Killing Ground (6 page)

They were nearing the Mercedes. Waves of fierce heat and smoke swept over them with an eddy of wind trapped between the hills. They froze as the acrid cloud bit into their eyes arid blinded them, not moving on until they had blinked them clear of tears.

Several of the automatic anti-tank launchers stared from among the lower heaps of boulders and from among sparse clumps of firs. Carrington knew that the little logic boxes bolted to each tube would be registering their progress, electronically gauging what they were by shape, size, infra-red signature or any one of a whole host of methods. Right this instant they would be crossing at least one beam, maybe sonic or laser. Or perhaps the careful impact of their steps was being compared with the memory bank of a seismically activated mine

The anti-tank mines would not be interested in them, but buried at the roadside or lodged on a rock shelf there might be a shotgun mine silently ticking off their progress. Many now were set to detonate only when several bodies had passed, calculated to knock out patrol commanders, who rarely took the point and could be caught farther down the line. Well, there was nothing he could do about them. That was down to luck.

That word played a big part in the so-called science of mine clearance, but Carrington had never had any time for it. He was a fatalist. He didn’t court death, even took what steps he could to avoid it, but he saw no point in worrying at every turn, every time a shell passed by so close he felt the draft of its passage, or when a grenade fragment rapped hard against his helmet or flak jacket. No, when it was his turn it would happen, and until the instant it happened he could savour every pain- free breath he took.

Through the roar of the flames Carrington thought he heard another sound, but couldn’t place it. As he took another step it came again, but once more just too indistinct to label.

He unslung his weapon and looked around. There was nothing. Just the rocks and trees and the blazing auto. The slopes held nothing he hadn’t observed previously. Those mines in sight were exactly as he’d noted them only thirty seconds before.

There were the pair of launchers by the big rock with the prominent quartz seam, another propped in the lower branches of a gnarled pine, the claymore mine at the bottom of the scree slope just below that chunk of panel from the Merc… ‘Down!’

It was pure instinct that made Carrington hurl himself full length, even then though with the presence of mind to turn and dive into his own footsteps.

A sheet of flame erupted from the concave cast face of the claymore. It unleashed thousands of fragments at a broad arc of the road, while it’s less powerful but still devastating backlash made multiple perforations in the sliding wreckage that had triggered its anti-handling device.

Carrington felt a numbingly heavy blow in his side, and an instant drenching in warm, pulsing blood.

SIX
The blood that soaked him was not his own. Carrington lifted his head to look at the savagely torn remains that had been thrown against him. A wisp of steam rose from ribbons of bowel that trailed from the legless torso.

He knew that Taylor had been only a few paces from him, and only fractions of a second slow in taking cover. There was a persistent tinny ringing in his ears, the aftermath of the masses of impacts against the hulk of the Estate. It had been that which had saved him.

Inches from where he’d lain the road was scored with a mass of tiny furrows that were quickly filling with water.

Revell had seen the burst of red mist that had marked Taylor’s end. It was only a moment, but it seemed an age before Carrington got to his feet. Without any gesture to indicate he was all right, he took a roll of muddy bandage from the grasp of the dismembered hand beside him and started up the hillside.

‘There’s something wrong with that bloke.’ Burke watched a tripwire being carefully marked. ‘No wonder he didn’t bother to check if he was hurt. If he loses any of the ice he’s got in his veins he can always top up with a glass of water.’

‘Well, at least he hasn’t got the worry of that Red artillery.’ Garrett cocked his head to listen. ‘They’re putting down a heck of a plastering to either side and ahead of us but we seem to be in the clear so far. Gives him a chance to concentrate on what he’s doing.’

‘What sort of a nerd are you, boy?’ Ripper, after rummaging through every pocket, produced a bullet-hard, fluff-impregnated wad of chewing gum. ‘Anybody with half an ounce of the sense they were born with would know why that is, and it sure ain’t good news.’

‘It’s not coming down on us.’ Garrett felt the colour rising to his cheeks. ‘So that’s got to be good, hasn’t it?’

‘Use your brain, boy. It ain’t just for holding your eyes apart, although maybe in your case…’

‘Why don’t you just tell the kid.’ Hyde interposed to prevent friction.

