‘And for that they shot the poor shit?’
‘They have killed men, and women and children, for far less reason; often for none. If they are prepared to torture prisoners, clear hospitals for their battle casualties by shooting cripples and mental defectives, what chance has some inconsequential East German driver of avoiding their brutality?’
Spurred on by the example they’d witnessed, the recovery section hurried to clear the bridge. Boris watched them risking their lives to complete the task as fast as they could, taking enormous chances above the flood that built to a two-foot wave against the anchored components of the roadway, at times lapping on to them. Steam and smoke billowed from the twin rear wheels of the tow truck as it took up the slack and strained to drag the field car clear.
The moment the obstruction had been hauled from its path the tracked APC drove on to the bridge, forcing members of the recovery section to jump for their lives, several of them landing on the slippery bank, and having to fight and claw their way up it to avoid being carried away by the debris-laden water lapping at their waists.
For what reason, on what whim, Libby couldn’t tell, but the carrier didn’t drive off the bridge at their end, instead parking itself on the sandbag and tree trunk constructed exit ramp and disgorging its crew once more.
Led by a young and grim-faced lieutenant, the KGB troops began to check the papers of everyone aboard the waiting vehicles, pushing aside the three bridge sentries who had been content until now to sit by the comfort of the small stove beside their guard tent. An unconvincing protest by the senior of the three, and then his offer of help, were brushed aside.
Over his headphones Libby heard the discussion between Revell and Hyde as to their best course of action, and then the sergeant’s swearing as their driver reported they were now boxed in by a tank transporter that had pulled up behind them.
The lieutenant, flanked by the whole of his section, had started towards the eight-wheeler. ‘They won’t bother with us if they see the general’s pennant, will they?’
‘The power of the KGB is without limit, and they enjoy it. Look at him.’ Boris indicated the lieutenant.
Burke could see the young officer’s face very clearly, could read in it arrogance and total lack of feeling, but there was something else. The grim look was still there, but something had been added to it. His mouth had drawn up in a tight smile of malicious satisfaction as he approached the captured APC.
‘That crud is looking for trouble.’
Libby heard Burke’s under-the-breath comment, and tightened his grip on the heavy machine guru ‘Then let’s give him some.’
EIGHT
The KGB officer barked a demand for papers, displaying immediate impatience when the APC remained closed-up.
‘Sounds as ugly as he looks. What is it about the Commie party that attracts people like that’ Unable in the restricted space to level the M60 from the crew weapon ports, Dooley discarded the machine gun in favour of a highly polished AK74 he took from a rack of five behind the driver’s seat.
‘He’s not going away.’ As he watched, dine saw the lieutenant summon the rest of his squad. ‘What’s likely to happen next?’
‘In a moment he will lose his temper.’ Boris listened as the shouts were delivered with greater fury. ‘When that happens he will order his men to open the vehicle and drag us out. What will most likely occur then, you have recently seen.’ The realisation struck him that he wasn’t afraid any more. Even the tirade from beyond the sloped wall of thin armour did not bother him. He had passed through the worst he could ever experience, and it was his turn to feel anger -and it was a monstrous towering thing compared with the petty frustration of the KGB man outside.
All these years it must have been growing within him, held back by the wall of fear every Soviet citizen learned to live with from his earliest days. Now the wall was crumbling and the lieutenant was in the path of what was being released.
Forced to the conclusion that his will was not going to triumph, and aware that the incident was making him look a fool in front of his own men, the lieutenant finally snapped, wrenching a grenade from his belt. He took a step towards the APC.
‘OK, hit them…’
Revell’s words were lost in the massed crash and clatter of every weapon aboard the carrier opening fire simultaneously. The lieutenant was hurled backwards by thirty or more impacts that tore chunks of flesh from his body and burst apart the bones of his skull, unimpeded at such short range by the thin steel of his helmet.
Using the turret’s heavy armament Libby sent a long burst raking along the side of the file of waiting vehicles ahead of them, and then concentrated his fire on the tracked vehicle blocking their route.
A figure briefly appeared behind a pintle-mounted machine gun on the carrier’s roof, then disappeared inside as the stream of tracer-towing rounds smashed into the mount and its shield and ignited the attached box of ready-use belts. Twice Libby swept his fire across the vehicle’s hull front, watching rounds bounce from the armour and rip apart every external fitting.
Another Russian appeared from behind the carrier, and was half-hidden by smoke as he sent a shoulder launched anti-tank rocket at the eight-wheeler. He ducked back, chased by a line of bullets, as the rocket’s warhead struck short, scattering bloody scraps of cloth and hunks of raw meat as it destroyed a body in the road.
Two of the trucks had began to burn, and as thick smoke from them and the first few oily black wisps from the KGB vehicle wreathed the road, Burke rammed the APC into gear and sent it surging through the hedge and into the field alongside.
Small-arms fire made a metallic hail on the hull, beat thumping tattoos on the self-sealing tyres. As they pulled clear, a second rocket soared across the ground they had previously occupied and exploded in the cab of the tank transporter.
Once they left the paved surface it was impossible for anyone aboard the APC to fire with any degree of accuracy.
Even Libby, with his machine gun firmly mounted, could not stay on a target for more than a second or two as the vehicle’s inadequate suspension failed to dampen the effects of the field’s undulations.
Burke’s evasive driving made no concession to the discomfort of those in the back, as he pushed the speed as high as he could. The APC jumped a wide drainage ditch, landing with a jarring crash, and then still without check to its mad career, crushed a path through a plantation of tree seedlings, the deep-treaded tyres churning broad tracks as they slewed back and forth.
Before a belt of woodland took them from sight of the road a last rocket-propelled anti-tank shell blurred past, missing by only inches, and going on to self-destruct in the unseen distance.
Holding tight to a metal bracket that had twice tried to scoop out his left eye, Boris clutched his rifle in his free hand. The wild ride suited his mood of elation. He could still see the KGB lieutenant’s face as he took the first fusillade in the stomach and chest, before the other bullets struck and there was no face left to see. It had felt good, very good. With luck there would be more chances, many many more.
‘Ah just love messing about in boats, but shit, paddling across a goddamned river in this old bucket, that just ain’t my idea of fun.’ Ripper stood on the bank surveying the rushing water, as Dooley took his turn with the shovel.