‘Ten rounds with the mortar, and then we get out.’ The chorus of protest from Hyde, Andrea and Clarence was not unexpected, but Revell knew it was too good to last -and it was.
It was Cohen who spotted the danger first. ‘There’s a Shilka and a self-propelled gun looking like they mean business.’
Using a disabled tank as cover, the quad-barrelled flak-wagon employed short bursts of tracer to direct the 152mm howitzer of the SP mount. ‘Let them have the decoys.’ Sods of earth rained about them, as a high explosive shell struck the ground between Revell’s and Hyde’s positions. The major spat dirt and grass, holding his breath against the rasping fumes and stench of high explosive.
Well away from the crest, the fringe of a clump of trees was brightened by flashes, simulating the back-blast signature of rocket launchers. Other pyrotechnique devices sent showers of powdered metal and foil strips into the air. It worked. The flak-tank switched its fire. Blurs of red and white tracer laced the trunks, bursting with bright splashes on impact.
Unable to resist the broadside target presented by the self-propelled gun, as it slewed round to face its thickest armour towards the trees, Hyde fired his two remote Dragon rocket launchers at it simultaneously. Both rounds struck at the same moment and every road wheel and track link was blasted from the vehicle, and its engine torn out.
A last air-burst from the mortar banged off above the stricken SP gun, as a blackened figure struggled to escape from a roof hatch.
The range was too great for the 40mm grenades Andrea was firing to be effective, and she gripped the weapon tighter as successive rounds fell short. Beside her, Clarence fired carefully aimed single shots, bringing down two crewmen who had abandoned their T72 when its auxiliary fuel tanks had been opened and ignited by an air-burst, and now flared and spouted fire over the tank’s rear.
It was time to get out, and Libby didn’t need to be told. He was already pulling the leads from the box as the order came through. Kurt fired off the last of a belt and then both of them were up and running for the Chinook.
‘Did you see that?’ Dooley fell in step alongside them. ‘Put that last one down on the fucker’s head, and I set off the spare gas on another. Not bad, eh?’ He carried the mortar and two unused cases of bombs as though they were nothing. ‘Better than piddling about with a box of shitty gimmicks and fireworks, ain’t it?’
The dig didn’t bother Libby. He just did his job, whatever job he was given. For him the war didn’t matter, staying in the Zone did. Blast it, that column had been slowed by no more than a few minutes. Now they’d be chasing off to get in front of it again, all the time getting nearer the edge of the Zone. That wasn’t what he wanted. If he was going to find Helga he had to stay in, for as long as it took, if it took forever.
Clarence and Andrea were the last over the crest, and as they half-ran, half-skidded down to the helicopter, it erupted behind them under the savage pounding of several large calibre guns. They scrambled aboard as the Chinook’s undercarriage lifted clear, and it skimmed away between the low hills, using them as cover until it was well beyond the range of the column’s SAMs.
‘See you got your stripes a bit dirty at last then.’ Burke added his grubby fingerprints to the smudges of mud despoiling the chevrons. ‘Don’t tell him that.’ Sensing entertainment, Dooley joined in. ‘Next thing you know hell have us licking them clean for him.’
‘Not on your bloody life. Not for all the money and the other stuff he’s got crammed in that flak-jacket.’
It wasn’t difficult for the corporal to ignore Burke. Now that they were flying again, it took all his concentration to stop himself from throwing up. Dear God, and he’d thought skimmers were bad, but those armoured hovercraft were nothing compared to the yo-yo flight pattern this mobile sex shop was executing.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Dooley had been considering the proposal. ‘If he threw in all his back pay. I know he hasn’t spent any of his own money in the last year.’
‘He doesn’t have to the way he wins at cards…’
‘Sergeant Hyde has work for you two.’ Ignoring the ritual undertone of complaint and the pair’s sour expressions, Revell sat down beside the communication board. ‘We know what road they’re taking now. That advance guard took the left fork, so it’s Frankfurt for certain. Pass that on to our ECM merchant when it arrives. Is there any sign of it yet?’
‘It’ll be on station in a couple of minutes. Word is, it’s a four-seat Prowler, so there’s no way those Ruskies are going to yell for help, or chat to each other.’
‘Good. It’s a pity they don’t carry radar homing missiles. Could have taken out a flak-tank or two for us. Did you get that count I wanted?’
‘Close as I could. I might have missed one, what with the smoke and filth they kept shovelling over us, but I figure we destroyed a couple of T84s, damaged two more and totalled a self-propelled gun. With that Shilka losing a track and Sergeant Hyde plastering the countryside with that fancy mine clearer, I reckon it’s not a bad score.’
Dooley staggered past, holding a crate whose other end he believed Burke to be supporting. ‘Chewed them up real good, heh, Major?’
‘Give him the other figure.’ Revell watched Dooley’s face as Cohen referred to his message pad.
‘Thirty-four, maybe thirty-five pieces of armour got past us. So you should chew a little harder next time.’
‘Do we have another go, or is that us finished? I’d like to know, I’ve got this vested interest – me.’
‘Yes, Dooley, we’re having another go, and another, and another. Until we’ve slowed them enough to give our armour time to get into position for an interception, or until there’s no more for us to have a go at.’
‘Or no more of us to have a go.’ Clarence had been listening to the major. There wasn’t any fear in the sniper’s voice, or doubt, or relish. He was simply making a statement.
If the sniper was expecting a snap denial then Revell would disappoint him. He nodded. ‘Or until there’s no more of us left.’
THREE
Burke threw the half-eaten slice of garlic sausage out of a window, and tried to wash away the taste with a gulp of Dooley’s equally ferocious black coffee. He pulled a face as he returned the flask. ‘Bloody hell, what do you have for your ruddy afters, a bowl of pepper?’
‘I like my food to have a bit of flavour. You don’t know good food when you taste it.’ Using his bayonet, Dooley cut off a large chunk of the fat-marbled meat and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, rubbing his belly in exaggerated enjoyment.
‘Will you go and eat elsewhere!’ Cohen’s complexion was flickering through the spectrum again.
‘If you ate some of this,’ Dooley illustrated his point by waving the powerful smelling sausage under the radio-operator’s nose, ‘you wouldn’t have all this silly fucking trouble.’
‘What are you offering him, kill or cure?’ Sergeant Hyde butted in. ‘Finish that muck fast or throw it out. The whole damned cabin stinks.’
Major Revell was only half-aware of the conversation and exchanges going on behind him. They were back over the road again, and he was watching it from between the two pilots, looking for a natural obstacle that would stop the column and force it to deploy when they next brought it under fire. Too near the advancing Russians and there wouldn’t be time to set it up; too far ahead and there would be no chance of setting up a third ambush if it were needed.
Hell, who was he kidding? Of course it would be needed. The way the Reds had ploughed past the first roadblock was proof of more than blind determination. He’d seen them come on like that before, lots of times, and later interrogation had always uncovered the nature of the orders that had driven them suicidally on.