by James Rouch
‘You still want to hit those cruisers, Major?’ As the radar screen showed the vanguard moving away from the island still heading due north, the second and much larger group was moving into range of their TV cameras. Abandoning close-ups, Cline had gone for a panoramic view. To the limit of the depth of the field, the floe-sprinkled sea was filled with wave throwing, rime-coated warships from dashing frigates of three thousand tons, to a towering Archangel class cruiser of sixteen thousand tons. Missiles and high-angle guns pointed skyward on every one, while their assorted radars rotated in endless search of the sky and sea.
‘I can’t get them all on to the screen at once, I’ve got a swarm of traces on the radar, how do I choose targets?’
‘Pick the biggest. Leningrad can churn out frigates and destroyers like mincemeat, cruisers take longer, cost a lot more. Don’t try skimping, better to send ten rockets at one target so that a couple get through, than send two at each of five targets and have them all hacked down before they get within lethal range.’
‘You hear that?’ Libby snorted. ‘Lethal my fucking foot. It’ll be like trying to total a wasp’s nest by punching it.’
‘I found you need a good sense of the fucking ridiculous in this outfit. Look at us.’ Despite his words, Dooley did not stand up and offer himself for inspection. ‘There’s Cline and the major getting ready to have a go at better than a hundred thousand tons of armoured shipping with maybe a ton or two of fragmentation warheads, and us, sitting here with shitty rifles and machine guns, waiting to take on a battalion of Soviet marines. Now if that ain’t fucking silly, what is? After I got in a couple of fights with guys who called me a liar when I tried telling them about some of the missions we’ve been on, I gave up. It gets you down, don’t it?’
‘It do, it sure do.’ Ripper nodded sagely, until Dooley rapped him hard on the head and rammed his helmet down over his eyes.
Revell tapped Cline on the shoulder when the last of the target co-ordinates were punched in. The ringing clang made by Dooley’s fist on the shaped steel dome died away as Revell leant forward and spoke quietly to the bombardier. ‘Open fire.’
TWELVE
Both launchers were fired at the same instant, but it was the rockets sent against the anchored amphibious warfare ship that found their mark first.
Caught off-guard by an attack from a totally unexpected direction, the ship’s radar-directed gatlings didn’t even open fire, and every warhead got through.
Two exploded over the bridge, sending a storm of white-hot fragments into the unarmoured upper-works and totally destroying the vessel’s fit of radar masts and dishes. As the remains of the tall lattice structure toppled on to the rear landing pad, the third warhead blasted the forward hanger and smashed a helicopter standing in front of it. Fire broke out immediately as aviation fuel spread in a blazing tide through the open doors and down into the bowels of the ship. The points of detonation of the last three rockets were lost amid the smoke and flying debris from the first, but the fact that they too had found their target could not be doubted when a huge bubble of flame rose from the ship’s bow, as ready-use ammunition for the forward twin 76mm gun was ignited.
The rockets chasing the cruisers had further to travel, and two of those aimed at the lead ship did not reach it. Intercepted by streams of fire from the ship’s gatlings, they were broken apart by the torrent of 23mm shells.
Against the warship’s armour, the rockets’ effects were not so spectacular, but as the smoke drifted clear one of the cruisers could be seen making a hard turn away to port, its antenna badly mauled and its helicopter pad, hanger and rear superstructure heavily scarred, with the barely recognisable wreckage of the chopper hanging over the ship’s stern.
As the launchers rippled their heavy projectiles towards the ships, York activated the decoys. Small mortars hurled chaff high into the air over the island and a silver rain began to fall that would hopefully confuse enemy radars attempting to track the rockets’ path back to their launch sites. Other shells landed well away from the house and began to transmit powerful signals that, for a short while, would dwarf the real emissions, and draw-off enemy warheads homing in on such sources.
While others might be able to watch the effects of the strike on metal, Boris could hear its effects on men. The weary supply clerk aboard the Rogov was drowned out for a moment as the salvo struck, then he could be heard shouting, then screaming. Boris could make out the words ‘fire’ and ‘door’, and finally after more frantic screaming, over and over again the one word ‘mother’. It cut altogether as he reached for the tuner to shut off the sounds.
They’d done it, they’d got in the first blow. Plugging in a spare headset, Revell waited impatiently for the message that the launchers had been realigned on their fresh targets. Come on, come on. On his watch the seconds flickered by insanely fast. Site one was first, and two signalled ready an instant later. A glance at the screen told him there was no need for him to alter the targets chosen. As he gave the order, he imagined the launchers out there in the snow — only much of it would have melted around them by now. What was left would be blasted away by the back-wash as the remaining twenty-six rockets at one site, and thirty-four at the other, took off and rode their flame- tails towards the second group of ships.
This time the Russian vessels were ready. Cones of concentrated small-calibre fire reached out to the warheads aiming mindlessly for them, but some were getting through. The big anti-aircraft cruiser was surrounded by metal-lashed water as slivers of steel swept it and the sea about it.
The proximity fuse failed on one rocket and it impacted just forward of the bridge on another large warship. Tearing apart a pair of ready-to-fire surface-to-air missiles, it added the fuel of their spilled propellant and broken explosive content to the blaze that engulfed that section of the deck.
