by James Rouch
From the turret Ripper kept hosing shells from the slim barrel of the Rheinmetal cannon. His targets were invisible, but experience had taught him the hard way from what sort of position and angle to expect concealed enemy fire. Every possible location he saturated with a storm of armour-piercing and explosive shot.
Not once did he see the men he was firing at, but there were moments when he could tell he was firing with effect. Sometimes it was a gout of bright light as his rounds ignited a Russian’s smoke grenades, or a fountain of white fire as he set off spare machine gun magazines in a weapon pit.
From the steady cruising speed with which they’d approached the Russian ambush, Burke pushed the mileage-worn engine to its limit and beyond. But even so, as they surged ahead streams of bullets hit the hull’s angled armour, beating a hail on the metal as they deformed against it or bounced off.
A hastily aimed anti-tank rocket soared from a clump of saplings and skimmed over the steeply raked bow plate as an uncomfortably near miss. Another blasted the road a few yards in front of their threshing tracks and sent fragments smashing into the APCs frontal armour. The largest pieces, travelling at incredible velocity, actually dented the hardened plate. Smaller chunks of the bomb’s casing, and lumps of asphalt starred but failed to penetrate observation prisms in the command cupola.
Grenades exploded on the hull top. Ripper felt their concussion through the extra thick protection of the turret walls, but instinct told him they were almost past the worst. There were few targets to the front or side, only the rear facing remotely controlled machine gun remained in constant action. It was tempting to traverse the turret, to join in the engagement of those communist troops who made the mistake of thinking they could run from hiding into the centre of the road and fire at the carrier’s more vulnerable vertical rear armour, but a warning from Revell kept him watching the road ahead for a Russian backstop position.
Tearing around a bend they drove straight into it. A poorly camouflaged Soviet field car was beneath trees at the roadside. Resisting the near overwhelming urge to destroy the soft-skin target presented to him at point-blank range, Ripper traversed the cannon in search of the vehicle’s occupants. They found him first.
‘Top of the embankment on your right ...’
Already elevating the weapon as fast as he could, as he heard the major’s shouted warning he had to instinctively duck as a machine gun splashed blindingly bright tracer across his periscopes and sight.
Retaliation had to wait while he blinked his vision clear, and regaining it, the first thing he saw was a flame-tailed rocket coming straight at him.
Opening fire, he knew it was already too late. In the couple of seconds before impact, as he watched his shells blasting bodies apart on the embankment, through his mind raced a flickering selection of terrifying images. Dominant among them was that of their sergeant’s fire-ravaged features. Ripper saw it superimposed on his own, as the warhead of the same type that had burned away Hyde’s facial tissue and reduced him to a wicked parody of human appearance, closed range.
Striking the turret front, the rocket’s lethal payload detonated instantaneously and focused into a pencil thin jet of pure energy, bored into the armour.
The air in the turret became roasting hot and was filled with smoke and stinging bright sparks and the smell of furnace heated metal.
‘Jesus, I’m on fire, I’m on fire.’ Thrashing about to reach the area of searing pain, Ripper slipped from his seat and fell to the cabin floor. He felt wads of cloth and packs being bundled against him to smother the flames, then tasted a mouthful of the bitter contents of a gushing fire-extinguisher.
‘Leave him, use it on the turret. The fire suppression system isn’t working.’ Grabbing and hauling clear the smoke-blinded gunner, Revell unhooked another pyrene and aimed its billowing discharge upward, toward the glow at the centre of the dense smoke filling the turret and command cupola.
‘Am I burned? I got to know, tell me. How’s my face?’ There was no reply to Ripper’s frantic plea. He tried to get a hold of a leg to detain someone, any one of those who constantly trampled him, but his attempts were kicked or stamped aside, and he could only listen to the noises as the crew fought to contain the blaze.
