Two metal flaps were open at the front, obviously so the driver could see. The AFV went over a bump, jolting Robert upwards. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He let out a grunt, but it just made him more determined to put an end to the vehicle's run.
With his free hand, he pulled out his sword — then, wincing as he did so, swung round and shoved the weapon into one of the viewing slats. He had no idea whether he'd hit anything, until he felt the end of the sword slide into something soft. When he pulled it out there was blood on the tip.
The AFV veered wildly to one side, away from the battlefield, heading towards some trees. Robert didn't have the luxury of waiting this time and launched himself off the vehicle, hoping he'd roll far enough out of its way that he wouldn't be crushed. He needn't have worried. The AFV was obviously stuck in forward gear, the driver probably slumped over the controls inside. The hatches opened as other men inside scrabbled to flee the vehicle. It hit a tree, but didn't stop. The second tree was too much for it, though, and the AFV shuddered to a halt.
Robert rose, barely having time to recover before he felt a presence at his side. Ducking and turning, the gunfire above him a dead giveaway that this wasn't one of his men, he brought his sword round and struck the man on the calf, digging the blade in and sending him toppling over.
Sheathing his weapon, Robert had his bow out again and was firing quickly: left, right and centre, putting as many of the armed men out of action as he could.
He noted, with some satisfaction, that his troops were all doing the same: picking targets either with the bow or, in close combat, their swords or knives. He also saw something that gave him pause — bodies of Rangers, laying there on the field. One's head had been blown almost totally apart, another had been practically cut in half by enemy fire. Robert dwelled on these for a second longer than he should have, but then ground his teeth, setting his jaw firm and raising his bow, felling another three Russian soldiers.
More jeeps and armoured vehicles — including tanks — were skirting the traps, wise to the barbed wire and trenches now. A group of Robert's men, about eight in total, charged the side of one tank carrying a tree-trunk like a battering ram. They rammed the wood into the tracks of the tank, jamming its progress. Another team did the same at the other side, given cover by arrows fired into the air above them. A further team was using Molotov cocktails against the vehicles.
Robert fired at a jeep heading in his direction, just as he had done the first time he'd engaged in combat like this, back when the market near Sherwood had been under attack. Then he hadn't been able to believe what he was doing, going up against a squad of the Sheriff's men on his own. Now, it seemed like second nature. And even though they were fending off an army, he wasn't alone any more. That made all the difference.
That might make the difference between winning and losing.
Were they winning or losing? Bohuslav couldn't even tell.
What should have been a cut and dried thing had suddenly turned sour. Their enemies were using tactics the men had never come across before, but he certainly had. They were the methods of trappers, of hunters. What should have worked in his side's favour — the wealth of armament at their disposal, the sheer number of vehicles — was actually turning out to be their Achilles Heel. Hood's men were more manoeuvrable, running or riding — on fucking horses for sanity's sake! — between the behemoths, bullets bouncing off what looked like home-made shields. And body-armour! Tanek had conveniently left that detail out of the preparations… unless he hadn't known? It made them harder to kill, harder to kill quickly at any rate.
Hood's men were also able to handle close-combat fighting much better than his, probably because they'd never had to do it before. When The Tsar's troops entered an area, they usually obliterated everything in their path long before it got to that stage.
Bohuslav cursed under his breath in his native tongue, as another explosion went off outside the jeep.
He looked through the windscreen at what was going on ahead of him, and the certainty he'd had when he arrived began to wane. But there was something Hood and his men didn't know — apart from their plan, of course, apart from what was going on while they were all here. Bohuslav had hoped to settle this without having to fall back on them, but The Tsar had brought those special little toys over with him just in case.
Four Kamov Ka-50 single-seat attack helicopters, also known to those in the trade as 'Black Sharks'. Each one boasted laser guided anti-tank missiles located under the stub wings, plus 30mm cannons fixed semi-rigidly on the helicopter's side. One of the most lethal pieces of military hardware known to man. Granted, they weren't being piloted by the most highly trained individuals — at least not as highly trained as they would have been pre-virus — but they knew enough to get the job done.
The time had come to finish this, and if his ground forces weren't capable… Bohuslav reached for the radio, knowing now with complete certainty who would be the ultimate victors here today.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the heat of the battle, even above the noise of gunfire and explosions, another sound could be heard. The distinctive sound of rotor blades in the distance.
Robert looked over the horizon to see four dark shapes advancing, like flying Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Helicopters unlike anything he was familiar with — certainly nothing like the Sioux he'd used to chase De Falaise through the streets of Nottingham. These had double rotors that afforded them a manoeuvrability most pilots could only dream of.
The two helicopters on the edges broke off, heading for the tree-line. Robert could see what was about to happen, but had no way of preventing it — apart from anything else, he was being attacked by two of The Tsar's men who he'd relieved of their machine guns with well-placed kicks.
Missiles were away seconds later, streaming into the trees. The height these monstrosities were flying at gave them a unique view of where the catapults lay. Not only that, they seemed to home in on the targets like a sniffer dog locating drugs. Robert dispatched the soldiers he was dealing with, then closed his eyes as the missiles hit home, killing the men he'd posted there.
Those Rangers closer by had — like him — paused very briefly to witness the lethal onslaught of these newcomers. However, as they did so they also saw more heavy rocks being launched at the chopper closest to the trees. It may not have been quite as accurate as whatever those pilots were using, but it was good enough to give the thing a bloody nose — a heavy projectile glancing across the bridge of the lowered craft knocking it momentarily sideways and off balance. Two more hit it in quick succession before another chopper came to its aid, firing off two missiles which put paid to that particular catapult. But it had already done enough damage to the first helicopter to make it beat a hasty retreat.
"That'll show 'em!" called out one of Robert's lads, a man called Harris who immediately drew back his bow and shot a Russian soldier in the thigh.
But there were still three helicopters left, more than enough to take out the rest of the catapults. Calling on anyone who was free to do so, Robert began to make his way forward, up the field, past the corpses of vehicles — firing arrows as he went.