This time the Russian vessels were ready. Cones of concentrated small-calibre fire reached out to the warheads aiming mindlessly for them, but some were getting through. The big anti-aircraft cruiser was surrounded by metal-lashed water as slivers of steel swept it and the sea about it.
The proximity fuse failed on one rocket and it impacted just forward of the bridge on another large warship. Tearing apart a pair of ready-to-fire surface-to-air missiles, it added the fuel of their spilled propellant and broken explosive content to the blaze that engulfed that section of the deck.
And of the many rockets that failed to get through, not every one was wasted. Two that failed to reach their target erupted in balls of flame above a dashing Grisha class corvette. It came out of the far side of the man-made storm with every plate pierced, heeling hard over in a tight uncontrolled turn that took it right under the bows of a destroyer, missing a collision by inches.
‘All bloody hell has let loose.’ As York sent the second set of decoys soaring high over the house, he turned to help Boris find the Russian wavelengths. ‘Every damned position on the dial is in use, they don’t know what the heck is going on.’
‘The commander of the marines on the island is broadcasting to anyone who will listen that he is not leading a mutiny, he is telling the ships he has not opened fire. I think he is crying.’
‘Let’s hope the ships hit him instead of us. How’s that re-loading going?’
‘Give them time, Major. Forty tubes is a lot of metal to lift. Best possible is ten minutes, and that’s pushing it.’ Despite the spectacular things to be seen on the TV, it was the surface radar that presented Cline with the most interesting picture at the moment.
The first group of ships were still moving north, but at reduced speed. Now it was down from their previous thirty knots to less than twenty. But it was the traces showing the positions of the ships in the second group that were the most fascinating.
‘They’re all over the place. Look at them.’ Revell put his finger on the screen to underline the two blips that were fast converging on a collision course. Disappointingly, they noticed their danger, but must still have suffered damage in the heavy side-swipe that seemed inevitable, judging by the temporary joining of the blobs of telltale light.
From somewhere out to sea came a series of dull explosions. A heavy movement of air shook the house and threw snow into the room through every gap and crack about the windows and doors.
‘That’s the Rogov. Those shits out there have got problems.’ Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Dooley had come over to the radar desk and was trying to look between Revell and the operator to see what was happening on the screen.
Internal explosions were racking the ship, sending chunks of debris into the sea. Members of the crew lined the rail surrounding the aft helicopter pad, and at each fresh blast another would jump. Flames licked from every port and opening and sent a pillar of jet-black smoke straight up into the milky white of the sky. From its stern came a slab-fronted landing craft. The fact that it was already packed *with men did not stop those at the rail from hurling themselves over the side to land in it. Several missed, and spun for a moment in the LCT’s wake before going under the breath-stopping freezing water of the Kattegat.
Three ships among the second group appeared dead in the water. They were being left behind by the remainder as they moved on, with no vestige of formation remaining. Now, like a herd of cattle that had been frightened into a stampede, they were only interested in leaving the area as quickly as possible.
‘Looks like we’re going to get away with it.’ Cline was filling pages of the log with cryptic notes in a hand that grew more extravagant in its flourishes with each entry. ‘We beat a whole fleet to a pulp and we’re being let off scot-free.’
‘It’s rather early to start counting chickens. There’s still too many damned foxes around, others are finding that as well.’ Using the radar, Revell had been following the progress of the LCT that had left the Rogov. As though its helmsman was undecided on the best course of action and the safest place of refuge, it had first circled out to sea, and now it turned back towards the island and crossed the path of the second group. Its charmed life came to an end as it crossed close in front of a large trace and abruptly disappeared.
‘That must be the last of them coming now.’ With the tip of his pencil Cline indicated the fresh traces springing to life at the base of the screen. A red light flashed urgently among an unlit row. ‘Intruder, Major. Northern perimeter.’
‘Any idea who or what or how many?’
‘Can’t be sure, Major. The equipment I brought was chosen more for lightness and compactness than multi-sensor capability, so I can’t say if it was metal, or what, but it did last several seconds, so it could either be a slow-moving vehicle or a file of men.’
‘That’s nice.’ Dooley and the rest of Hyde’s group were getting ready to move. ‘He don’t know what it is, but it’s either a tank or a war party.’
‘What’s the difference, we’ve got to stop it anyway.’ Five grenades were already hanging from Libby’s webbing, he added another two.
Hyde opened the door, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees as soft milky light flooded in. ‘So let’s go and do it.’
The squad of Russian marines was moving cautiously, their AK74 assault rifles held at the ready. They kept in single file, each man stepping carefully in the tracks of the one ahead. A young officer led them, he walked stooped over, like a man sensing danger.
As they came to the fringe of a clump of firs he signalled a halt, and took out his binoculars to examine the ground ahead. Twice he swept it, then came back to focus on the network of tracks around the small collection of houses in the distance. He beckoned to his radio-man, and took the handset.
His mouth opened to speak as he pressed the transmit switch, and stayed open as a figure rose up from out of the ground and plunged a knife through the layers of clothing swaddling his neck to cut his windpipe.
The fight was short and vicious, with Hyde’s men having the supreme advantage of surprise. Dooley threw himself on three marines, finishing one with the first swing of a length of timber before pain seared his wounded shoulder as he went for a second blow and a Russian ducked in beneath his guard. There was just time for Dooley to divert the wildly wielded club to parry the knife thrust, and then the pair were upon him and he was having to roll and kick to avoid the stabs and blows aimed at his face and chest.
Sweeping aside a rifle butt jabbing at his face, Dooley brought up his studded left boot. Thick clothing prevented the crushing impact doing the intended damage to the Russian’s crotch, but it still had sufficient force to hurl him back, and for the moment left Dooley free to concentrate on the marine with the knife.
There was no sound. The fight was going on in complete silence. Even the dead made no noise as they fell, the snow cushioning their fall. Hyde grabbed a Russian who had a stranglehold on Andrea. Her knife could make no impression on the man’s thickly quilted jacket front and sleeves, and with her shorter arms she could not reach his face. Going for the eyes, Hyde missed and felt his fingers slide into the marine’s nostrils. Knowing the excruciating pain it would cause he pulled back hard, and the hands locked about the girl’s throat were suddenly released.
Blood smothered the sergeant’s hand and wrist and showered on Andrea as the flesh split. Reeling at the agony and interested only in escaping the fingers clawing his face, the Russian never saw, and made no move to ward off, the underarm stab that Andrea delivered to his groin.