by James Rouch
Only a week back, in London, two Peace Campaign people had been beaten severely when they tried to noisily disrupt a memorial service for British dead in the war. Sometimes it seemed like things were moving in the right way.
People, civilian and military, were starting to do things their own way. Like the weapon he carried. The troops had been barred from using non-standard issue arms but he kept his Israeli-made machine pistol. Hard to believe that other units were still being issued with reworked versions of the British SA80 assault rifle. From its instant ignition tracer that marked the precise spot from which you were firing to its inability to take out an enemy behind the flimsiest of cover it was a multi-million pound disaster. So he hung on to the Uzi that had cost him two months wages and thought every penny of it well spent. Hidden during any inspection by senior officers, he had no intention of parting with it.
From the depths of the subterranean labyrinth emerged a group of civilians. Ten in all, they looked mostly frightened and utterly bewildered. Their clothes, doubtless recently smart and respectable were now crumpled, slept in, dirt stained. When they approached the open rear door of the APC it was Clarence who raised the long barrelled Barrett sniper rifle and motioned for them to advance no further.
“No.” His voice sounded echoingly loud in the bare concrete cavern. He repeated it in German, with a warning to come no closer. How it sounded though was not how he felt. There were so many groups like this, desperate for help, getting used to rejection and with the constant fear it would be a Russian patrol or vehicle crew they would encounter.
“We have no food to give you. Keep heading west.” Oh crap, how pathetic. Dooley knew these civilians had never in the lives had to think about heading east, or south or west. Everything had been ordered, neatly controlled. There had been no roads that lead to danger or to safety. It was a choice that would never have occurred to them. All had been safe. Now they were frightened, hungry, likely lost.
“Major!” Calling for the officer, there was nothing else he could do.
Revell saw the situation as soon as he emerged from the APC. He reached back to an interior locker. “Give them this. Show them the compass.”
Ripping open the small package Clarence handed most of the contents to the female leader of the group. It occurred to him how strange it was that so often the one in charge of such groups was a mature female. Separately he handed her the small and toy-like compass. It would not have looked out of place spilling from a cheap box of Christmas crackers.
With many millions of civilians trapped by the Soviet advance it would have been impossible for the swiftly moving NATO troops to have carried and distributed relevant maps. And so this sad package had been devised. Blocks of high nutrition chocolate, a toy-like compass and a five page Russian /German phrase book.
She accepted the package, handing most of its contents to an elderly man, turning the plastic device over in dirt-engrained hands that still displayed the remnants of expensive nail art. Gesturing past Revell, to the APC’s interior she reached behind her and pulled one of the children forward. She spoke in German first and then in near perfect English.
“If you cannot take all of us, please take the children. We were on a bus…a Russian helicopter fired at us and our driver was killed. He was the only one who knew the city. We have had to walk slowly because of the children…” she hesitated, dropping her voice so as no to be heard by the three pensioners in her group who appeared to be taking no interest in the discussion. They just stood, apathetically awaiting what ever the outcome should be. “Please, at least take them, take the children…”
Her face, though dirt streaked was attractive. The tracks of tears showed but they were smudged, as though from some one she had held, giving comfort, rather than her own. She had at least managed to comb her jet-black shoulder length hair and brushed dirt and dust from her clothes.
Revell couldn’t determine her age, her soft round face was full enough to let no lines impinge on it but it didn’t betray any suggestion of overweight. The figure beneath her oversize and obviously looted ski-jacket was full and very feminine. He marvelled at the impression of strength and determination she exuded. At any time, striking out on her own, she could likely have made it to safety but she had settled for trying to help this sad collection of refugees. The city must be full of groups like this, larger, smaller…all trying desperately to get to the NATO side of the battlefield. And one by one they would be minced by the Soviet war machine.
The firm shake of the head that was all the Major made by way of reply was accepted without further argument.
“Can you at least tell us the direction to take.” From a pocket in the bulky coat she produced a good map of the city. Obviously she had been sensible in raiding a stationers.
Placing the compass on the map Revell showed her how to use it and gave her the general direction that should be safest. He could do no more.
Gathering a child with her free hand she led the pathetic group away, towards the ramp by which the hovercraft had entered.
“They won’t last five minutes out there.” Clarence didn’t turn to see them go. Experience told him what a sad picture they would make, framed by the opening.
“The Russians don’t have time for civvies, unless they can use them as human shields, or get them to tramp across minefields.”
Thinking back to the scene he had witnessed when the three NATO combat vehicles had crushed and gunned down other refugees Revell knew the dangers they faced did not come just from the enemy. Out there every-one was their enemy.
While the squad stayed concealed they had no visits from Russian patrols entering the area. Several times though they heard tracked and wheeled vehicles passing on the road beyond the distant exit. A cautious reconnaissance by Dooley and Ripper had revealed that the road was a main boulevard in the shopping district and already being employed as a cross-town route by Russian troops.
