Special Dynamic

by Special Dynamic (retail) (epub)

  Now. In a position from which he might get a good view of things: using a tree-trunk for cover, hugging it, raising himself slowly…

  Juffu’s ‘secret place’ was a very large hole in the ground. Not reindeer-pit style, but rectangular and much, much bigger. Three times the size of the parking area: tennis court and a half, roughly. He was off to its side and about fifty feet from it. It had a humped roofing of some material like netting over which branches, dirt and snow had been scattered. Well, the snow would have scattered itself, of course. From overhead — aircraft or satellite — he guessed it wouldn’t be visible at all, but from this angle what gave it away most obviously was that here and there rectangular shapes were visible under the covering. He couldn’t see any kind of entrance on this side.

  Cut a way in?

  He dropped: and lay flat, motionless in snow and forest litter. Three Soviets were approaching, up this side of the rectangle, having passed down the other side and around the far end. One of them was doing all the talking; by the sound of it, he was either lecturing them or telling a story. And they were going to pass so close and so easily in mutual sight that it wasn’t — wasn’t tolerable… It would only take one of the three to glance this way: let alone step off the path for a pee. In any case they might not keep to that path, might come through the trees — as they did, at times, the state of the snow showed it clearly… He lay like a corpse, listening to the single Russian voice steadily increasing in volume as the trio approached.

  As it reached about maximum gain, it cut out altogether.

  Silence. Ollie thinking, Bugger’s seen me. Pointing me out to the others. He wasn’t even breathing. But he was ready to roll violently sideways, shooting as he moved. Then up, and running, dodging…

  That same voice now uttered one short sentence. Punchline of the boring story, timed carefully for effect. For a couple of seconds it wasn’t getting the expected response: but quickly then the loud, obviously forced laughter. Even in that incomprehensible language it had obviously not been very funny. Ollie wasn’t moving yet, he was waiting for the decibels of the conversation, which was now general again, to be considerably reduced by distance before he did so. When he did lift his head, with tortoise-like slowness, he was looking at their backs again and they were crossing the vehicle park, still three abreast, towards the roadway that ran south to link with the frozen river.

  And there might never be a better moment.

  The cover was plastic, like a rick cover, with cam net thrown over it, assorted muck on that, snow as a top dressing; he was crouching, trying to pull up the plastic, which at ground—level was buried in the snow.

  No joy. Buried in earth as well as snow, he guessed, and the earth subsequently frozen into its present rocklike hardness. They’d have excavated this hole and covered it in the summer, at any rate before the freeze.

  He could have cut a way in easily enough. But not easily in a way that wouldn’t show.

  Use the entrance? Chance it? Creep up, then dive in, hoping to find oneself alone in there?

  Bloody dangerous. It wasn’t only a matter of getting in, there was also the problem of getting out.

  Five or six yards to his right he saw an edge of the cam netting. A join, overlap of two sections. Obviously it couldn’t have been all in one piece. He guessed the plastic wouldn‘t either. But if you could flap the netting back there, cut a slit in the plastic under it: then the weight of the net would hold it down afterwards and hide the slit?

  He couldn‘t see any snags in that. Checking the other way meanwhile, seeing the three Russians’ backs identical except for the absence of a submachine gun on the one in the middle. Some distance away now, pacing slowly up the trackway.

  It took only half a minute to get inside. You couldn’t put the net back in place behind you, that was the snag, during the time that you were in the hole the entrance route would be visible to anyone passing near… So be quick… Under the covering and over the top of a stack of wooden crates, pulling himself over them with the weighted cover pressing on him. Forcing himself through, he slid down over the edge into a gap between rows of crates and boxes.

