Down into the blare of Moscow Radio, faint and not unpleasant at first but louder with each metre of descent. There could have been a dozen BMP engines rumbling down there, you couldn’t have heard anything but the radio now. At one stage a light flickered through the trees, lasted a few seconds then was gone, either switched off or lost through its movement or his own. BMP arriving along the river-road, maybe: visualising it as it lurched up away from the ice, crawling over the bank on to the trackway.
It was good that they were keeping the radio on, and loudly. Fill their ears, dull their sensibilities, if any. With luck they’d be busy, too, with the arrival of these vehicles. Or vehicle; but he guessed there’d be a convoy of them.
About three-quarters of the way down he stopped, peered through darkness at ice and rock, trees crowding in on both sides to make it even darker. This was about the right place for the grenade-trap, it would be as good as any other. Anyone coming up by this route would have to be this side of the ice at this point: otherwise they’d be mountaineering, whereas here they’d only be clambering up a steep incline. He pulled out the pair of canned grenades, stashed the assembly where he thought he’d find it easily enough on his way up. Setting the trap would take only a few seconds. It mightn’t be needed, but if there was any close pursuit — and if there was, chances were that it would be on his own tracks — it might hold them up just long enough to make a difference.
Starting down again. The music began to quieten. A voice rose in its place — loud, haranguing tone, political rhetoric by the sound of it. It went on for about two minutes, hitting a note of triumph and then the music was swelling again, taking over. Ollie was leaving the stream then, picking his way down towards the river.
By stealth, by guile…
Plus — as he’d more than once thought to himself at moments akin to this one — a little nerve and a lot of luck. Or the other way about.
The vehicle park glowed with light. But it was a diffused light, not the beams of headlights. He could see the glow of it through the trees on his way to where he’d left the missile-launcher. Recovering it now, cleaning snow off it… He balanced it on his left shoulder and moved on, down to the edge of the river, the ice-road. He was right-handed and right-eyed, so when the time came he’d fire from the right shoulder, but right now he needed that hand free for the MKS.
The line of the ice was dark and empty: he crossed over, and trotted into the trees on its other side. He wasn’t anticipating problems at this stage, but ready for them and with some emergency moves in mind in case things didn’t go quite as they should. For instance, this missile would home-in on a hot BMP engine readily enough. That would be better than nothing, would create confusion, maybe also create a fire, an explosion of fuel that might then spread. Confusion and panic were allies, the best a small attacking force ever had.
And you wouldn’t get a much smaller attacking force than this one.
He could see three tracked vehicles in the park, and the illumination came from numerous lamps, oil—lamps, which had been dotted around, all over. A dozen men were unloading jerrycans which were being slung from hand to hand, a human chain from the BMPs to the steps at this end of the dump Twelve men — fourteen — fifteen… As he watched — satisfying himself that they were all fully employed, so he could get on with his job — another Russian came up the steps from the fuel-store, against the direction of the flow of gas-cans, and strolled round to the rear of a BMP. An officer, presumably. Tall, burly. That BMP’s rear hatch was open and he must have been talking to someone inside.
Juffu’s killer?
It could be him. But from this distance you couldn’t be sure. And take any fairly large guy and dress him up in Arctic gear, that was what he’d look like. He could be that one, and he could have been one of the pair on the hillside — or might have no connection with either, and it made no difference, except he’d have liked a chance to square things up for Juffu and the old guy’s nephew.
He went back to the river, to put the launcher where he’d need to have it. Then saw, looking towards the target from this point, that it wouldn’t do at all. There were too many trees much too close to what would be the line of flight. The whole point of pandering to the SA-7 missile’s heat-seeking predilection was that if you aimed it like you’d aim a bullet there’d be a good chance of missing. The missile would tend to weave in flight until it picked up something that attracted it — namely, heat — and before that stage was reached it could hit a tree. Or be drawn to impact on a warm BMP engine, for that matter.
