by James Rouch
“ If some one is keen to have their man back, and the bomb.” Revell knew he could be grateful the Russian night vision equipment was nothing like as good as their own but the Iron Cows infrared signature was distinctive and like a neon display at night. If the enemy choppers covered the right area, then they would be identified and ground patrols would be zeroed in on them. “I think they will maintain the search twenty four seven. We’ll have to have a couple of the crew riding on top with AA gear at the ready. That should take care of that risk.”
“Let us hope you are right.” Andrea shook the rain from his glistening short hair and went off on her own.
* * *
Taking no chances, Revell did not order Burke to power up until a full half an hour after sunset. For an hour before that they had kept watch for any aerial surveillance but it had either been stopped or had moved away. A suggestion of afterglow showed on the horizon where the rain clouds were gradually clearing, but the immediate streets they encountered were dark enough. It was an industrial area and for the first kilometre they saw no one and no vehicles.
“The Commies will have already imposed a curfew, they always do.” Burke kept the engine power steady, at a pitch that would enable him to accelerate almost instantly to top speed if the Major called for it, or come to a dead stop within their own length if need be. “Miserable lot of sods. They really know how to kill the nightlife in a place. Their own cities must be dreary holes.”
“They are, I have seen them.” Andrea was watching their prisoner and now as he stretched cramped legs she was especially vigilant. “It is easy to understand why their idea of celebrating is to get drunk as fast as possible.”
“You are wrong. We are a happy people.”
Coming from the Russian prisoner the words were a surprise to all who caught them.
“Well that’s saved the interrogation boys a spot of work. Proves he knows some English.” Libby offered the man a cigarette and shrugged when it was refused. “But we know you drink.”
“I do, yes.”
“Good job you didn’t start before you tackled the bomb.”
The Russian looked down and was grinning when he looked up again. “Actually I had what you would call a couple of good belts, when my officer wasn’t looking. The work is not bearable otherwise.”
All talking ceased as the hovercraft suddenly slowed.
“Patrol, a couple of motor-cycles and a scout car, cannon armed.” Burke let the speed slip further and allowed the uneven power of the engines to drift the craft towards the bulk of a high-sided trailer parked at the roadside. “They’re passing ahead of us, two junctions further on…they’re gone.”
The sibilant effect as they all breathed out at the same moment signalled their relief.
“You mean you do delicate, not to say dangerous, work disarming nuclear demolition devices while you’re under the influence?” Libby shook his head in disbelief. “You hear that Carson?”
“We all need something.” Between his fingers Carson held up a small orange tablet. “Morphine sulphate, sixty milligram.”
“Hell, the fate of the world is in the charge of drunks and dope fiends.” Libby looked at the bomb, wondered how his mind would hold up, working on those devices, whether he would need anything to calm his nerves.
Carson was laughing and from a small container shook out a dozen more of the orange pills. “Here, have some,” he swallowed half the amount and offered the rest around the interior. “They’re only tic-tacs. Just the right colour, yeah?”
Andrea enjoyed Libby’s discomfort. Her humour though was a brittle thing, instantly quashed by a glimpse of the bomb as it rocked on the floor close to the turret basket.
* * *
It took them two hours, at a snails pace, to elude motorised patrols that were crossing and criss-crossing the area. Obviously the Russian officer in charge of the search was taking no chances. Just in case they remained in the vicinity, waiting for the hue and cry to die down then his patrols would be waiting for them to break cover.
“ We’ve done seven kilometres in five hours” Burke was expertly manoeuvring the APC, faithfully tracking the stop-start route Revell indicated. “We are just down the road from where we picked up the bomb. That’s the same autobahn ahead of us. Every route we take we run in to it. The damn thing virtually circles this area. The alternative is to go back through the city, and that is a non-starter.”
Gently bringing the Iron Cow to a halt in the deep shadow of a flyover, Burke glanced to where Revell was looking at a repeat of the drivers’ screen. “We’re facing the right way, but how do we get through that lot.”
Snaking through the convoluted road network, in a seemingly never-ending stream, was a non-stop column of supply trucks and tracked and wheeled troop carriers. Well spaced out and displaying an unusual degree of convoy discipline, still the Russian vehicles were closer enough to each other to ensure that nothing was going to break through their line without being seen. While it was highly unlikely, as usual with the rudimentary level of equipment on Soviet supply vehicles, that even the convoy leaders would have the facility to signal for help, the line of trucks was constantly patrolled by motorcycle and scout car equipped military police.
If the hover APC tried to smash a way through the lines of traffic then the MP’s would transmit their position, and direction, instantly. Within minutes gun ships would be in the air heading their way and ground patrols would be closing in fast.
“There’s no way around this” Revell felt bitter frustration that they had wasted so many of the hours of darkness. Their maps had shown several places where the autobahn was unfinished, places where they could have slipped past the patrols but in reality the gaps had not existed, the road was complete and it encircled them.” Revell scanned the complex of ramps and slip roads. The Soviet column was unending. Clearly they were doing their best to make up for the delays they had suffered earlier.
