With a shout, muffled by his own respirator, he launched himself across the intervening space and fell onto the loose end of rope in the full knowledge that a single tear in his chemical warfare suit would mean an agonising death. More men came to his assistance and the pontoon’s bid to escape was ended, he climbed to his feet drenched in sweat beneath the rubberised material of his protective garments.
When the pontoon was secured and the retaining clamps bolted into place, he personally guided back the first tractor unit carrying bridge sections. His surviving combat engineers had briefed the infantry on how to manhandle the sections off the flatbed, across to the river, and how to lift the leading edge onto the first pontoon. With some pushing and a lot of arm waving the pressed men climbed into position on the flatbed and slid their lifting bars into position under the topmost section. The engineers waited until they were all set and then signalled them all to lift together, fifty men bent their knees and heaved and grunted, muscles straining and backs cracking with the effort, but the section did not move. After a moment or two they tried again in unison but with the same result.
The engineer officer was cursing their collective manhood’s as he clambered up to see what the problem was, pushing one man aside and taking his place. For a third time they took the strain and tried to lift the section, tendons standing out and faces reddening as they heaved but again they failed to make any impression. Withdrawing the lifting bar he had used, the officer stepped up onto the bridging section, utterly at a loss as to why they could not accomplish this simple task, and then his eyes fell upon something on its metal surface, a burned and blistered area of metal decking. He tapped it curiously with the lifting bar, and then noticed many other such blemishes. A sick feeling started to grow in his gut and he rushed to the edge and clambered down the side, peering between the sections before jumping to the ground and running to the next vehicle. After checking the third and final vehicle, the only ones to have escaped destruction in the earlier Skeet attack; he again jumped to the ground and walked slowly to the riverbank. The clamorous thunder of battle was clearly audible from across the river, and he stood on the bank gazing across for a minute before looking at the lifting bar he still held. His combat engineers and the infantry had stopped what they were doing to watch him, and then looked at each other as the officer roared in frustration and flung the tool as far across the water as he could.
The Skeet’s had miraculously missed destroying the tractor units of these transports loaded with bridging sections, but the long, wide expanses of metal that they carried had attracted the attentions of dozens of the devices, and the bridging sections were all firmly and inextricably welded to one another by the strikes.
Colonel Lužar received the information with a heavy heart; it had all been for nothing, all the fear, adrenaline, men and vehicles that had been lost were simply wasted. Calling up his surviving units he organised a hasty withdrawal under contact, and the fighting vehicles collected what survivors of knocked out vehicles that they could, and began the business of fire and manoeuvre as they backed away from the Mitterland Kanal.
Snowploughs were busy keeping the runaways clear of the still heavily falling snow when Scott and Constantine emerged from the stations subterranean operations centre. It had been a very long night for them both, as they followed the progress of the Nighthawks insertion into Russia. The signal that they were down and in the safe hands of the US Special Forces, had come hours before, but Constantine and Scott had stayed until word was received that they were in the safe house, nearer to Moscow, and all was well.
They trudged through the snow; hands thrust deep into pockets, with collars turned up against the snow and the chill wind blowing in off the Moray Firth.
“This is scary, Scott. It is like it is mid-winter in Siberia!” Their breath fogged the air as they hurried on across the snow to their office, obediently following the network of footpaths, even though it would take them twice as long.
“I was talking to the met officer here on the camp; he thinks this is just a freak event, owing to the bombs in the ocean interfering with the weather patterns.” Scott paused to gaze about him, looking for the station Warrant Officer, the individual who was responsible for all things discipline related, and who regarded the straying off the footpaths in order to take short cuts across ‘his’ grass, as being second only to ethnic cleansing in the scale of serious crimes. The coast seemed to be clear so they cut across the snow covered grassy areas, making a beeline to the office. Scott continued with what the meteorological officer had been telling him. “Apparently… I suppose quite obviously really, the earth is getting closer to the sun by the hour, so it’s going to warm up anyway and all this snow will be gone… imagine though, what would it be like if this were October and not April!”
Constantine thought about it for a moment.
“Yes, but will the weather patterns have settled down by the time the next October does get here?”
But Scott’s thinking had drifted to his kids back home in Virginia, back in January there had been heavy snow and they had loved it, as had he and Jean. Watching them play had taken him back to his own childhood, there was a reason why snowball fights and Tobogganing were amongst the clearest and most treasured of childhood memories, the snow lent a magical quality to them.
Through the snow they saw the headlights of the rented Range Rover on the road outside their building, smoke from the exhaust evidenced the coldness of the engine, and Pc Stokes was industriously scraping away at the ice on the windscreen with the edge of an expired credit card. He looked up as they approached.
“Everything okay boss, is Miss Vorsoff alright?”
Neither of the close protection officers were in the know as to the operation that was being run, and neither of the officers had any wish to know the details of their charges mission.
“Yes Nigel, everything is fine, thanks. Is the heater on?”
“For the last quarter of an hour, since you phoned from ops sir.”
Constantine and Scott kicked off the snow that had clung to their shoes before climbing inside, Scott turned the blower up, for a moment and tested the air coming from the vents, but it was still cold so he turned it off and shivered.
“Tiredness thins the blood; I could sleep for a week.” He turned to look at Constantine in the back. “You look like you could do with a solid twelve yourself.”
The major looked haggard, but could not relax right now because his thoughts were not with the here and now, but far off across the Continent in Russia.
Driving out of the camp the police officer turned left and followed the B9089 east until they passed through the small wood that marked the RAF stations eastern boundary, and then turned right onto a minor road. The driver and passenger of a van with a Newcastle builders logo on the side watched them disappear, and the passenger made a call on his mobile before they then headed for Kinloss town, keeping to the roads that had been gritted by the council lorries.
Stokes always varied their routes, never going the same way twice in a row. This wintry morning he took them along a series of minor roads, which meant having to engage four wheel drive because the gritter’s would never spread salt on these narrow roads.
Eventually they drove across a tiny old bridge over the rail line to Inverness and cut through the edge of Alves Wood, pulling up outside the house which lay a quarter of a mile beyond the trees.