Hard Target (17 page)

Cohen ignored the exchange as he turned to Hyde. ‘That’s the third vehicle in twenty minutes to pass us like there was a race on. How do we stop one of those without breaking it ?’
‘We don’t. We’ll stop the next one anyway we can, then go back into hiding and wait for the following vehicle crew to stop and help whoever we clobber.’ Hyde beckoned Clarence over. ‘Take out the driver. Don’t worry about the noise. It’ll be nothing to the crate going over.’

‘Where do you want it to land?’
‘I’ll be happy as long as it’s on the road and not on us.’

Without any further discussion Clarence departed to set up his ambush. A moment later he had melted into the countryside. There was a five-minute wait before the next Soviet army vehicle came along.

It was a Toyota pick-up, one of the mass of civilian vehicles the Russian forces had pressed into use when the war had begun to extend beyond the time they had planned, and they’d had to return their own called-up supply trucks to the dis- located civilian economies of East Germany and Poland. This one was a battered and sorry example: dents and scrapes that marred every panel exposed large areas of its original bright-red paintwork, showing startlingly vivid against the thin coat of olive-drab still adhering elsewhere.

Through his glasses Hyde watched the pick-up’s fast approach. He could just, through the layer of dust on its screen, make out the pale blob of the driver’s face. ‘Looks like it’s the boy racers who come out early, taking advantage of clear roads and no traffic police.’ Occasionally the Toyota would jink to the side, as its driver slung it around the worst of the many pot-holes.

There was a distinctive double click as Libby cocked his rifle. ‘I hope Clarence is going to hit him soon, or we’ll have the perisher landing in our laps.’

As it came nearer, filling his field of vision, Hyde found it more difficult to follow the progress of the bucking vehicle, but he had a perfect view of it at the precise moment the sniper’s single bullet shattered the windscreen.

Fired from close range the 7.62mm round drilled through the driver’s right temple and clean through his head, emerging behind his left ear in an eruption of flesh and bone fragments as the tumbling deformed bullet gave up the last of its energy.

For another fifty yards the pick-up held course, then collision with the steep side of a deep pot-hole jerked the steering to the right and it struck the shallow bank flanking the track. There was a geyser of dirt and dust as the vehicle impacted. It rose up as though launched from a ramp, displaying the crumpled front end, trailing steam from its crushed radiator. The short flight ended in a nose-dive back on to the road. Both front wheels jammed up under the bodywork, it slewed to a final halt rocking op what was left of its suspension, straddling the track and surrounded by a litter of unidentifiable components. A bloodied arm hung from a window and the air was thick with the stink of petrol fumes and clouded with a shroud of steam. One oval wheel spun lazily in the road, a hub and stub axle still attached to it.

The wreck had eventually come to a halt only a few yards from where the men lay.
‘That sodding mad-arse cut it a bit fine.’ ‘One yard or fifty, Burke.’ Hyde heard the complaint. ‘What does it matter? He gets the job done, that’s the main thing.’ Burke couldn’t win, and he knew it. His past provided too much ammunition for the sergeant for it to be of any use arguing with him. Besides, what bloody private ever won a real argument with a sergeant?

‘Dooley, Rinehart, you take out the crew of whatever stops at this roadblock. Use your knives. Take your time and let them get well clear of their vehicle first.’ Rinehart weighed the sergeant’s instructions. ‘Now just what if the first truck along happens to be packed full of infantry. How you expect us to deal with that?’ ‘I don’t and you won’t have to, we’ll be covering you.’ ‘Well give me time to get back in the fucking ditch before you open up.’ Dooley took out his bayonet and lightly ran his thumb down the edge of the double-sided blade. ‘Which side of the road do you want?’

I’m comfy here, how about you taking the stroll?’ As though it were the most elegant of toppers, Rinehart tipped his helmet rakishly over one eye and twirled a non-regulation leather-handled, saw-backed Bowie knife.

Affecting a casual air Dooley left the hedge and strolled over to the far side, pausing on the way to shake the hand hanging limply from the Toyota. He glanced back to see if his act was being appreciated before ducking out of sight.

‘Bloody clown.’
‘Bloody good one though, Sarge.’ It had taken an effort by Libby not to gratify the big oaf by laughing out loud.
‘I don’t have any use for a funny man, this is the Zone, not a three-ring circus.’

