you ever think of anything cheerful to say?’ ‘How about getting out of here, before the commies do a demolition job on this place with us still inside?’

  ‘I can see movement down by the bank. I think they’ve ...‘ Hyde didn’t finish the sentence. Another tall fountain of mud, water and weeds erupted as a legless torso cart wheeled into the river.

  ‘They’ve got infantry down there, clearing a way.’ Revell looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell are those planes?’

  ‘Coming in from the west now, right on the ground.’ Cohen carried the communication pack by its straps to the window. ‘They’ve got us in sight, and want to know where to lay their eggs.’

  ‘Tell them to beat up the far bank, both sides of the bridge, but save the heavy stuff this time round.’

  The Thunderbolts came in side by side at treetop height, and on their first pass cut a bloody swathe through the Russian infantry. Panicking survivors and the deluge of high velocity shells set off more of the mines and caused further casualties.

  Revell spotted a group of Russian vehicles more closely spaced than the rest and, in answer to the aircrafts’ request for further targets, ordered Cohen to pass the information on.

  Barely twenty seconds later they reappeared from another direction, but the column’s anti-aircraft defences were ready this time. Tracer of every calibre and colour hosed upwards, and from a missile carrier came the stabbing flare of flame tails, as SAMs hurled themselves after the camouflage-painted planes.

  Decoy flares rippled from the Thunderbolts as they screamed over the collection of Russian armour, their titanium plated bellies shrugging aside the hail of machine gun and radar directed 23mm cannon fire. Four long slim finned bombs littered the sky after their passing, each deploying a miniature parachute.

  The drogues slowed the bombs’ falls, allowing the jets to escape before the earth was rocked by four monstrous explosions. A 122mm self-propelled gun tipped on its side, and was part-buried under a shower of steaming earth. An APC was torn apart by a near miss that scattered flaming debris around a giant crater, and another simply ceased to exist as it took the full force of a direct hit. The last victim of the bombs was the missile carrier. Its radar torn away, the side of its hull crushed in, it began to burn.

  Skimming the ground, the Thunderbolt pilots used every tree, every fold in the terrain to aid their getaway. They had almost made it when there was a vivid yellow flash from the leader’s port engine tailpipe.

  ‘He’s h
it.’ Cohen watched as the aircraft shed fragments of panelling and, towing a streamer of unburnt fuel, dipped to almost touch the ground. ‘He’ll make it.’ The sight of both aircraft, still in formation, hopping over a far hilltop added weight to Hyde’s prediction. ‘I’ve seen those, buggers flying with one engine shot away and half a wing gone.’

  ‘Better get ready, Sergeant.’ It wasn’t immediately clear to Revell precisely what the Russians were intending to do, as every piece of amphibious armour began to roll forward. Then, when every weapon aboard them opened up on the bank, he understood.

  The last of the mines was detonated by the barrage, and the APCs surged ahead, each choosing its own crossing point.

  ‘Hit them as they climb out.’

  That was the order Hyde had been waiting for. The banks were steep and slippery, and the personnel carriers were soon in trouble, all of them having difficulty in hauling themselves from the river. The first one to succeed took long enough for Hyde to put a precisely guided rocket into its exposed and highly vulnerable thin belly armour.

  The front mounted engine bore the brunt of the powerful charge, and as the vehicle slid back into the water, burning fuel gushed from its buckled hull, withering the rain-soaked weeds and briefly swirling on the fast current. It began to founder immediately and, as wounded infantry tried to hoist themselves through opened roof hatches, turned turtle and sank, forming a second obstruction to the flow.

  Even as Hyde aligned on another tempting target, the farmhouse shook to a giant hammer blow, and the room was filled with dust as the door was torn from its hinges and the windows blew out.

  ‘Where the sodding hell did that come from?’ Snorting to clear dust from his nostrils, Burke picked himself up from the floor, then voluntarily consigned himself to it again as two more shells plunged into the paved area fronting the house.