by James Rouch
“Shit, you haven’t even got the decency to be evasive, have you. No wonder those politicians hated you. I just hope to God you know what you’re doing. Screw up this truce and you’ll be responsible for so many deaths that the best efforts by the KGB are going to look like chicken shit. That’ll make you no better than one of them. You want that label, that sort of responsibility?”
“I have to accept it. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to do something.”
“You try, and screw up, and you won’t want to live with yourself.”
“I know that.” Just saying the words made Revell feel cold and hollow inside. Even now he was still trying hard to justify, to himself, what he was about to do. “Once the truce breaks though, that bunch of Warpac child killers could end up anywhere. Or the unit might be broken up to make reinforcements. This will be the only chance.”
Starting on a fresh pencil, Lippincott stayed quiet and sunk in thought for a while. “I can’t back you on this, you know that. The strings that would need pulling to protect you, if you survive, are way out of my reach. Shit, I wish I were going with you. How many… no, don’t tell me. What I don’t know I can’t damned well worry over. Go on, get out before I pull back that file, come back to my senses and blow the whistle on you.”
Revell hadn’t expected it, but the colonel replied to his salute. He was almost out the door when Lippincott called after him.
“That body bag in my chopper. I thought my pilot was doing a spot of smuggling, had a look inside. Was that the guy who showed up on the aerial shot?”
Revell turned and nodded.
“Figures. You were bringing a body home. Nice touch. Maybe your outfit ain’t all bad.”
“They’re what the Zone has made them.” Closing the door, Revell went out through the waiting room. Captain Porter was still there, but didn’t notice the major. He was leaned back on his chair, a faint smile on his face, in a trance.
He was a few thousand miles away, at a features desk, handling one great scoop after another. His imagination was filled with front pages, headlines and by-lines, but most of all with scoops. Not that he would have recognized one if it had been in the same room.
TWENTY ONE
In precisely four hours they would commence phase two. Twenty minutes after that, they would be irretrievably committed. Until that moment they could still abort. They could hope to hook back the advance elements without being detected, and prevent an incident.
For the hundredth time Revell compared the sand-table model with the photographs supplied by the Royal Artillery’s RPV. The remotely piloted miniature helicopter’s cameras had done a beautiful job. The low-high-low flight profile appeared to have got it over the enemy position without being noticed. From a thousand feet, the ten frames it had taken had encompassed the whole area.
On the table, held in place by impaling twigs, scraps of paper marked the positions of buildings. The farm was an old one, with a mix of half timbered and metal clad structures. Work already begun indicated that it would eventually become a formidable defensive position. And that work was proceeding at a rapid pace.
If the work of fortifying it had only begun a few days previously, and evidence such as the obviously freshly turned earth indicated that was the case, then in a week or less it would have become virtually impregnable to all but a full-scale assault.
A red stain was spreading across the carefully sculpted material on the table. It was a reminder of its previous use and, as if any were needed, of why they were making their preparations.
They’d cross the start line as well-briefed as they ever had been on any mission. Revell’s principal concern was the severe limitation on the number of men he could take. Those he employed would have to do a lot of damage in a very short time. To do that, they would have to be armed to the teeth. And to survive to exploit that massive firepower they would have to move fast, and keep moving.
The farm stood in isolation, at the centre of a patchwork of overgrown fields. After leaving the cover of the woods, the road ran dead straight for a kilometre. It would be impossible for their approach to escape detection. They would be under observation from the moment they left cover.
Close by, the pioneers were working hard to get their transport ready. It said a lot for the seriousness of their task that they did not find the humour in the situation that they otherwise would have done.
“How’s this, Major?” Burke held out a bucket for its contents to be inspected.
“Touch more white should do it.”
Burke trudged away, muttering.
Revell leafed through the transcripts of communication intercepts. The translation of an outgoing ordnance requisition was particularly revealing. Taken at face value it indicated that the 717th had very little in the way of mines or anti-tank weapons. It would be dangerous to let that belief lull him into a false sense of security.
The electronic survey had indicated that they were not employing any form of automated perimeter alarms. But that wasn’t proof that they didn’t have them. Such equipment might be temporarily down for repair or maintenance. Taken together the reports indicated almost a mirror of the situation that had very likely existed here. Plenty of physical barriers, a complex network of defences but little accompanying sophistication. No intruder alarms, no off road mines, no radars of any description.
An analysis of traffic movements and vehicle types tended to confirm a picture of a poorly equipped unit, with almost unlimited labour available for hardening the position.
Traffic during the twelve hours of monitoring had been exceptionally light, even for a Soviet infantry outfit. Only four-cylinder motors had been detected, and those unshielded. That meant no armour. The danger that some might be parked up due to shortage of fuel had been discounted by the RPV photographs.
It was tempting to delay the attack until Sunday or Monday, but Revell had a feeling that it had to be Saturday. It had meant a tremendous last-minute rush as the last of the couriers had only returned in the small hours.
He looked again at the photograph that concerned him most, and had prompted his decision to go in immediately. Among all the other works going on, one was very distinctive.
