He got to the point where the track guards started to curve down at the front, and hoisted himself up with his elbows until he could squat down on the front of the glacis. He was relieved to finally be able to place his feet on a solid footing. He surveyed the sharply-sloped upper glacis, its V-shaped water and debris deflector partly obscured by the ERA blocks that covered the front of the tank. The large infra-red searchlight on the left of the turret stared at him, and he reached up and touched the barrel of the 125mm main gun. He sensed the latent power and destruction that this smooth-bore gun could deliver. To his immediate right were four 81mm smoke-grenade launchers; a similar unit was positioned on the other side. The tank was also capable of generating smoke by injecting fuel onto the manifold, creating clouds of billowing smoke. This was a technique the tankies had used when Bradley and his team got too close during Soviet military exercises, engulfing them in choking, fume-laden smoke.
He looked around and, seeing it was all clear, wasted no time in getting the monkey wrench out and attacking the bolted down blocks. The blocks, or bricks as they were called, each about twenty-five and half centimetres by thirteen and a half centimetres, were slotted onto a pin, attached to the armour of the tank. At each end of its length, it was bolted down at each corner. He got to work with the wrench which was proving to be slightly too big for the job, but holding it vertically he eventually managed to undo the first bolt. The first one took him almost two minutes, but the subsequent bolts were much faster to undo. He was conscious that the clock was ticking, and his good luck at being undisturbed could not last forever. Once the final bolt was removed, he was able to ease the ERA block off the pin. It was lighter than he had expected. He placed it and the bolts in the bag he had slung across his chest and shoulders, brought specifically to secure the items he had removed from the tank. He thought about getting a second one, but didn’t want to push his luck too far. Also, he had taken one from the edge, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed for a while, or until at least well after he had gone.
He was about to clamber down from the tank glacis and drop off the front when his foot caught on the steel towing cable looped along the front, the spanner slipping from his fingers, bouncing off the end of the glacis, striking the rear of the tank in front with a clatter; then rebounding back onto the platform of the flatcar. He froze and cursed under his breath at his stupidity. He quickly looked about him, fearful of discovery. Clang! The gunner’s hatch on the top left of the turret was flung forward and a tank crewman thrust his head upwards. He was wearing a black, padded tank helmet, its iconic tubular-style padding traversing from front to rear, changed little from the World War Two era. The soldier rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stared at Bradley who was crouched on the edge of the tank’s glacis and said something in Russian, completely unintelligible to the intelligence operator. They must have maintained eye contact for at least two seconds before Bradley broke the spell. He clambered down from the turret, awkwardly, onto the flatcar and, ducking under the barrel of the gun, made his way to the far side. He heard the Russian soldier scrambling to get through the turret hatch in order to pursue the trespasser, shouting a warning. Bradley got to the edge of the flatcar, dropped down onto his backside, his legs dangling over the side, and launched himself forward. He hit the ground hard but with both feet together, initiating a parachute landing roll, buckling his knees and rolling onto his hip, following through onto his shoulder, something he had done for real during his parachute training. Saying that, his first ever landing had resulted in him landing on his feet, arse and head. The pain he experienced landing that way ensured that he got it right the second time around. He groaned as the Mars-Bar in the bag dug into his side, metal against flesh and bone, not one he could win. He picked himself up and quickly checked on the progress of his, now, pursuer.
Standing on the turret, he was screaming his head off in Russian, jabbing his finger in Bradley’s direction and calling to his comrades further along the sidings. The soldier, seeing Bradley looking up, made his way to the front edge of turret and dropped down onto the glacis. The chase was on.
Although Bradley’s legs had been jarred by the jump and his side was throbbing from the impact of the ERA block, he set off at a sprint. One hundred metres to the Rover and potential safety. He heard the tank crewman’s boots hit the ground and the grunt as he collapsed in a heap, obviously not parachute trained. Bradley smiled to himself. The Russians’s curses got louder, along with shouts coming from the direction of the Ramp. Bradley looked over his shoulder on hearing more shouts and could see two or three soldiers pounding down the track towards him, yelling insanely, desperate to get to him. He was twelve seconds away from the vehicle and hopefully, although not always, safety. Ten seconds. He couldn’t see the back of the Range Rover just yet, but he knew he was getting closer. He heard more yells behind, but didn’t look back. Nothing could be allowed to inhibit the speed he had built up.
Eight seconds and his breathing was starting to labour as he pumped his arms up and down, his boots pounding the ground beneath, his eyes searching for any ruts that could trip him up and effectively end his escape.
Seven seconds. He could just make out the back of the vehicle through the gaps in the trees.
Six seconds. Jacko’s silhouette could be seen through the back window. Alerted by the shouts from the area of the Ramp, he was peering through binoculars, trying to seek out Bradley or any other disturbance he should be concerned about.
Five seconds. On seeing the speed his tour-commander was running at, Jacko knew there was a problem. He threw the binos onto the passenger seat, made sure all but one of the doors were locked, and started the engine.
Four seconds. The pounding grew louder behind Bradley as more Soviet soldiers joined in the chase. He swallowed hard and urged his legs to move faster. His thighs burned, his heart thumped, and his lungs felt like they would burst as he put one last effort into keeping a gap between him and his pursuers. His bag slapping against his side, reminding him of the contents and the consequence should he get caught.
Three seconds, he would make it. He heard another yell off to his right and could see what must have been the Soviet sentry on foot patrol responding to the calls from his comrades. The sentry dropped to his knee, pulled the AK-74 into his shoulder and took aim.
Two seconds. Zip, crack: the two sounds almost instantaneous. Bradley ducked automatically, losing his footing and stumbling forward, crashing to the ground, causing further yells as the pursuing enemy realised they had just been given an opportunity to capture the British upstart. He rolled forward, thumping up against the back wheel of the Range Rover, and quickly pulled himself up its side.
Jacko leant across the seat and pushed the passenger door open, revved the engine and screamed at Bradley, “Come on, for fuck’s sake, come on! They’re on you!”
Bradley threw himself bodily into the vehicle, his head practically landing on Jacko’s lap. Jacko pressed the accelerator to the floor and the Rover pulled away, clouds of dust billowing behind them as it roared through the trees, branches slapping at the windscreen, before Bradley had even managed to drag his legs inside.
Zip, crack, zip, crack. A small branch dropped onto the bonnet, sliced off the tree by a 5.54mm round from an AK-74, fired too high. They roared away, almost comically, like something out of a Keystone Cops movie: door still open, Bradley’s head in Jacko’s lap and his legs still dangling outside, being flung from side to side as Jacko weaved through the trees.