In the absence of any order to the contrary, Burke kept the APC going flat out. He’d seen too many other squads die when they’d bailed out prematurely, still within small arms range of the enemy, when they could have stayed with their transport longer, ridden it safely into cover. Repeatedly he smashed his fist down on the button that should have manually countered any malfunction in the automatic extinguishers, but the square of green plastic set in the control panel, that would have signalled its activation, remained stubbornly unlit.
‘Clear the way.’ With shoulder and elbow Thome pushed the others aside as he pulled the flamethrower cylinders from beneath the dribble of molten plastic and metal and shifted them to comparative safety behind the driver’s seat.
‘Are you fucking mad?’ A glance as they bumped the seat-back told Burke what it was that had been moved to share his portion of the interior. ‘Move those blasted things away from me, stuff them through a bloody hatch.’
‘At a pinch any of us could handle this crate, but you can’t spit fire, so you go through the hatch. We need this more than you.’ Thorne leaned forward so that their driver got the full benefit of his broad smile.
‘We’ve got it licked.’ Revell’s throat felt like it was lined with a coarse grained sandpaper. His extinguisher was almost empty, but the yellow glow of the fire was gone. ‘Cut in the air conditioning again. We’ll motor another mile or so to be on the safe side, then stop for a check of what systems are still functioning.’
‘The stop’ll have to be now. Fancy a spot more fire-fighting?’ Bringing the APC to rest on the gentle incline of a compacted stone ramp up to the causeway, Burke looked along the length of the wooden structure.
A hundred yards of its centre, unnaturally dried by the harsh chemicals with which it had been saturated, impregnated with the oil dripped from thousands of sumps and back axles, was blazing. It was a great roaring avenue of flame.
NINE
‘…but our troops do report several hits, Comrade Colonel.’ Alternately sweating and shivering with nervous tension, the major steeled himself for an answering blast as violent as those that had greeted the rest of his report.
Rozenkov considered himself something of an artist, a master even, when it came to instilling terror. Like any other art, the inflicting of fear could not be played all on one note, or portrayed all in one colour: contrasts were called for, and he used one now. He lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper, purging it of any overtones of menace, replacing it with gentle amusement.
‘Oh, that is most interesting, then I take it that the NATO squad still in pursuit of the delegation are ghosts.’
There was a trap here, the liaison officer could sense it, but there was no escape to be found, he had to reply. ‘It would appear, Comrade Colonel, that the hits failed to penetrate their armour…’
‘Even more interesting. Perhaps you would care to inform me what calibre of weapons are issued to your troops, what type of ammunition. I am sure also that if they are using standard issue equipment our armament experts will be intrigued to discover what level of incompetence is required to render ineffective their tried and tested inventions.’
Again the major knew an answer was called f6r, was expected, but he had none. Anticipating the colonel’s next words to be the ordering of his arrest, those that came were all the greater surprise.
‘Never mind, Major Morkov. The results of the GRU’s abortive attempt to halt the pursuit, no better than I expected, will have had the precise effect on the civilians that I required. They will have heard the engagement, perhaps even guessed its significance, but whether they have or not they will now know that there is only one way they can go, eastward, straight into our waiting arms.’
‘I understand,
Comrade Colonel. We will use the NATO squad to drive them on.’
‘You do not begin to understand.’ Rozenkov shoved a bulky file across the desk. ‘It has cost the KGB a well planted agent of influence and two senior field operatives to discover the composition of that pursuit group. We have brushed with them before, perhaps military intelligence has also. See for yourself.’
The fat folder was well thumbed, greasy and torn where it had been often and carelessly handled, its cover marked by overlapping coffee rings. ‘I have heard of this Special Combat Group, Comrade Colonel, but I have not personally had occasion ...’
Lips curling in a sneering smile, Rozenkov enjoyed the KGB’s moment of superiority over Military Intelligence. He gathered the file back to him, clumsily patting straight the edges of the stack of paper and only succeeding in adding more creases to the un-aligned sheets.