Having saved Collins from trouble by nudging him hard to shut up his giggling before Hyde found some other way of doing it, Cohen sidled over to the sergeant. ‘A silly bastard at times he may be, but there’s a lot of Commies who don’t think so, come to that they don’t think any more at all.’ ‘I’ll believe that when I see evidence of it for myself.’ ‘Here’s your chance.’ Fastening his body-armour tighter about himself, Cohen went back to his place.

It wasn’t in sight yet, but the throaty low revving rumble of an approaching truck was very clear in the still evening air. Clarence, further along the road and able to see more of the track, briefly put in an appearance and held up two fingers. No order was given, no man looked to another, but as though at a signal all of them slipped off their packs and reached for their knives. Cohen patted Collins’ arm. ‘Stick with me. This is where it starts to get messy.’

Major Revell had already been over to a front window twice, and now he found himself there for the third time, looking down the long winding track leading to the farm.

They would not have the light for much longer, and the hollow among the hills holding the workshops would be the first to lose the sun. Already a band of shadow was starting down from the crest of the rise partly hiding it from the farm. In an hour it would be like night down there.

The sinking bloated orange ball was shining directly in through the window, almost blindingly bright. It was very quiet. Even the whores in the adjoining room were silent. Kurt and his men had finished their ‘turns’. Andrea was in there now, guarding the women.

The regular patrons were not expected until after sunset, and Revell could only hope that none of them, like the officers Libby had killed, and the two junior sergeants, would try queue-jumping.

He had spent most of the afternoon observing the workshops. There had been no vehicle movement anywhere in their vicinity, and with only the surrounding ground to study he had come to know every inch of it, ‘picking the route they would take and the best spot for their sniper. After repeated examinations of the far slopes he’d even tentatively identified the position of one of the flak guns their prisoner had mentioned.

The Russian was still lying bound in the loft. At first Revell had called Andrea at every impassioned outburst from the soldier and tried to make out what it was he was so urgently trying to tell them. On the fifth repetition of his conversion and devotion to the capitalist system and his earnest intention to desert to the West, Revell had gagged him with his own belt.

There was no way, with his limited command of the language, that Revell could determine whether or not the soldier was genuine, or opportunist. A lot of men had deserted from the Soviet forces, a few still managed to do so, but the numbers had fallen drastically since the Communists had instituted a system that relied on brutal reprisal for its effectiveness. Those who came over from Russian units were mostly Armenians, Estonians, Turkomans; single men without family ties, who didn’t care what happened to the men of the units they deserted. That was an ironic result of the deliberate Communist policy of splitting up the various ethnic and national groups, so that men from the far reaches of the Soviet territory, speaking hardly any Russian, would find themselves thrown among others with whom they had nothing in common, not even language.

Each time Revell thought he had seen every last repugnant facet of Communism he discovered a new one and it was always uglier, nastier, more calculated than the previous ones.

A large portion of that nastiness would come their way if they were caught. The various conventions of war had been thrown out of the window by the Soviets. While they screamed at any hint of the West ignoring them, they flouted any it suited them to, and most of the time that was all of them. Better by far to go down fighting, take some of them with you, than fall into their hands alive.

The noise of approaching engines broke into his thoughts. Engines! Hell, that wasn’t right. Hyde was supposed to be bringing only one vehicle, if he could. Turning into the lane was a Russian command car, and behind it a six-wheeled, tilt-rigged Ural truck. Two hundred yards away both halted, and heavily armed men began to jump from the transport.

Two steps up the stairs he stopped abruptly. ‘Dooley, you step on my bloody heels once more, just once more...’

THIRTEEN
‘Five seconds more and I’d have told Kurt and his cut-throats to open up on you. It was only because I saw Dooley... ‘

The two captured vehicles had been driven up to the farmhouse, and Revell had just finished inspecting them.

‘We came up on the place before I was expecting it. I realised what you might think when you saw two wagons coming, so I had the men de-buss in case you started popping off.’ Hyde patted the roof of the utility-bodied command car. ‘We cut three Commie throats to get these, so I thought we might as well use them both. What do you think, Major?’

‘Oh, I think we can find a use for them both. Let’s get inside.’ Revell led the way. ‘I’ll brief the Grepos now. Have two men relieve Andrea and tell her to bring Kurt and the others to the kitchen. We have to move fast before we lose the light.’