The posts and wire of the large compound were barely visible, except under magnification. That was not the case with the wooden watch towers under construction at each corner.
From that, Revell looked again at the file Colonel Lippincott had supplied. The profile on Tarkovski was like reading a biography of a composite Capo, Jack the Ripper and deSade. Apparently this was his third spell with the 717th, his first as its commander. Did that indicate that he was crafty enough to avoid the death penalty three times, or nasty enough to ensure that there was always employment for his ugly talents? On reflection Revell thought it likely a blend of both qualities.
He checked his watch. Clarence would be in position by now. His escort would be back fairly soon. Left out in his isolated position the sniper had an unenviable task but one suited well to his particular skills.
“We’re ready to start painting, Major. You want to have a look?” About to follow Hyde, Revell paused. Going to the field kitchen, he flicked open the door, and thrust the thick file into the fire.
“How would you like it done.” Scully, reclosing it, put his hand on the draught regulator.
“Well done. In fact I don’t want anything left.” Behind him he heard the flames grow fierce. It wouldn’t be that easy to dispose of the real thing.
“Couldn’t fit on even one more. Not anywhere.” Burke stood back from the eight-wheeled Soviet APC.
Every inch of its steeply raked hull was adorned with the angular outline of reactive armour boxes. Sandbags had been rammed into the gap between the trim board and the glacis plate. On its roof, to conceal the machine gun that had been positioned in the turret, a clutter of easily jettisonable cases and parcels had been apparently carelessly stacked.
The second BTR70 had been treated in similar fashion,
with the exception that after removal of the blanking plate from the turret, a grenade launcher had been emplaced.
“I’ve always thought of myself as having an artistic streak.” Garrett plunged a large paint brush into the bucket, drew it out dripping with paint and began to slap the pink concoction over the armour’s additions.
“What a bloody way to go to war. In a mobile whore house, and a pink one at that.” Hyde stepped back to stay out of range of the splashes.
“Can you think of any other way we can get into the KGB camp without getting shot to ribbons.” Ackerman dunked a large sponge into the container and began to daub the vehicle’s flank. “It was very good of Frau Lilly to let us have these.”
“At a price.” Hyde took a further step away.
“That’s as may be. She could still have sold them as a business proposition. These are her trademark. Once we’ve used them for this, that’s it. Anyway, Sarge, the seats in there are a lot more comfortable than the usual benches.”
Hyde snorted and left the decorators to their work. Soon they would start loading fuel and ammunition. That would be his principal contribution to the preparations. The revised crew compartment, furbished more with the comfort of the girls in mind than practical fighting qualities, presented problems.
The usual crew for the vehicle would be driver and commander, plus sixteen infantry passengers. Due to the quantity of weapons and munitions to be carried they would be reducing that to a total of twelve.
Watching the work in progress, Lieutenant Vokes prowled back and forth, appearing to want to say something; finally he went up to the major.
“My men, myself included, would like to come with you, Major.”
“Can’t be done. We’ll be pushing our luck by including a third vehicle. Any more and they’re likely to be suspicious. To get close we have to get them completely off their guard. Arriving mob handed won’t work. No point in improving the odds if we never get the chance to employ them. Is that project of yours finished yet?”
“Almost. We are enclosing the load in a mound of flak-jackets, as protection from small arms and splinters, but there is little else we can do. The driver will be very vulnerable.”
“It’ll have to do. When the time comes we’ll lift your ambush party to their positions by shoving them on top.”
“I wish I were coming with you, instead of remaining here.”
“You might end up being very glad you stayed. This is no party we’re going to.”
TWENTY TWO
The sniper’s body ached all over, especially his wrists. His elbows felt as though they must be red-raw. After working solidly for three hours he was at last satisfied with his concealment, and allowed himself a short rest.
In the shallow, turf-roofed, trench he had to turn partially on his side to take a sip from his water bottle. It tasted flat and tepid, heavily tainted with a flavour of swimming pools.
Tightly stretched and staked plastic netting supported knife cut squares of grass above him. Fibrous roots showed as a pale intricate network against the dark damp soil. As he wriggled forward on his stomach in the cramped hideout, severed roots of trees stroked his hands and face.
They had made it difficult digging in, but once he had chosen his spot he had to stick with it. There had to be minimum disturbance of the site. False starts and subsequent relocation would increase the chances of detection.
He fractionally widened the opening in the front of the trench, where it all but broke through into the forward slope of the steep wooded ridge. Through a powerful telescope he examined the KGB encampment.
Smoke drifted sluggishly from a garbage pit. A darker column emerging through the broken roof of an ancient barn indicated the site of the cookhouse. By the front wall of the farmhouse stood a Gaz field car. The building was massively sandbagged, and work appeared still to be going on to further improve its protection. Laid out in a “U” shape around a courtyard that opened toward the road, every window was walled up, and the doors protected by blast walls.
There were a dozen large barns and other buildings in the complex, plus silos and many smaller structures. Taking his time, Clarence made a careful sweep, noting every detail of the farm. Then he panned across the open ground surrounding it.
