He had checked very carefully before determining on this precise location for his hideout. The sun would set directly behind him.
That was where it would be when he opened fire. Any special sighting device used in an attempt to spot his muzzle flashes would be hopeless, swamped by the flare of the sun’s disc.
There had been occasions recently when he had wondered if there was any point in continuing to try to evade what he knew to be inevitable.
The odds against his continuing survival were lengthening dramatically with every day and every action in which he took part. He was already a statistical absurdity. He was but a few short of a kill total of three hundred. And those were the ones of which he could be as close to a hundred percent certain as was possible.
A sniper rarely saw, close-up, the results of his work. Even when much of it was done at ranges of a couple of hundred yards or less. But when a bullet struck, men reacted in different ways. A hit in a limb usually produced a dramatic reaction from the target. A good solid strike in the torso or head was very different. It was like the air had suddenly been exhausted from a blow-up doll. They collapsed as if instantly deflated.
At the closer ranges he often saw his victim’s face before, at or even immediately after impact. If it was a head shot their cranium would explode a shower of blood and bone and brain tissue. The change of expression was always instantaneous. He never recalled specific instances, only had in mind a softly focused montage. There were never any dreams, but then he hardly ever slept, and only then when so tired he could not avoid its necessity.
The time was passing steadily; it never troubled him, the waiting. There had been a time, in the weeks after the stalling of the first Russian attacks, when he had waited literally days for a single target. These few hours were nothing by comparison.
There was one thought, pushed deep into the innermost recesses of his mind, that he was not ready to deal with. It had surfaced from time to time, but always been subdued once more, shunted into a cobwebby corner.
With his tally standing where it did, it was becoming harder to do that. This was the day he would fulfil his vow. The one he had made at the graveside of his wife and children. What a long time ago that seemed.
Then he had thought this a moment to look forward to, a time for laying down his burden and joining them. The realization struck him that he, a man who had handed out death hundreds of times, was afraid of it himself.
The interior of the APC was packed with weapons and ammunition. Hyde dropped in through a roof hatch and threaded his way forward. The fancy interior still smelled of perfume, but the crushed velvet seat covers were marked by dust and oil, and all the cushions had been thrown out. He sat in the commander’s chair, and let his body go limp.
Thirty minutes before the off. In this unit it was unusual to go into action with a specific start time. In getting everything ready it had been a help, given them targets to achieve. In preparing them for what lay ahead he wasn’t so sure.
He would have paced the loading, left them with only a few minutes to stand about. All the men wanted to see the job done, see the enemy battalion smashed hard, but they knew the possible consequences when they hit the KGB outfit. The consequences for those of them who returned were more certain. At the very least the command would be broken up.
For individuals the outlook was uncertain. A court-martial for Revell, possibly for Vokes and himself as well. For the others an assortment of dead-end or dangerous assignments. All of them would remain in the Zone. Getting out was a reward, not a punishment.
Except perhaps for him. In the Zone he was just another mutilated victim. Out in the world beyond he would be a freak. After so many years in the army it was hard for him to imagine any other life. But then, when he’d joined the combat company it had been hard to adjust to the free and easy atmosphere, after years of regimental life in a regular unit.
There was a noise behind him. Andrea had climbed in. Ignoring him, she checked through the number of M16 magazines by what would be her position.
Once the action started there would be no time to fumble about looking for things. Clips, grenades and satchel charges would have to come easily to hand.
Andrea finished her inventory and sat down at the far end of the fighting compartment. They said nothing, hardly glanced at each other. Each of them was waiting for the minutes to pass. Waiting for the others to join them, the motors to start. And the killing.
TWENTY FOUR
Tarkovski climbed unsteadily onto the flat roof. He had missed several steps on the home-made ladder and had skinned his ankles each time.
“Find out which of our tame refugees made that fucking ladder, and have him shot.” Shouting the instruction down to a passing private, Tarkovski almost overbalanced. He had to flail his arms to prevent himself from falling. The open bottle in his pocket spouted vodka over the side of his jacket.
“No, wait.” Sitting down heavily, Tarkovski felt at a splinter in his ankle. “If the shit is so damned good at woodwork, have him make a coffin. Tell him it’s his own.”
“Then do I shoot him, Colonel?”
“What a shit you are, Private. Where’s your bloody style. Put him in the coffin and bury him. No need to bother with the shooting.”
“What are you monkeys grinning at?”
Tarkovski rounded on the gun crew. Their faces instantly became blank masks, blank sweating masks. The colonel laughed.
“Cheer up, you miserable shits. We’re going to have a party.” He scanned the road to the east. “Some of our favourite people are coming. Lots of little civilians. That’ll be nice, won’t it.” A hint of menace came into Tarkovski’s voice.
“I said that’ll be nice, Private Ivan Petrov.” He stuck his face into the man’s, breathing alcohol fumes all over him.
“Yes, Comrade Colonel. Very nice.”
“Do you know, I’ll have a better party than I did last time, if you’ll do me a little favour.”
“Certainly, Comrade Colonel.”
“Oh good. Well if you find another plump little beauty like you did before, I would like to taste her before you do. You still have a passion for licking them, haven’t you?”
Petrov froze.
“Shy, in front of your friends. Tell me, what happened to that pretty little plump girl. Did you marry her?”
“The colonel is joking.”
“The colonel never fucking jokes.” Tarkovski bellowed so loudly the man took an involuntary step backward, stumbling on the edge of the sandbag emplacement.
“She, she fell down stairs and broke her neck, Comrade Colonel.” Tarkovski shook his head sadly. “So many of them do, don’t they. I tell you what, before it happens again, you bring any little girl you find to me. Not too little, mind, I like them with big udders. Then while you hold her I’ll give her a good lick and then I’ll watch you do it to her, until she pisses. You’ll enjoy that Petrov. I always do.”
Tarkovski made his way back down, slipping and falling the last three steps. He picked himself up, and laughed. He looked at the men watching him from the roof, and deliberately pushed the ladder over.
“Hope you don’t miss the party. I tell you what, if you do, Petrov, I’ll take care of the plump ones and I’ll cut out the piece you like and throw it up to you.”
Taking out his bottle, he hoisted it in mock salute and staggered inside, trying to stifle a burp. He paused in the doorway, and shouted to a junior sergeant trying to look busy with a clip-board.
“Let me know as soon as the trucks return with those refugees, I mean our guests. This time I want first pick. Oh, I do love a good party.”