by James Rouch
‘And their leader, you know what he will be. A KGB operative, perhaps one who has been a sleeper for a long time. If you do stop them, bring them back, then what? I tell you, they will use their friends and contacts in the media to brand you a thug and a fascist, and they will bay for your blood. If you take them back, then you destroy yourself.’
‘What would you suggest. Put them against a wall and turn our rifles on them?’
‘Why not. In the name of peace they would be pleased to see that happen to you, to all of us. In the name of peace, a communist dictated and dominated peace, such scum would be happy to see Russian tanks drive over the lawns of the White House, through the gates of Buckingham Palace.’
If her concern for his fate had been prompted by affection, Revell would have been over the moon, but he was well aware that it wasn’t. He found it difficult to understand her. A conscripted member of the East* German Militia, when she’d deserted she’d chosen to hide among the human flotsam of a big refugee camp up north. She had even joined and eventually led a gang composed mostly of renegade East German border guards, the lowest of the low. At any time she could have escaped to the west, but hadn’t until by chance she’d fallen in with the squad during their attack on those important Russian tank workshops.
Her intense hatred of communism couldn’t be the total explanation of her complex character. Revell’s speculations, his attempts to predict her future behaviour based on his observations were frequently confounded by some fresh contradictory act. If only he could get closer to her, get to know more about her ...
‘Ready to roll, Major.’ As he reported, Hyde made a point of stepping between the officer and the girl, to be sure of getting Revell’s full attention. ‘We’ve run a check on the armament. The twenty-millimetre and co-axial machine gun in the turret are all right, but there’s a fault in the remote control for the rear roof- mounted machine gun. It’s nothing too serious though, we can probably fix it while we’re on the move. What about the crates in the back? We’re short of room, might be better if we unpacked whatever’s in them.’
‘Electronic gear. Have Boris take care of it, that’s his department. I just hope it works; we’re going to need it, we’re strictly on our own on this one. Now let’s get moving, I’ve a gut feeling tells me the Reds are going to be looking for those civvies as well, and they won’t be wasting any time ...’
THREE
The hall was magnificent, as was every room in the Kremlin that Rozenkov had been led through, but the only feature of it that he took any real note of was the brilliant light from the many crystal chandeliers flooding into every corner of its vast interior.
It was a wry interest, founded only on a comparison of the lavish use of light bulbs here, and the difficulty he’d experienced in getting even a single forty-watt for his desk lamp at the Lubyanka, let alone the special electrical apparatus they’d been unable to obtain for the Intensive Treatment wing of the interrogation block.
He was not quite alone in that huge apartment. At its far end, flanking carved and inlaid double doors, were immaculate soldiers of the elite Kremlin Guard.
Rozenkov had done the best he could with his appearance, but he knew that when he passed between those two men he would by comparison be little better than a uniformed scarecrow. Their boots had walked no other surface than these highly polished floors, their jackets and trousers and caps had never been exposed to the elements. It was not security nor ceremony alone that put them there in that condition. The colonel recognized a contrived situation when he saw one; he should, he arranged enough for prisoners, in order to instil uncertainty, and inflict fear.
It was for the same reason, to over-awe and unsettle him, that he’d been ushered to the only chair in the surprisingly spartanly furnished Czarist showpiece. To stand would have betrayed nervousness, sitting removed the risk of giving that impression but meant his jacket would become creased, and so he sat forward, just a little, to keep his back from contact with the seat’s elaborate embroidery.
Like chess, for every move there was a counter-/ move, and he was good at chess. Under pretence of smothering a slight cough with the back of his hand he glanced at his watch. One hour and forty-nine minutes. Not much of a wait set against the years he had spent working to get here.
The doors swung silently open. Colonel Yuri Nikolai Rozenkov stood, tugged straight the hem of his jacket and started forward. He realized he was sweating; he, who had killed a hundred men himself and signed away the lives of countless thousands more, he was experiencing fear.
As he approached and passed between them he could have sworn he saw the guards’ blank expressions animate for the merest fraction of a second in sardonic smiles before instantly reverting to their previous immobility. They knew what he was going through. Rozenkov let his camera-sharp eye snap memory of them both and file the images in the ‘retribution pending’ section of his mind. Should they ever find themselves within the reach of his power, he would take great satisfaction in prompting their recollection of this moment before making their lives unpleasant, and shorter.
There was more furniture in the side room. Much smaller than the hall, it was no less sumptuously decorated. If anything its ornamentation was a trifle richer, with gold leaf glinting from every corniche.
Eight men stood in a formal semi-circle in the centre of the enormous Persian carpet that dominated the room. They in turn dominated it, in Rozenkov’s eyes.
Several of the group were members of the Politburo, including two rumoured contenders for the shortly to become vacant position of foreign minister, but senior among them was Ivan Forminski, a squat gorilla of a man whose political clout was the match of his reputed physical strength, and who was said, though only ever in whispers, to be within reach of the absolute pinnacle of power, the Presidency itself.