“We could create a temporary blockage, a crash or fire maybe, and slip through during the confusion.” Sergeant Hyde indicated the thermite. “We have the stuff to do it.” He employed the turret gun sights to examine the problem. “If we can get them to panic, get a good flap going then we might be able to break through. After that we can use the railway lines for a few hundred metres and then we can turn off and we’ll have the concealment of another built up area.”
“It would have to be done without noise, without gun fire, without being seen.” Concentrating his attention on the flyover immediately above the twin tracks, Revell looked for a way to reach it. “The high level road offers the best opportunity. When the driver’s reach that point the last thing they will be expecting is trouble and there is no chance of getting around a hold-up on that elevated section. The front of the column will draw ahead and you’re right, we should be able to slip through a gap.”
“That’s twenty feet in the air. But I think we can do it, we just need some one really fit… Simmons!” Hyde started to unfasten the catches on the case containing the thermite.
* * *
The overhead power lines serving the railway were dead. The gantries supporting the thick steel cables gave Simmons the start he needed. A precariously balanced short section of fire-scorched ladder scrounged from a derelict fire tender in the salvage yard provided the rest of the climb. Propped from the top of the steel latticework post, to a cast iron stanchion holding a road sign and emergency telephone on the flyover enabled him to climb to the roadway and grab a hold.
Thick, lung searing, blasts of exhaust gas swept over him as Simmons gripped the post. He kept his head just below the top of the parapet, hidden by the telephone shelter. Balanced precariously on the top rung of the ladder he was careful to keep himself within the shadow of the fluorescent striped box. The noise was deafening, the rattle and sharp squeal of thrashing tracks blending with the bellow of engines and the scrape and rumble of poorly secured loads shifting on the cargo decks of the trucks.
With their he
adlights dimmed almost to extinction the vehicles were travelling at twenty-yard intervals. Simmons nestled an improvised thermite bomb against his arm where he crooked it around the thick steel support. He waited for a particular combination of vehicles, an open backed truck followed by a tracked carrier. The truck to make an easier target for his throw, the carrier because its driver would have a restricted view of the roadway between himself and the vehicle ahead.
His arm aching fit to break and his vision blurring from the clouds of fumes and grit constantly washing over his face Simmons knew he couldn’t hold on for long, then he had luck, and knew he would not have the need.
A six-wheeler Zil cargo truck wheezed up the long gradient towards him. Its stake sided cargo deck held a poorly secured selection of packing cases and even as it approached Clarence could see its covering of tarpaulin was flapping and cracking to constantly reveal various shaped containers. At a long distance behind, making even harder work of the grade came a tracked ammunition carrier. Not only was the roof hatch closed with no one standing at it, but the drivers visor was down. Even as he saw it the vehicle made a couple of crab-like corrections to its path, indicating just how little its driver could see and his inexpert driving.
The Zil drew level with Simmons and he saw that one of its rear tyres was running almost flat; another had long strips of rubber compound peeling away and flailing the underside of the cargo deck with each revolution.
Throwing the device was awkward and he almost lost his grip on the post. The kilo of incendiary material landed on the edge of the deck and for a moment he thought it was going to topple off, instead it went the other way and disappeared in among the variously shaped wooden packing cases.
Not waiting for the result he slid back down the stanchion. Freeing himself quickly from a projecting bolt head that threatened to snag him, he swung under the bridge and managed to grab a hold of the ladder. He was transferring his foothold to the top of the gantry post when a soft explosion on the roadway sent a shaft of white light into the sky.
The air was instantly filled with the sound of vehicles braking violently and doors opening and slamming. A huge wreath of white smoke spilled over the edge of the elevated roadway and then was blasted away as a secondary detonation dwarfed the first.
“You hit the jackpot.” Dooley had climbed up to help and held out his hand to assist Simmons to make the transfer from ladder to the more easily negotiated gantry. As he did the ladder fell, falling on to the granite ballast flanking the track. The conductor wire twanged and hummed at the weight they imposed on the gantry as they clambered down. No faces appeared above the parapet. The clatter had gone unheard amid the noise from braking vehicles and shouting drivers. The pair ran for the hovercraft, Dooley quickly falling behind.
A more substantial explosion, rupturing oxygen cylinders, sent truck wheels, rocket casings and the broken and burning carcases of heavy boxes across along the flyover for a considerable distance. Fed by the cylinders contents the fire was consuming the truck at a furious pace and pushing a pillar of red fire high into the night sky. Burning debris rained down over the edge of the flyover. Landing on other sheeted loads the red-hot debris ignited several other fires.
“Go, go, go.” Revell thrust himself in to the turret and threw open the hatch for a better view of the route.
The top of the overpass was one sea of flame, frequently swirled in to long tongues of fire as ammunition exploded. A long interval had opened up between it and the front of the convoy. Burke sent the hovercraft through the centre, sending an emergency blast of power into the ride height to clear the steel crash barriers. Down a shallow embankment on the far side and then a wire mesh fence collapsed before them as they swerved across a drainage ditch and on to the railway line.