‘They are a miniature private army, a rag-bag assortment of mercenaries and deserters from several countries armed forces, led by an American major. We knew they were in disfavour, thought they had been disbanded, but they have turned up again.’
‘Surely, they cannot number more than a, dozen, they can pose no threat?’ ‘In the past they have been more than a threat. Several important operations have been spoiled by them. There are officers above us both who would be higher still had it not been for the activities of that squad. Today they have, for once, served not hindered our purpose. It would be fitting if that were their last act. The next time let there be no mistake. Wipe them from existence and we shall both do ourselves some good. Fail, and I shall make certain that any blame attaches to you.’
Behind the desk a large scale map of Bavaria had been tacked to the wall. A pink headed pin marked the approximate position of the civilians, a sparse scattering of blues represented the GRU units racing to intercept their pursuers. There were two more pins, both a luminous red. They were at present stuck in the plaster just off the edge of the map.
Those were the KGB Spetsnatz units being hastily briefed for the reception. Once they were on the map it would not be for them the same slow overland progress as the Military Intelligence companies. Aboard fast helicopter gunships available to such elite units they would race in, covering at speed difficult territory that others were crossing at a comparative crawl.
The major recalled his commanding officer’s parting instructions before he’d transferred to this liaison post with the KGB. He was to trust no one, confide in no one, and bide his time, wait for the big opportunity. In the fierce perpetual competition between the State Security Force and Military Intelligence, more than simple prestige hung on the outcome of the more important operations.
Whatever the result of this one in particular, he knew he could expect no favours from Rozenkov, no credit for success, no protection in failure. Win or lose, the operation’s conclusion would only mark the onset of more doubt and danger for him. On the other hand, if he played a double game, performing his liaison tasks adequately while setting thing so that the GRU could step in and take the credit, then his stock would ride high with his own commander and he would be whisked away to a more attractive post, beyond Colonel Rozenkov’s malevolent gaze and reach.
He would set to work at once, but he would have to tread carefully. ‘Is that all, Comrade Colonel?’
Dismissing the officer with a grunt and a wave of his hand, Rozenkov continued his scrutiny of the map, hardly noticing the quiet click of the door catch as it was gently pulled shut.
In a mind trained to watch for detail, for any betraying gesture or intonation, the near imperceptible change in the usual manner in which the major left the room registered with his intrigue-honed thought processes, and for a second he gave it consideration.
There was a brief overlap as he referred his concentration back to the map. A mental card index went to file the thought away, but the instant before it was filed from sight an unlooked for cross-reference was made.
The colonel let his eyes stray from the centre of the map to the pair of red- topped pins not yet in use, and then back to the sprinkling of yellow. He looked at them for a long time.
‘Shitty great fuss to make over a couple of little holes.’ Dooley watched as Ripper’s burns were attended to.
Andrea dusted an antiseptic into the deep dark-ringed pits in the young American’s shoulder where the molten metal had splashed on him, then taped a field dressing over them. ‘You can let him go.’
‘I could do with a cigarette.’ Ripper flexed his wrists after Dooley released his powerful grip. ‘Can somebody pass me mine, it’ll take a minute for me to get any feeling back into my fingers. This great ape had cut off my circulation.’ Hell, he needed a smoke. The worst bit had been when the girl had cut away his scorched NBC smock. Charred pieces of the thick cloth had fastened to his flesh. In the more lightly burned areas outside the confines of the sterile bandage he could see the pattern of the material’s weave.
Delving into a smouldering, blackened pack, Clarence produced a small handful of grey ash. ‘Rather looks as if your special handrolls have gone up in smoke.’ He let the light powder run through his fingers to dust the floor.
‘Then hell just have to stay in the real world with the rest of us.’ Hyde came down from the turret. ‘And his first brush with cruel reality is to find out that he’s back in the infantry. The cannon is buggered good and proper, so’s the co-axial mount and the last of the smoke discharges. I want a couple of volunteers to heave the twenty-millimetre ammo out. From here on it’s just excess baggage.’ Two of the squad were a little slow in avoiding his eyes. ‘You’ll do nicely, get to it.’
