by James Rouch
The hot black smoke hung about the site in the still air, and the first the garrison knew of the Russian attack was the distinctive sound of several Rapiers being fired and the crackling report of a Vulcan firing long bursts.
At the same moment the incoming artillery fire ceased, and to shouts from Hyde and the officers, men poured up to man every position along the walls. Hugging the contours of the hills, about thirty blurred dots against the sky began to resolve themselves into the outlines of Hind gunships and larger troop-carrying helicopters.
The lead machine fell apart under a direct hit from a Rapier and another following closely fell out of control, its rotors reduced to splintered stumps by wreckage from the first.
A third Hind bucked and began a lurching turn out of formation as a Rapier passed through its cabin without detonating. The forty-kilo missile, travelling at Mach 2, wiped away both door gunners and sent the sliding doors and other sections of fuselage panel fluttering into the valley.
‘Strikers engage as they come in range. The rest of you hold your fire.’ Revell saw the puffs of white smoke from the chin turrets of the gunships as their rotary cannons opened up, and then the flashes of flame beneath their stub wings as their missile racks emptied.
The range was too great and the few hits struck the base of the walls at their thickest point. Another Rapier scored a hit and a troop transport disintegrated and spilled its infantry cargo from a height of three hundred feet.
‘They’re bloody windy.’ Recognizing the ill-timed firing for the caution it was, Burke crouched over his mini-gun and began to wonder if they’d come close enough for him to have the chance to use it.
Spreading out as pilots jockeyed to put more distance and other machines between themselves and the Rapiers, the formation began to lose cohesion. Viewed from the castle, the machines appeared to overlap, masking each other’s fire, and presented a perfect target for the deadly Stingers.
‘Look at them run.’ Finger still on the trigger, Burke raised his head from the sights to watch the helicopters break in all directions as a salvo of ten missiles lashed into them. ‘They’ve never seen fire like that.’ If the approaching squadron was employing any sort of electronic countermeasures they proved no more successful than the showers of physical decoys they were scattering.
Six helicopters were hit, one of them twice, and they fell among the litter of flares and chaff they’d spawned. They filled the sky above the valley with tumbling burning wreckage.
A big-bodied troop carrier side slipped through a series of jarring manoeuvres and pancaked into the centre of a field, bouncing viciously hard in an impact that drove its landing gear up through the fuselage and wrenched off the complete tail assembly.
Masses of flashing tracer from the distant Vulcan multi-barrelled cannon curled from the farm and enveloped the wreck in an inescapable wall of steel. It erupted in flame.
For the surviving machines that was too much, and they turned in every direction to take the shortest route away from the valley. For one it was a fatal mistake.
Keeping his finger down hard, Burke sent a full three hundred rounds across the side of the gunship’s cockpit and cabin. Pieces of canopy flew off in a sparkling shower and the craft appeared to stop dead. His second burst passed low, glancing off the Hind’s belly armour , but it wasn’t needed anyway.
Rearing up, the helicopter virtually stood on its tail before stalling and tumbling into a seesawing motion that sent it smacking into the side of a hill.
The sound of cheering made Revell look around, and he saw all his and Voke’s men yelling and dancing with glee and abandon. They’d got what they’d been waiting for, the chance to hit back hard, and they were celebrating.
‘Sergeant Hyde.’ Revell knew the rejoicing would have to be short-lived. ‘I want five Stinger teams left up here under the best cover we’ve got. Everyone else down below.’ With a last quick satisfied glance at the pyres decorating the valley and surrounding slopes.
Revell made his way to the strongly sandbagged position on the ground floor shielding the MG ranged on the track.
He squeezed in between the walls of gritty jute and then almost fell as his foot slipped in a broad pool of congealing blood. By a terrible freak of chance, while the men above, virtually unprotected, had escaped the slightest injury this time, a single cannon shell had entered the small aperture left for the protruding machine- gun barrel and decapitated its gunner.