The traffic was a mix. Several lone vehicles were luxury saloons, their drivers invisible behind smoked glass windshields. Likely they were the last of the looters trying to get out, but one bullet riddled Saab at the roadside displayed that not all were being successful. An ordinary hatchback that lurched past. was obviously being driven by a Russian unused to the controls after the crudeness of Soviet transport. He was trying to race his trophy but succeeding only in grinding the gears and revving the engine so fast that the clutch was not going to last. Shortly after, they heard tracks and bellowing high-powered engines. It was a Russian patrol, two missile armed scout cars, a motorcycle combination and two old T62 tanks.
“Can we idle out of here on one engine, keep the noise to a minimum?” Revell leant forward over the drivers seat, watching while Burke tinkered with a loose bracket securing a lighting and power panel.
“She won’t take that ramp on one, too steep. But after that, yes I can motor on one for as long as you want. We’ve done it in the past often enough” Finally Burke found a few shreds of thread on the bolt and managed to secure the board against the hull.
Revell had paced out the interior of the unloading area. “There’s a hundred and fifty metre run-up to it. If we start right up against the rear wall, could we do it then?”
“Possible, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”
But that was just what they would be doing. If the Russians had any weapons covering that section of the main street then their arrival at the top of the ramp with almost no way on them; they would be an easy target.
“I could take the run-up on both motors and cut one at the mid-point on the ramp, we should have sufficient momentum to drive out on to the street making the minimum of noise. This big cellar will shield most the racket we make getting up to speed.”
“That’s what we will do then.” Revell felt a moment of relief. “Ready in ten minutes?”
“No problem.” Burke started to activate controls and watched as panels began to flicker through their self-testing sequences. “Get the others out of the
way. I will have to back up fifty yards to start the run from the best position.”
With five minutes to go the officer briefed Burke on the route they would have to follow. This time his street map was better, but in such detail they had to employ a magnifying glass in the poor light.
“Best place to aim for is this water tower. The area around is a load of salvage yards, transport parks and the like. The bomb should be just here according to the satellite tracker device that had been transmitting for a while. Close to a flyover complex, here.” Revell indicated the points to Sergeant Hyde.
“If the area is clean, if the Russians have withdrawn then we’ll do the last couple of hundred metres on foot, find out precisely what’s happening. If there’s only a bomb squad and escort present then we’ll devise a way to take them out.”
“Does this planning involve me?” Carson crowded forward and was almost shouldered aside by Lieutenant Andy.
“We’re parking as close to the location as we can. A scouting party will determine the situation and then we play it by ear. Ideally we grab the bomb, get you to check it and then call up the APC to load up. If that’s not possible, then you take charge and set this lot of calculated frightfulness,” Revell tapped the container, “prepare the bomb for destruction.”
“I presume this case of stuff includes suitable delay fuses or timers of some sort?” It was a thought that had occurred to Hyde before, but it was the first time he had expressed it.
“Sure, a mechanical timer that’s pretty accurate. Normally we’d back that up with a conventional fuse. I can set it for anything from five seconds to one hour. That is for anything from sprinters to the wheelchair brigade.”
“Five seconds?” Burke swivelled in his seat to smack the map. “You’re kidding, right. How far have we got to be from that bomb to be safe. Just in case it sets off rather than melts down, how powerful is it?”
“It’s as powerful as you want it to be. We’re told the one we’re due to collect is set at a fraction of a kiloton. Safety, well that depends on your definition of safe.” Carson looked at the much-embellished case of thermite. “If this stuff doesn’t do the job and the bomb goes off, then a kilometre would be nice. If you were out in the open then half that if you have a real nice chunk of masonry or a bit of a hill between you and it. At a pinch though, behind armour…” Carson glanced at the aluminium walls and pursed his lips, “A couple of hundred metres might do it in this contraption if you don’t mind being tossed about and collecting a dose of rad’s that will make your goolies glow in the dark. Of course if the weapon were dug in, especially in soft material, sand or clay… then the crap flying about to form the crater wall might just mean you’ll be buried. Not relevant here though. We are looking at a ground level blast, no problem. Lots of flying bricks and fence posts, nothing worse if we have a bit of distance between us.”
“You said ‘normally’ when you talked about the fuses. What do you mean by ‘normally’? Are we missing something?” Revell expressed the sudden suspicion that was in his mind.
“We have to be sure the destruction goes according to plan. We can’t set it up and then retire to a safe distance, coming back to it if there is a problem. As the material of the bomb melts a lot of radio-activity will be released.” Carson played with the flap of material covering the top of the thermite casing. “Once the weapon is rigged with this stuff we have to witness the initial stages of combustion to be sure it’s all going to plan. Once we’re sure, then we can scoot.”
“So the equivalent of a staggering amount of conventional explosive plus enough radio-activity to fry us.” Sergeant Hyde voiced the fears he knew would be in the others. “And you want us to hang about and make sure we have a nice fire going before we leg it.”