  Pencil flashlight. Battery weak, but still adequate. He was in an alleyway about one metre wide between the stacks. Close on his left where he landed, though, was an earth wall — as if the pit ended at that point, but it did not: so this was a barrier, separating this part from the end where the steps led into it. There’d be a way through somewhere. Unless there were two distinct parts of the store, and another entrance at the far end. But for the loading or unloading work they’d surely want access through the near end… Stooping, looking around, with economical use of the torch… The excavation was about five feet deep, its covering material raised in a longitudinal ridge over a wire jackstay down the centre, a few feet higher. He wondered what they’d done with the earth they’d dug out of here… In some places, taller stacks of boxes pushed the roof up — as he’d noticed from outside. They’d covered the ground in here with the same kind of heavy trackway as they’d used for the roadway and parking area, with timber slats as well under the bottom layers of crates.

  Ammunition boxes, these. The Russian markings meant nothing to him but it was obvious what they were. He moved along the aisle to a cross-passage; all the way to the corner the boxes were the same. Feeling his way around the corner in darkness. Rough timber crates, rope handles. More ammo, he guessed — from their shapes — and for his purposes not a hell of a lot of use. It would all help, later, but it would need — well, encouragement.

  The crates here were of a different size and shape. On the right, in the cross-passage. A quick use of the torch showed (1) that this whole stack was of one kind, and (2) entirely different markings from the first lot. Rifles? The shape suggested it. They’d be AK-74s, then. But why would you need them? Every man who came up this way would have his own personal weapon, surely. Also, measuring the crates by using his forearm as a ruler — an AK-74 was slightly under 950 millimetres long overall, and these were half as long as that again.

  Mortars, maybe, or missile-launchers. Either would do very well. He unsheathed his knife, felt for the edges of one lid, slid the blade in and levered, prising it up. Then by hand, the lid squeaking as the nails wrenched themselves out. Flashlight, as he peeled back tarred paper lining the inside.

  SAM missile-launchers, ground-to-air, NATO designation SA-7 Grails, fired from the shoulder. Mach 1.5 and supposedly capable of hitting aircraft up to fourteen thousand feet. Lovely. Better than a mortar would have been, in fact. The Grail was a heat-seeking missile, but there was no problem in that either, one had only to provide it with some heat to seek.

  As long as they’d stashed some missiles here as well as launchers. Which they surely would have. He lifted one launcher out. Basically it was a long tube in which the missile would be inserted — the barrel — with a shorter lower part containing the firing mechanism and trigger, and the sights were on the top of the barrel. He put it down on one of the lower stacks, and shut the lid of the box it had been in. He was looking for SAM missiles now. But by chance he found some cases of grenades first, stopping to investigate them because the markings weren’t in Russian but in German. The grenades inside were also German — West German, at that, Diehl DM-51s. He guessed these must be Spetsnaz private stores; regular Soviet forces would be issued with hardware from Warsaw Pact munitions factories, surely. But grenades might come in handy, he thought, if there were problems later. As there might be. He helped himself to a couple, anyway. The basis of the feeling that he might need some was that as yet he had no idea how he’d get away, once he’d completed this job. In fact, the lack of any plan for withdrawal was beginning to worry him. Withdrawal had to be a stage in any plan of attack that didn’t involve suicide… A new idea occurred, suddenly, a possible good use for some grenades, an old dodge that might come in quite handy. But it was too late to go back for more, he’d already been in here too long, with the cut in the plastic so visi
ble.

  He found SAM missiles. They were on the other side of the stack that had the launchers in it, cases back-to-back with those. And one would be enough. He didn’t want to be cluttered with more stuff than he was going to need.

  Voices. He’d switched off the torch, pushed it into a pocket. A mumble of Russian, from the direction of the entrance, and a reply that might have come from outside. Couldn’t have spotted the hole he’d cut, they’d have sounded more excited than that, surely… He’d been dithering slightly — with the missile box still open, wondering whether to pull out some of the paper lining and wrappings for later use. He did have an alternative procedure in mind, he’d been weighing one against the other when these voices had warned him that the staff were back. Which made his mind up, to the extent that he left the combustible material in the box and shut it, put it back up where it belonged. The voices by this time were louder, closer, and he guessed there did have to be a passage through from where they were into this larger section.