Unlocking the bloody fingers still clenched about the Browning, the major rolled the headless trunk aside. Ignoring the mess in which he knelt he gave the barrel a succession of taps to bring it to bear on the right coordinates and fired. He kept firing until there were only three rounds left in the belt, and stopped then only because a round jammed.
Calmly, methodically, he cleared the blockage, fired the last two AP rounds, then threaded in another belt and blasted that also into the rolling smoke. Hands tingling from the vibration, he attached a third belt, but didn’t fire.
Beside him the headless corpse broke wind and added that stench to the wreathing wisps of cordite. From a corner, in an untidy pile of empty ammunition boxes, a face looked at him, its glassy-eyed stare appearing locked in an expression of conflicting determination and surprise.
Overhead impacted the first of the restarted Soviet artillery fire. It seemed somehow remote, unreal. Revell ducked from the strongpoint, and after arranging a replacement for the dead man, headed for the cellars.
It was cool, almost cold, underground, but the tainted smoke from the burning transports had penetrated even to here, making his eyes water.
Wiping the tears away left clean stripes among the dirt coating the back of his hand. What looked like an old hobo leaned against a cellar door, and it was a moment before he recognized Old William.
The elderly Dutch pioneer looked as if he had dressed in the dark, making his selection of clothing from rummaging about at the bottom of a ragbag. His face and hands were deeply wrinkled, made more obviously so by the dirt that engrained them.
Revell wondered if even the lieutenant’s upper estimate as to his age was near correct, but the man’s grip on his over-oiled Colt Commando was firm enough and he passed him without comment, amused to receive a nod of recognition.
In a small alcove off the partially collapsed main hall, Scully had established an improvised cookhouse, on a small scale. Behind a thick blackout curtain made of tapestry he had set up two petrol stoves. A strong smell of coffee blended with the less recognizable aroma from a large pan of bubbling, glutinous soup.
Peering into the slowly churning brown sludge, Carrington took a deep breath and tried to guess its contents. He failed, but thought he detected a whiff of beef. ‘I give up. What’s in it?’
Gesturing to a pile of empty ration boxes, Scully went on stirring the mixture, using both hands to keep the bayonet he used moving. ‘Everything except the Mars Bars. Don’t worry, it’s hot and there’ll be plenty of it and it won’t send you all tearing off for a shit at the same time.’
An oatmeal block floated to the surface and he made several stabs at it, before it was churned back into the depths.
Not entirely convinced, Carrington took a taste from the ladle. It was unusual, but not unpalatable. ‘I’ve had worse.’
‘One more word and you won’t be getting any. Now sod off and let me get on with my work.’ Scully leaned across to look at the pan of coffee, considered for a moment, then added another half handful of powder. For good measure he added a bag of sugar.
A powerful explosion dropped a sprinkle of dust on the top of the soup. He went to skim it off with the ladle, then changed his mind and stirred it in.
Having improvised a crutch, Ripper was organizing the teams keeping the weapons supplied with ammunition, of the correct type at the right time.
Surprised at the Southerner’s unexpected show of organizational ability, Revell saw no reason to interfere in what seemed to be a smoothly running operation.
> ‘Just like when I was a boy.’ Ripper hopped about, talking loud and slow to his men, or waving his arms when that method of communication failed. ‘I used to work of an evening at our local supermarket, filling the shelves.’ He hobbled aside, bumping into the major as he dodged out of the way of a party carrying mortar bombs. ‘Got so good at it I could anticipate what was needed before it ran out. This is much the same, only I’m using my ears to figure what’ll be wanted next, instead of keeping my eyes on a passel of old girls bumbling about the cookie section.’
Sampson had matters under control at the aid post as well, but was fretting over the condition of one of the girls, and a man with a gaping chest wound.
‘I can’t do any more, Major, except to keep them comfortable as best I can.’ Rinsing his hands, he wafted them dry. ‘She needs surgery that’s way out of my league, even if I had the setup and instruments to try.’
