Hard Target tz-1

by James Rouch

  There was no room to pass, but Hyde tried throwing the Ural at the narrow gap between tank and wall to reduce the shock of impact. The tank’s broad left track climbed on to and crushed the truck’s engine before it stopped.

  Revell found himself looking at the belly of the tank’s pulley-and hawser-adorned hull. The passenger door was tight against the wall and the other, distorted by the collision, was jammed. There was only one way out. One swing of his assault-rifle pushed out the windscreen, and then followed by Hyde and Libby he scrambled out onto the cab roof.

  The uncomprehending crew of the ARV were climbing dazed from their vehicle. Hyde gave them no chance. His rifle barked three times and they tumbled back out of sight.

  Revel] jumped down and ran to the back of the truck where Dooley, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead, was helping the others out. A bullet zipped past him, very close.

  ‘I’ll fix those buggers.’ Hyde appeared, and pulled a rocket launcher from the tangle of equipment on the floor of the truck. ‘Take out the generator that might do it.’

  Firing wild bursts from the hip Rinehart was already trying to do just that, but more bullets were coming at them, ricocheting from the concrete and striking sparks from the truck’s chassis and rear axles.

  Aboard the six-wheeler, Cohen was attempting to extricate Collins from beneath the pile of ammunition boxes. The major jumped on board to help. As they pushed the last aside they saw that the effort had been in vain. Collins stared at them with unseeing eyes.

  ‘Join the others and have them start back for the skimmer.’ It took a hard shove to get Cohen moving.

  Shouldering the launch tube, Hyde took careful aim.

  Bullets buzzed past him and smacked into the concrete at his feet, but he stood rock steady and kept the sights aligned on the big generator trailer sixty yards away. Only the top half of it was visible above a substantial sandbag blast wall, and that view was constantly being lost as smoke from burning drums of cable eddied about it.

  Hyde gently squeezed the trigger and sent the black painted anti-tank rocket on its way. A few yards clear of the launch tube the projectile’s main motor cut in and it raced towards its target.

  They heard the crash of its impact, but smoke prevented them from observing precisely where. The arc lights remained on. Sergeant Hyde was reaching for another of the disposable launchers when the lights flickered, dimmed and faded. ‘Will you look at that.’ Rinehart stood transfixed. ‘Hell must be like that.’

  It was a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno. The big underground complex was now only lit by the unchecked fires that raged within it. With the last of the machinery stilled, apart from the occasional bang of a round cooking off, the only noises came from the many trapped and wounded men. It was hard to breathe. The air was searing hot and filled with poisonous fumes from the fires.

  A fresh flare-up from the direction of the knocked-out generator lit up the service road by which they’d escaped. It was filled with a hobbling, crawling mass of wounded.

  All of them were making for the ramp. Rinehart brought up his rifle, but like Revell beside him in a similar pose, didn’t fire.

  The approaching men were pitiful. Only a few were groaning or making any complaint, but they served to highlight the silence of the majority. Shattered limbs, terrible burns and massive stomach wounds were all to be seen.

  ‘We’ve done enough, let’s get out.’ Skirting the truck, Revell was first to leap on to the front of the ARV completely blocking the ramp. He helped up Hyde and then extended his hand to Rinehart.

  A scattering of shots came from somewhere among the wounded. They were being used as cover. One clipped Hyde’s rifle and tore it from his grasp, another struck the armour at their feet and went on to bury itself in a thick baulk of timber attached to the hull-top.

  Rinehart froze, dropped his assault rifle, then sprawled back to lay spread-eagled across the top of the recovery vehicle. A high velocity round had struck him between the eyes. His helmet could be heard falling from ledge to ledge inside the hull.

  At dangerously close range Revell put two shells into the track’s cab and, as they turned the crushed front of the Ural into a furnace, stepped back on to the recovery tank’s engine deck and pumped shells in through each open hatch.

  On reaching the top of the ramp they looked back. A wall of spitting chemical fire blocked it, and as they watched, the boiling fuel in the Ural’s high capacity tank flared up and the over-stressed container split, sending a burning flood down the incline into the complex. There were no more shots, only screams.

