“We haven’t got a fucking inch of cover out there, Wilf. A fucking ant couldn’t get across there without being spotted,” growled Badger.
“You’re right, Badger, it’s not looking good. Let’s have a look at the map.”
They both crouched down close to a pile of discarded rubble, probably from the quarry, and Badger surveyed the map with his red-filtered torch.
“Let’s go east. There’s nothing on the map, but that track we crossed going north looked pretty well covered. Further up I reckon it will bear off to the left and feed the other quarry complex further north. There should be cover, trees and the like, along the track.”
“I’m with you on that. I figure it’s our best option. I’ll fetch the boys.”
Wilf checked his watch: eleven-thirty. They were OK for time.
Once the team were together again, they headed east. At the far end of the mine buildings, they found the track less than fifty-metres away. They followed it north for 200 metres, where, as Badger predicted, it bore off to the left and proceeded to take them north-west towards the other quarry complex that was their main target. Based on the information they had received from 1 BR Corps, and intelligence from an Electronics Warfare unit, that was where the enemy divisional HQ was supposed to be.
The track had plenty of cover so, against all normal standard operating procedures, they followed along the edge of it. After 700 metres, they came to where the track split, one snaking west then north, leading to the western boundary of what they believed to be a processing plant for the quarry, the second heading off north-east, probably passing the plant to the east. But in the centre of the two tracks, for the next 300 metres, was a thick copse that widened the further north it went, its boundary touching the edge of the two tracks either side as they pulled further apart.
The patrol now slowed right down, placing their steps carefully, taking their time, nearly an hour to move the next 300 metres. But it paid off. At the far end, at the southern edge of the plant, they could see, and hear, the generators that powered the electrics and the radios for a possible headquarters. Wilf spent an hour studying the complex, getting his bearings. The green mist of his image intensifier gave him a view of a guard patrolling along the outside of a large shed that was close to 100 metres long, a smaller one opposite. The large shed was close to the track to the west, no more than fifty metres away from it. Probably had an entrance to the plant at the northern end, guessed Wilf. The guard’s AK was slung over his shoulder, and he seemed completely relaxed. The building was certainly big enough to house the elements of a Soviet divisional headquarters, although there was a distinct lack of vehicles and security forces. He was surprised they had been able to get so close, so easily.
They heard a cough off to their right, and Wilf despatched Tag and Hacker to check it out. They returned within ten minutes.
Tag whispered in Wilf’s ear, “Two men, foxhole.”
“How’s their security?”
“Crap. Both are having a fag.”
Wilf pulled the team together into a huddle. “We need to know what’s in that bloody shed.”
“If we do a circuit, we’re likely to bump into another foxhole, or some other guards. They probably have the complex ringed by a defence company. Let’s go straight for it,” suggested Tag.
“Makes sense, Wilf,” agreed Hacker.
“It’s open ground,” thought Wilf out loud.
“We could go diagonally from here, north-west, to that smaller building opposite the main one. Skirt round the outside into the trees up against the wall, then straight across to it. It’s what, a twenty-metre dash?” estimated Badger.
“It’s the best option, Wilfy,” agreed Tag.
“Let’s do it then. Hacker, Badger, you two stay here and cover our exit.” Wilf checked his watch: one-forty. “Give us two hours. If we’re not back by then, scarper. Our emergency rendezvous will be the north-east tip of the quarry we came through. Wait thirty minutes and, if a no-show, then we meet back at the Mexe-hide. Got it?”
The two SAS troopers staying behind acknowledged. They were slightly disappointed that it wasn’t them that would be doing the full recce, but understood that their patrol leader had to choose someone. Wilf and Tag dropped their packs; then moved west, taking them to the edge of the copse, while Hacker and Badger got into a position where they could watch for the enemy and be ready to cover their two comrades should they have to make a hot exit.
Wilf placed the imaging device in front of his eyes, the green shimmer showing what lay ahead of them. Left, about twenty metres away, was a two-metre high hedge. It followed the left-hand track, running west then curving sharply to the north. The hedge stopped where the track suddenly veered right, about 100 metres away, and ran north alongside the western edge of the complex, where the main entrance was guarded by Soviet soldiers. Somewhere in between the track and their position, Wilf could make out darker shadows, the image intensifier revealing possible box-body vehicles. To their immediate front left were some abandoned civilian vehicles, rusted and rotting and, to their half right, the first building they needed to head for. Wilf signaled, and Tag slipped behind him as they moved towards the box-bodies, turned right, using them for cover, and, after checking all was clear, sprinted across to the smaller of the two buildings, crouching down, controlling their breathing, listening. The hum of the generators was distinctly louder now, probably two or three in operation, indicative that it may well be a Soviet divisional headquarters. Satisfied they hadn’t been discovered, Wilf led them west, along the southern edge, for ten metres; then took them right, into the gathering of trees alongside the smaller of the two buildings where they could launch their recce of the larger building opposite. Both moved slowly, testing the ground with the tip of their boots before allowing their leg to take their full weight. The noise of the generators, one occasionally emitting a cough and a splutter, went some way to cover any accidental noise they might make. At the edge, Wilf looked to the left, and about fifty metres away, hidden by the civilian vehicles they had passed earlier, was a Soviet Ural-375 box-body, the shadow of the distinctive twin troposcatter dishes on the top, close by a Kamaz-4310, with its power generator running, and carrying the support equipment for the R-423-1 Brig-1. He knew that this was a tropospheric scatter communications system, used as a tactical means of communication between headquarters and higher command. He had questioned in his own mind the likelihood of a divisional headquarters being so close to the front, particularly considering that its regiments were believed to have not yet been deployed. Reinforcements maybe, he thought, or just second echelon divisions getting ready to take over from the first echelon units.
His thoughts were interrupted as Tag placed a hand on his shoulder and indicated they had company: the Soviet sentry, who had earlier been patrolling up and down the length of what now appeared to be a ramshackle building made of concrete blocks for a low base wall, corrugated sheets for the sides, and topped with metal sheets for the flattish roof.
The sentry, who still had his AK-74 assault rifle slung over his shoulder, approached the trees and was within a metre of the two hidden men when he stopped by one of the larger trees and proceeded to undo his flies before urinating up against the trunk. Once finished, he buttoned up and moved further along to another tree, on the other side of Wilf and Tag’s position, just over two metres away, where he leant against that trunk and lit himself a cigarette. The sentry was humming a tune to himself as he moved around the tree, so he was out of sight of any of his seniors who could potentially catch him smoking whilst on sentry duty. Wilf and Tag waited it out, hoping the soldier would move soon. Time was not on their side. Just as they thought he was about to leave, he pulled out a canteen from his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a swig. Replacing the cap, putting the canteen back in his pocket, he pulled out his cigarette pack, extracting another and lighting it, leaning against the trunk again before taking a deep drag. Wilf pulled Tag in close, held out his wrist and tapped his watch; then drew his right hand across his own throat. Tag nodded and watched as Wilf lowered his M-16 to the ground; then eased off his webbing, taking his time for fear of making a noise. Then, stealth-like, he crept towards the sentry who had moved to the side of the trunk, peering round, down the length of the building he was meant to be protecting, no doubt looking for a sign of the duty NCO or officer.