And of the many rockets that failed to get through, not every one was wasted. Two that failed to reach their target erupted in balls of flame above a dashing Grisha class corvette. It came out of the far side of the man-made storm with every plate pierced, heeling hard over in a tight uncontrolled turn that took it right under the bows of a destroyer, missing a collision by inches.
‘All bloody hell has let loose.’ As York sent the second set of decoys soaring high over the house, he turned to help Boris find the Russian wavelengths. ‘Every damned position on the dial is in use, they don’t know what the heck is going on.’
‘The commander of the marines on the island is broadcasting to anyone who will listen that he is not leading a mutiny, he is telling the ships he has not opened fire. I think he is crying.’
‘Let’s hope the ships hit him instead of us. How’s that re-loading going?’
‘Give them time, Major. Forty tubes is a lot of metal to lift. Best possible is ten minutes, and that’s pushing it.’ Despite the spectacular things to be seen on the TV, it was the surface radar that presented Cline with the most interesting picture at the moment.
The first group of ships were still moving north, but at reduced speed. Now it was down from their previous thirty knots to less than twenty. But it was the traces showing the positions of the ships in the second group that were the most fascinating.
‘They’re all over the place. Look at them.’ Revell put his finger on the screen to underline the two blips that were fast converging on a collision course. Disappoint- ingly, they noticed their danger, but must still have suffered damage in the heavy side-swipe that seemed inevitable, judging by the temporary joining of the blobs of telltale light.
From somewhere out to sea came a series of dull explosions. A heavy movement of air shook the house and threw snow into the room through every gap and crack about the windows and doors.
‘That’s the Rogov. Those shits out there have got problems.’ Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Dooley had come over to the radar desk and was trying to look between Revell and the operator to see what was happening on the screen.
Internal ex
plosions were racking the ship, sending chunks of debris into the sea. Members of the crew lined the rail surrounding the aft helicopter pad, and at each fresh blast another would jump. Flames licked from every port and opening and sent a pillar of jet-black smoke straight up into the milky white of the sky. From its stern came a slab-fronted landing craft. The fact that it was already packed *with men did not stop those at the rail from hurling themselves over the side to land in it. Several missed, and spun for a moment in the LCT’s wake before going under the breath-stopping freezing water of the Kattegat.
Three ships among the second group appeared dead in the water. They were being left behind by the remainder as they moved on, with no vestige of formation remaining. Now, like a herd of cattle that had been frightened into a stampede, they were only interested in leaving the area as quickly as possible.
‘Looks like we’re going to get away with it.’ Cline was filling pages of the log with cryptic notes in a hand that grew more extravagant in its flourishes with each entry. ‘We beat a whole fleet to a pulp and we’re being let off scot-free.’
‘It’s rather early to start counting chickens. There’s still too many damned foxes around, others are finding that as well.’ Using the radar, Revell had been following the progress of the LCT that had left the Rogov. As though its helmsman was undecided on the best course of action and the safest place of refuge, it had first circled out to sea, and now it turned back towards the island and crossed the path of the second group. Its charmed life came to an end as it crossed close in front of a large trace and abruptly disappeared.
‘That must be the last of them coming now.’ With the tip of his pencil Cline indicated the fresh traces springing to life at the base of the screen. A red light flashed urgently among an unlit row. ‘Intruder, Major. Northern perimeter.’
‘Any idea who or what or how many?’
‘Can’t be sure, Major. The equipment I brought was chosen more for lightness and compactness than multi-sensor capability, so I can’t say if it was metal, or what, but it did last several seconds, so it could either be a slow-moving vehicle or a file of men.’
‘That’s nice.’ Dooley and the rest of Hyde’s group were getting ready to move. ‘He don’t know what it is, but it’s either a tank or a war party.’
‘What’s the difference, we’ve got to stop it anyway.’ Five grenades were already hanging from Libby’s webbing, he added another two.
Hyde opened the door, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees as soft milky light flooded in. ‘So let’s go and do it.’
The squad of Russian marines was moving cautiously, their AK74 assault rifles held at the ready. They kept in single file, each man stepping carefully in the tracks of the one ahead. A young officer led them, he walked stooped over, like a man sensing danger.
As they came to the fringe of a clump of firs he signalled a halt, and took out his binoculars to examine the ground ahead. Twice he swept it, then came back to focus on the network of tracks around the small collection of houses in the distance. He beckoned to his radio-man, and took the handset.
His mouth opened to speak as he pressed the transmit switch, and stayed open as a figure rose up from out of the ground and plunged a knife through the layers of clothing swaddling his neck to cut his windpipe.
The fight was short and vicious, with Hyde’s men having the supreme advantage of surprise. Dooley threw himself on three marines, finishing one with the first swing of a length of timber before pain seared his wounded shoulder as he went for a second blow and a Russian ducked in beneath his guard. There was just time for Dooley to divert the wildly wielded club to parry the knife thrust, and then the pair were upon him and he was having to roll and kick to avoid the stabs and blows aimed at his face and chest.