It took about two minutes to find a more suitable spot. Still at a reasonable distance from the target but with no trees near enough to the intended trajectory to matter. He hid the launcher, made sure he had the place marked down so he could come straight back to it. There wouldn’t be much cover here, unfortunately, but he couldn‘t have it both ways.
The big Russian had gone back to stand near the entrance to the dump, where the loads were being passed down. They were working on the second of the three BMPs now. Ollie slunk to his right, into the cover of trees and through them to the side of the dump, opposite his earlier point of entrance. There were no Soviets anywhere round this part; they’d have all been put to work, he supposed. He spent about half a minute making sure of this, then ran forward, crouching, jerked the camouflage netting back to uncover the slit in the plastic, wormed in over the stack of crates.
He was in. On hands and knees — as he’d landed — still now, listening. And not having been shot at — which during those few seconds in the open and illuminated by the glow from the unloading area, he’d been aware could happen… The radio music, slightly less loud because of the earth wall’s insulating effect — made it unlikely you’d hear any other sound in this pit, even if it was close by. But there was no light in this part…
He re-slung the MKS, to have his hands free. The bottom layer of crates would be the best for starting fires in. Flames spread upward as well as sideways, and he wanted the fires to take a good hold before they made themselves obvious. Giving him time to get out of here, too. Fires plural because by starting several you’d be playing safe, making it more likely you’d get at least one that caught.
Starting with one near the barrier — as near as it could be to the petrol — then one in the SAM missiles, and one or two among the ammo boxes. By which stage he’d be back near his exit hole, and evacuating.
In each place he lifted the upper tiers down and poured naptha over the lower crates, spilling it over the wood and seeing it run inside, into the packaging. Then re-stacking, but leaving access for ignition. There wasn’t much naptha left for the last one, but the first three looked good. Even the last — well, he wouldn’t have wanted to hang around and watch it.
He went back to the first, struck one of his few remaining waterproof matches. Flames spread quickly over the wood and into the gaps between the boards, so quickly that from there on he really hurried. Smoke was thickening in the confined space by the time he’d lit all four. He climbed out — again, ready for trouble as he made his swift and sudden emergence: but nothing had changed. Glow of light from the working area, Red Army choir giving tongue, and a smell of burning, acrid smoke leaking as he pulled the cam netting back over the ripped plastic.
The unloading was still in progress. He’d only been inside there about four minutes. He found the launcher, put the MKS down and lifted the heavier weapon on to his shoulder. He’d already checked over its firing mechanism and it was pretty much the same as other types of launcher. Feeling for the sights, he clicked them up on their hinges. That Soviet officer — or he might be an NCO — was still in the same place, still watching the jerrycans flow past him and down into the store, but another Soviet had just gone over to him — from one of the BMPs. Ollie watched — in fact he was waiting for more heat, wanting to make sure this came off properly, knowing he wouldn’t get any second chance. He had the launcher ready, most of the length of its barrel — the upper tube — b
ehind his shoulder, balanced by the heavier forward section — which had the trigger at its rear end, close to his chest. The big guy was walking towards the BMP from which the other man had run over to him. Reaching up, having something passed down to him. Radio — radio-telephone, some kind of voice-link. And the music was switched off; sudden silence came as a shock, after that volume of sound.
Somewhat disconcerting, too. He’d needed that noise, he’d been counting on it.
Wait until they switched on again?
He wanted it to cover the noise of the launcher firing. If they didn’t hear it they wouldn’t have to know a missile had fired, or even that there was an intruder here. They’d have an explosion and fire in their ammunition dump, cause unknown. Some fool’s cigarette end, maybe. Accidents did happen around explosives.
But if he waited, the fire was going to burst through. He could smell it even from here now. The wind was this way, of course… Conference still in progress, Spetsnaz officer talking to head office. Ollie sighted on the area where fire was not yet visible but soon would be, and where surely it would be hot enough by now. The launcher was in balance on his shoulder, needed only steadying by his left hand lightly supporting its forepart; his right hand was folded around the trigger.