  FIFTEEN

  Clarence was quite satisfied with his first shot. He’d watched as the gun-layer of the 57mm was lifted from his seat and laid out of sight below the rampart of sandbags. In a minute the body would have company.

  The sniper settled himself behind his rifle again and waited. The non-stop concussion from the explosions in the hollow was no distraction that was a discipline he had taught himself.

  Another Russian was climbing into the seat. Clarence gave him a second to settle down and. as the gun began to turn and dip, carefully pulled the trigger. He kept his eyes glued to the sight and waited – nothing. Confident, he maintained watch. Fully six seconds after he’d fired, his second victim slowly, almost gracefully, fell sideways and draped himself across the gun’s breech.

  There would be no third target, not at that gun. Four Russians jumped from the pit and ran. Clarence turned his attention to the machine gun mount, and swore quietly to himself. The barrels of the weapon had been dipped to bear on his hillside, and the gun-layer was hidden behind the close packed machinery of the guns themselves and the strips of vertical armour plate to either side. Flashes tipped each barrel and tracer soared across the gulf between the hills.

  It had most probably been intended as a morale booster, to give the crew the feeling they were doing something. But Clarence recognised that behind that random burst there lay an intelligent guess. Good: he enjoyed a duel and though not usually pitted against a flak gun, he wasn’t concerned about the disparity in fire power. The extra risk would add spice to the contest. He fed a fresh round into the chamber and took a long time over sighting.

  ‘Keep moving, keep moving.’ Revell caught up with the others and dragged them to their feet. ‘That lot was meant for Clarence, not for us!’ The tracer had started fires higher up the slope, away to their right. The circle of illumination they cast was rapidly expanding. Together Hyde and the major urged and shouted the others on, but there was no more speed to be got out of them. Dooley was having to help Libby who was trailing a leg, and Kurt clutched at his shoulder and seemed to slow with every pace.

  Showers of sparks spiralled from the burning grass, starting fresh fires that spread towards them. Their way led between two patches of the flickering light, and a sudden increase in the strength of the breeze widened both to overlap and encompass the struggling group.

  Another burst from the flak gun, chewed the ground, throwing soil and clumps of grass over them. This time no one took cover and the rate of progress up the hill increased. At the instant the flak gun ceased firing there was the distinct crack of a single rifle shot from the crest. A hesitant answering burst from the heavy machine guns soared harmlessly into the sky and ended raggedly. Then there was silence.

  Clarence didn’t see or hear the others until Hyde nudged him with his boot. ‘Yes, alright, I’m coming.’ Reluctantly he pulled back from the sight and hurriedly began to pack. He hated having to leave without witnessing the effectiveness of his shot. All that he’d been able to see was a frontal view of the mount, its four barrels locked on him and unmoving. As they’d fired he’d drawn mental diagonals between the corners of the square marked out by the muzzle flashes and put a bullet into their imaginary intersection. If his memory of the captured guns he’d seen held good, then he’d put that bullet into the gun-layer’s upper chest, a fraction below his voice box.

  A series of sharp explo
sions made them stop and look back at the workshops. Each detonation came faster and louder than the preceding one. With a tremendous roar the whole huge yards-thick roof of the tank repair shed rose up on a pillar of boiling flame, punching effortlessly through the lightly constructed false roof of the camp and going a hundred feet into the night sky. It hung there for a moment, flame-trailing tank turrets cart wheeling through the air about it, dangling tassels of red-hot reinforcing rods, then fell back to complete the work of destruction.

  Every inch of the refugee encampment was lit like day, as mushrooms of orange and yellow fire came out of the gaping crater where the workshops had been.

  Revell prodded the others into movement, forcing them to tear themselves away from the spectacle. Fie knew that every minute it took them to reach the skimmer was a minute less darkness for their journey back. And every passing moment also gave the nearest Russian units time to sort themselves out, figure what had happened and start to do something about it. They had to put distance, a lot of distance, between themselves and the havoc they had wrought on one of the Soviet Command’s favourite outfits, and fast.

