by James Rouch
The fact that Andrea was attractive in all the right places would have made it even less possible for them to comprehend the non-physical nature of their relationship. Perhaps if they knew about his impotence... but that wasn’t something he was going to shout about. That concerned no one but him.
They’d told him at the hospital he’d get over it. So soon after his wife’s death it hadn’t been important, had even been a help. Now he’d adjusted to it, accepted it. There might be a time in the future when it would worry him, but he couldn’t really believe he had a future. How many of the combatants in the Zone had?
‘Everything is ready.’ Andrea watched the last of the preparations in the main street. ‘We must hope that the Major is correct.’ ‘I should think that he is. The Russians have to come this way, unless they take to the side roads, and that’s not too likely. They’ll have lost enough time already, they daren’t risk getting lost.’
‘It is strange that men who are going to die should be in a hurry.’ ‘Not really. Everything the commies have ever done is based on bullying. When you do that hard enough the result is terror, and that is apt to make you blind before it kills you.’
‘Let me do it.’ After watching for a couple of minutes Libby grew exasperated with the youngster’s ineffective attempts to secure the tripod clamp, and did it himself. He tested the mini-gun mount for stability, then switched on the power. The cluster of barrels spun smoothly, almost silently. An adjustment to the rate of fire control and they blurred into rushing grey invisibility.
‘Too fast.’ Altering the fire selector to one thousand rounds a minute, Libby also pre-set the burst control at one hundred. ‘No point in using up all the goodies at once. Might as well be generous and spread these about a bit.’
He lifted the end of the snaking belt of linked rounds and fed it into the side of the weapon. ‘All you two have to do,’ he stabbed a finger at the young clerks who’d been appointed his loaders, ‘is to bring up fresh boxes as I call for them, get the empties out of my way as fast as you can and relay any instruction to that heavy-footed clown in the cab. You,’ he pointed to the younger of the pair, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Ripper, eh... This here is Wilson, we’re both from...’ ‘I don’t want your life history. Just one of you tell lead-foot to stop gunning that bloody engine. I don’t want it to damned well seize just when we need it.’ While Wilson went off to pass on the message through the hatch in the cab roof, Ripper examined the gun, being careful not to touch it, wary of Libby’s critical glare. ‘Sure is a fancy iron. Beats the old fowling piece I had back home. I come from...’
‘Bring up another box and have it ready will you.’ The southern drawl grated on Libby. Until the war had come along, the only contact he’d had with Americans, if it could be called that, was via the TV. Of the mass of imported programmes, just two had made him grind his teeth and reach for the channel tuner. Until now he’d never really believed there actually were people who talked like the characters in Barnaby Jones or Dallas. And now he had two live specimens working with him.
At least, he thought he had two. He couldn’t be sure about Wilson. The gangling carrot-top with galloping acne was just a shade less chatty than Kurt, and he averaged only three grunts a day, on good days.
‘I’ve not seen one of these before, how do they handle? I mean, are they difficult, what with vibration an’ all?’
‘Not if they’re carefully mounted. This is a bit makeshift, but at this rate of fire it’ll do.’ If Ripper was angling to sit behind the Gatling-type gun, Libby was going to disappoint him. The last thing he wanted was a hick clown tampering with things he didn’t understand. Ripper still hovered, he was chewing his lip and contriving to somehow give the impression that he was hopping up and down while he hunched over the gun’s barrels. He kept giving Libby weird smiles, in which only the bottom half of his face participated, mainly by exposing masses of tiny teeth. There appeared to be enough for several normal mouths. The youngster was painfully thin, and his helmet, perched above sharp bird-like features, looked about three sizes too large, slumping first over one ear, then the other, then down over his eyes.
‘Could you knock out a tank with one of these, for real?’ ‘Only if I was firing it inside.’ Oh bugger it, it was a serious question, not too intelligent, but serious. ‘No, I’ll be going for the personnel carriers. Concentrating bursts on one section of their armour, I should be able to put a few rounds into them, and that’s all it takes.’
