by Peter Cave
The Thinker had broken away from the patrol to do a little private investigation of the discarded hardware. In the back of his mind, there was the faintest hope of finding the odd tin of rations which had been overlooked. He dropped to his knees beside the shattered remains of a mortar which had been fired just once too often. Beside it, the reddish soil was still stained a dark brown with the blood of its unfortunate operator.
The Thinker looked up and gestured to Andrew. ‘Here, boss, I think you ought to come and take a look at this,’ he called out. There was something in his tone which put the sergeant on his guard. He moved across cautiously, finally kneeling beside the man.
‘What is it?’
The Thinker held up part of the mortar base plate and two shell cases for his inspection. ‘Notice anything unusual about these?’ he asked.
Andrew was not sure what he was supposed to be looking for. He weighed the objects in his hands for a few seconds, peering at them closely without noticing anything amiss. Then, suddenly, he realized that the armaments were all of Chinese manufacture. He whistled through his teeth and said: ‘You reckon this could have been a Chinese force? This far inside the border?’
The Thinker shrugged. ‘Either that or the Chinks are deliberately arming rebel guerrilla groups against the official Republican forces. Whichever way you look at it, our slit-eyed friends appear to be playing a double game here. Which rather makes me wonder about our position in the scheme of things.’
Andrew nodded. The man had a good point, and one worth thinking about. ‘Maybe that’s why they dropped us short of the original target zone,’ he mused, eventually. ‘It could be this was something they were trying to hide.’ He paused, racking his brains for a more simple and understandable explanation, before finally finding one. ‘Of course, it could be that a rebel group just happened to get hold of some Chinese ammunition. These guerrilla factions aren’t usually too fussy who and where they get their arms from.’
The Thinker looked doubtful. ‘Yeah, you could be right – but I reckon something smells,’ he muttered firmly. ‘There’s been something fishy about this whole operation right from the start, if you ask me. I reckon we’re the bloody patsies in this little set-up.’
Andrew was not convinced, but he decided it was something to keep in the back of his mind. Certainly he shared at least some of his companion’s misgivings. Their situation was complicated enough as it was, without any further unknown quantities. It was not a comforting feeling. He dropped the two shell cases to the ground and straightened up. ‘Well, there’s not much we can do about it now, anyway,’ he said resignedly. ‘We’ve got a rendezvous to keep.’ As an afterthought, he bent down again and scooped up one of the shell cases.
‘Souvenir?’ the Thinker asked. ‘Or are you thinking of going into the recycled brass business?’
Andrew grinned, tucking the case into his already overladen bergen. ‘I suppose the old man ought to take a look at this,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he can make a bit more sense out of what’s going on.’
They turned their backs on the scene of battle and began to make their way up the steepening incline of the wadi once again. Another half an hour of steady marching brought them to the first line of real hills, which rose in a series of rocky waves above them.
‘Well, so much for the after-dinner stroll,’ Andrew grunted. ‘Now we all start really working for a living.’
Major Hailsham and his group had also left the steppe behind them and begun their ascent into the mountains. He reviewed the route ahead with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that his choice had been a good one. The foothills rose ahead of them in an irregular, stair-like progression of crags and clefts and, although initially presenting a sharp and fairly steep climb, soon gave way to the jagged line of a natural fissure which would provide good footholds and a relatively easy way to gain height quickly.
‘Nice one, boss,’ Cyclops complimented him, following Hailsham’s eyes up towards the soaring, snowcapped peaks which were their final destination. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is make like mountain goats and we’re home and dry.’
Hailsham raised his eyes to the rapidly darkening sky above them. Thick, black clouds of cumulus were beginning to build up, sweeping in from the north over the top of the mountain range. What had been clearly defined snowlines on the higher peaks only an hour before were now misty and out of focus as high-altitude winds whipped up the loose snow and carried it out from the sides of the mountains in thin, airborne drifts. Even down here in the shelter of the lower hills, Hailsham could feel the break-up of the fairly still air pattern which had been a feature of the plains. At the moment, it registered merely as faint, swirling gusts of cooler air. But once they got a few hundred feet higher, it would be a different matter, Hailsham knew. All in all, the imminent change in the weather suggested that Cyclops was being more than a little optimistic in his predictions.
‘I wouldn’t count on the “dry” bit, if I were you,’ Hailsham warned him. ‘In fact, given this sort of terrain, I wouldn’t count on anything at all.’
The corporal belittled the warning with a carefree grin. ‘Listen, boss, I’m prepared for anything,’ he said with mock confidence. ‘It can’t be any worse than the Lake District.’
Hailsham laughed out loud. ‘If you found a pile of shit in your Christmas stocking, you’d think Santa Claus had brought you a racehorse,’ he said.
Marvelling yet again at the sheer good humour and resilience of the men he had had the privilege of commanding for most of his career, Hailsham strode briskly forward to begin the arduous climb.
Chapter 13
Just as Hailsham had figured, just under two hours of hard climbing brought them to a long, flattish ridge of bare rock forming a narrow plateau between the central massif of the mountain range and its band of lower foothills. Dragging himself on to the shelf, which was at this point about as wide as a three-lane motorway, he sought the temporary shelter of a low, rocky overhang, grateful for the chance to take some relief from the biting wind – and to rest.
