“Charlie-One, this is Sierra-Two. Radio check. Over.”
“Charlie-One. Loud and clear. Over.”
“Roger that. All quiet this sector. Your guardian angels are watching over you.”
“Focus on the task, Sierra-Two. Out.”
Chris Burns unscrewed the cap off his thermos flask, pouring the contents into a mug until it was half full. Hot tea, with a dash of whisky, was what was needed to keep them both warm and awake. Chris took a sip, savouring its taste and warmth before passing it to his mucker, who shivered as his shoulders left the warmth of his sleeping bag.
“Fucking cold,” Billy hissed.
“Yeah, good of the OC to let us have this prime position.”
“What are we doing here? They ain’t coming this way, surely?”
“OC’s a smart cookie, Billy. Yeah, it’s a gamble, but he’s seen us right so far.”
“Bloody civvies have got a cheek, wanting to nick our stuff.”
“Just hungry, mate.”
“Work for it like the rest of us do.”
“Time to call in.”
Chris eased himself forward slightly, his elbows on the cold ground, a twig from the hedge scraping against his helmet as he shifted his position in the observation post at the back of the warehouse until he could sit up. They were both well concealed, strips of scrim netting suspended from the shrubs, small trees and hedgerow ensuring their position was shielded from prying eyes. A person would have to get very close to their position before they spotted the two soldiers, who were also well camouflaged. Their biggest risk had been disturbing too much of the dust on both the ground and the hedgerow while setting up.
Before calling in, Chris checked the field and track, the track that could take a vehicle from the minor road to the east to the rear of the warehouse unseen.
“Charlie-One. This is Sierra-Three. Radio check. Over.”
“Charlie-One. Clear. All quiet your location? Over.”
“All quiet my location. We still on? Over.”
“Patience. Out.”
Chris picked up his binos again. He was on stag for another thirty minutes. Two hours on, two hours off during night-time hours, and four on, four off during daylight.
Corporal West checked the clackers for the Claymore Mines for the umpteenth time, making sure all four were ready available. He looked across at Mark Grant as he adjusted his posture and changed the position of the butt of the light machine gun until it was more comfortable. This was the second night of waiting and muscles were now starting to protest. Paul would have a chat with them all later, and keep them alert. This was just the time when all hell could break loose, when they least expected an attack and were at their most tired and weakest. He peered over the gunner’s shoulder. Both were hidden from the road by the two layers of scrim netting that were suspended from the top of the window frame in the wall of the building. There was no moon, as usual these days, and it was almost pitch-black outside. Paul checked the switches for the flares that lined each side of Dyke’s Way. He hoped to God that if it was going to kick off, it would be soon. The waiting was starting to do his head in, and it was becoming difficult to maintain a cool composure in front of his men. But he would. If or when the shit hit the fan, their lives would depend on their response being deliberate and professional.
He heard the click of a Prestel as Lance Corporal Danny Carr whispered into the handset and called in a radio check.
“Charlie-One, this is Sierra-Four. Radio check. Over.”
“Charlie-One. Four-four.”
“Roger. Out.”
“OK?”
“Yes, Paul. Buggers aren’t coming, are they?”
“There’s still time, Danny.” He looked at his watch: 0230. If they were coming, it had to be soon.
Corporal Butler lifted himself up and out of the turret of the Scimitar, the scrim net catching on his helmet. He cursed inwardly, his limbs aching like they hadn’t for a long, long time. His vehicle, Golf-One, along with Golf-Two, the Fox, had been hidden in a small copse that bordered the large roundabout that led into Dyke’s Way, the direction of the warehouse a few hundred metres away. In the building opposite, he knew Sierra-Four were in position. The two Golf call signs were dependent on Sierra-Four fulfilling their mission if the armoured unit was to succeed with theirs. Sierra-Four’s Claymores and firepower were needed to stop the enemy in its tracks if they chose to approach the warehouse along Dykes Way.
Major Alan Redfern paced up and down the ops room, previously a civilian conference room, before ‘the death’, on the upper floor of the warehouse, the windows looking out to the north and east. ‘The death’ was becoming a common way of referring to the event that had put life in the precarious position it now found itself in. Only time would tell if they would come out the other side.
“QRF ready?” he asked the CSM.
“Yes, the reaction force is ready. Chill, boss, that’s the fourth time you’ve asked me in the last thirty minutes. There’s nothing else we can do now but wait.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Having doubts?”
Alan thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No. What options do they have? Move on? We know they’re still here. Stay where they are, knowing we’ll eventually be forced to act? Or go for the main prize: fill their boots, then get out of the area while it’s in chaos?”
“Big risk they’ll be taking.”
“They’ll come. Russell will come. His ego is big enough to take that chance.”
“Brew, sir?” Kothari offered his OC a mug of coffee.
“Thank you, Kothari. God knows what we’ll do when this stuff runs out.” Alan lifted his mug in the air.
“I’ll make sure we get dibs on the last of the supplies, don’t you worry about that, sir,” laughed Scott.
Shielding his red filtered torch, Alan peered at the map on the conference table for the umpteenth time that night. He knew he was taking a gamble, and it worried him. Once he had briefed the brigadier and principal officer on the status of the group to the north and his men’s observation of the group’s activity so far, he felt certain the Intruders would take a stab at stealing some of the RGC’s stocks of food. One thing was for sure: they didn’t appear to be making plans to move on. In fact, they had been sending out foraging parties north of Wincanton and the surrounding area. It could only be a matter of time before there was a clash. Alan had ordered all his units to continue with low-profile patrols, but under no circumstances were they to come into contact with the potentially hostile group. One of Alan’s observation posts had spotted three individuals, with binoculars, watching the warehouse entrance. He had forbidden the unit from interfering as a plan was already forming in his mind.
The brigadier, supported by the PO, wanted Alan to take a much larger force and order the group to either surrender their weapons and come under the control of the RGC or to disperse and leave the area. Alan stood his ground, adamant that there was a real risk that his unit could end up being ambushed and potentially wiped out, requiring the QRF to go in and support them, putting them at risk. Russell didn’t come across as a stupid man. Although Alan had a total force of at least twenty-plus, and the intruders had, as far as he knew, in the region of thirty-plus, he felt that the risk was too great to take them head on.