‘And him?’ Revell indicated the chest-wound case.
‘Beyond any help, I reckon. Whatever it was that opened him up, it didn’t penetrate, just cracked a couple of ribs pretty cleanly. Certainly don’t seem to be any fragments floating about. Must have been the blast, damaged his lungs.’
Gasping hard for breath, the man was beyond registering anything that was going on about him. The little blonde knelt beside him, constantly wiping away the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. Restlessly he tossed his head from side to side, frequently knocked her hand and daubed blood on his cheek. Each time she patiently cleaned him and began again.
‘Is that the girl Burke’s gone all broody over?’ ‘That’s her; name’s Karen Hirsh. My German’s not so good, and she doesn’t have a lot of English, but I gather she was some sort of a nurse, or was training to be.’
‘I’m surprised at Burke’s good taste.’
As they watched, a change came over the man she tended. For a brief moment, through his pain, comprehension returned, and it showed in his face.
With fingers crusted with dried blood he reached for his attendant’s face. For an instant he looked puzzled, then he smiled. Perhaps he saw instead a wife or daughter or mother, but even as the smile formed he gave a long sighing exhalation and his arm fell back.
Very gently Karen brushed his hair back from his eyes and closed them. She pulled the blanket up over his face and slowly got to her feet. Pausing to make a mental adjustment to the situation, without a backward glance she went to sit beside the girl in the deep coma.
‘That is one special little lady.’ With the officer, Sampson had watched in silence. He took in the swell of her hips and her narrow waist and back, but his next words held no sexual connotation. ‘I’d have her to Andrea any day.’
Although he couldn’t agree, Revell knew what the marine meant. There was no humanity in Andrea. Only a few years older than this girl, she seemed to have gone through so much that all feeling had been leeched from her by her experiences. But maybe, at the start, she’d been like Karen ...
‘Major!’
There was urgency in the shout and Revell was already dashing toward the stairs when a giant concussion shook the very fabric of the rock and jarred his ankles so hard that his next few steps were awkward, until the numbing effect began to wear off.
Visibility when he reached the ground floor was almost zero, and the air was roasting hot. His arms were grabbed by Voke, and together, hobbling like cripples, they groped their way toward the open air. They were stopped by Clarence.
‘There’s nothing left up there. All the Striker teams have been wiped out.’
‘What did they hit us with?’ The air was clearing with the draft from the broken windows, but Revell still found each breath scorching to his throat.
‘A couple of MIGs popped over a hill and dumped napalm and retarded bombs right across the top. The Strikers took out one, but that was too late.’
‘The Rapiers!’ The new Russian tactic had worked on them; if the same blind- side approach was used against the farm it might succeed. Revell knew they daren’t let that happen. If it did, then almost half of the valley would fall outside the protective umbrella of the shorter-range weapons they deployed from the ruins. A proper defence of the complex would no longer be possible.
‘Get every automatic weapon up on top.’ He turned to Voke. ‘I want everyone who knows how to point a rifle. No exceptions, walking wounded as well. Tell them to grab anything that will accept a mag or belt.
There were not even piles of cinders to mark where the Striker teams had perished. Blast and fire had obliterated them completely.
Small pools of jellied petrol still burned and the very stones were hot to the touch. All their careful work had been utterly destroyed. Every sandbagged position had been flattened, leaving only the smouldering shreds of jute among their scattered contents.
‘You fire at anything that hasn’t got its feet on the ground.’ Revell’s shout carried. ‘You open fire when you see it, you stop when you can’t.’ He swapped his combat shotgun for a well-worn M60, draping a spare belt over his shoulders and laying two more at his feet. He looked at the neat coils, and wondered if they would be enough. That’s if he got the chance to fire off any of them.
TWENTY
The air was heavy with petrol fumes and shimmered with the heat rapidly being surrendered by the fabric of the castle. They found what cover they could, braced themselves and strained to hear the approach of the next attack.