Sweeping aside a rifle butt jabbing at his face, Dooley brought up his studded left boot. Thick clothing prevented the crushing impact doing the intended damage to the Russian’s crotch, but it still had sufficient force to hurl him back, and for the moment left Dooley free to concentrate on the marine with the knife.
There was no sound. The fight was going on in complete silence. Even the dead made no noise as they fell, the snow cushioning their fall. Hyde grabbed a Russian who had a stranglehold on Andrea. Her knife could make no impression on the man’s thickly quilted jacket front and sleeves, and with her shorter arms she could not reach his face. Going for the eyes, Hyde missed and felt his fingers slide into the marine’s nostrils. Knowing the excruciating pain it would cause he pulled back hard, and the hands locked about the girl’s throat were suddenly released.
Blood smothered the sergeant’s hand and wrist and showered on Andrea as the flesh split. Reeling at the agony and interested only in escaping the fingers clawing his face, the Russian never saw, and made no move to ward off, the underarm stab that Andrea delivered to his groin.
Bulging eyes stared down at Dooley as he tightened his iron grip on the Russian’s face. Foam and spittle bubbled in the back of the man’s throat and his struggles grew weaker. Another face appeared over him, looking at him from behind a Makarov pistol. Face and pistol were whirled from sight in a shower of brains and blood at the impact of a close-range burst of automatic fire.
Pushing the dead marine aside, Dooley clambered to his feet. Littering the snow were eight Russian corpses and as many rifles. Between them spots and daubs of blood coloured the white ground, linking them and charting the brief course of the battle.
‘I said no bloody noise, no shooting.’ Hyde jabbed Ripper in the chest with the tip of the rifle he had wrenched from him. ‘What’s the bloody use of tackling them with knives and fists if you’re going to bang away with this ruddy thing just as we’re finishing? Here, take it.’ He slung the weapon back at the American. ‘Someone will have heard that, we’d better get ready for more visitors.’
‘Are we setting up here?’ Ripper looked around as the others started to hack at the frozen ground. ‘Ain’t we going to move a ways from these here cadavers?’
‘Don’t be sodding stupid.’ Libby drove the tip of his entrenching tool into the ground, levering up a saucer-shaped scab of turf and ice-bound soil. ‘In a bit these stiffs are going to be just that. They’ll make nice ramparts for slit-trenches. They won’t stop bullets, but fragments’ will be slowed down, and a few less feet per second can make all the difference between a flesh wound and losing your head, literally. Now dig.’
‘You not searching these then?’ Burke shoved a corpse past Dooley with his feet, kicking it into place on the edge of his excavation.
‘I got the insignia off the officer, that’s the only thing any of this lot will have that’s worth taking. Who ever heard of a well-off Ruskie grunt. These stupid shits only got two-hundred-fifty bucks a year. If they’d been the sort who could make a profit, they wouldn’t have been here, they’d have been enjoying some cushy number back in Moscow.’
Clarence wasn’t happy with an order from Sergeant Hyde. ‘It’s a waste.’ ‘It is not a bloody waste. Those special slugs of yours are the only things we’ve got that will go through armour.’
‘They’re for tackling body armour, not main battle tanks. Was it a pair of T72s you said the Ruskies had brought ashore? There is no way my bullets can punch through that much plate. It’s inches thick in the front, and at the sides they’ve those side-skirts. The best I shall be able to do is drill holes in that. It’s hopeless, absolutely hopeless.’
‘And I’m telling you it isn’t. Those tanks have been prepared for winter service, and you know how much practice the Ruskies have had at that. Well, they’ve removed the side-skirts, I suppose to stop snow packing between them and the tracks. If you can stay hidden until they’re within fifty feet, you should be able to put a round into them. Now get out to that position on the flank.’
From where they were digging in Hyde could see the sea. It was a good position. They had a field of fire that covered every approach to the house, and the nearest of the launcher site
s, a few hundred yards behind them among a dense thicket of evergreens. Again his gaze went to the sea. The ice was increasingly reaching further and further from the shore, growing rapidly by welding on any floes that brushed against it. He couldn’t see the Rogov itself, but towards the north of the island a tall thick pillar of black smoke rose to be lost from sight in the unnatural- coloured sky. It drove straight into it, without tainting the glowing pallor, as though a hole had opened to receive it. Occasionally he heard a distant rumble as further explosions rocked the ship. It probably wouldn’t stay afloat for much longer; there had to be a limit to what the much-repaired hull could take.
‘Think we did much damage to those warships, Sarge?’ Burke had failed to find an excuse for stopping work for a moment, and now struck up a conversation with his NCO in the hope of inventing one.
‘Enough to have scared the shit out of their admiral, I should imagine. The poor sod must have thought he had a safe run until he left Swedish waters. By now he won’t know what to bloody do. He can’t turn back, he hasn’t got the room to manoeuvre without taking his ships into open water, and our subs and mines will be waiting for him there. And the bastard doesn’t even know if he can take a swipe at us or not. If he does and the Swedes kick up a stink, then muck will fall on him from a great height. As I will on you if you don’t get digging.’