The usual crew for the vehicle would be driver and commander, plus sixteen infantry passengers. Due to the quantity of weapons and munitions to be carried they would be reducing that to a total of twelve.
Watching the work in progress, Lieutenant Vokes prowled back and forth, appearing to want to say something; finally he went up to the major.
“My men, myself included, would like to come with you, Major.”
“Can’t be done. We’ll be pushing our luck by including a third vehicle. Any more and they’re likely to be suspicious. To get close we have to get them completely off their guard. Arriving mob handed won’t work. No point in improving the odds if we never get the chance to employ them. Is that project of yours finished yet?”
“Almost. We are enclosing the load in a mound of flak-jackets, as protection from small arms and splinters, but there is little else we can do. The driver will be very vulnerable.”
“It’ll have to do. When the time comes we’ll lift your ambush party to their positions by shoving them on top.”
“I wish I were coming with you, instead of remaining here.”
“You might end up being very glad you stayed. This is no party we’re going to.”
TWENTY TWO
The sniper’s body ached all over, especially his wrists. His elbows felt as though they must be red-raw. After working solidly for three hours he was at last satisfied with his concealment, and allowed himself a short rest.
In the shallow, turf-roofed, trench he had to turn partially on his side to take a sip from his water bottle. It tasted flat and tepid, heavily tainted with a flavour of swimming pools.
Tightly stretched and staked plastic netting supported knife cut squares of grass above him. Fibrous roots showed as a pale intricate network against the dark damp soil. As he wriggled forward on his stomach in the cramped hideout, severed roots of trees stroked his hands and face.
They had made it difficult digging in, but once he had chosen his spot he had to stick with it. There had to be minimum disturbance of the site. False starts and subsequent relocation would increase the chances of detection.
He fractionally widened the opening in the front of the trench, where it all but broke through into the forward slope of the steep wooded ridge. Through a powerful telescope he examined the KGB encampment.
Smoke drifted sluggishly from a garbage pit. A darker column emerging through the broken roof of an ancient barn indicated the site of the cookhouse. By the front wall of the farmhouse stood a Gaz field car. The building was massively sandbagged, and work appeared still to be going on to further improve its protection. Laid out in a “U” shape around a courtyard that opened toward the road, every window was walled up, and the doors protected by blast walls.
There were a dozen large barns and other buildings in the complex, plus silos and many smaller structures. Taking his time, Clarence made a careful sweep, noting every detail of the farm. Then he panned across the open ground surrounding it.
Freshly turned earth betrayed the positions of trenches and gun pits. Some of the excavations had overhead cover in the shape of improvised camouflage or rough logs. None appeared to be manned, or to have any weapons emplaced.
Focusing back on the main house, he examined the roof. Apart from a few missing tiles, it was largely intact. It was the flat roof of an extension that drew his attention.
In deep shadow in the photograph he had studied, at the well-lit shallow angle from which he viewed it now, there was no mistake. Surrounded by a low parapet of plump sandbags, lavishly draped with netting, was a twin cannon mount.
At the distance it was not possible for Clarence to positively identify the weapon, but whether 23 or 30mm, it made little difference. Either was lethal against the targets that would shortly be presenting themselves. Set for a dual purpose ground and antiaircraft role, the cannon’s field of fire was every inch of the approach route from the woods.
Recapping the telescope lens, the sniper edged back to the centre of the trench. From his pack he extracted a short thick section of planking. Positioning it so that two studs set in it were uppermost, he pounded it into the already compacted soil with his fist. Next he reached behind him and dragged forward the long and awkward bulk of his Barrett fifty-calibre rifle. Weighing upward of thirty pounds, it was strenuous work in the confined space and by the time its five feet of length were in position he was sweating profusely.
Setting the drilled-out feet of its bipod on the studs, Clarence carefully unwrapped the weapon’s ten-power sighting telescope and scanned the enemy camp again.
Although only inches wide, the aperture in the sparse turf of the forward slope gave him an excellent field of vision at two thousand yards range. Satisfied, he redraped the scope, and placed beside the trigger group a satchel of pre-loaded eleven round magazines.
A thought struck him, and he uncovered the telescopic sight once more. Examining the twin mount on the flat roof, he panned back and forth across it, making fractional adjustments as he did.
Patiently he kept the weapon in view. He didn’t have long to wait. From an angle of the roof a shirtless Warpac soldier strolled to the edge of the roof and unbuttoned himself. He stood there for several seconds before bothering to look over.
It was unlikely he would have completed the function in so casual a fashion if he had known that at that moment a sniper rifle telescopic sight was focused on him.
“One hour.” Ripper checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“So we all know what the time is, great. Could you quit the countdown.” Carrington dealt yet another hand of poker.
Picking up his cards, Dooley rolled his eyes to heaven. “I’m out.” He threw the cards down. “Why should I be the only one who never gets any of those with the pretty pictures on the front.”
“Hang around.” Hyde fanned his hand in compact fashion, making no expression. His face was incapable of any. “You’ll be seeing something as pretty as a picture soon enough.”
“How come?” Clutching his cards in untidy fashion, Garrett kept switching them about. “Did Ackerman smuggle one of those whores back here.”
“Wash your fucking mouth with soap. You mind how you talk about them or I’ll smash it in.” Dooley glared, but didn’t follow up the threat.
“I was only saying…”
“Shut up, Garrett. Are you playing?”
He looked at the sergeant, then hurriedly away. The man’s disfigurement gave him the creeps. “I can’t concentrate with all this talking going on. I’m out as well.”
“This is no bloody fun at all.” Carrington gave Hyde the two he asked for, took three for himself. He barely glanced at them, before tossing the greasy cards into the centre of the blanket.
“It’s all yours, Sarge. You might as well take it. You’ve got my pay for the next three weeks, might as well make it the whole month. Anyway, what is all this about the possibility of female company?”
“It’s already here. You’ll see her in a minute.”
“Oh yeah.” Wistfully, Ripper watched his money being raked in. “And what sort of crazy dame is going to be out here at this time?”
“The trouble with you lot is that you can’t see what’s right under your noses.”
“Come on, Sarge.” Ripper’s voice was loudest among the chorus of complaint. “Let’s have it, come on, spill the beans.”
“If you’re going to be that impatient, I’ll give you all a clue.”
“Aw crap. Now we play guessing games.”
In his turn, Dooley was shouted down by the others. “What is it we’re employing as a sort of Trojan Horse…”