“That bad?”
“That fucking bad, and worse. The West German Airforce has almost ceased to exist as a viable combat arm… Same goes for the Brits’. Every Harrier that comes off the line is issued immediately. Some go into action unpainted. You must have seen that for yourself.”
He’d seen it, but never realized the full implications. Their small battle group was almost self-sufficient, replenishing itself by battlefield salvage. It had given him a false impression of the overall picture. “So how many Hail Mary’s are we to do?”
“By the time it’s over you’ll wish it was that simple.” Lippincott dabbed at his eyes as an engulfing cloud of wood smoke made them water. “Let’s walk, before that chef of yours has us first on the menu as smoked hors d’oeuvres.”
They picked their way past a solitary bomb crater, skirting tangled heaps of uprooted and wilting hedges. Revell made a point of steering a path away from the lake. Just audible was the whine of the pumps serving the decontamination sprays.
“It might not be for long, of course.” Lippincott glanced sideways at the major. “Depends on how the cease fire holds up.”
They reached a boundary fence, reinforced by entwined razor wire. Beyond it the heath land stretched away in a series of gentle folds. In the middle distance stood an isolated stand of fir trees. Farther off a few scattered rooftops were just visible.
Close alongside the fence was a huddle of improvised refugee shelters, looking as if they would all collapse if any one wall were removed. Sitting on either side of a small fire consisting mostly of cones and twigs, an elderly couple were taking turns to spoon beans from a can.
They ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. When the hot can was passed from one to the other, elaborate care was taken not to spill anything from the cloth wrapped container.
Revell watched them, wondering if the food came from the company’s reserve stock. He noticed a clean bandage about the woman’s wrist. That would be Sampson’s work, and tended to confirm the source of the meal. “So what will we be doing? Riding herd on a load of these poor devils as they’re shunted around the countryside?”
“No,” Lippincott looked away from the scene. It was too common to hold his attention for long. “No, you’re going to be riding shotgun on a load of Russians.”
SIX
“My men will be wasted as prison camp guards.” Even as he felt his anger rising, Revell knew protest would be useless. Instead, his mind switched to considering the first problems which would arise from such a change of assignment. First and foremost would be the need to keep a careful watch on Andrea and Clarence. Both had a self-imposed vendetta against the Communists. It was hard to say which of them was the most ruthless in its pursuit: Clarence with his merciless sniper’s precision or Andrea with her less cool but just as deadly blood lust.
“…it’s not quite so simple, Major.” Spitting a last fragment of wood, Lippincott selected another pencil. He crunched off the eraser and nibbled thoughtfully at the paint down one side, like he was sampling a doubtful stick of celery.
“Of course we’re all hoping the cease fire will become permanent, but I guess there’s not many who believe it really will. Leastways none of the staff officers reckon it’s likely to make it into a second week. So, in exactly the same way as those bastards on the Warpac side will be doing, we’re going to get ourselves ready for the next round.”
“Is there that much we can do?” Revell moved aside a little to give the barrage of soggy splinters more room. “You bet your fucking life there is, as long as we stick to our side of the demilitarized strip. There’re dumps to be replenished, defence positions to be constructed and improved, material to be salvaged and roads to be repaired… especially roads.”
Revell could anticipate what was coming. His anger, being pointless, had subsided, to be now replaced with a sullen resentment. It was going to be worse than guarding the cages. “We take charge of a construction battalion? Of Warpac deserters?”
“Got it in one, almost. Only you’re not getting some easy-going bunch of Poles and Hungarians. In fact you’re getting all Ruskies. Not to dress it up for you, you’re getting the sweepings of the camps. All the ones who’ve been causing trouble. The guys who refused to work, or were into stealing, murder, or gang buggery, or trying to dabble in the black market by bribing guards. You know, just about every vice known to man, and some that are only known to renegade Communists.”
“Where do we find them.”
“Oh, they’ll find you. They’re on their way, be here about mid-morning tomorrow. Your company will take over as their escort for the last stage of the journey. I should think the other guys will be glad to hand them over to you. Did hear they’ve already had to stop twice and put MPs on board to sort out knife fights.”
“What’s the work precisely, and where?”
“Clearing and patching a section of road that runs up to the truce line. Goes right on through it and into the Warpac side, in fact. If you keep out of the demilitarized strip though, you shouldn’t have any trouble from that direction. The escort commander will give you a map.”
“What about engineering equipment?” Inside Revell was a strong suspicion that he already knew the answer to that also.
“Each of your new buddies, gallant allies or filthy traitors depending on whose point of view you’re seeing them from, our PR boys or the KGB, comes fully equipped. To be fucking precise, with either a pick or a shovel.”
“Sounds like it’s going to be a bundle of laughs.”
“Well the general was smiling a hell of a lot when he gave me the word. Now I’ve got to be getting back. Can you offer a route back to the chopper around that clown producing the smoke screen.”
Lippincott belted himself in, while Revell stood at the open door. “Great, ain’t it.” The colonel tapped the back of the empty pilot’s seat. “OK, so this machine’s not exactly new, maybe hardly airworthy, and sure as shit I’m not a three-star general in the making, but together we’re a slice of the NATO war effort, and what happens? We come to a grinding halt because this crud has to scuttle off for a piss.”
Revell, too, suddenly had strong feelings about the pilot’s weak bladder, but not for the same reason as the colonel. There came a blast of rock music as a convoy of assorted civilian vehicles entered the grounds. Leading them was an ex-Warpac generator truck. Mounted on top of its box like bodywork were two enormous speakers. Following closely was a Rolls Royce convertible, a pair of Starstreak missile launchers sprouting from the place where the passenger seat had been. It and the rest of the column were heavily festooned with bright balloons and masses of bunting.
Corporal Carrington, seated on the back of the Corniche, created a temporary panic among the surrounding refugee settlements by firing off a whole belt composed entirely of multicoloured tracer, then he waved to the officers.
Groaning inwardly, Revell experienced a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He saw the colonel, open-mouthed, watch the weird variety of impressed transport crunch over the gravel toward the hotel.
“They’re just letting off steam. Celebrating the truce.” Hell, even as he said it, Revell knew it sounded weak.