A bright spot appeared in the plastic cover and immediately expanded, a smoking circumference of it flaring back in a ring of fire and black smoke before flames gushed up through the centre. He heard Russian shouts as his hand tightened on the trigger, then arrested the launcher’s violent tilt as the missile ignited and ripped away, explosion deafeningly close to his right ear… He let it fall, stooping to snatch up the MKS, still crouched in that motion when the dump erupted. The blast threw him sprawling backwards and heat scorched through the trees, singeing them, turning snow and ice to slush. Multiple explosions with matching bursts of flame, objects whirring over: he was up and running, magnesium-bright light from a new mushrooming of fire behind him, the whole scene lighter than daylight, roar of flames still punctuated by explosions. He had no idea what might be happening around the vehicles but he guessed the men working there wouldn’t have had much chance, that close to it. In the moment of firing he’d been floodlit by the fire, as the plastic cover had caught and burned: now he was running, crouched and dodging — out of habit, training, more than expectation of pursuit, and it was a surprise when he stopped and looked back — from the river’s north bank — to see human figures moving, in silhouette against the huge blaze. Those must have been inside the BMPS, in behind them, shielded. Except he hadn’t had any shield, and he’d survived. But nothing like as close… Running on again, uphill into darkness the way he’d envisaged escaping, though not with a lot of confidence. He was thinking, Done it, actually bloody well done it, in the belief that he was also virtually in the clear, getting away from it unscathed, when something kicked his leg from under him. A hammer-blow from behind, an extraordinary sensation, a bang and then the leg folded, he was falling, aware of some brilliant light on him, also from behind. He hadn’t heard the shot, or shots, it would have been part of that uninterrupted medley of explosions. Having fallen, smacked into the ground, he was twisting himself around, with the leg like a log of wood attached to him and impeding the movement but not hurting, getting no feeling from it at all — getting round, and with the submachine gun in his hands, seeing in the centre of dazzling light a man running, bounding up the slope towards him. There was another behind him, but diverting to the right; and that light was on a BMP, they’d managed to turn it and that was its single headlight glaring up through the trees. He was curled on his left side, the side of the useless leg, selector-switch to automatic, sights wavering for a moment or two — cursing at his own unsteadiness — then on. He’d squeezed off a three-round blurp, and saw his man go down. Now the light. In semi-auto, one carefully aimed shot: bull’s-eye. As it should have been, for Christ’s sake: but it was dark up here now, light downhill where the fire still blazed but explosions were less frequent. He remembered there’d been another guy behind that one—
So don’t just fucking lie there, you wimp…
The only way to move was crawling, dragging the left leg. No nerves working in it, no feel at all. Even if he’d had the time, or light to see by, he wouldn’t have wanted to look at it. He was crawling uphill to where it was darker and so that other one wouldn’t have him pinpointed. Also watching for him, staring into the gloom for any movement. Not with much expectation of getting away now, only of not becoming dead if he could possibly avoid it; and the event might at least be delayed by knocking off that other guy. Then think about what, if anything, might be done thereafter. There’d be others of them surviving: for instance, someone had turned that BMP around and switched its light on. Searching the darkness, gun ready and on auto, aware that this was a lousy time and place to have been immobilised: then a rifle cracked, a ringing percussion not far behind him, up the slope. One shot, and the ringing was still in his skull as a man’s voice cried out, a shout of pain, anger or despair — whatever — but also close, and then the thump of a body hitting the ground, smashing of undergrowth as it rolled or slid into it. Ollie had a shadow in his gun’s sights, would have fired in the next second if it hadn‘t spoken, a harsh, urgent croak — in German…
‘Brite — Ollie? Where’re you hit? You done for?’