  Libby was thinking along the same lines. ‘That was a hell of a thorough job we did, what’s the betting the Ruskies will do as thorough a job on us if we’re caught.’

  Maybe it was just because they had started downhill, but Hyde noticed an immediate and marked increase in the pace.

  ‘If we hadn’t spent so much bloody time dodging trigger-happy Russian patrols on the way back to the Iron Cow we’d be bloody home by now.’ Burke thumped the bulkhead with his fist.

  Dawn had caught them still six miles from their own lines, and with its coming a Russian Hind helicopter gunship had found them. It was the last of the relays that had sought them throughout the night.

  Coming at them from behind, out of the rising sun, the first they had known of it was a near miss from an unguided air-to-surface missile. Ten more had plastered the ground around them as they bolted for the cover of a patch of devastated woodland. Four times the Hind made low level high speed sweeps across the area, blasting it with salvos of 57mm rockets, chewing up the trees and ground with long bursts from its gatling-type cannon.

  ‘I can’t get a shot at him through these damned trees.’ Fragments from more of the powerful warheads forced Hyde to duck back into the comparative safety of the turret’s armour.

  Libby, with his leg strapped stiffly, had been unable to get into the turret seat, and now he fumed and fretted as the sergeant took over his job.

  ‘Wouldn’t do any good anyway.’ At least he could offer advice. ‘Those buggers have titanium armour on the bits that matter. Best you could manage with that machine gun is to knock a few unimportant chips off him. You’ll have to get in a good solid hit with the Rarden to bring him down.’

  ‘That’s no cruddy learner out there.’ Dooley listened to the rattle of the 20mm cannon firing and the sound of the trees as they fell. ‘He ain’t gonna come low enough or slow enough for you to get a poke at him with that.’

  Revell had been keeping a count. It wasn’t exact, but he reckoned the Hind still had more than half its one hundred and twenty-eight unguided rockets left, plus the four big Swatter anti-tank missiles. If they stayed where they were, with the methodical pattern the Hind was working, it was only a matter of time before he scored a hit or a crippling near miss. If they left cover and made a run for it, he would have all the time in the world to put one of the devastatingly powerful anti-tank missiles into their hull, and that would be it.

  Sunk down into his flak jacket, now slowly beginning to recover from the nausea of the long night ride, Cohen appeared to have shrunk. ‘So what do we do, sit here and wait for him to get lucky, and us to run out of ours? Please, don’t think me pushy, but a way out of this shit I would like to hear.’

  Despite the noise and the danger, Andrea had fallen asleep on Clarence’s shoulder. After two attempts to gently push her off the sniper had accepted the situation, even drawn a spare jacket over her. He had raised no objection when Hyde had mounted to the turret in his place.

  Revell fought down an impulse, but couldn’t completely subdue the urge he felt to separate them. It surged to the fore whenever his eyes strayed that way. ‘If we can’t beat them, perhaps we can con them.’ He grabbed a signal pistol and box of flares. ‘Get everything burnable outside and I want two belts of machine gun ammunition; and somebody get me a couple of gallons of whatever it is this bus runs on.’

  Whipping the branches with the fierce downdraught from its five whirling blades, the gunship executed a tight turn at the end of its latest strafing run and began a sixth. Flame-tailed rockets flashed from the two pods slung from pylons beneath each stub wing set just behind the cabin, and the snouts of the cannon barrels below its nose showed a continuous blur of ragged-edged yellow as they maintained their high rate of fire.

  The woods heaved and shook at the hammer blows. Revell crouched by the side of the skimmer and waited. A rocket detonated among a clump of holly bushes only twenty yards away, transforming the rich green leaves into flaming cinders that were scattered along with the branches. Debris still falling about him, Revell ran to the pile of kerosene-soaked rags and fired a flare into them. He felt the sudden heat on his face as the bonfire instantly ignited, sending black smoke billowing up through the trees. For good measure he flung the box of flares into the fire, then sprinted back to the skimmer as ammunition in the belts began to cook off and send multi-hued tracer in every direction.

