The moment came and Revell dashed forward. Ahead of the others Andrea hurdled a pile of scrap and then used a stack of truck tyres to hurl herself on to the rear deck of the armoured vehicle. Even her slight weight made the hull buck and the giant Russian’s slab face whirled round to see her. The blade she thrust forward was Teflon coated and almost invisible but the slim sharpened edge was seen and an arm came up to shield its target.
The tip sliced into the thick blanket-like coat sleeve and stopped. Bellowing with rage the Russian swept a backhanded blow at Andrea and almost toppled her from the deck. Had he not been hampered by his awkward pose, still sat on the turret edge and twisted around from the waist, the strike would have smashed her face. Recovering her balance she threw all her weight behind a second thrust and this time caught the man under the chin. Another bellow, this time of pain, was cut short as the blade sliced in and up.
Blood erupted between teeth stapled together by the saw edge back of the knife as it sliced through the bottom jaw and up into the roof of his mouth. Another blow from a massive hand, more clumsy, distracted by the agonising pain, caught Andrea again and this time brought her down on to the heavily ridged engine covers, her senses reeling from the crashing impact of the flailing backhand. One fist clenched around the hilt of the weapon impaling his jaw, with his other the big man groped for her and caught a hold of the front of her jacket. Wrenching at the material he hauled her close, so that she was an inch from his face, smelling the stale vodka breath and the blood. Out of the corner of her eye Andrea saw a movement. She felt the fingers gripping her clothes bunch, making ready to dash her head in to the turret side. And then the hold was released; blood spurted from the Russians nostrils and just missed hosing her with gore as she fell back. Revell was stood over the man, both hands clenched on a knife he had driven with pile-driver force in to the Russian, severing his spinal cord just below the nape of his neck.
Not pausing, Revell grabbed a grenade from his webbing, yanked out the pin, held it for a fraction of time and then dropped it down the turret hatch. With both hands he shoved his victim forward and it was his bulk blocking the opening that caught and smothered the blast from within.
The detonation send a cloud of dust and smoke billowing out through the drivers hatch and was immediately followed by a scream than went up and off the audible range.
Minus his legs the knifed man slowly rolled down the side of the vehicle, leaving a broad glistening smear across the drab, slogan daubed armour. The corpse flopped beside Dooley. He had unfastened a side hatch and was examining the interior by the light of a red lamp that still glowed through the thick atmosphere.
There were two bodies inside. One, half on a bunk had been killed instantly, even as he sat up and began to pull his drink-befuddled senses together. The second occupant, a woman, still had some shred of life left in her. Both her arms were torn off at the elbow, the contents of her bowels oozed through her shredded clothing. Bleached white by shock and the loss of blood the woman looked down, from one stump to the other, then she looked up and half grinned at Dooley, an idiotic attempt at a resigned smile flickering across her features. In slow motion the expression became fixed and she lolled forward, diving head first on to the floor, her cranium making a sharp crack on the unprotected impact.
Several of the Russians were dead and another was not going to last long. Arterial blood was pulsing from beneath a bandage the Samson had bound about his chest. He had been propped against the hulk of a panel van and would be left for his countrymen to find. Another had survived by pure chance; his foot rolling on a vodka bottle and tripping him as he took a stumbling pace backwards to avoid the wild assault that struck them. A comrade’s body falling across him had pinned him until the short-lived and one-sided fight was over. Hauled out from beneath a corpse, seeing the state of the others, his first reaction had been to vomit violently and then to heave and retch uncontrollably, sweat poured down his face. By the first light of dawn his visage had a distinctly green tinge.
“That was an insane chance, using the grenade.” Andrea still felt herself shaking, and hoped it did not show. That Revell had likely saved her life, and certainly saved her from serious injury, was of no consequence to her. She had retrieved her knife from the chin of the mutilated body beside her and she bent down to wipe the blade on one of the few parts of the coats material that was not splattered with blood and tissue.
“As I jumped for the side of the APC I saw that the bomb was still on the ground. They had been using it as a table” He indicated the mud-stained pack, two paper cups and a bottle stood on it. A stone was wedged under one edge so that it made a level surface.
Andrea backed from the sentient weapon and looked around to take in the scene. Close by it was the body of a paratrooper, recognisable by the harness and reserve ‘chute he still wore. His head lolled back, his arms lay at his side and his legs stretched out straight. He wore no helmet and there was no top to his skull.
Libby had been to fetch Carson and Andy from where they had been hidden, close by the Iron Cow. It was the lieutenant who recognised the dead parachutist.
“Sergeant Smith Good man. Looks like he managed to trigger the anti-handling mechanisms before they got to him” He looked about. “The others must have failed to make it out of the ’plane. Had they reached the ground alive then no matter in what strength the Russian jumped them, for sure their bodies would be here. Don’t know what happened to them.” He indicated two crushed bodies that had been pulled aside and now were carelessly lain across a litter of scrap metal.
Revell sent Libby off to summon Burke with Iron Cow. While they waited he watched Carson going over the bomb. “Is it safe, what’s the verdict? Can we move it without it turning on us or do we destroy it here.”
By the illumination of a small flashlight, Carson was inspecting the open panels in the bomb casing. “Just like the Russians to use a sledgehammer where a scalpel would have been preferred, but yes, it’s safe to move it.” As he carried out a visual check Carson had noticed that the Russian prisoner had ceased trying to turn himself inside out and was furtively watching him, with nervous interest that showed through his fear.
“Major.” Carson spoke very quietly. It was possible the man understood English. “I’m going to poke about inside this thing, let me know his reaction.”
Unfastening a small panel that it appeared the Russians hadn’t disturbed, Carson selected a long screwdriver from a tool role and slid it down into the bomb. Very carefully he turned it clockwise, withdrew it and deliberately made a pretence of hesitating then reinserted it and began to turn the tool in the opposite direction. He stopped and withdrew the screwdriver. “Well?”
“He was OK at first, just watching.” Revell whispered. “When you had the second go he looked like he was going to chew his fingers off, he went white and started heaving again.”
“The guy is their bomb man. I was just faking that move but he knew if I kept going I would by-pass every safety device and go straight to the trigger. I think our intelligence guys would like to have him. Got room for him as well as the bomb?”
“We can take him. Good job it wasn’t the big fellow.” Looking down at the corpse that had rolled from the turret Revell noticed for the first time that his legs were missing. “Even trimmed he would have taken up too much room.”
Dooley handed some papers to Major Revell. Most he had taken from the command vehicle but some had been on the men they had killed, and their prisoner. “That’s the lot. Carson went through their equipment; especially the tools they had been using on the bomb but he just kept on tut-tutting and finally threw the lot away.”