‘Number one is ready now. Two will be at least a couple of hours yet. We could save time by stationing it closer in.’
‘No, we’re going for maximum dispersion within the perimeter of the intruder alarms. What about number three, the Lance.’
‘With its trailer, that scales better than two tons, Major. Even if we hitch all the men to it, I can’t see us shifting it far from the sledge. Once it’s in place all we have to do is fix on the wings, survey the site and connect up. I reckon if we stick to our original plan we’ve another five hours’ hard work, what with shifting all the reload rounds for the multiple launchers. Do we work during daylight?’
‘Yes. No breaks until it’s all done. I might have to think about it again if this cloud starts to thin, but for the time being it’s full steam ahead, drive them hard.’ Revell ticked off items on his check-list. ‘What about the demolition charges?’
‘I’ll take care of them.’ Hogg dabbed at his running nose. ‘For the most part it’s just a case of connecting the wires, but there’s a fair bit of ground to cover, what with the remote decoy mortars and all. It’d be a help if I could have Libby. He knows what he’s doing with that sort of thing.’
‘Pick someone else. I’m not happy about our shortage of heavy weapons. We need at least one machine gun, and if anyone can salvage something from the junk pulled out from under that tractor, he can. Likewise I’ve got work here for York and Cline, otherwise you can take your pick.’
‘The girl?’ .
Revell suspected an ulterior motive behind the lieutenant’s query; he suspected anyone who took an interest in Andrea. ‘Boris is with the working parties. He’s safe enough out there with the other men, even Clarence. They’ve had an order to lay off, and they’ll obey it. Andrea I can’t be so sure of, so she stays here, giving a hand with the casualties.’ That wasn’t really how Revell wanted it. He’d far rather have had her here, in the control room with him, instead of upstairs. But he felt he had to display at least that much disinterest, even so, his thoughts constantly veered to her.
‘Major, one of your men…’
‘Shut the damned door.’ Revell’s shout was as loud as the crash with which Cline had thrown it open.
‘Private Libby, he…’
‘If you can’t take care of it yourself, then learn to live with it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to play nursemaid. Now if you’ve fixed that camera, get to work on the hook-ups to the launcher sites.’
Cline shut his mouth fast. Bugger, bugger, bugger: the realisation that he’d made a cock-up by complaining occurred to him forcibly. From now on he’d have to think first every time, and then be very smooth. Still, if he did his job by the book he should be able to paper over the cracks he’d made in the image he’d been trying so hard to project. He’d have to, if he was going to turn the time spent on this harebrained mission to his advantage; and he would, or die in the attempt. Well maybe not die… but a neat and not too painful little wound would be in order.
The worst cases, those with multiple fractures or internal injuries, were laid on the bare floor. The other casualties sat propped against the wall, all around the room. All of them were encased in plastic-coated metal-foil survival bags, the shining cocoons helping them retain their precious body heat.
Libby had stuffed wads of paper into the broken panes of the single window, but it was only a gesture; there was scant difference between the temperature inside and outside the building. The day had brought no warmth.
As he worked to repair the salvaged weapons, his hands almost seemed to seize up with the cold. The metal of barrels and mechanisms stung and left cold-imprinted patterns on his palms and fingertips.
The men’s breath hung in fine clouds before them, dispersing slowly in the light draughts. It was a perfect at-a-glance indicator as to the more serious cases; they could be recognised by the thin plume of vapour surrounding them, their weakened bodies barely being capable of shallow breaths. In two instances that vestige of white mist was the only sign that the men in question were still alive.
Gunner Fraser, his own head bandaged, moved quietly from man to man, tucking the cold limbs of the semiconscious back inside their metallic wrapping, sometimes making a fractional adjustment to the position of a dressing or lighting a cigarette.
‘Daft, isn’t it.’ Libby slid across to sit beside Andrea, as she watched the young medic’s ceaseless fussing. ‘At the moment it’s the cold that’s keeping some of the poor devils alive, slowing them down, giving their bodies a chance to start to cope with the damage, but in the end it’ll be the cold that kills them. Why don’t you give the kid a hand? That’s why you’re supposed to be up here. Go on, a pretty face is always good medicine. Surprise me and give them a treat, smile.’
She had never talked to Libby before. There had never been any need, and she would not have done so for any other reason. But now it was easier to talk than to try to ignore him, and she could turn the occasion to good use. ‘Will the major order patrols, or are we to sit here and wait for trouble to come to us?’
‘The intruder alarm perimeter is far enough out to give us fair warning if some of the natives or someone less friendly should stumble our way.’
‘Then I do not know why we need to be here. Why not let the machines do it all? If they can find the enemy, why not give them the capability to kill also?’
‘You don’t mean that.’ In spite of her German accent Libby had recognised the irony in her words. ‘You love the killing. I’ve seen you doing it.’
‘I do it well.’
‘So does a nuclear bomb, but I wouldn’t cuddle up to that either.’
‘About the bomb I do not know, but there is no danger you would get the chance to do the other is there?’ Taking her grenade-discharger fitted M16 with her, Andrea moved away and went to the window.
‘And no bloody chance I’d want to.’ Sod her, sod all bloody women, except for Helga. Sod ‘em, sod ‘em, sod ‘em. When he deliberately moved to sit in the exact spot she’d occupied, he fancied he could feel something of her warmth. Sod her. Being near her, close to any woman, made his balls ache. He’d have to find a corner and work his frustration off in the same degrading way he always resorted to. Oh God, he did need a woman. He smiled to himself, a tight wry thing in the privacy of the grimy hands he rubbed over his face. He’d held out so long, but the next chance he got, he’d have to, he’d just have to. But he’d said that to himself the last time, and the time before that, and so it had been for all of two years. Perhaps when, if, it actually came to it, he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe lack of practice, or more likely his conscience, wouldn’t let him. But it did no good to indulge in such speculations. The problem was now.
He casually stood up and went out to the tiny bathroom. Quietly and carefully, he pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Fucking neutrals? I’d bomb the bloody lot of them, and all the shitty bleeding hearts and pacifists and fellow-travellers back home.’ The few daylight hours had gone, taking with them the low cloud that had offered some degree of concealment to their activities. In places, the first hard white points of light that were stars were already appearing.
Dooley turned from the kitchen window. With tight-clenched hands he was draining the last drop of warmth from the can of self-heating soup. ‘I don’t know how York does it. He reckons he’s a decent cook, but somehow he can even screw up this muck.’ His body ached, he could still feel where the harness straps had bitten into his shoulders and stripped the skin, even through his several thick layers of clothing. ‘Why the hell should some po-faced pacifist shit be sitting at home, with a full table and a warm butt, while I’m stuck out here?’