Only Burke and Dooley were available, all the others were busily engaged in checking and setting up the weapons in the six-wheeler.

‘Just remember, you two. We’re moving out in a matter of minutes, don’t start anything. I don’t want to shout and have you trot down the stairs with your tongues out and your pants round your knees. Have you got that, do I make myself clear?’

‘Very loud, extremely clear, Sarge.’
‘And you as well, Dooley.’
‘Sergeant Hyde, sir. I hear every word. I promise not to let them seduce me. I shall also keep a tight hold on my weapon.’ ‘Funny man.’ Misgivings flooded over Hyde, but there wasn’t the time to change the arrangements. ‘Follow me.’
‘That one, I think.’ Dooley stuck his hand down the front of his pants and unashamedly rearranged his rapidly expanding self. The object of his attention did not reciprocate his interest, she yawned. ‘Oh fuck me ...’ ‘No thanks.’ Burke declined the invitation. ‘... look at them, have you ever seen such a wanked-out bunch of old hags in all your life.’ ‘Not all at once, no.’

Becoming impatient Dooley crossed to the women. They all avoided his eye, and his attempts to pull one of them from the herd. ‘How about you, you fancy a quick one?’ He addressed the remark to the youngest, she shook her head. The words hadn’t meant anything, but the question was a familiar one and she understood its tone.

‘Shit. I don’t bloody believe it.’ Dooley pounded his fist into the crumbling piaster on the wall, and left a row of indents. ‘I’m in a brothel, a real live fucking brothel, and all the tarts are on strike. Bloody hell, the sodding unions are killing everything.’ He grew desperate. ‘Come on, one of you, any of you.’ From various pockets he extracted all his worldly goods; two packets of cigarettes, twenty marks, mostly in change, and a cheap lighter. ‘You can have all this.’ Again the fist battered at the fabric of the building.

Burke scanned the women. They looked terrible. He’d seen rough before, but not like this. ‘Back off mate. You’re better not poking one of these, look at them, they’re red-raw.’ He indicated a middle-aged individual who was slouched in such a way, with one foot tucked partially under her, that she was completely exposed. ‘What this lot need is a jai of Vaseline, not another cock.’

‘I’ll skin the major. Why’d he let those scabby GDR cruds have a go. They’ve screwed it up for us.’

‘For you, you mean, I’m not touching one of them. The Ruskies don’t have them inspected regular like we do. I bet you there’s more pox to the square fanny in this room than anywhere else in the whole of the Zone.’

‘I’d have risked it, whatever shape their fannies were. Did you see that piece with the major? She’s not with this mob.’

‘I saw her.’ Burke was glad the conversation was changing tack, even if only slightly. ‘Nice, if you like them hard. She looked the sort that if you woke up beside her in the morning, the first thing you’d do would be to check she hadn’t bitten your balls off in the night.’

A low growl escaped from Dooley. ‘Christ, what I wouldn’t give for something like that.’

‘Not a chance for the likes of us, maybe not for the major either. She’s something special. I don’t know what sort of bloke she’d go for, but he’d have to be at least as hard as her.’

‘OK, you two.’ Revell put his head around the door. ‘Herd this lot downstairs and stay with them. Keep them out of trouble, and keep them out of the way.’ ‘What are we going to do with them. Major?’ ‘We’re letting them go, Burke. If we leave them here the Russians will practise nastiness on them; but if they scatter into the camps they’ll never be found.’ With that he was gone, clattering back down the stairs and out to the truck. ‘They’ll get a hell of a reception in the camp if they’re dressed like this.’ Lots of bare flesh bulged at Burke from every quarter. ‘You hang on here. I’ll find their rags.’

As the door closed behind Burke, Dooley sighed his contempt and frustration. ‘Useless bloody lot. You wouldn’t know a good cock if you saw one. Move over, you scabby cows, I want to sit down.’

The filthy lumpy mattress felt good after hours on the thinly padded bench in the skimmer. As the whores parted to make room for him a large warm breast brushed his arm and smooth satin rustled.

‘All I wanted was a bloody good fuck.’ Absently his hand went out to the nearest backside and slid beneath it. His forefinger played in the fabric covered crevasse. A hand landed on his knee and began to slide up his thigh. Other hands came at him, and he just sat there. ‘It’s no good, you’re wasting your time. You’re too late by five minutes and eight inches.’