‘You mean these little bitty bullets can stop an-APC?’ Ripper prodded the rounds in the belt like a Pacific Islander being offered his first trade beads. ‘More likely they’ll buzz about inside chopping the crew to pieces, but they’ve got an incendiary filling, so they could ignite fuel, or set off ammo racks.’
‘Well I’ll be, ain’t that something...’
Wilson had at last managed to catch the attention of their driver by taking his rifle and pounding it up and down on the man’s helmet. For whatever reason, the engine revs suddenly fell away and the whole truck stopped rattling in time to the straining power unit.
‘This is the first time I’ve been in action, same goes for Wilson here, don’t it, Wilson?’ Ripper didn’t wait for a confirmation. ‘See we figured, as the war’s gonna end soon anyway...’
‘Now where the hell did you get that?’ Libby was silenced by a knowing wink from Ripper.
‘Ah know.’ He sank his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Ah know because my cousin John, he sells fresh dog meat.’
The relevance of that particular authority was lost on Libby. He tried to think of a polite way to voice the query. ‘What the fuck has that got to do with the end of the war?’ and failed.
Again the long slow wink. ‘One of his very best customers is Old George.’ If he expected light to suddenly dawn on Libby’s face he suffered a letdown. Ripper elaborated. ‘Old George, Old George who used to be a gardener at the State Governor’s mansion. Like he says, he may not be right at the hub of things no more, but he still gets all the low-down, keeps his fingers on the pulse of the nation as he says. That’s how my cousin John...’
‘Who sells the fresh dog meat...’
‘Right, you’re with me now. That’s how he heard from Old George that the Governor had said to one of the maids how the war was gonna end any time. And as he was only half-drunk and getting real horny with her at the time, it must be the truth.’
‘Fascinating. I suppose we might as well pack up and go home now.’ It took an effort for Libby not to laugh out loud, especially as Ripper’s face was a picture of earnestness, and was mirrored by the silent Wilson’s.
‘You’ll have to put off your departure, at least for an hour.’ Lieutenant Hogg stuck his beaming face round the side of the truck. ‘Seems like there’s a Russian column coming who don’t have access to such interesting inside information, and we might just have to restrain them. That OK
‘Fine by me, Lieutenant. Like I was telling this fella here, before I got sidetracked, me and Wilson we wanted to get in on the action and get ourselves a medal or two before it was all over. We’d have felt a mite foolish if we’d stepped off the plane, been told it’d ended and that we were going back on the next flight.’
‘I see your point.’ Hogg turned to Libby. ‘Don’t open up until you hear the Dragons go into action. And if you’re forced to shift position, don’t park anywhere near the big building two blocks down. The combat engineers brought a few kilos of explosive with them and we’ve mined the place. Good luck.’ ‘Hey, now don’t he seem a nice fella.’ Ripper watched the lieutenant depart. ‘Boot camp would have been a touch more pleasant if a handful of our drill sergeants had been like him.’
Wilson didn’t say anything, but his slow nod signalled agreement. Libby rubbed his brow, he had one hell of a headache coming on. He could only pray that the Russians would oblige him by removing its cause. The two southerners were sharing a bar of chocolate, blissfully unaware of the prayer being a
imed at them. Wincing at a sharp and painful twinge in his left temple, Libby added a rider to the supplication; he uttered it out loud, though under his breath, to give it added force and weight. ‘And please, make it soon.’
‘He’s chasing about like a blue-arsed fly out there.’ Burke watched the lieutenant dashing from one building to another, checking his men were in place. ‘He sure is a worker, just the sort we don’t want in this outfit.’
‘Fuck him, what we need is a chef.’ Loud rumblings were coming from Dooley’s large gut. ‘At the moment I’d even settle for the crummiest short order cook in the States, even an army cook, third class.’
‘Christ, you must be bloody hungry to wish that on yourself. I’d hesitate before wishing that on a shitty commissar.’ Nibbling at the corner of a block of K-rations, Burke attempted to figure out precisely what it was, or was supposed to be. He didn’t succeed.
