Ignoring the pilot’s chuckle, Revell found his own eyes straying to the Russian. It was the first time he’d worked with one of the many deserters from the Warsaw Pact, armies. The man was an archetypical Russian; stocky build, dark deep-set eyes, with heavy features that betrayed little of his thoughts and no hint of any capacity for humour. Perhaps it was because of his appearance, and the fact that his actual name, Vasili Shalamov, did not trip readily from the tongue, that everyone had taken to-calling him Boris. He wondered what the man’s reasons were not just for deserting – God knows there were enough reasons for men to leave the Soviet forces by any means they could – but for volunteering his services to NATO. The lengthy screening process he’d have been subjected to should have weeded him out if he was a plant, but some always got through and had built a mountain of distrust towards their sort as a whole. Only rarely were they assigned any task other than rear-area or pioneer work, and then only under the very strictest supervision, though with the growing numbers involved, there were rumours of the formation of Free-Russian combat units.
‘Is the island inhabited?’
The accent was impeccable textbook English that would not have been out of place on a BBC news bulletin. Revell hadn’t been told what rank the Russian had held, but he must have at the very least been the equivalent of a technical sergeant, first-grade. His immediate reaction to the question was to ignore it. The instinct sprang in part from his natural distaste for contact of any sort with a people that two years of barbaric warfare had taught him to hate, and partly from a distrust that all the assurances from I-Corp could not shake off. But damn it, the man was going with them, was taking the same risks, more if he came to be captured, and in any event he’d soon learn the truth for himself.
‘No, not now. Before the war the west coast of Sweden was a popular tourist area in summer. There’s a few holiday homes on the island, mostly the converted houses of what used to be a small fishing community, and the remains of an old castle at the northern tip. The rest of it is much the same as the hundreds of other islands along the coast.’
‘You still have much to learn about the Russian mind.’ Boris watched the fuel gauges on the engineer’s panel ticking away the fractions of tons of fuel with each mile they travelled. ‘In the West to be among a crowd is to be safe; in Russia, to be among a crowd is to invite danger.’
‘Either way, you’re about to find out.’ The pilot eased his headphones off and called back to Revell. ‘I’ve got Malmo tower on; in five minutes I start my lame duck routine. You better board your bus.’
For, the fifth time Burke checked his seatbelt, tightening it yet again. He’d positioned himself in the second row, so that by holding on to the back of the seat in front he at least had the illusion of a degree of control over what was about to happen.’ The flashing red light high up on the front bulkhead gave off a continuous glow. Two more minutes. At one and the same time he wanted to get it over with, and for it never to happen. It seemed as if his heartbeat was counting down the seconds to the moment when the rams would push the sled back along the fuselage, the chutes would deploy and they’d be snatched out into space. Closing his eyes to hide the still unlit green bulb from his sight didn’t help, it only made the clock inside him louder, until its pumping roar filled his ears.
Revell was the last to take his place. As he sat down alongside Hyde in the back row he took a final look across the several rows of seats. The two groups had remained clannishly separate, with most of the artillery men occupying the left of the cabin. It made him think of a neatly packed box of toy soldiers, waiting for the next game. An involuntary shudder ran through him as he fastened his lap and shoulder straps together. Had Hyde noticed it? He gave no sign, but then none was ever to be found in the British sergeant’s face.
Now the aircraft was pitching more violently and the movement was being transmitted to the men, even through the sprung floor of the cabin. To Revell it was a sure sign that they were right down low, making the final approach.
The green light went on, its brightness blotting out the red even as it faded, then that too was extinguished as a sudden jarring lurch severed the cabin’s umbilical link with the aircraft’s systems with a jerk. They were on their way.
FOUR
The cabin moved more smoothly as the powerful rams overcame the initial resistance of the metal runners. Dooley felt the aircraft rise as the first sled went out, noting the pilot’s immediate correction to the controls. He sensed they were moving faster, then the Starlifter soared again as the second sled followed. It was their turn next. He clamped his teeth on the piece of rubber he’d been given and closed his eyes against the sensation he knew was coming.
There was a savage wrenching acceleration and suddenly the cabin seesawed wildly and the contents of his stomach raced for his throat. His mouth filled with foul taste and he was conscious of being weightless one moment and undergoing the stress of several ‘g’ the next, as the brake parachutes levelled the yawing sledge and violently checked its speed.
Dooley only had an instant to register the total silence and absence of vibration as he opened his eyes to the pitch-black of the interior, then the runners made their first contact with the ground. Despite all the springing, it felt as though a thousand sets of steel-shod boots were trying to kick his backside over the moon. That was followed immediately by a second massive jolt, and then the world burst apart.
A torrent of bricks and splintered beams, lit by sheets of sparks, hurtled in through the crushed left front of the cabin. Glass and fragments of wood scythed from the dust and crashed into the walls of the cabin, some of them clattering and rebounding from the steel helmets of the men crouched low in their seats. ‘Stay where you are. Stay in your seats.’ Even as Hyde’s bellow filled the interior, the thunder of the collision ceased abruptly and his shouted words encountered no competition for the men’s attention.
Canted over at a steep angle, the first frantic attempts at movement by some of the men had caused the cabin to rock and threaten to turn over. The pitching ceased as they resumed their places.
It was quiet, except for a low moaning coming from the front. A torch flicked on, its beam picking out the dust filling the air as its circle of pale yellow illumination lit up the extent of the damage.
Hyde cautiously began to unfasten his harness, then had to grab at the loose ends to stop himself being thrown to the floor as the cabin lurched sideways and slid downhill to a second, more gentle collision than the first. Blasts of ice-cold air whirled snow into the cabin through the gaps among the debris wedged into the damaged front quarter.
Though resting at a steep angle, the cabin seemed more firmly settled than before, and as a second torch was brought into action Revell gave the order for the men to release themselves.
Outside there was a strange jostling clinking noise, like broken bottles being rolled together in a blanket. It had a rhythmic quality, regular and even. ‘Hey, we’re taking in water.’ It was York who announced the discovery, as he moved to help a bombardier trying to free a gunner pinned against the wall. ‘Keep calm.’ The babble of sound that’ greeted the information signalled a warning to Revell, and he acted fast to prevent a panic. A quick examination showed that the water was not rising. That and the fact that the cabin was not moving suggested that they were firmly beached at the water’s edge. ‘Sergeant Hyde, take two men and scout our position. Find somewhere for the casualties, preferably with room enough to take the command centre as well.’