At what would have been sunset, if the changing weather had not brought it forward, they heard a pair of gunships circling. For half an hour they maintained an erratic search pattern, but if the castle was their target, they never found it.
Gradually the beat of the rotors faded in the distance, and some kilometres off, an inoffensive, unoccupied hilltop received a deluge of fuel-air bombs, and as it burned was repeatedly strafed with cannons and rockets.
The Russians didn’t dare take their loads back and admit failure. Revell could only hope their report of a brilliant pinpoint attack would allow them to be left in peace for a while.
It was shortly after that, as he wrestled with the problem of what ttrdo with the wounded, that they established a radio link through a satellite relay.
Boris lay back, ignoring the discomfort of the broken surface. It was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head and the agony of drawing each breath. There was a curious bubbling sensation in his chest, and a growing numbness down his right side.
They had explained why he could not have more pain-killers and he had accepted their reasoning. Laid beside Garrett, he had directed the necessary modifications to the equipment to enable it to operate on NATO wavebands.
The clumsiness displayed by the young PFC, his impetuous rush into every task at the risk of doing irreparable damage, had driven Boris to the verge of distraction. Fortunately no serious damage had resulted from his frequent dropping, knocking and gouging of components.
He’d made every allowance for the work being done under difficult conditions, in the dark and cold and with only the fitful illumination from a small flashlight held by their shivering’ medic, but still the PFC’s reckless ineptitude had made him despair at times.
‘You lay down like that, you fool, and you’re going to drown in your own blood.’ Sampson wadded a jacket and placed it under the Russian’s head and shoulders.
‘You want that jab now?’ Even as he asked, he produced a hypodermic.
‘Pozhalusta, da.’ Boris wrestled with his swirling memory, but the English words would not come. But he’d been understood, and as he felt the tip of the needle enter his arm he experienced an overwhelming sensation of relief, so strong that the comfort it brought merged imperceptibly with the effect of the drug.
He knew he was very likely one of hundreds who would breathe their last this night in the Zone. But he did not see it as a personal tragedy; he had been marked for death for too long, had come to accept the idea, and now the fact.
Lying at the bottom of the gun pit, he could see the crescent of the microwave dish resting on a plinth of broken stone. Vaguely he was aware of people gathered about the nearby radio. The only sound he could hear was his own blood rushing through his ears, in a hurry to find the holes in his body, to escape and take his life with it.
There was a face above him, and he was being gently shaken. They should leave him alone, he had done all he could…
‘Can you hear me?’ Garrett turned to Sampson. ‘How much have you pumped into him?’
‘Enough to take away the pain. In his case that’s quite a lot. The poor little creep is in shock. I’ll lay money he can understand you, but he may not be able to answer.’
‘Boris, Boris, can you hear me?’ Garrett felt like he was touching a corpse, the man was so pale and cold. ‘Boris, the signal is fading. The set is all right, but the signal is fading.’ He repeated it again, talking loudly and slowly. ‘What do I have to do?’
From a depth only a shade away from deep unconsciousness, Boris struggled to articulate. He could manage only a single word and it took forever to form and virtually the last of his breath to utter.
‘Batereyka.’ He was still being shaken and the question persisted, going on and on. By an effort of will he dragged his mind back from the plunge into blackness it had commenced and tried again. ‘Ak-kumulyator… batareyka… battery, the battery…’
The last word blended into a deep sigh. In the narrow segment of night sky that he could see, Boris watched the stars being snuffed one by one as the leading edge of a large cloud drifted in front of them.
He did not think it strange that he had no fear of death. How can a man who has known fear all his adult life be afraid of being released from that?
There would be no more KGB, no more GPU, no more foul prisons, no more brutish interrogators, no more thugs of the Commandants Service. And no more Andrea with her scarcely veiled threats and ever-present menace.
Pain was returning, but still as only a pulsing burning sensation so far. He was glad his last act had not been one to bring death to his fellow countrymen. Making the set function had been an act to save life, not destroy it. It no longer mattered that help would come too late for him.
‘At last.’ Andrea bent over the blanket-wrapped form. ‘He is dead. Good.’ Revell paused as he was about to replace the headset. ‘Andrea.’ Her features were indistinct in the darkness, but he knew she had heard him. ‘Fuck off.’
TWENTY THREE
Scully had to steel himself for each journey down to the cellars to help with bringing up the wounded. Even the difficulties and sheer exertion of the task couldn’t override entirely his abhorrence of the cramped passageways and low ceilings.
Manhandling the litters through the narrow doorways, around sharp corners and up steep staircases, and all the time trying to ensure that a drip needle wasn’t dislodged, or that a fractured limb wasn’t knocked against the wall. The work was exacting and exhausting for the patients, as well as the bearers, as they were tilted and jolted.
Several times Scully had seen Andrea stalk by, a look of savage determination on her face as she hunted for the missing deserter. A gruesome check of the remains scattered below ground had positively confirmed he was not among those killed. She had appointed herself to conduct the search among the warren of storerooms.
‘Don’t fancy his chances if she finds him.’ Dooley hefted his end of a litter higher and took the weight as two others supported its front end and started up the cellar steps.
‘What the hell did the major say to her?’ Scully staggered, but managed to maintain his grip.
‘No idea.’ Arms aching, Dooley would have preferred to move faster but the pace had to be set by the men in the lead. He had to tap with his toecap to determine the exact height of each step before moving onto it. ‘Whatever it was it’s broken the spell. I reckon she won’t be twisting him ‘round her little finger anymore.’
They finally shuffled into the ground floor and under Sampson’s supervision lifted the Dutchman off the litter and laid him on the bare stone floor.
The whole of the good-sized room was filled with wounded. Some were sitting but most were laid still, making no sound except for an occasional low moan as pain broke through the heavy doses of painkillers.
‘That the last?’ Sampson made an adjustment to a drip, working with his nose almost touching it, by the light of a carefully shielded match.
‘That’s it.’ Dooley flexed his muscles to rid them of the cramp induced by the prolonged strain of the hard work. ‘Only thing still down there is Andrea and that deserter.’
‘They deserve each other. Maybe they’ll’ run off together and we’ll all be happier and safer.’ Looking about him, there was little Sampson could see, and less he could do.
Karen had the flashlight and was moving among the wounded quietly. The small circle of illumination flicked from drawn faces to dressing, to drips and then on to the next.
‘Are we really ordered to stay put, and keep the dump in one piece?’ Dooley couldn’t make sense of the rumour that was flying about. ‘We can’t hold this place now. We’ll just be handing all those goodies to the commies on a plate.’