‘What makes it all the fucking worse,’ Dooley paused to listen to a particularly angry burst of sound from beneath his belt. ‘Will you listen to that, it’s fucking tearing itself apart… What’s making it all the worse, is that a couple of hours drive from here is some of the most incredible fucking food you ever tasted. You like German dishes?’
‘Only the ones with skirts on.’
‘No, you shit; the food.’ Checking his food pack for the tenth time, and shaking out and licking the last imagined crumb from his grubby palm, Dooley hurled it away in disgust. ‘What I need is one of the sausages like they do at the Alt Nurnberg, washed down with a gallon of beer, or a Zepplinwurst, or,’ he licked his lips and slurped appreciatively, ‘pickled pork ribs or breaded pork chops...’ ‘You’ve eaten so many pigs you’re starting to turn into one.’
‘Shut up, Burke, you old misery. I tell you, I can see why the West German army is so fucking fanatical. Any country that can produce beer, wine and food like this does has got to be worth fighting for. When this lot is over I’m staying. I’ll get a little farm, somewhere round here maybe, and keep pigs. I’ll grow pork, old and fat.’
‘And shack up with some fat-arsed old frau.’ ‘And why not? I like my women big, like to feel a good pair of haunches grinding into my lap when I take them from behind, and plenty of udder up front to give good hand holds.’
‘Big is one thing. I saw that piece you picked up on Munchener Strasse. She was twice your age, sixty if she was a day. I wouldn’t have known which bloody wrinkle to part to shove it in; from the front or back.’
Dooley made pitying noises. ‘I had a fucking good session with that one. This is where you go wrong, you pick up the youngest bit you can. Apart from the fact it’s like trying to shove your tool into a mouse’s ear-hole, they’re always so unimaginative, and they’re usually surly or downright disinterested. Oh I’ve had young’uns, but for all the bloody fun it was I might just as well have stuffed it into the neck of a Coke bottle.’
Crossing to the door, Burke looked out, in the direction from which the Russian column would be coming. ‘Should be any time now. I’m bloody glad this is the last ambush. HQ must have scraped together a blocking force by now, they must have, even if they had to swipe tanks from the delivery squadrons.’ He came back into the room. ‘Alright, so tell me what’s so good about wrinkled old hags. I’m listening.’
‘Next time you start looking for a pick-up, just start looking properly. For a start, the older ones have usually taken a bit of care over their appearance, got done up. That makes a change from fucking jeans and T-shirts. OK, so young nipples look good, but there’s a lot to be said for a well-filled corset as well. Another thing, if they’re past their best they’re always grateful, and they show it in a lot of ways. I’ve had good screws and good presents; this watch for one.’ Rolling back his cuff, Dooley showed the big black and white dial of the Brietling Chronograph. ‘What have you ever had from the young’uns except verbal buckets of cold water if they suddenly don’t feel like it, or a dose of the clap?’
‘Maybe you’ve got a point, but...’
‘There’s no fucking buts about it, I’m right. I tell you what, next forty-eight hour leave we get I’ll introduce you to Anna. Beautiful broad, about fifty; tits you wouldn’t believe’, right out here. If you don’t watch out she’ll suck you in and blow you out in bubbles. It’ll be an experience you’ll never forget.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ He wasn’t quite certain how he’d got into this, but one thing was for sure, Burke was going to get out of it. Fifty! Ugh, it was bad enough growing old himself, without burying himself to his balls in something even older. Christ, he just had to get out of it somehow. Still, it was a worry he could shunt to one side for the moment; after the coming battle there might be nothing left for him to worry about: there might be nothing left of him.
Hyde could hear the machine gun crew moving about directly overhead. He hadn’t had much chance to talk to them, but he could tell they knew what it was all about. Tank busting was dodgy at such short ranges, a well manned support weapon for close-in defence was very welcome. There were two more across the way, and another lower down, flanking the major’s Dragon position.
The time dragged slowly; it would have helped if he’d had someone to talk to, but there was only Kurt. The Grepo was picking his nose, rolling the pieces between his filthy fingers, then inspecting them before flicking them out into the street.