  ‘He’s buying it, the fucker is buggering off. No, he’s not, what the hell is he doing?’ Dooley watched from the doorway as the helicopter did a half turn, and then hovered. ‘The bastard, he’s coming down, he’s going to drop off infantry to come and make sure of us.’

  ‘Full power!’

  Burke had already anticipated the major’s order, and the craft was surging forward even as Revell jumped on to the ramp. With it still lowered, the skimmer thundered through the trees towards the spot where the chopper was coming down, and reached it as the first of a squad of heavily armed Russian infantry was preparing to jump from its side door even before the wheels were on the ground.

  Burke threw the motors into full reverse thrust and the Iron Cow slewed to a stop only fifty yards away. Hyde opened up with the Rarden. All of the first clip were hits, one shell plunging in through the side of the machine just below the weapon operator’s forward cockpit, and two more scoring direct hits on the main cabin. At the same time Revell and Dooley hosed light automatic fire from the ramp and cut down two Russians who had fallen from the cabin doorway and were making frantic wild jumps to get back on board as the gunship soared up beyond their reach.

  At maximum elevation Hyde managed to score one more hit, on the port engine housing, just to the rear of the pilot’s cockpit. Oily smoke poured from the damaged turbo shaft’s exhaust stack and the machine began to pitch nose down.

  Two hundred feet above the clearing, a big bubble of flame came from the open cabin and was sliced into streamers by the blades. Its dive steepened and a pin-wheeling body and pieces of equipment fell from it as it turned on to its side before plunging into the trees.

  Revell handed the XL6 rifle back to Libby, who’d dragged himself to the doorway to look at the spectacle. ‘I don’t think I’ll be needing this again. OK everyone, back to your seats.’

  Andrea sat next to Clarence again, and pulling the jacket over herself, nestled against him once more. The sniper affected not to see the look Revell gave him, as he rearranged the material to cover her better, and then left his arm resting lightly across her shoulders.

  A leering grin creased Kurt’s dirty face, but a glance at Revell and he said nothing.

  ‘What’s the heading, Major?’ Burke hit the control to bring the ramp up. ‘Due west.’ Revell felt he hardly had the strength left to speak, as if the last drop of energy had been drained from him. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘According to TASS you burned dow
n a whole fucking refugee camp.

  O’l Foul Mouth lounged back in his chair. ‘Just the part they were using.’ Major Revell had washed and shaved, and he still felt a thousand years older than the antique desk the colonel sat behind. ‘Yeah, well that’s as maybe, but because of the chance of a fucking stink from all the shitty liberals and fellow-travellers back home there ain’t gonna be no press, no medals, no hoo-ha.’

  ‘Then what’s our version, sir.’ That last word almost stuck in his throat.

  ‘We don’t know nothin’, sweet F.A. Our reply to the Reds’ accusation is to say that if independent observers are let in, they’ll see we didn’t do it. But of course the Huskies ain’t gonna allow that, because those same busy-bodies will see what’s left of the workshops. So we score that way. Shit, I know it ain’t much, but there’s times, like over the ‘80 Olympics, when just getting up their hairy nostrils is a victory.’ Lippincott shuffled the papers on his desk to no particular purpose.

  ‘Eh, those Limeys still around?’

  Their sergeant is busy trying to find transport to get them back to their unit.’ The question seemed to have no supplement. Revell hoped the interview was over. ‘If that’s all, Colonel…’

  O’l Foul Mouth looked up sharply. ‘Don’t be in such a fucking hurry, Major, and tell the British the same, I got another little job for you…’

  THE ZONE Series by James Rouch:

  HARD TARGET

  BLIND FIRE

  HUNTER-KILLER

  SKY STRIKE

  OVERKILL

  KILLING GROUND

  PLAGUE BOMB

  CIVILIAN SLAUGHTER

  BODY COUNT

  DEATH MARCH

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1980 by James Rouch

  An Imprint Original Publication, 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.