There was a succession of less violent jerks as the locomotive took up the weight of the loaded hopper wagons in turn, and then they were rolling. The throat of the yard was dead-ahead, and Burke kept the speed to a steady walking pace as they approached a damaged section of track.
‘Keep going, keep going. We’ve got nothing to lose now.’ Not needing the officer’s urging, Burke increased the revs a fraction more, and then the wheels were squealing and clattering as the whole machine swung wildly from side to side. Then they were over, and could hear the wagons making the same passage.
The last of the seven-car rake failed to negotiate the section, and slewed sideways, ripping up whole sections of track as it was dragged along, spilling its black load. For a moment it was caught, held back by the jumble of rails and sleepers, and Burke, sensing the sudden resistance, moved the regulator another notch and the screw-coupling broke.
‘Hold it.’ Scrutinising the track ahead, Ripper had seen a set of points against them. ‘I better do something about that, or we’re gonna find ourselves motoring back the way we just came.’ He opened the cab door. ‘You all reckon you can provide a mite of covering fire?’
It was needed. Dooley and Andrea jumped out with him, to provide close support, while from the elevated position of the cab the others opened a furious barrage of fire on any other opposition.
A dozen East German militia, unenthusiastic and un-stiffened by Russian troops, broke and ran even as they launched a half-hearted attack, leaving six of their number on the ground.
An anti-tank rocket hit a coal wagon, sending a geyser of dust and dark smoke into the air as the shaped charge easily pierced the metal side and had its white hot fury dissipated among the load beyond. Burning coal tumbled from the roughly circular hole. A second rocket followed and sailed over the roof of the locomotive to self-destruct over a distant row of unmarked wagons. The consequences were near instantaneous, and dramatic, as a chain of massive explosions blasted the wagons apart when their ammunition cargoes erupted in spectacular fashion.
Ripper was using a length of damaged track as a lever, but it wasn’t until Dooley threw his weight against it that the resistance of the locking device was overcome, and the route opened up once more.
‘All aboard.’ It was a strong temptation to sound the klaxon, but Burke forced himself to suppress it. The urge returned with renewed force as they approached the main line.
Set after set of trailing points were burst open by the locomotive’s progress across the junction, and their driver had to move the regulator two more notches to overcome their retarding effect. Sluggishly, the motors responded as they pushed the speed towards the maximum for which they were geared.
A file of Russian combat engineers were crossing the tracks and weren’t aware of the train’s approach until it was almost on them. Some scattered, tripping and sprawling on the multiple obstacles; others froze and could only stare uncomprehendingly: two died. In their panic they ran into each other and that moment of confusion cost them then-lives.
Burke saw the horror in the men’s faces as the loco’s slab front caught them and they were swept beneath the wheels. Through the daubs and streaks of blood on the windscreen he saw a greater danger ahead of them. The tracks were carrying them straight towards it.
Five hundred yards further on, a lone, old, rust-streaked T55 tank crushed flat a section of the corrugated iron fencing flanking the track, thumped down the three-foot step on to the permanent way and parked broadside on, straddling the steel ribbons running parallel to those taking the train away from the encircled yard.
An officer stood on the tank’s engine deck, and he had to move back half a pace to avoid the overhanging stowage bin welded to the turret’s rear as it traversed to bring its cannon to bear.
Smoke hid the T55 for a second, and a big ball of orange tracer flashed past the cab to skin the length of the train. Libby could see the Russian officer’s urgent gestures, could imagine the tirade of threats he’d be screaming at the vehicle’s commander and gunner.
Grabbing their last rocket launcher from the floor, Libby pushed it out through the sliding side window and, against the buffeting of the air and the loco’s jolting motion, tried to take aim. It was near impossible, but with the range down to two hundred yards and the tank about to fire again, he had nothing to lose. He sent the rocket on its way.
The flame-tailed missile roared towards its target, and missed, the small but powerful warhead going on to demolish another panel of the trackside fencing. But the mere sight of it was sufficient for the tank driver. He sent his charge surging forward to get out of the line of fire, and in his panic stalled in the path of the train.
A hand, the major’s, clamped down hard on Burke’s arm to prevent him reaching for the brake, but their driver hadn’t intended to: instead, at the instant he realised collision was inevitable, he rammed the speed selector as far as it would go.
‘Hang on.’ Revell just had time to raise his arm before his face when a shower of broken glass swept into the cab from the shattered windscreen, and he was thrown forward, hard into the controls.
Expecting the restarted tank to get clear in time, the officer remained on the engine deck, and paid dearly for the miscalculation. The loco’s buffer caught the rear of the T55 and spun it around. Smashed face-first into the back of the turret, the officer rolled off the hull and was smeared from existence as the armoured vehicle ground over him.
There were more impacts as the third and fourth wagons in the rake also clipped the tank. The last jolt tipped the T55 on its side, so that the tip of its cannon barrel made contact with the overhead catenary system. Fire crackled over the armoured vehicle, the surge of high voltage spot welding its steel hull to the tracks.
A single figure that half-crawled, half-tumbled from the loader’s hatch in the turret had the flesh of his face and hands burnt blue, while his leather suit and rib-padded helmet smouldered and charred away in dark flakes.
‘We’re OK, keep up the speed.’ Loud grinding noises were coming from beneath their feet, and Revell could see great fans of sparks flying past the windows as the crushed metalwork was worn down against the wheels.
‘Shit, we made it. We’re on our fucking way home.’ Dooley tried to dance a little jig with Andrea, but she pushed him off, and he staggered back into Sergeant Hyde.
‘Quit it, you fat oaf. Before you start celebrating, take a look.’ Turning his face into the blast of cold air coming in through the open front, Dooley saw that they had turned off the main line and were now on what looked like a long-neglected spur heading towards an industrial area. ‘How the fucking hell did this happen? Where the bloody hell are we going?’
‘How the sodding hell should I know, I’m only the driver.’ As the curve of the branch line became sharper Burke had to ease back the speed to keep the loudly protesting wheels on the track.
Don’t start laying the blame on me.’ Ripper became conscious of several pairs of eyes on him. ‘Hell, the lick we were going it were making my eyes go funny trying to watch the track. I tell you what though, I reckon I got a kinda idea where we’re going right now.’
‘Think you might let me know before we run out of track?’ Burke had the brakes on hard now, and their fierce application was filling the cab with a banshee scream of metal on metal.
Ripper pointed along the tracks to where they passed out of sight behind the bases of a row of tall cooling towers. ‘Looks to me like this spur is taking us back to the place where all that flak was parked. Ain’t enough they screwed us up on the way in. Seems that we’re about to give them a chance to have another try.’