Lach took the order for what it was, realising this was a man whose face he should have recognised. He tried to kick the unconscious man awake, without success.
“Gimme a hand.”
He and another dragged the large man outside and dumped him in the snow, where the cold brought him round quickly.
Kuibida watched as the man was helped to his feet and taken away.
“Mama, Tato. Kolobok, over.”
The message was received by a number of listeners, but none welcomed it more than the listener on NS-F.
“Skipper.”
Viljoen, concentrating on moving his Sunderland around the island and down to the Glenlara slipway, grunted to show that he could hear.
“From the lads ashore… Kolobok.”
For the first time in many days, Viljoen smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
‘Seventeen’ had been bloodily cleared, the IRA men inside wiped out almost to a man, and that surviving man was being escorted away to the slipway, the effects of blast, shock, and alcohol all combining to ensure that he didn’t comprehend that the doors of hell had just swallowed him whole.
In ‘Twenty’, ‘Sestra’ had cleared the building, but not without further cost. The farmer, the same as had killed one of Bryan’s agents by running him over with a tractor, had used a shotgun to defend himself, spreading one of the Ukrainians up the wall of the staircase. His resistance had earned him little respite, and he and his family were slaughtered in their bedrooms, the screams of young and old ignored by men with specific orders and no mercy in their hearts.
‘Dedushko’ had rolled through ‘Nineteen’, the two men inside so incapacitated by alcohol as to both be slaughtered like lambs, and with as much comprehension of events.
“Tato, Dedushko… report.”
“Dedushko, Tato, Nineteen cleared… over.”
Shandruk could see the muzzle flashes from the windows of the last farm building and instantly made the call.
“Tato, Dedushko… attack Sixteen immediately, out.”
“Tato, all units, fire on upper floors of Sixteen only… repeat… upper floors only… out.”
As he studied the position, the rush of feet to his left gave him a moment’s concern. He turned and saw Wijers and the ‘Shark’ contingent at the wooden boats, setting their part in motion.
‘Dedushko’ was inside the final building now, and the group leader called for a ceasefire from the supporting groups, until only an occasional shot and flash came from with the dark stone shape.
The conversation, like all their conversations, was in Russian.
“What the hell are they speaking?”
Through battered lips, his cell mate spoke one word.
“Ukrainian.”
That made Sveinsvold think hard, and he spoke his thoughts out loud, as his hands moved over the senseless form, seeking identification.
“Well… judging by what’s going on out there, no way are they buddies with the Irish… or your lot.”
He pulled open the man’s snowsuit.
“What the fuck’s that?”
The camouflage was unknown to him, but then, the Navy wasn’t strong on camouflage.
Nazarbayev couldn’t see properly in the dull, almost quarter-light, provided by the oil lamp and the orange glow of a nearby fire penetrating the sacking at the windows. Scrabbling over on all fours, he looked hard and gasped, suddenly pulling the camouflage jacket aside and searching for what he suspected was round the man’s neck.
And, even though Nazarbayev half expected it, the metal oval was still a shock.
“Blyad! German soldier’s metal tag.”
“German?”
“Yes, Bee,” the Marine had long since given up trying to pronounce his fellow prisoner’s name.
“German… here?”
Suddenly, feet crunched across the snow-covered wooden decking and, just as suddenly, came to an abrupt halt.
Nazarbayev acted on instinct, and shouted in Russian.
“We’re prisoners here. No guns. We surrender!”
Outside a whispered conversation took place, as Kuibida weighed up the pros and cons of letting his man throw the grenade inside. Clearly the men were prisoners, hence the locked door.
But…
“Lev?”
It was a fair guess that the voice outside was speaking to the insensible lump on the floor of the prison.
Sveinsvold tried his own Russian language skills.
“We’re prisoners in here. Your man… we’re sorry…we hit him… he’s unconscious… he’ll be alright but… we didn’t know what to expect… sorry.”
The muzzle of an ST44 made itself known as the door creaked opened, permitting more light to enter the cell.
Half a head appeared behind it, the single eye calculating and unblinking down the sights.
The half head spoke in Russian.
“Talk fast.”
Sveinsvold took up the offer.
“I’m an American sailor… US Navy.”
Grasping his companion by the shoulder, he continued.
“My friend is a Soviet marine… a prisoner. He’s been badly treated, as you can see.”
The calculating eye flicked between the two men as the brain that received the information made its decision.
Relaxing, Kuibida stepped backwards, but maintained a line of sight on the two men.
“Then this is your lucky day, Comrade.”
A nod was sufficient for his back-up to swoop forward and help both men away. As the Soviet prisoner staggered past, the NCO snatched a familiar object from the man’s neck.
Pausing to scan the cell for a final time, Kuibida noticed the merest hint of a uniform jacket in the straw that had been the men’s mattress. He shook the chaff clear and took in the sight. On instinct, he ran his hands through the pockets, liberating the standard Soviet ID book and a not so standard brown leather wallet. A quick look disappointingly revealed it to be a Communist Party membership. Slipping the items inside his pouch, he elected to rip one interesting part of the Russian’s jacket away, and quickly followed his men.
Kuibida arrived at the temporary command post with two wounded men and unexpected news.
Holliday examined the more seriously wounded man and helped him inside the building.
Shandruk grasped his NCO’s shoulder in welcome as the HT brought messages from ‘Sestra’ and ‘Brat’, confirming the occupation of ‘Twenty-one’ ,‘Twenty-two’, and ‘Thirteen’, none of which had an enemy presence, and no sign of any men running from the scene.
“Sturmbannfuhrer, Kolobok and two others are prisoners. Herr Wijers men are looking after them for now. Charges being laid, timed for 0230.”
“Two others?”
“Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer. They were prisoners under guard, so I kept them alive. One is an Amerikanski, or so he says.”
Shandruk’s attention focussed.
“Amerikanski? Is he?”
Kuibida made a gut call.
“I think so, Sturmbannfuhrer. He speaks pretty good Russian though… but I think he’s what he says he is. The other doesn’t say much. He’s been badly beaten.”
The NCO held out the necklet he had snatched from around the beaten man’s neck.
“I took this off him.”
The Soviet Army did not have dog tags as such, rather favouring a small vessel with a hand-written note inside, a poor system that ensured that many a dead Soviet soldier remained unidentified after a battle.
“Haven’t opened it. The American is doing enough talking for the two. From what he says, seems the other one’s a Soviet Naval officer.”
Kuibida removed his last finds from his overalls, passing over the ID book and party wallet, and then fishing out the epaulette of a Captain-Lieutenant of Soviet Marines.