Revell saw behind the coded words. He knew what was expected of him. The mission was getting dirtier and dirtier.
“I take it I get to choose my own men, apart from your specialists, for the mission.”
“You’ll be including the Russian deserter?”
Revell had wondered if the matter of Boris being included would be raised. “I trust him, he’s brilliant with our radar and radio and computer equipment so yes, he goes with us.”
“Who else? Any more surprises?”
There was no way Revell was going to let the Intelligence Officer influence his selection so the others he listed quickly, burying the girls name in the middle in the hope it would go unnoticed. “The crew are Burke and Libby our driver and turret gunner. Boris you know about. Sergeant Hyde, Samson our medic’ and then Corporal Thorne and rankers Simmons, Ripper, Andrea, Dooley and Clarence.”
“I’ve seen the files on the men, good mix of youth and experience and all with useful special skills. The girl is an ex-East German border guard I understand. What’s her speciality.”
“Killing Russians.”
As he left the room Revell noticed that the Intelligence Officer was looking thoughtfully at Colonel Lippincott. He couldn’t think of anything his commanding officer had said that he probably should not have, but then you could never tell with those spooks. He was glad it was not a world in which he moved. Retrieving damaged nuclear bombs was an easier option that perpetually having to watch your back when Intelligence Officers were prowling about.
“I’ve arranged a really neat series of decoy barrages for you.” The artilleryman kept breaking off his conversation with Revell to issue further instructions to a stream of signallers and Nco’s that were constantly rushing up and vying for his attention.
“We’re going to put down smoke. Lots and lots of lovely smoke, mostly incendiary phosphorus rounds. The Soviets hate that stuff; they’re terrified of it. It will be like a pea soup fog on the other side of the river so I hope your thermal imaging gear is up to scratch. There’s access to an old slipway, just down stream of the bridge they blew behind you. On the other side, a hundred metres further down is a shattered dock. The rubble will make a good exit ramp if you can take a bit of a run at it.”
“What about deception tactics, I was told that was being arranged.” The impact of mortar rounds on the top floor of the multi-storey car park was sending down regular trickles of dust from between the thick concrete slabs of the structure. Revell had constantly to brush the fine powder from his camouflage smock and shake it from his hair.
“Oh plenty of that. Just for once I am being allowed to use more than a couple of rounds per barrel. In fact I don’t know what they’re up to but they’ve allowed me unlimited access to the dump. I am going to make the most of it, have a bit of fun. The chance doesn’t come along that often.”
On the hood of his Landrover the artilleryman spread a city street plan. A broad slash of green, following the line of the river, marked the boundary between the two armies. In succession his finger stabbed down on a three locations. “All of these are getting the sort of treatment you’d expect if we were covering a river crossing. Another four are just getting smoke or like yours, a light mix.”
“It is going to have the effect of putting them on the alert.” Revell saw that the artilleryman’s enthusiasm might just have the reverse effect to that he hoped for. With the chance to be profligate with ammunition his elaborate fire plan looked likely to prompt the Soviet defenders into maximum vigilance rather than lull them in to complacency.
“Ah yes, I knew you’d say that.” Ticking boxes and scribbling a note on the margin of a clipboard thrust at him, the artilleryman grinned broadly. “And that would be the case if we did it all at once. But you don’t kick off for another two hours and we’ve started already. By the time you go the Ruskies will be sick from rushing back and forth between one imagined danger spot and another. My men are switching targets all the time and we’ve started to run them ragged. Besides killing a few and wrecking their supper arrangements we will have made sure they have exhausted themselves. They will have settled down with their heads below their sandbags, waiting for us to either do something or stop playing silly buggers. Oh yes, and I’ve got some of the infantry and anti-aircraft batteries along the bank to join in. It’s an idea from the Second World War, called Pepper Pot. We lace the whole area with heavy machine gun, mortar and light cannon fire. That keeps them ducking and diving all the time, great fun. To top it all off my brother is in command of a tank troop close by and a couple of his big ones are going to join in with a spot of direct fire.”
Outside the Russian mortaring was definitely continuing to reduce in intensity. There were now perceptible pauses between each explosion. Just occasionally a fragment would zip across the interior and expend its energy in chipping a scab of concrete from a pillar or wall. A sliver that ricocheted from a stairwell handrail finally came to rest in a camouflage net secured to the rear of the turret on the Iron Cow.
In the subdued light the angular bulk of the hover APC looked more aggressive than ever. Extra equipment festooned the hull sides, even draped down on to the thick creases of the steel ribbon reinforced ride skirt. A large patch and runs of semi-gloss brown paint made an incongruous touch but added to the general disruption of the vehicles outline.
An M113 drove in, its tracks squealing as the driver executed a series of skid turns to bring it down to the lower floor from road level.
The wide rear door dropped to form a ramp and from its interior exited two colourfully attired infantrymen Brightly patterned bandanas were wound about their heads, loosely tied ends straggling down from beneath helmets that had been given a psychedelic treatment with paint and felt tip pens. Any hippy effect though was cancelled by festoons of thermite bombs and grenades. Their only personal weapons were heavy automatic pistols carried in what looked more like a western rig than regular issue holsters. Libby watched them coming out and found his attention instantly drawn to a large rectangular pack carried by the youngest of the pair. He staggered under the weight of the close packed blocks of thermite material. Peace signs were plastered all over it and red, lilac and sky blue ribbons had been affixed to every strap and buckle. The result was more festive than camouflaging in effect. “Oh heck. I always knew the guys who played with the little ‘A’ bombs about must be crazy. If ever I needed proof….”
“Hi Major. We’re the special unit guys you are expecting.”
It was the unencumbered man who spoke. “They recently made the error of making me up to Lieutenant but I prefer to dispense with rank and just be called Andy. Maybe it will be a help if the Ruskies get hold of me and I just sound kind of friendly like.”
The southern accent was accentuated, almost exaggerated and was accompanied by a gap toothed smile so broad it seemed to go half way around his head.
“We were told there was one man who had to have special do or die protection. Is that you?” Revell saw that his own men were gathering around to take a closer look at the newcomers.
“Oh that will be Carson. Come here young fella, say hello to the Major. He’s going to take real good care of you.”
The long limbed marine with the pack slothered forward. He looked at first glance like a boy but there were lines about his eyes and a look within them that suggested he was older than the first impression made him out to be. “Hi.”