  Heavy objects were being thumped around, in there.

  Smell of petrol. Quite strong, suddenly.

  Fuel storage at that end? it might account for the separation, the earth wall, safety precaution. Even if there was a way through, maybe over on the other side. In any case it wasn’t much of a safety measure, between very large quantities of such highly explosive and inflammable materials, it wouldn’t keep a real fire from warming-up that gasolene.

  And there was going to be a real fire. With any luck…

  A Russian voice called, from a distance, and a nearer one answered. Then a blare of noise: radio switched on, music gushing, very loud and very Russian-sounding, Red Army choir-type, defenders of communism on the march for Mother Russia, earth-mother, heroes of the revolution goose-stepping under scarlet banners with hammers and sickles on them instead of black ones with swastikas. He shut his mind to it, got on with what had still to be done. He was going to have to come back in here, to set it up — after dark, when he’d be able to move around more easily, and if they kept that frightful noise going it might help. Meanwhile he was taking the launcher and one missile. Simplest way being to load missile into launcher, thus having one burden instead of two.

  The petrol store occupied his thoughts while he was doing this. Noise of Moscow Radio deafening from beyond the earth wall. He was relieved to find the missile did fit, and that the mechanics of the launcher were as simple as he’d expected. But the petrol seemed so obvious, such a close convenience that not to make use of it seemed like looking a gift horse in the mouth. Except it would mean getting into that other part, which might be tricky, since that was where the action seemed to be. Maybe the supply of weaponry and ammunition had been completed, and fuelling was the final stage. All this having been in progress for weeks or even months while Spetsnaz teams staked out the border area to grease anyone who saw or heard of it.

  Like three Finns, two Americans, two Lapps: and those were only the ones one knew of.

  Simple enough, and helped by the trusting attitudes of Norwegians and Finns. And it would have worked if the CIA hadn’t thrown a spanner in the works. Blindly and expensively, in terms of two innocents sacrificed, but sending them here had scorched it. Or would have — touch wood. As those two would have put it, knock on wood… He was manoeuvring himself over the top of the ammo boxes, where he’d got in, dragging the launcher beside him. Pockets weighted with the Diehl grenades. Successful visit to the supermarket; now, one had to avoid the check-out. Initially, getting out from under the netting and then folding it back over the knife-slit in the plastic to cover it and hold it down, with a scattering of snow over it as a finishing touch: then, sneak back to where he’d left his bergen. But if there happened to be a Soviet there to notice the cover bulging and wait to see whether whatever finally squeezed out had four feet or two…

  There wasn’t. Luckily. That form of exit had been a total gamble: out into the daylight blindly as a newborn babe. Successful delivery, as it happened: he was hunched down, clutching the launcher against his chest, studying the surroundings. Then away: leaving the massed choirs behind him and trotting, bent double, into the trees.

  Knowing where he was going now and how to get there, the return journey was faster than the outward had been. Despite having to stop and wait in cover while the three Soviets who’d left the dump a quarter of an hour earlier came striding back along the trackway and through the vehicle park. They were marching, swinging along in the tempo of the music… One of them went down the steps into the hole while the others marched on down its far side, where they’d gone before. Ollie thinking, Five of them here now. Five at least. Might be others with their heads down. Also, there probably was an entrance at the other end. A loading area too, quite possibly; if the BMPs could drive on round, down the side of the dump where those two had just disappeared. If there was an entrance/exit down at that end it seemed likely the earth wall did extend right across.

  Not that it mattered, really.

  He was measuring distances in paces, in preparation for his return in the dark. He reached the frozen river — effectively now a road, there’d no doubt be other lengths of river-road in similar use between here and the Finnish-Soviet border — and crossed it on the BMP tracks, looking and listening from cover first, then quickly over to find the bergen and skis.