As Thorne and Dooley set about searching every rack, locker and ammunition box, the Marder began to splash through the acres of shallow flooding on the periphery of the heavily cratered area.
Coiled and snaking belts of mixed cannon shells began to mark their route.
Altogether the detour took them three miles out of their way, but with the terrain involved only marginally better than that they were seeking a way around, it cost them ninety precious minutes.
Estimates Revell made as to how long it would be before they rejoined the road again, and were once more on the Range Rover’s trail, had constantly to be revised as their driver was able for a while to increase speed on a patch of more favourable going and then had to slow to a crawl to negotiate or find a way to avoid giant craters that loomed suddenly before them, partially hidden by a sickly yellow drifting mist that was rising from the sulphurous ground.
Gathering darkness was also taking a hand in concealing the ugly countryside, but the sinking blood-red sun was playing a last few tricks with the light, turning the dull grey foliage of the distant trees a delicate pale pink, and tinting the mist with an orange glow.
‘Doesn’t look like we’re on earth at all, does it.’ In the fast fading light it was difficult for Burke to decide whether to use his naked eye or switch to infrared or white light illumination. He settled for a compromise, using an image intensifying prism that he pulled like a visor over his vision port.
As they drove onto solid ground, and the Marder nosed into the trees, it rapidly became obvious that the image intensifier alone would be insufficient. With that single drab shade predominating there were hardly any reference points. Tree trunks, bushes, the very grass, they all merged into one.
After narrowly missing a third collision with elms that had materialized from the uniform backdrop when only yards off, Burke decided to use the shielded headlamps, choosing to employ white light.
Only the left hand beam came on, and that was weakened by a thick coating of mud. A further substantial portion of its usefulness was cancelled by its being reflected back by thickening streamers of ground fog tailing into the woods.
‘Give the Ruskies another year and they’ll have the whole bloody world in this state, if they’re not stopped.’ Heaving clear the last of the cannon shells, Thome secured the hatch before retrieving his flamethrower and commencing a thoro
ugh check of its every component.
‘Shit, what’d be the point of that.’ At their slow pace through the trees, with the engine revs kept low, Dooley discovered that he didn’t have to shout at the top of his voice to be heard. ‘What good’s it gonna do them if they win the war and what they capture ain’t fit for nothing. Fuck it, that don’t make any sort of sense.’
‘It is not always possible to reason, to think, the way a communist would.’ Taking advantage of the gentler ride Boris was repairing electronic circuits damaged by the direct hit. ‘When they cannot get what they want they would rather destroy it than let others have its use.’
Boris was thinking back to his time in Moscow, to the moment when he had started to admit to himself how conditions really were in Russia. Until then he •had kept his head down, like every one else, got on with his life and either pretended not to see or made excuses for what even his deliberate self-blinkering could not fail to notice.
It was those ten days at the Stalinskachowskii military prison in the city that had finally forced him to open his eyes. Those two hundred and forty hours had seemed more like that many million. There, in the name of the State and Party, carried out by members of the KGB and GRU he had witnessed greater cruelty and depravity than until then he’d known existed.
Prisoners had been forced to eat their own excreta, the young ones had been buggered by relays of brutish guards until they bled and had to be stitched without anaesthetics. And there was the petty, vicious, mind breaking vindictiveness of the constant roll calls and searches and punishments ...
Ten days he had been given for the wine stain on his dress uniform. Within a day of arriving he’d had a further forty added for offences so trivial he’d found it hard to believe them when they’d been read aloud in the chief warder’s office. He hadn’t laughed, not even let his face twitch but as if they could read his mind and to punish him for what was in it, he was kicked all the way back to his cell and then beaten for an hour by warders who left no part of his body untouched.