‘We can’t take these three with us.’ Thorne surveyed the line of sick in the porch. ‘They’re all stretcher cases, we haven’t got the room.’
‘I wouldn’t fancy having them as company even if they were fit, with all of them screaming, scratching, sweating, puking and shitting I’m even less keen.’
Dooley moved upwind of Gross. The fat man’s bowels were open all the time and a thin trickle of sluggish fluid ran along a time worn groove in the porch and down the stone steps.
‘Put them in their own transport then…’
‘Won’t work, Major.’ Hyde had anticipated that. ‘I’ve checked, and they’ve not enough fuel for the return journey. The Marder uses diesel so we can’t even siphon some into the Range Rover.’
‘They want to meet their friends the Russians,’ unable to stay away any longer, Andrea pushed through the men to stand threateningly over the prisoners, ‘let me see to it that they are still here when the communists arrive.’ She levelled her rifle at the civilians.
It would be close, uncomfortably close, but his men would get there first. Rozenkov could enjoy a j degree of satisfaction at knowing how great Morkov’s anger and frustration would be at having his men just beaten in the race to intercept the delegation.
The liaison officer had almost caught him. From the very start of the operation he’d been deliberately misinforming him by incorrectly positioning the pins marking the GRU units. It was not by much, not sufficient to be immediately detectable in the satellite pictures, but enough to make a difference in the last lap, if the trick hadn’t been spotted.
Again he read Morkov’s intercepted radio message. It was simple, brutal, uncompromising. The closest GRU company was ordered to contact the civilians before the KGB, or else. There was no time for games any more, the manoeuvring, the intrigue, had ceased.
Only by being able to do both well had Rozenkov worked his way to his present position, but as important to him had been knowing when to replace the velvet glove with the spiked knuckle duster.
There was something he had almost forgotten to do. Picking up the phone, he was put through to the duty room. ‘Rozenkov… Advise the building’s security staff that Major Morkov is to be arrested the moment he returns. Also, have a section keep watch on his apartment should he go there instead, the same action to be taken. Inform me immediately, oh yes, and there is no need for restraint. I would like the major to be made aware of my displeasure.’
Strangely he could almost feel, not sympathy, rather an understanding of the man. In a way Morkov was much as he had been twenty years before, but he’d learned a lesson the major would now never get the opportunity to, of knowing when to let a chance go, of balancing risk against reward.
In all probability Rozenkov could have got this far five years earlier, if he’d been prepared to gamble once or twice, but instead he’d chosen to take the slower but more certain safe way to the top. In fact, thinking back he could recall others who, accepting risks he’d declined had paid dearly for their impetuous ambition.
A check of his watch and a simple calculation told him that the helicopters would be making their rendezvous shortly. Sure as he was of success, he would still feel better when those civilians were safely aboard and on their way to a reception by the gathering representatives of the world’s media. Reaching to turn on the radio, he felt he could already begin composing his announcement to the Central Committee…
It was the second-in-command of the unit who came on the air, and that immediately brought Rozenkov’s full attention back to the operation. If all had been as it should be then his senior would have answered. In the communist system seconds-in-command were used to do the dirty work, break bad news, accept blame.
‘Give me your position.’ The coldness in Rozenkov’s tone reflected the sensation in the pit of his stomach, and then he knew it was justified, when the map references he received showed the gunships to be sixty kilometres short of where they should have been.
‘Why has there been a delay?’ Ice filled his belly. ‘… I do not want to hear about mechanical failures, I want to hear nothing but that you have made the interception and have the civilian delegation on board… I do not care… use your best speed regardless… If the other falls behind, if it falls apart in midair, I do not care. You must make that interception, keep this channel open, I shall be listening.’
Fools, idiots. He would kill them with his bare hands and his teeth if they failed. There was nothing more he could have done to stress the importance of their mission, and they had reduced speed when a fault had developed aboard the second gunship. It was unbelievable, after everything, to have it all put at risk by an overcautious pilot worrying about vibration from a gearbox.
Of one thing he could be sure, both aircrews would now be piling on all the speed they could. Normally there would have been conversation between the two craft, but they knew he would catch every word and so communication was kept to a bare minimum, mostly the passing of information and advice about the faulty drive shaft.
Rozenkov listened dispassionately as first an increase in vibration, then a rise in the temperature of the transmission oil, and then a fire were reported. He heard the frantic efforts by the flight deck crew to get the automatic extinguishers to function, and their anguish and desperation when they failed and the flames began to spread. Their words came as a garbled stream of curses and invective and pleading. Though he didn’t touch the volume control Rozenkov heard the shouting go louder and louder until suddenly it was gone.
It was a little while before he heard the call-sign of the remaining craft. The pilot’s voice was a shade too high, his delivery a little too fast.
‘…report that KGB helicopter gunship seven-four-nine has exploded in mid-air at low altitude. There are no survivors. I… I await your further orders.’
‘There is no change. You are no longer handicapped by the other craft, that is good. Now you should make better time…’
FIFTEEN
Bullets ricocheted about the entrance to the church, smacking razor-like fragments from the stone with every impact.
Andrea’s reaction was fastest, finger already on the trigger, she swivelled and fired a whole magazine from the hip, then followed it with a rifle grenade in the direction of the Russian scout car that had appeared at the end of the street.
‘Back inside.’ More of the heavy machine gun rounds followed the first long burst as Revell grabbed the fat man by a wrist made slippery by the obnoxious pool it lay in and towed him back into the shelter of the building. ‘Clarence, find the entrance to the bell tower, see what we’re up against. That little wagon wouldn’t have had a go at us if it’d been on its own.’
All of the squad were safe, though Thome’s face bled from cuts made by slicing stone chips, but in the confusion of the scramble to get into cover, Webb had seen his chance and made a break.
Revell saw the civilian run to the Range Rover and jump in to start it. He levelled his shotgun at the vehicle, but held his fire as it began to accelerate toward the armoured four-wheeler, now joined by a second, turretless, version.
Having to duck while more of the tracer laced bursts drilled and smashed the fabric of the porch, when he looked again Revell saw that the Rover was stalled after a glancing collision with a derelict truck. He could hear the starter motor whirring fruitlessly, see Webb furiously wrenching the ignition key in and out time after time.