The stakes were suddenly much higher. At most Rozenkov had expected one, perhaps two tired old members of the Politburo, their presence padded by some of the rising stars from the Supreme Soviet, but this ... If he read the signs correctly then there need be no limit to his ambition, the protégé of a man like Forminski could go on to anything. If the risks had become greater, the potential reward, the prospect of it, had grown in proportion.
For an instant he inwardly cursed his involuntary nervous hesitation as he stepped forward, then forced himself to calm down as he realized it had done him no harm. Men such as these expected others to fear them, expected such a reaction as their due and would most likely have been displeased had they felt they’d not made such an impression. It was Forminski himself who spoke.
‘Comrade Colonel. It has been decided by a meeting of the Politburo, after consultation with the Main Military Council and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union that you be appointed Head of Department A of the First Chief Directorate of The Committee for State Security. With the sudden… retirement of KGB General Khramoveski, for ... health reasons, you are instructed to take charge of the department immediately.’
Rozenkov had always imagined that this, what he had worked so hard and long for, would be the crown of all his efforts, but now he could dare to speculate where he might go from here. With Forminski taking an interest in him, the only limit to how high and fast he climbed was the speed with which that man rose above him ... He had missed something… what was he saying…
‘…at the end of one month, if everything is to the satisfaction of the Central Committee you will then be confirmed in the appointment, with the rank of general…’
He was lucky, it was nothing vital, or was it?
‘…but in your case, Comrade Colonel, we are presented with a unique opportunity. A particular operation is in its early stages. It is a matter that will require careful, even delicate handling, but it is potentially a source of much valuable propaganda. An interest is taken at the very highest level. You will make it your first task, to the exclusion of all else. A rapid and successful conclusion would bring immediate confirmatio
n of your new rank and position without need for further delay.’
Careful to make sure his palm was dry, Rozenkov returned Forminski’s grasp with the merest fraction less pressure. Each of the other formal salutes was as carefully calculated.
‘Thank you, Comrades. You will find your trust well placed.’ Rozenkov had put many hours of deep consideration into the selection of those words; he was relieved to see that with them he appeared to have struck the correct balance between adequately expressing his gratitude at the honour being done him, and being brief.
As the doors glided shut behind him he experienced a sensation of surging relief pour through his whole body, and became aware at the same time of an urgent need to visit the lavatory. The tension had gone from him, and with it the shreds of fear, but his bladder and bowels kept record of their effect upon him.
A guide was waiting and led him from the building, pausing on the way to direct him with a silent gesture to a door discreetly tucked out of sight behind marble pillars where he never would have found it on his own. He only just made it in time. The paper was a soft pastel green tissue and he had to resist the temptation to take a spare roll from a shelf. That was a small indulgence he might be able to arrange for himself soon, the trappings of power in the Soviet Union sometimes took a bizarre form.
Absently Rozenkov returned the salutes of guards and drivers as he waited for his car. He was not concerned with the architectural wonders of the palace about him; through his thoughts swarmed speculations as to what the important operation might be. Well, he would know soon enough, he would go directly to his new office. Forminski had said that an interest was taken in it at the highest level. No Russian, certainly no Moscovite, would have needed to apply any great amount of his inbred skill at reading between the lines to see the full implications of that simple sentence.
Whatever the operation, he was going to make it succeed. Nothing else mattered, that would be everything. Instant oblivion would be the happiest fate of anyone who stood in the way of his achieving that.
There were parts of the Zone that the war had never touched, and they were motoring through one such now. The Bavarian towns and villages they passed were intact, needing only a splash of fresh paint on the pretty houses to restore them as they had been a year before, when the war had threatened to turn this way and the population had been evacuated.
Some traffic on the roads and they would have come back to life immediately, but there wasn’t going to be, and they wouldn’t. Eventually their turn would come, the battles would swirl even through this remote corner of southern Germany and then for a few hours or days at most, the names of the towns; and villages would be those mentioned in the world’s press, and then as the war moved on they would slide back into obscurity.
By then they would have ceased to exist save as smouldering ruins with a few tracks bulldozed through them. Another year after that and even those who had once lived here would have trouble in finding the most memorable or distinctive of landmarks, as nature took advantage of the head start destructive man had given her in finally reclaiming her territory. ‘This wagon is a real bastard.’ Gradually Burke was learning how to cope with the Marder’s peculiar handling characteristics, but already his arms ached from the strain of the constant corrections he had to make as the brakes, steering and suspension combined their faults to pull the vehicle to the left.
His complaint went unheard, as had all those before. Cotton from a first aid locker plugged the ears of those of the squad who didn’t have headsets. Clarence was one. Without a turret or remote controlled weapon to man he had wedged himself into an angle of the interior and concentrated on avoiding being jolted about the compartment. Occasionally an item of equipment that had been inse- curely stowed, or a member of the squad who had relinquished a handhold at the wrong moment would bump into him. Inanimate objects he threw aside, bodies he fended off as best he could with the minimum of contact. He had to shout at the top of his voice to make himself heard to Revell, who stood with head and shoulders out of sight in the command cupola beside the turret.