The cold air scoured his lungs as he drew in long, shuddering gasps of breath. Age was beginning to show its hoary head, Hailsham thought, ruefully. Or perhaps he was just getting soft. He drew himself closer into the rock face, making room for the others to bunch up beside him, huddling together for extra warmth. Slowly, his breathing returned almost to normal, and he began to shiver.
The threat of a storm seemed to have passed – at least for the time being. Throughout their climb the wind had increased steadily, sweeping away the black clouds but adding a considerable chill factor to the air temperature. The temporary break would give them all a chance to replace their previously discarded thermal clothing – a move which was well overdue, Hailsham realized. And, if temperatures were likely to fall much lower, it would soon be time to start thinking about stripping down their weapons and removing all excess oil and grease from everywhere except the camming surface of the bolt mechanisms. The techniques of keeping weapons in working order in such extreme cold had been learned by bitter experience. In unusually cold conditions, all lubricants tended to thicken, heightening the chances of sluggish action or even jams. Even spare ammunition had to be wiped regularly, to prevent any build-up of oil, ice or condensation. But conditions were not yet that extreme, Hailsham decided. The operation could safely wait until they reached their rendezvous point. First things first: cold-weather protection for the outside and a quick calorie boost for the inside.
Stripping off his heavy bergen, Hailsham clawed at it with stiff fingers, pulling out the two extra layers of Gore-tex body-suiting and a bar of chocolate. Shrugging on the extra clothing again, he bit into the chocolate and crunched it between his teeth before swallowing it greedily. A couple of swigs from his water canteen completed the hurried snack, after which he scrambled to his feet again.
The others were still nibbling at their chocolate bars in an almost leisurely fashion. Hailsham scowled down at them. ‘Come
on, you lazy load of buggers. What do you think this is – a bloody Sunday school picnic? We need to get off this exposed ridge before this wind gets any higher.’
Cyclops looked up at him with a pained expression. ‘Christ, boss, I thought we were going to spend a bit of time enjoying the view,’ he muttered. He popped the last chunk of chocolate into his mouth and scrambled to his feet, checking his watch. ‘At this rate, we’re going to be early for our date,’ he said. ‘I do hope Andrew isn’t going to stand us up.’
‘He’ll be there,’ Hailsham replied confidently. ‘And if I know the stubborn bugger at all, he’ll still have the Stinger with him.’
Waiting a few more moments until Tweedledum and Tweedledee deigned to join the party again, Hailsham set out across the flat expanse of the plateau at a stiff pace. There was another, equally good reason for getting off the ridge as soon as possible, he thought. They were exposed not only to the elements, but also to an aerial observer – and it could not be long now before someone came looking for a chopper which had failed to return to base.
In fact, the subject was at that very moment being discussed at top level back in the Kazakh Republican State department in Alma-Ata. Premier Andrei Kuloschow was a worried man. For months now, the reports of civil unrest and ethnic violence in rural areas had been increasing almost daily. Both militarily and in diplomatic circles, the Birlik, as the Uzbek Popular Front was popularly known, were seen to be gaining in power and prestige. Though they were not yet strong enough to pose an open challenge to the official Republican Party of Kazakhstan, such reports of gathering strength were enough to embolden Birlik members, and other dissenters, into ever more frequent shows of defiance which had now spread into major urban areas. In Alma-Ata itself, there had been three food riots and half a dozen demonstrations in the past week alone. The problems were getting too close to home for comfort, and what had started as merely sporadic outbreaks of guerrilla activity was rapidly escalating into civil war.
And now, it seemed, another heavily armed military helicopter had been wiped out of the sky while on what should have been a routine mission. The first, of course, could have been simply down to bad weather. At least two of his military advisers had warned him against the mission to the unknown research facility in the Sailyukem Mountains, but Kuloschow had overridden them for reasons of his own. In his parlous political state, he considered it more than prudent to curry favour with the Communist Old Guard, who still wielded considerable power behind the scenes back in Moscow if not actually in the Kremlin. So he had complied with the discreet request to send a surveillance helicopter to the remote complex, despite the adverse weather reports at the time. It had not returned, and there had been no further communication. Perhaps, when the weather cleared, he would send another to find out what had happened.
But that was another matter. The loss of the second helicopter, reported only a few minutes ago, was a lot more worrying. Quite apart from the loss to the increasingly stretched and cash-starved military, the propaganda value of this latest development was potentially devastating. If news, or even a rumour, got out that a rag-tag band of guerrillas had managed to get hold of sophisticated anti-aircraft weapons, it would raise the stakes dramatically and demoralize his own troops.
Kuloschow looked up at Major Osipov, who had just brought him the news.
‘So there’s no doubt that it was shot down? No other explanation?’
Osipov shook his head gravely. ‘None, comrade. Air control definitely monitored an automatic distress call from the helicopter’s computers seconds before it disappeared off the screens. A missile was locked on and closing.’
