“That body bag in my chopper. I thought my pilot was doing a spot of smuggling, had a look inside. Was that the guy who showed up on the aerial shot?”
Revell turned and nodded.
“Figures. You were bringing a body home. Nice touch. Maybe your outfit ain’t all bad.”
“They’re what the Zone has made them.” Closing the door, Revell went out through the waiting room. Captain Porter was still there, but didn’t notice the major. He was leaned back on his chair, a faint smile on his face, in a trance.
He was a few thousand miles away, at a features desk, handling one great scoop after another. His imagination was filled with front pages, headlines and by-lines, but most of all with scoops. Not that he would have recognized one if it had been in the same room.
TWENTY ONE
In precisely four hours they would commence phase two. Twenty minutes after that, they would be irretrievably committed. Until that moment they could still abort. They could hope to hook back the advance elements without being detected, and prevent an incident.
For the hundredth time Revell compared the sand-table model with the photographs supplied by the Royal Artillery’s RPV. The remotely piloted miniature helicopter’s cameras had done a beautiful job. The low-high-low flight profile appeared to have got it over the enemy position without being noticed. From a thousand feet, the ten frames it had taken had encompassed the whole area.
On the table, held in place by impaling twigs, scraps of paper marked the positions of buildings. The farm was an old one, with a mix of half timbered and metal clad structures. Work already begun indicated that it would eventually become a formidable defensive position. And that work was proceeding at a rapid pace.
If the work of fortifying it had only begun a few days previously, and evidence such as the obviously freshly turned earth indicated that was the case, then in a week or less it would have become virtually impregnable to all but a full-scale assault.
A red stain was spreading across the carefully sculpted material on the table. It was a reminder of its previous use and, as if any were needed, of why they were making their preparations.
They’d cross the start line as well-briefed as they ever had been on any mission. Revell’s principal concern was the severe limitation on the number of men he could take. Those he employed would have to do a lot of damage in a very short time. To do that, they would have to be armed to the teeth. And to survive to exploit that massive firepower they would have to move fast, and keep moving.
The farm stood in isolation, at the centre of a patchwork of overgrown fields. After leaving the cover of the woods, the road ran dead straight for a kilometre. It would be impossible for their approach to escape detection. They would be under observation from the moment they left cover.
Close by, the pioneers were working hard to get their transport ready. It said a lot for the seriousness of their task that they did not find the humour in the situation that they otherwise would have done.
“How’s this, Major?” Burke held out a bucket for its contents to be inspected.
“Touch more white should do it.”
Burke trudged away, muttering.
Revell leafed through the transcripts of communication intercepts. The translation of an outgoing ordnance requisition was particularly revealing. Taken at face value it indicated that the 717th had very little in the way of mines or anti-tank weapons. It would be dangerous to let that belief lull him into a false sense of security.
The electronic survey had indicated that they were not employing any form of automated perimeter alarms. But that wasn’t proof that they didn’t have them. Such equipment might be temporarily down for repair or maintenance. Taken together the reports indicated almost a mirror of the situation that had very likely existed here. Plenty of physical barriers, a complex network of defences but little accompanying sophistication. No intruder alarms, no off road mines, no radars of any description.
An analysis of traffic movements and vehicle types tended to confirm a picture of a poorly equipped unit, with almost unlimited labour available for hardening the position.
Traffic during the twelve hours of monitoring had been exceptionally light, even for a Soviet infantry outfit. Only four-cylinder motors had been detected, and those unshielded. That meant no armour. The danger that some might be parked up due to shortage of fuel had been discounted by the RPV photographs.
It was tempting to delay the attack until Sunday or Monday, but Revell had a feeling that it had to be Saturday. It had meant a tremendous last-minute rush as the last of the couriers had only returned in the small hours.
He looked again at the photograph that concerned him most, and had prompted his decision to go in immediately. Among all the other works going on, one was very distinctive.
The posts and wire of the large compound were barely visible, except under magnification. That was not the case with the wooden watch towers under construction at each corner.
From that, Revell looked again at the file Colonel Lippincott had supplied. The profile on Tarkovski was like reading a biography of a composite Capo, Jack the Ripper and deSade. Apparently this was his third spell with the 717th, his first as its commander. Did that indicate that he was crafty enough to avoid the death penalty three times, or nasty enough to ensure that there was always employment for his ugly talents? On reflection Revell thought it likely a blend of both qualities.
He checked his watch. Clarence would be in position by now. His escort would be back fairly soon. Left out in his isolated position the sniper had an unenviable task but one suited well to his particular skills.
“We’re ready to start painting, Major. You want to have a look?” About to follow Hyde, Revell paused. Going to the field kitchen, he flicked open the door, and thrust the thick file into the fire.
“How would you like it done.” Scully, reclosing it, put his hand on the draught regulator.
“Well done. In fact I don’t want anything left.” Behind him he heard the flames grow fierce. It wouldn’t be that easy to dispose of the real thing.
“Couldn’t fit on even one more. Not anywhere.” Burke stood back from the eight-wheeled Soviet APC.
Every inch of its steeply raked hull was adorned with the angular outline of reactive armour boxes. Sandbags had been rammed into the gap between the trim board and the glacis plate. On its roof, to conceal the machine gun that had been positioned in the turret, a clutter of easily jettisonable cases and parcels had been apparently carelessly stacked.
The second BTR70 had been treated in similar fashion, with the exception that after removal of the blanking plate from the turret, a grenade launcher had been emplaced.
“I’ve always thought of myself as having an artistic streak.” Garrett plunged a large paint brush into the bucket, drew it out dripping with paint and began to slap the pink concoction over the armour’s additions.
“What a bloody way to go to war. In a mobile whore house, and a pink one at that.” Hyde stepped back to stay out of range of the splashes.
“Can you think of any other way we can get into the KGB camp without getting shot to ribbons.” Ackerman dunked a large sponge into the container and began to daub the vehicle’s flank. “It was very good of Frau Lilly to let us have these.”
“At a price.” Hyde took a further step away.
“That’s as may be. She could still have sold them as a business proposition. These are her trademark. Once we’ve used them for this, that’s it. Anyway, Sarge, the seats in there are a lot more comfortable than the usual benches.”
Hyde snorted and left the decorators to their work. Soon they would start loading fuel and ammunition. That would be his principal contribution to the preparations. The revised crew compartment, furbished more with the comfort of the girls in mind than practical fighting qualities, presented problems.