They were two ugly people together, Hyde knew that. Kurt because of who he was and what he’d been, and himself because of the way he was now. He put his hand to his face. His face! That was a joke. It wasn’t his face, it was a hundred different parts of him, made up of the masses of tiny patches taken from all over his body during the twenty-five grafting operations. What a couple ... a monster and a horror.
‘Why do you look at me?’ Kurt stopped his nasal excavations.
Hyde ignored him, not bothering to answer. It would probably have been futile anyway, the East German’s smattering of English wasn’t up to coping with anything more complex than simple commands. Not that he would have talked to him even if it had been otherwise; none of them had time for the Grepo. Beyond the unpleasantness of the individual himself lay the evil reputation of the outfit from which he originated.
The sergeant knew that Kurt had only been kept with the unit to justify retaining the girl. It was a price Hyde wouldn’t have paid for her continued company, attractive though she was.
‘I think we got business.’ Kurt strained forward to look out, and listened intently. He knelt and put his ear to the ground. ‘Ya, we got business. Now we open a meat shop, ya?’ His laugh was an ugly sound, as he drew his finger slowly across his throat.
EIGHT
The Soviet column was still travelling fast, making no concession to changes in the terrain or its surroundings. One after another, Revell watched the huge tanks and self-propelled guns thunder into his sights, saw the crosshairs centre first on their broad frontal armour, then on their threshing tracks and mud-spattered road wheels. He was counting, ticking off each one in his mind and waiting for the first of the personnel carriers.
Every component of the building’s fabric shook as the steel Leviathans pounded past. The last few shards of glass tinkled from the trembling frames and plaster fell from the walls and ceilings.
Twenty. Damn it, it had to be soon. Twenty-one, any moment now... the range was insanely short ... it was a hell of a gamble ...would the missile’s thirty-two miniature thruster rockets lift it high enough after it popped from the tube ...would it climb close enough to the line of sight on which he was aiming to score a vital hit?
Twenty-two. A long gap that time, sloppy station keeping. Twenty-three, another confounded self-propelled gun. Twenty-four... this was it His thumb crushed down hard on the firing button and he felt the heat of the back blast
Filling the shop with dust, the roaring tongue of recoil-cancelling gas and flame sent a great cloud of it billowing out into the street. The Dragon’s position was instantly betrayed, but for the APC it was al
ready too late.
Twin threads of wire unreeling behind it, the. anti-tank round skimmed the road towards its target, climbing and accelerating as it went. Revell had the command unit aligned on the vehicle’s front, just below the sharp angle made by its hull top and glacis plate: actual impact was a metre to one side of that, on its left track.
White smoke, giant orange sparks and flying fragments filled the street, and throwing its severed track out behind it the disabled vehicle slewed across the road and smashed into the front of a bank. Huge chunks of masonry fell on to the hull.
‘Go get ‘em, Major.’ Cohen snapped a reload into place as a second carrier raced out of the smoke, pumping high explosive shells indiscriminately from its turret gun and spitting tracer from every weapon port.
There was hardly time for Revell to aim. At even closer range than the first shot, there was little chance of the powerful warhead impacting against the APCs hull, and it didn’t. He watched it spurt into the dark gap between the road and the vehicle’s belly plate. The result was as spectacular as it was unexpected.
With a shattering report the APC was lifted high off the ground, to fall back and lurch a couple of metres on distorted track and buckled wheels, then stall and present a perfect sitting target. It was an opportunity the major wouldn’t pass up.
As hatches flew open and the escaping crew and infantry were met by a hail of machine gun fire, Revell took his time and, with the front feet of the Dragon tripod packed to give extra elevation, fired a third round.
The massive shaped charge effortlessly defeated the thin spaced armour of the APCs hull side and sent a jet of molten metal into its interior as the last of the Russians attempted to escape. Bodies, fuel and ammunition blazed.
From behind the flaming roadblock came further sounds of battle, as the other Dragon teams went to work on the concertinaed rear of the column. Clearly distinguishable above every other noise was the ripping-calico snarl of the mini- gun.