Kuloschow frowned, placing his elbows on his desk and locking his hands together in a tight knot. Forming a steeple with his two forefingers, he tapped them against his chin thoughtfully.
‘Your recommendations, Major?’
Osipov regarded the Premier with barely disguised contempt. The man was weak, with the impressionable, vacillating mind of a politician. And these were times for strength, for making military, not diplomatic decisions.
‘I think you know my recommendations,’ he replied. ‘Although you choose to largely ignore them.’ Osipov’s tone was both mocking and censorious. He had not forgiven the other man for the loss of the first helicopter.
Kuloschow felt the waves of antagonism emanating from his chief military adviser and let them wash over him. The last thing he could afford was to offer open defiance; his hold on power was too tenuous. He desperately needed the support of the military, if not its respect. The threat of a military coup against his shaky government was real enough as it was, without provoking it further.
As ever, the best the Premier could do was offer the man a sop, a vague promise.
‘Your views are, as you say, quite clear to me, Major,’ he said. ‘But so are mine to you. I regard your solution as the final option, to be resorted to only when all others have been exhausted. I will not sanction genocide while the eyes of the world are upon us.’
Osipov shrugged dismissively. He had heard the objection a dozen times before, and had his own answer to it. ‘Then we make the world look away,’ he said simply. ‘We turn their eyes elsewhere. The Western powers need a new common enemy now that the Iron Curtain is down. Give them one. Give them the Chinese.’
Kuloschow felt himself shrink inside, a tightening knot of insecurity and fear deep in his belly. Such talk was above and beyond his abilities and comprehension, he knew. Before the formation of the Republican Party in 1991, and the decision to secede from the Russian Federation, he had been a simple Party official, a regional administrator – nothing more. Fate had thrust power upon him, but had neglected to prepare him for it. He was used to local decision-making, the politics of internal and strictly local power. To even consider becoming involved in national, let alone international, politics made him terrifyingly aware of his limitations.
Struggling to keep such fears from Osipov, he tried to bring the discussion back to a level that he felt reasonably comfortable with.
‘But right now, this minute. What do you suggest we do about this missile threat?’
Osipov allowed himself to smile contemptuously, having the measure of the man and wanting to show it. There’s not much we can do, for a few hours at least. Those guerrillas will have scattered back into the mountains and the weather is closing in. Until it clears again, we can’t safely send in another helicopter. And an air strike would be both expensive and largely futile. Basically, we have to wait until they come out again – and then be ready for them.’
Kuloschow nodded, feeling oddly relieved. To have no choice at all took away the burden of decision. It was at least a respite from pressures, albeit a temporary one.
‘Then we wait,’ he said.
Having reached the rendezvous point, Hailsham and his team also had nothing to do except wait. His prediction that Andrew and the others would be there waiting for them had proved to be unduly optimistic. He could only assume that they had not been quite so fortunate in finding a reasonably direct route up through the hills.
‘Well, you were wrong about the black man, boss,’ Cyclops observed, somewhat superfluously. ‘Maybe I should have taken a bet.’
‘Except I wasn’t offering one,’ Hailsham retorted. He fished out his high-powered binoculars, handing them to Cyclops and nodding up to the craggy pinnacle of rock above them. ‘Instead you’ve won the chance to shin up there and take a look-see.’
‘Thanks a lot, boss,’ the corporal groaned sarcastically as he slung the binoculars over his neck and scrambled off with good grace.
Hailsham watched him clamber up the steep rock face until he reached a deep fissure which ran around to the far side of the outcrop. Traversing it as easily as if he were on a child’s climbing frame, Cyclops disappeared from view.
Time to grab some scran, boss?’ Tweedledee asked.
Hailsham nodded. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, generously. ‘Have yourselves a full-scale banque
t if you like.’ He grinned wickedly, knowing that all any of them had were the meagre but sustaining high-calorie ration packs they carried in their escape belts.
The major likewise thought about eating, then rejected the idea. Taking a swig of water from his canteen instead, he looked up again just as Cyclops swung into view again round the side of the crag. Coming down only marginally faster than he had gone up, the man dropped back on to the ledge and grinned triumphantly. ‘Back in time for tea, I notice,’ he said brightly.
‘Well?’ Hailsham grunted.
Cyclops paused only to take a couple of deep breaths. ‘They’re coming,’ he announced happily. ‘I reckon they’re still about 400 feet below us, but they seem to have found some sort of path. From the look of it, I’d say it links up the site of that camp we saw earlier and another little gully over the far side of this ridge. Could be a goat track or something.’
Hailsham thought about this before asking: ‘Any sign of the natives?’
Cyclops shook his head. ‘If they’re there, then they’re well hidden – but then you’d expect them to be. Anyway, I didn’t hang around for too long, just in case.’ He paused, drawing in a few more breaths and allowing his body to relax. ‘Mind if I make a suggestion, boss?’ he said eventually.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Just something else I noticed from up there,’ the corporal went on. ‘The path that Winston’s on forks off about a quarter of a mile away. It could provide the best route forward, for all of us.’
Hailsham digested this information. ‘So you reckon we ought to go down and intercept them?’ he asked.