Freshly turned earth betrayed the positions of trenches and gun pits. Some of the excavations had overhead cover in the shape of improvised camouflage or rough logs. None appeared to be manned, or to have any weapons emplaced.
Focusing back on the main house, he examined the roof. Apart from a few missing tiles, it was largely intact. It was the flat roof of an extension that drew his attention.
In deep shadow in the photograph he had studied, at the well-lit shallow angle from which he viewed it now, there was no mistake. Surrounded by a low parapet of plump sandbags, lavishly draped with netting, was a twin cannon mount.
At the distance it was not possible for Clarence to positively identify the weapon, but whether 23 or 30mm, it made little difference. Either was lethal against the targets that would shortly be presenting themselves. Set for a dual purpose ground and antiaircraft role, the cannon’s field of fire was every inch of the approach route from the woods.
Recapping the telescope lens, the sniper edged back to the centre of the trench. From his pack he extracted a short thick section of planking. Positioning it so that two studs set in it were uppermost, he pounded it into the already compacted soil with his fist. Next he reached behind him and dragged forward the long and awkward bulk of his Barrett fifty-calibre rifle. Weighing upward of thirty pounds, it was strenuous work in the confined space and by the time its five feet of length were in position he was sweating profusely.
Setting the drilled-out feet of its bipod on the studs, Clarence carefully unwrapped the weapon’s ten-power sighting telescope and scanned the enemy camp again.
Although only inches wide, the aperture in the sparse turf of the forward slope gave him an excellent field of vision at two thousand yards range. Satisfied, he redraped the scope, and placed beside the trigger group a satchel of pre-loaded eleven round magazines.
A thought struck him, and he uncovered the telescopic sight once more. Examining the twin mount on the flat roof, he panned back and forth across it, making fractional adjustments as he did.
Patiently he kept the weapon in view. He didn’t have long to wait. From an angle of the roof a shirtless Warpac soldier strolled to the edge of the roof and unbuttoned himself. He stood there for several seconds before bothering to look over.
It was unlikely he would have completed the function in so casual a fashion if he had known that at that moment a sniper rifle telescopic sight was focused on him.
“One hour.” Ripper checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“So we all know what the time is, great. Could you quit the countdown.” Carrington dealt yet another hand of poker.
Picking up his cards, Dooley rolled his eyes to heaven. “I’m out.” He threw the cards down. “Why should I be the only one who never gets any of those with the pretty pictures on the front.”
“Hang around.” Hyde fanned his hand in compact fashion, making no expression. His face was incapable of any. “You’ll be seeing something as pretty as a picture soon enough.”
“How come?” Clutching his cards in untidy fashion, Garrett kept switching them about. “Did Ackerman smuggle one of those whores back here.”
“Wash your fucking mouth with soap. You mind how you talk about them or I’ll smash it in.” Dooley glared, but didn’t follow up the threat.
“I was only saying…”
“Shut up, Garrett. Are you playing?”
He looked at the sergeant, then hurriedly away. The man’s disfigurement gave him the creeps. “I can’t concentrate with all this talking going on. I’m out as well.”
“This is no bloody fun at all.” Carrington gave Hyde the two he asked for, took three for himself. He barely glanced at them, before tossing the greasy cards in
to the centre of the blanket.
“It’s all yours, Sarge. You might as well take it. You’ve got my pay for the next three weeks, might as well make it the whole month. Anyway, what is all this about the possibility of female company?”
“It’s already here. You’ll see her in a minute.”
“Oh yeah.” Wistfully, Ripper watched his money being raked in. “And what sort of crazy dame is going to be out here at this time?”
“The trouble with you lot is that you can’t see what’s right under your noses.”
“Come on, Sarge.” Ripper’s voice was loudest among the chorus of complaint. “Let’s have it, come on, spill the beans.”
“If you’re going to be that impatient, I’ll give you all a clue.”
“Aw crap. Now we play guessing games.”
In his turn, Dooley was shouted down by the others. “What is it we’re employing as a sort of Trojan Horse…”
“What’s a Trojan…?”
It was Garrett’s turn to be bellowed into silence. “It’s a mobile whore house, isn’t it?” Hyde noticed that Dooley appeared to be about to voice further indignation and annoyance, and went on quickly. “Now everyone in the Zone knows about Frau Lilly’s outfit. Even if they’ve never seen it, they’ll have heard all about it. But anyone can respray a couple of old Soviet armoured personnel carriers, and then try pulling a few stunts. The wonder is that no one appears to have done it so far…”
“That’s as well,” Ripper grinned, “else her girls would have started getting a different welcome from the one they’re used to.”
A muted rumbling noise came from Dooley, but he saw the NCO was watching him, and thought better of it.
“If I can go on?” Hyde finished shuffling the notes into neat stacks. He began to pocket them, with tantalizing slowness and deliberation.
“Maybe the nasty piece of work who bosses the 717th is twisted enough to think on those lines. Gould be he’d shoot first, ask questions after, if he did at all. So we needed an ace…”