‘Can’t we ease off on the speed? This old wreck just isn’t fit for it.’ ‘It’s okay, we’ll be slowing soon.’ Ducking down to mime the words to the sniper, Revell pushed his throat microphone closer to communicate with the driver. ‘There’s a sharp right up ahead, take it.’
The sheer bulk of the vehicle meant that several times they had to take to the side as they negotiated the narrow winding side road as it began to climb. Overgrown hedges were crushed beneath the churning tracks, and great lumps of bark torn from trees, fences and gates half hidden by the brambles and vines entwined about them were splintered and flattened into the soft ground.
Gradually the hill steepened, until their forward progress was little better than a walking pace. Not that it brought any diminution in the decibel level, that stayed high as the engine strained to move the twenty-eight tons of men and weapons and armour up the twenty-two percent gradient. Seven of the eight available gears had been used by the time they reached the top.
‘I hope the fucking view was worth it.’ Dooley disentangled himself from ribbons of springy steel strip cut to open the packing cases. ‘For a shitty minute I thought we were going to have to get out and fucking push.’
The rear door had to be opened manually when the hydraulics developed a leak and sprayed a high pressure jet of fluid at the floor. The others learned by Dooley’s mistake when he slipped in the puddle, and stepped over it and him.
They’d stopped right on the brow of the hill, where a clearing gave them a panoramic view across the countryside. Dooley took one glance and then ignored it, choosing instead to concentrate on a detailed inventory of the contents of his pack to see if anything was missing after its several tumbling trips about the Marder’s interior. He’d hardly begun when Sergeant Hyde ordered him to help the Russian unload the electronic apparatus.
Revell swept the ground below through binoculars. ‘This is useless, worse than trying to look for a needle in a haystack.’ Despite his pessimism, he kept quartering until in exasperation at the futility of trying to visually search mile upon mile of thickly wooded country, he switched to checking at random the few stretches of road that were visible.
A few towns and villages showed against the mass of gently undulating green, but the roads running through them were masked by the multi-story buildings. ‘Is that gadget working yet? It’s our only hope.’
‘Ready, Major.’
Faster than could have seemed possible with Dooley’s assistance handicapping him, Boris had assembled the modules of the surveillance equipment and linked it by twin cables to a display tube and small control console he set on top of a stack of rotting fence posts. A final adjustment to the compact parabolic dish, supported by a thin legged tripod, aimed toward the low ground and then he activated the system. Immediately the self-checking circuits confirmed their condition by lighting a row of green bulbs below the screen.
‘Do a magnetic sweep first.’ Revell watched the screen come alive with a thousand glowing dots. Though randomly sprinkled, several distinct clusters showed, and when he looked up he realized they corresponded with the positions of the towns and villages. Farms in particular showed clearly, as the sensors registered the metal of the corrugated steel sidings of barns, and large feed and grain silos.
‘Try infra-red.’
This time the whole screen came alive with colour, but there were far fewer individual images. Against the dominant pink of the foliage, the soft white and pale blue of the concentrations of uninhabited buildings showed. In the middle distance a compact cluster of red dots had almost a pattern to their layout, while further away a solitary dark red trace was less sharp, fuzzily indistinct and pulsating.
‘Radar now.’
Again it was predominantly the metallic objects that registered, but it was more than that Revell was looking for. ‘Okay, shift back to IR again ... now radar.’ There was no mistake, he’d read the s
creen correctly. ‘Got them.’ The lone distant trace was exactly the right size for a small vehicle without shielding around its engine or exhaust. With the picture rocking back and forth it became possible to see that the blurred infra-red image was like that because it alone of all those on the screen was moving, as the radar confirmed.
‘Stay on it long enough to get an accurate fix and a plot of the route they’re using, then dismantle this lot and get back on board as fast as you can.’
‘I think you should look at this, Major.’ Waiting until he had the officer’s attention, Boris indicated the pattern-like cluster of traces. ‘These are interesting.’ He slid his finger across the bevelled glass surface of the screen to point to some of the other dark marks. ‘Most of these hot traces I can identify. If you use your binoculars you will see that they correspond with the positions of fuel storage tanks, or oil cooled electricity sub-stations, places that accumulate heat and hold on to it, so that they register more noticeably on infra-red, but these,’ he brought attention back to the pattern, ‘they are at the centre of a patch of thick woodland, there is nothing there, no houses, no farms, nothing.’
‘Refugee camp? Cooking fires?’
‘At first I thought so, yes, but watch when I rock the image between IR and magnetic.’
The identical pattern showed in both modes. Revell didn’t need to ask if the equipment was functioning correctly, he could see the row of low intensity hooded green lights for himself. ‘Only one thing that can be; it’s the Russian battle group that’s been rampaging around here. And they’re right between us and those damned civilians.’
‘I’ve blown open too many of these tin cans to like the idea of doing my fighting from within one.’ Thorne had exchanged his cumbersome flamethrower for a compact Uzi sub-machine gun from the vehicle’s own weapons rack.