A roaring blast of noise assaulted their ears as three MIG 27s screamed over a ridge and hurtled toward them. Streams of multicoloured tracer hosed skyward and the massed clatter of the weapons drowned the rattle of the cascade of shell cases pouring onto and between the stones.
Firing its six-barrel gatling cannon, the lead aircraft flashed over the ruins, straight into and through the arcing lines of steel and phosphorus.
Five of the aircraft’s external pylons were hung with ordnance, and as he poured a whole belt into the MIGs belly, Voke wondered almost absently what the chances were of their massed barrage detonating all or part of that lethal cargo.
Pieces fell from the plane but it didn’t deviate from its course, and swooped down into the valley heading directly at the farm, trailing a thin filament of fuel vapour.
It ran head-first into a Rapier missile and dissolved in an incandescent ball of flame.
The following fighter bombers sheered away from the wall of flak, and only a couple of broken lines of tracer came close as they veered back on course and bore straight for the farm.
Twin stabs of flame marked the takeoff of more missiles, but even as they hurled themselves toward the MIGs, the jets were using maximum thrust, afterburners glowing white hot, in a wild jinking series of sharp turns to lift out of the valley.
As they ran, their under-wing stores of high-explosive and napalm tumbled toward the farm, some of the iron bombs falling in a different trajectory as their miniature parachutes slowed their headlong plunge.
Flame, smoke and tall showers of debris hid the distant cluster of buildings and smothered the fields about them. But the Rapier crews had a belated revenge.
Above a distant hill reappeared one of the MIGs. A tongue of red and yellow flame licked from the root of a partially swept wing and it towed a growing trail of black smoke.
‘He’s trying to make height for a bailout.’ Watching, Carrington hoped the jet would complete its turn over them.
The damaged aircraft never made it that far. Immediately after its pilot had ejected, it was riven by a fuel tank explosion that tore away the burning wing and sent the fuselage into a flat spin toward the valley floor.
Snatched away from it by his deployed parachute, the pilot and his armoured seat separated. Instead of popping open into a life-saving canopy, though, the chute remained a crumpled tangle of nylon.
There was a ragged cheer from the onlookers as the crewman impacted murderously hard not far from the remains of his fighter.
‘We’re on our own now.’ Thorne set down
the thirty-calibre MG, and the unexpended portion of the belt swung to drape across his feet.
They reloaded, and waited, but there was no third raid. Revell stood most of them down and set those remaining to construct new air-defence positions.
Carrington found a hand, blackened, with the flesh hanging from it like the tatters of a thin glove. Casually he tossed it over the side. ‘Someone is going to get a telegram saying ‘Regret to advise you, your beloved has been almost completely lost in action.’’ He didn’t bother to wipe off the adhering scraps of bloody tissue.
‘You’re bloody insane.’ Dooley had watched the act with an expression of extreme disgust.
‘Did you expect me to keep it as a souvenir? Come off it. I’ve seen you chucking bits and pieces about without being too bothered.’
‘I don’t care about that.’ Dooley resumed shovelling clear the floor of a weapon pit. Much of the debris had been fused together by a sticky black residue. ‘What’s pissed me off is that it was wearing a ring, a gold signet ring.’
Close by, Voke heard the exchange and flashed his metallic smile. ‘It is a comfort to me to know that when I am killed I shall not die alone. I am sure you will be close by, with pliers in your hand.’
‘Everybody’s a fucking comedian.’ Changing the subject, Dooley called to the major. ‘How come they were content with just two passes? They didn’t hang about to watch results; for all they know the Rapiers are still in one piece.’
Revell had been thinking along the same lines himself. Using various vision aids one after another, he swept the valley and surveyed it thoroughly. From a window below, the Browning was again lacing the Russian smokescreen with short punching bursts, now employing a high proportion of tracer. From the large number that ricocheted from unseen targets within the screen it now looked certain that the enemy were employing mostly armoured clearing devices for the task.