  Two hours, say, to lie low. Or rather, high — up on that hill. It would be dark or getting dark in about one hour, and any time after that would do, according to what might be going on here. If BMPs rolled in, for instance, and the staff got busy, there’d be no reason to wait, but if there was no activity tonight then it might be better to let them settle down. With luck they’d keep their radio going. He wondered where they’d get their heads down. In bivvies maybe, somewhere down near the other end. Or even inside the hole, the far end of it? He thought, My God, what a way to wake up…

  *

  About thirty below zero, he guessed, maybe thirty-five, on this hilltop. There was very little shelter from the wind, as the firs grew rather sparsely up here. On the other hand there was reason to put up with that much discomfort, because on top there’d be a lot less chance of passers-by, unfortunate encounters. That wouldn’t be a good way to be woken either. Not that he intended to sleep, but it could happen… And if they had any sense they would take a look up here occasionally. The main danger might be the guy who’d killed Juffu. If he was here, or coming here, knowing Juffu had had a companion who’d got away — and possibly identifying the pair of them as the two (Ollie and Sophie) who’d got away from the snow-hole a jump ahead of him two days earlier?

  Nothing to do but take your chances, anyway. And not long to wait now, thank God.

  He’d hidden the SAM launcher and its missile near the river, down below. There’d have been no point lugging that weight up here, then down again. But he’d brought his other gear — skis, poles and bergen.

  When he’d finished the tea that was in his Thermos, that was it, so far as anything hot was concerned. He’d given wishful thought to the possibility of flashing-up the bluey, particularly since from this height no odour could have reached the Soviets down below, with the wind carrying it straight off the hill. He could have hidden the small flame well enough too; he had the tarpaulin slung from a branch to provide some shelter, and it could have been used to shroud any cooking operation. But the crucial factor was that he had less than a pint of naptha left, and an essential use for it.

  He wouldn’t be able to melt the frozen baked beans. He could have thrown the full tins away but he had a better idea. He removed the lids completely, not leaving them as flaps, and dug out the frozen beans with his knife. Now he could put the empty tins to good use: to make a booby-trap that might help to cover his withdrawal up this hill after the dump was blown. At least it ought to delay pursuit, allowing him to move into stage two, escape down the hill’s east—facing side. This was the best scheme he’d been able to evolve, so far. He’d seen from the map that there was a s
tretch of more or less open ground below the hill and on that side, and he’d heard at least one snowscooter from that direction — confirming the same thing — so almost certainly they’d have an observation post down there, but he thought that at night it should be possible to slip past it. Particularly with major confusion reigning, as he hoped it would be.

  A six-foot length of string would be about right. He cut a length from his now much-depleted ball of it. Six feet would span the width of the track up beside the rocky stream. He tied the ends of the string to the two German grenades, pushed the grenades into the empty bean cans — which they fitted as if they’d been designed for it — wrapped the loose bight of string around both cans and stowed the whole assembly in an inside pocket.

  He knew it wasn’t so much a withdrawal plan as a gamble on what he might be able to get away with. You couldn’t plan effectively, when you had no idea at all how many Soviets there’d be on the ground, whether they’d have patrols out, or what.

  *

  Engine noise woke him.

  Dragged out of what must have been more doze than sleep, he thought, Diesel…

  BMP engines were diesels. Oddly enough. They must have found some additive to prevent it freezing. But another puzzle out of that: what the petrol might be for, in the dump. Some other kind of vehicles, obviously. Or BMPs fitted with different engines. The ones he was hearing now were surely diesel. For helicopters maybe… Anyway, who cared, it would all burn… He was already moving: he’d been fully dressed inside the bivvy—bag but he was out of it now. Leaving the tarpaulin shelter rigged, leaving also his bergen, skis and poles. Because he’d be back here — passing through — please God. En route to Norway and to Sophie. But for now, forget her: concentrate…

  He was taking the naptha container with him, and the MKS with one full magazine in it and one spare in an outer pocket. Checking by feel that it was there: and the knife in its sheath. OK… Moving cautiously to the stream, the ice-fall, he started down beside it — feet-first, the main effort being to prevent oneself slithering down too fast.