The riverbank had now been treated for a considerable distance on either side of the bridge, and with the last drop of ALX used up, the truck was wallowing back on to the road. Without any sign or acknowledgement from the driver it sped off back the way it had come, not waiting for all the equipment to be stowed away, dragging the hose and injection device behind it.
Apart from the tracks in the grass, barely visible even at close quarters, there was no sign of the treatment they had given the area. Revell felt the increased draught from the Chinook’s blades as the pilot anticipated the order to pull out.
It was barely an hour since they’d left the site of the first ambush. Soon the Russian column would be here, and the process would begin all over again. And how many more times after that? The orders said to harass and delay the column. Why in hell’s name didn’t he admit, at least to himself – he had no intention of obeying those orders? He wasn’t going to use the lives of his men just to buy a few minutes. No, he wasn’t about to harass the Soviet armour, he was about to destroy it.
‘Suit up. There may be some residual muck down there.’ Revell unrolled his NBC suit and began to put it on. It wasn’t easy to keep balance in the hovering craft, and he constantly had to grab at a bulkhead for support as he pulled on the leggings.
Until they were right over it, the deserted farm had looked much the same as any other. It was Kurt whose sharp eye for detail had noticed the two-yard diameter dead patches in the surrounding fields, and among the weeds infesting the lanes and courtyards.
The pilot set them down on the drive leading to the sprawling house, and the moment they’d unloaded their equipment, made off at speed to find a safe place to await their recall.
A Volvo estate stood rusting on deflated tyres in front of the house, its tailgate up, a storm-toppled pile of mouldering cases nearby.
‘Must have been a long time ago.’ Hyde completed his sampling checks of the air and soil. ‘There’s enough residual muck around the impact points to keep the plants down, but no harm to us. Not unless we start eating dirt.’
‘Not much chance of that.’ Burke broke off pieces of dead rosebush from the border below the windows. ‘Mind you, smother it in sauerkraut and Dooley would probably try it.’ He toed a fragment of shell casing into a shallow crater beside the door. Elsewhere the chemical rounds had done virtually no damage, beyond a hole in a barn roof and cracked windows in a nearby greenhouse.
‘Don’t waste any of this shit by letting it bury itself, do they? Must use some sort of retarding device before impact.’ Cohen turned over what might have been part of a miniature air-brake in his gloved hand.
‘I wouldn’t know, and I can’t say I care.’ Dooley joined the others in pulling his respirator off. He sniffed the air cautiously. ‘When this crap comes flying down I don’t stand about making fucking notes. I usually try for a new standing start speed record.’ The first attempt he made to push the partially open front door had met with resistance. He gave a second, harder, shove.
There was a body just inside, or what was left of one. Severely decomposed where it had been exposed to what weather had found its way in, the still recognisable remains bore the marks of scavenging rats and foxes. A bunch of keys lay among the scattered bones of a hand, and false teeth glared glossy bright in the face of a hollow-eyed skull.
They entered one at a time, skirting the remains, save for Kurt who slothered through them, kicking bones and scraps of cloth and tissue across the floor.
‘Right, we’ll set up in a second-floor front room.’ Revell didn’t bother to investigate any of the rooms leading off the lobby. ‘Cohen, I want you to stay on that radio until you get me air support or the damned thing melts. Dooley and Burke can plant the missiles among those outbuildings beside the big barn. I want the cables run back to the house. Let’s move.’
‘I’m going to keep away from you.’ Burke waited for Dooley to pick up two of the heavy missiles, before choosing one for himself. ‘People are beginning to think I’m muscle-bound as well. Wait for me, then…’
The house was fully furnished, and the curtains and carpets gave off a musty smell and clouds of dust at each disturbance. There were piles of leaves in every corner, and more rustled underfoot on the bottom stairs. Kurt threw open every door they passed, bringing violent sound to a house that had known none since the last shell of the gas barrage.
A large bedroom provided precisely the aspect required, and while Hyde set up the weapon control box on a dressing table by the window, Cohen produced a huge cloud of dust when he dragged aside a duvet and set the radio on the bed.
It was stupid really, Clarence admitted that to himself as he wandered along the corridor, looking into every room. He could have done it anywhere, who would ever know, or object. When he did find what was obviously the toilet he hesitated, and out of habit almost knocked before walking in, to a shock that stopped him dead.
There was a long pause before he could take another faltering pace. The little figure kneeling crouched over the bowl looked so… so alive. Its pretty print dress had only faded a little, and long blonde hair still fell around a face he was so thankful he couldn’t see. Alone in that room, the child had died and been perfectly preserved, mummified in the tinder-dry atmosphere.
Everything else forgotten he backed out, carefully and quietly closing the door. Kurt was outside, cramming watches and jewellery into various pockets. A look of interest and cunning came into his face as he misinterpreted the sniper’s behaviour. He grabbed at the door handle, and a rifle butt smacked into the side of his head. Cannoning off the wall his knees began to buckle, until the barrel of Clarence’s Enfield jammed into his Adam’s-apple and forced him to remain upright.
‘One step in there and I’ll kill you.’ He rammed the rifle harder into Kurt’s throat. ‘Now get lost, understand? Verstehen?’ Easing the pressure he allowed the Grepo to wriggle free, then prodded him away down the corridor.
As his brain began to recover from the effects of the blow, it momentarily looked as if Kurt might be harbouring thoughts of retaliation, but the sniper’s eyes were still on him. He hesitated briefly, then wiped the blood trickling from the cut above his ear and went up to the top floor. His boots echoed on the narrow uncarpeted stairway.
More cautiously than before, Clarence investigated the other rooms. The third he tried held a tableau as poignant as the earlier one. On a rumpled bed sprawled the body of a young woman. Beside it, on the floor, lay a male corpse. Both were quite perfectly preserved. In one hand the man held the woman’s trailing fingers, in the other the smashed remains of a tumbler. A fluffy sheepskin rug still outlined where the spilled water had run.
‘The Russians have killed so many. What is it about these that you find… special?’
He didn’t turn round at Andrea’s voice. ‘Perhaps it’s just that, that there isn’t anything special about them. As you say, there have been so many…‘ The memories flooded back and Clarence tried to fight them down, force them back into the dim recesses of his mind. The good, distant, past was gone, lost; remembering it would be too painful. The bad, recent, past hurt too, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to forget that, when every day he saw it re-enacted over and over again, like here, now.