Revell pushed the throat microphone harder in to position. “OK Burke take off along the tracks. We’re a train…”
The heavy ballast rattled beneath them, moved by the blast of the full power down draft. Revell turned to look back. The fierce blaze on the over-pass was spreading as burning fuel ran under vehicles that were abandoned or unable to turn or reverse away from it. The silhouettes of men running about showed against the blaze as it flared wildly out of control. Before a bend took them into a cutting and through a station surrounded by suburban housing, he saw a last glimpse of the scene, illuminated by a series of spurts of tracer and fountains of signal flares.
“Stay on the rails as long as we keep heading north.”
Burke heard the officer’s words and had misgivings he couldn’t resist expressing.
“That’ll take us back in to the heart of the Zone, away from our own lines.”
“We’re not going too far, I just want to put some distance between us and the Soviet troops who are still hyper active from the attack on the city. I want to find an area where there has been no fighting for some time, where everyone is sleepy.”
* * *
“Are your men asleep?” General Zucharnin, for the second time in twenty-four hours, felt he could happily strangle his stepson. Deliriously happily. It was just the thought of his mother, that gorgeous full-bodied, glamorous and highly experienced sex maniac that kept him from carrying out the threats he longed to transform from wishful thinking to harsh reality. He had never known that marrying her would mean taking on responsibility for this moron. In fact as she’d refused to go to bed with him until they were married he had, in his hurry, never even thought to look for such complication. But he did have the problem of her useless offspring and as there was little he could do about it he had to content himself with bellowing what he felt. It was a rare day when he did not send an officer and several enlisted men to the firing squad and this poltroon had screwed up enough to warrant such action ten times over. Yet still he stood, or almost crouched, drooling with fear in a corner of the office.
“First you drop me in the shit by telling General Grigori that one of our patrols has discovered a NATO nuclear weapon before telling me. That makes me look like I don’t know what is going on in my own sector. So I get no credit with the Kremlin. And don’t you dare give me any of that rubbish about Gregori’s having responsibility for telling me. That poisonous rat is a master at getting the kudos when things go right and dumping the crap on others when they go wrong. And now despite my giving you a battalion of military police to safeguard the convoy route, it is closed down for two hours by sabotage.”
I think Father… General… it was perhaps just an accident… a poorly secured load… I have dealt with some drivers and the convoy commander as well as the escorting military police.”
“Bollocks. An accident just happened to occur there? Close to where the enemy had planted a nuclear weapon? Right at our most vulnerable point? No, the bastards had come back and thumbed their noses at us.”
“But if it is the same squad, and they still have the bomb, why just burn three or four ammunition trucks and block the route for… for a short while.”
“I’ll tell you why.” Through the frosted glass of his door the general saw that no one in the clerks room was moving. No, they were listening. Well they would regret that later. “Because the buggers who took back the bomb had been holed up in the area while your men fumbled about trying to find them. The political position about nuclear weapons is hamstringing NATO strategy. Some one screwed up and they want their bomb back. Not only have you let them have it, they’ve stolen our own bomb disposal man. Instead of their dashing straight back to the west and risking running in to our major troop concentrations in the city they are circling to the north before making a crossing into NATO territory.”
“It might be to the south.“ The captain felt smugly content with himself for making a point the general had missed. “If they want to circle the city then that would be the shorter route.
“So it is, but that is the direction in which we launched our recent attack on Regensberg. They will know the area is stuffed with reserves and service units. You can’t move there without tr
ipping over a security check point.” His voice grew so loud that it made the cracked glass in the door vibrate and sent the stationary silhouettes in the outer office scurrying in to action.
General Zucharin got up from his desk and took a moment to rub his face with the palms of his hands. The two days growth of bristle made a sharp rasping noise. “That bomb is still out there. It may no longer be in our area but I don’t give a damn about that. Just make sure that when that NATO unit is intercepted your men turn up fast, you grab the bomb, I claim the credit. And I want that technician back. I had a fax this morning from a Lieutenant Colonel in the Strategic Rocket Forces and you know the clout they have at the Kremlin. He said he wants his man returned. I had to tell him we still need his services for a while longer. We have two days. I don’t care if he comes back alive or riddled with a fatal case of the pox; I want to be able to show him a body, warm or cold. What I don’t want is to have to say we have lost him altogether. So what ever you do, get in ahead of the KGB, they’ll be trying to do the same.”
“But what if a local commander insists on reporting the recovery himself.”
“Then boy,” Zucharnin jabbed his finger in to the centre of the young officers forehead, “tell him to have a chat with me and I shall once again rescue your balls from the furnace. Take the best equipment, commandeer anything else you need, get the job done or I withdraw the protection you have magically survived under during the last three months of cock-ups.”
* * *
The salvo of shells landed on and close to the small towns police station. It was a fluke, pure chance but at a stroke the hopes of a swift and organised evacuation were lost. It was an artillery round plunging through the roof that did the most harm. Breaking no more than a handful of tiles and splintering a timber beam it went on to penetrate only as far as the third floor of the four floor building. The fuse burst the shells’ thin casing as it struck a filing cabinet. The binary load it carried had mixed in flight, the coated metal wall separating the component chemicals having been shattered at the instant of firing. The gas flooded out and began to flow down through the building.