“Correct.” Lieutenant Andy rapped with his knuckles on the floor and on the walls of the APC. “Can I change the subject a moment? This wagon seems pretty substantial but I sure wouldn’t mind knowing if there are any hull mounted auxiliary fuel tanks, and if they can be jettisoned real swift.”
“All the gas is under the floor, in the centre of the hull. Why do you want to know?” Hyde was aware he was piling one misgiving on another, but he felt he just had to know.
“Oh it’s just that if because of Warpac tinkering the bomb does go off while we’re motoring away, and we are still real close to ground zero, then we’ll have a pulse of super-heated air washing around us for a second or maybe two. I don’t suppose you mind losing the shovel handles and anything else combustible fixed on the outside of the hull but do you want to be close buddies with a couple of drums of boiling gasoline, because that is what you’ll have. External fuel storage, not a good idea.”
“How about the ride skirts?” Burke thought of the thick reinforced Kevlar fabric surrounding the air chamber.
Carson shrugged. “It’s a dense material, the worst you might get is some surface charring and bubbling. In any event it’s fairly low on the ground and should be sheltered even if the rest of the hull isn’t. If you’re reactions are fast though I would suggest collapsing the skirt to rest the hull on the ground so we’re not tossed about like a piece of loose debris.”
“Very comforting. How many times have you done this, how many bombs have you set off?” Burke was asking a question he didn’t really want answered.
“Oh heck, it’s a bit like being a guard on a death row the night before an execution. You are only allowed to do it the once.”
“So this is your first time.”
“Yup, sure is, Andy too.” Carson started to go through his pockets. “Say, have any of you got a black marker pen? I seem to have missed a few spaces.” Quite unconcerned at the expressions on the faces of the men around him, Carson was examining the fabric cover of his helmet and scrutinising the pale patches of camouflage fabric that were not embellished with a stylised ban-the-bomb insignia.
“I can tell you this though, I have had loads of theory pumped in to me. I am real good at that. OK? Does that sort of calm you a bit?”
“Loads.” Burke turned back to his controls. “Just loads.”
* * *
Anticipating the storm of dust that their charge across the underground facility would cause, Burke was already employing infrared vision. Dead ahead the exit stood out clearly and as they hit the foot of it he cut the port engine and felt the nose of the machine jerk upwards.
In the short climb to the road the speed fell away to a walking pace and the screech of the engines to a single muted whisper. This was the moment of their greatest vulnerability. The only idea they had of what might await them came from the sketchy information gleaned from minimal observation from the head of the ramp.
Burke took the Iron Cow through a sweeping turn avoiding street furniture but for all his caution still grating the machine against a lottery booth and then pushing aside a heavy cast iron bench that squealed on the paving stones before toppling back with a crash.
In the turret Libby kept the sights of the high velocity cannon zeroed on a scout car parked at a junction. It was facing away from them and there was no movement in or about it. The two hundred yards they had to cover swept past, another bench was tipped over and two small trees whipped and showered leaves as they were brushed aside without breaking.
From the command position Revell watched the vehicles turret, but it did rotate towards them as they approached. “It’s a derelict.” Now he could see a plume of hot air seeping out through the four wheelers open and distorted engine inspection hatch. “The first turn is a right, immediately after you pass it. Use it as cover until the last second.”
All of the APC’s weapon ports were manned, with Clarence having taken an automatic from the rack and poked it through the rear door defence position. An image enhancing night sight served him no purpose there, positioned between the Allison’s exhaust pipes. He had made sure the magazines he had loaded had a high proportion of tracer rounds among the armour piercing. He might not be able to aim effectively but he wo
uld certainly be able to push out a frightening blast of pyrotechnics.
Clearing the abandoned vehicle the APC cut close in behind it and turned into a street that appeared to have suffered virtually no damage, as yet. There were a few shops, but mostly it was lined with service establishments, like insurance offices and hairdressers. For that reason it had not yet tempted the looters in any numbers. The fact that it ran across the city from north to south, cutting across the Soviet line of advance meant it had attracted no fighting and so they were able to travel down it without constantly having to swerve around smashed or abandoned transport. “Next turn coming up.” Burke let a hand hover over the engine selector and power panel as the hovercraft ran at slow speed on to the new course, and immediately he slapped down hard to bring the starboard engine on line and take it up to full power.
“That bloody map is wrong. It’s been turned in to a pedestrian area.” Revell saw the mass of lamps, fountains, benches and raised flower beds even as they ran over the first group of them and the street exploded in a thunder of noise and sparks. His shout was hardly necessary as the machine was already lifting to its maximum ride height and blasting forward. Tables and chairs outside the many restaurants, cafes and coffee shops offered no meaningful impediment but built up in a scraping, squealing wall before their progress, until they splintered and broke and disappeared under the Kevlar sheets.