It had to be a dream. And of course, that was the answer. All he had to do was wake up, maybe with cramp in that leg… The shadow slid closer, down the slope towards him, then was lit up for a moment, light flaring from below on the heels of a new explosion, leap of flame blinding as darkness clamped down again blacker than before but leaving him with that vivid image — dark, creased face, slitted eyes blazing blue…
‘Juffu? This can’t be — Juffu, how the hell—’
‘Thought I was dead.’ A grunt. Up close, actually in contact, the smell of wet dog stronger than ever. Juffu muttered, ‘Now maybe you are.’
15
The old wolf’s instincts were probably right. Ollie saw it clearly in that moment — not analytically, but in the round, as if he was out of the running now, immobilised and therefore finished. He wouldn’t have acknowledged it if Juffu hadn’t said what he had said, but he thought now, Well, too bad, but you got away with a lot more than your share, nobody goes on for ever.
Juffu supported him as they made their way to the stream. He had to crawl from there on, though, the track not being wide enough for the two of them in tandem and anyway too steep for any way up except by crawling, dragging the leg which was still leaking blood despite the tourniquet he’d put on it.
He’d stopped to set his grenade trap. Working by feel in the darkness, removing the pins then pushing the grenades back into the cans, then reaching to position one in an ice crevice in the stream and the other to stand upright, its open end upward, on the outer side of the track. The string was then a few inches above the ground at one end and about two feet up at the other.
Juffu muttered, ‘You set good traps. I’ll remember you for that.’
‘You’re great for morale.’
Then he’d repeated the question he’d gasped out before but which Juffu hadn’t bothered to answer effectively: ‘How the hell did you get here?’ They’d been staggering along together at that stage, Juffu holding him up on the side of the useless leg, and he’d only growled in his heavily-accented German, ‘Found your gear on the hill, came to find you… Now save your breath.’ Trying again before they started uphill, he asked him,‘That Spetsnaz leader, the big guy you chased after — can’t he shoot straight, or something?’
‘I shot him.’
Juffu had been hurtling directly downhill when the shooting had started, and he’d let himself collapse — somersaulting, cartwheeling, floppy as a dummy just as gravity and impetus took him. Convincing enough for the big Russian to have had no doubt he’d killed him and consequently to fall for the age-old snare of a live corpse with a rifle in its hands. Juffu added, ‘I could tell y
ou a story of a hunter who lay just so, and the bear snuffed him all over — his nostrils and his armpits, his bottom, everything — and was satisfied to leave him … Now — do you want to live?’
Crawling on up. He was beginning to get some feeling in the leg, enough to wish it could have stayed numb and to know it was going to be a lot worse soon. The fire was still blazing down below them, across the shoulder of the hill with the trees in silhouette against the loom of its glare and ammunition still popping off, but up here there was only a rosy glow, a haze of radiance reflected downwards from the clouds. They‘d heard at least one BMP on the move, presumably departing. It wouldn’t have much to hang around for… At least, he thought, dragging himself up the steep, icy track and the leg really hurting when it hit things now — rocks, ice, fallen timber — at least one had achieved that much. Although it was surely only a matter of time, now. It was natural and necessary to keep trying, keep struggling, but he thought Juffu’s instincts on the subject of survival — or non-survival — were most likely very sharp, like an animal’s. The pain was getting worse, he’d lost a lot of blood and was still losing it, and there were waves of nausea and dizziness. It wasn’t easy to see how one could hope to get off this hill even if one succeeded in getting up it.
Then he was at the top, crawling to the tarpaulin shelter. He was halfway to it when the grenade exploded. Grenades, plural, he thought at the time, assuming they’d fire simultaneously. And that had been the only point of defence; the next guy who came up would get here.
Juffu rolled up the blood-soaked trouser-leg for him and examined the smashed knee, using Ollie’s pencil torch and with an eye on the darkness surrounding them, rifle close to his hand, and the MKS in Ollie’s. It might not be a bad thing, he thought, if the leg did freeze. After one glance at it he didn’t look again. That was how it was, there was nothing to be done about it except tighten the tourniquet and then wrap the mess of flesh and bone in a bandage soaked in disinfectant.
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