‘I was going to, in my own way.’ Giving the wad a cursory inspection and nothing else, Ripper popped it into his mouth. ‘As I was saying before the Sarge butted in, what we’ve got here is a pail of crap held over our heads. That ordnance going down ahead of us ain’t the sort of stuff that’s heavy enough to break a rail bridge but it kinda sounds like it’s ample to stop traffic on it. And that works two ways—stops us getting out or help coming over. You with me, boy?’

‘The rest of the barrage is still way off to the left and right. It’s no bother to us.’

‘What do they teach you in basic? What we have here appears to be a classic case of a three-sided box barrage. Boxes do two things, keep people out or keep ‘em in. This one is thrown by the Reds. It’s meant to keep our boys out, but it’s gonna keep us in as well.’

Listening more attentively, Garrett could now make out the three directions where the deluge of explosive was crashing down. ‘So what’s behind us?’

‘Well, as the commies seem to want to keep this slice of territory for themselves, I’d say that what’s coming up behind us is a touch more than an army of guys wearing red stars.’

‘Shit.’
‘Shit indeed, good buddy. That’s what I’m gonna do when they arrive.’ Ripper spat out the recycled chewing gum. ‘What have I been doing in my pockets?’ ‘On your feet!’ Hyde passed among the company, prodding awake those who had been able to rest despite the rain that now lashed the road where they waited. ‘Come on, pull yourselves together. We’re about to take a hike through a minefield, not stroll to the PX or NAAFI. Anyone who does something stupid is making trouble for his mates as well as himself. If you cause your own problems you’ll be left behind, and I’m not kidding. We can’t carry you. Best we’ll do is leave you a grenade so you can make the big decision for yourself. Move!’

‘Where the hell can they all have come from?’ Dooley had tried keeping a count of the anti-tank mines they had passed. He’d quickly given up when the difficulties of negotiating the slippery rocks and grass had made it more important to watch his footing than keep a tally.

‘Who knows.’ Burke tried to pull together the torn edges of material on his sleeve, where he’d slid the last few meters to level ground once more. ‘I do know that I haven’t seen gear used on that scale for eighteen months or more. Bloody hell, in the past we’ve been lucky to have ten to lay in front of a position, and we’ve had to lift those for re-use before pulling back.’

Scully too had been thinking it over. ‘How come in the middle of nowhere we stumble on a mass of state-of-the-art nastiness, but when we’re pulled out of the line for delousing and clean underwear we can’t get our hands on so much as a decent T-bone?’

‘Because everywhere out of the line is packed with all the guys who don’t want to be in it, and they scoop all the goodies before we get there.’ Sampson opened his mouth to catch a drink, but turning his face to the sky sent rivulets of water down his neck and inside his rain cape. ‘Since we’re in a minority out there there’s got to be a better than even chance we’ll trip over any shit that’s lying around.’

They reached a crossroads, and halted as a set of tracks were examined.

‘Four-wheel utility, quite recent.’ Even as he watched, Hyde saw the steep- walled ruts crumbling and becoming less distinct. ‘Could be that Hummer again.’

‘If it is, then they must have known about that minefield. The tracks run off down that little side road. The way we’ve come would certainly have been the quickest, the most obvious route to where they bumped into that reception committee.’

‘Knowing about it didn’t do them any good. One dead and one in the cage, or worse.’ With the toe of his boot, Hyde idly made a dam of leaves where water was overflowing from a puddle into the tread-patterned rut. ‘They came from the direction we’re heading.’

‘I hope our luck holds better than theirs.’ Burke muttered that under his breath. The novelty of the unspoiled scenery had worn off for him.

As they moved off, Scully cut a slice from the turnip he had washed in a shallow stream beside the road, while the others had refilled their bottles. He’d hacked the skin from it in a series of thick chunks, reducing its weight by nearly half. He bit into it, and grimaced. ‘It’s fucking terrible.’

‘You’re supposed to cook them.’ Sampson enjoyed their self-appointed cook’s disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you try a carrot? You can eat them raw.’

‘I know that. I was a chef in civvie life ...’

‘Wouldn’t have know that from the last meal you did.’ As he walked, Garrett broke tiny pieces from a chocolate bar in his pocket and surreptitiously slipped them into his mouth.

‘What was wrong with it? That was borscht, and it came out all right, considering the conditions under which I was making it.’

‘What were those little bits of meat floating in it? They were tough as old boots.’ Finishing the last of the bar, Garrett balled the foil and wrapper together, and when he thought he wasn’t being observed, flicked it away.

‘Cat.’

‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.’ Garrett tried to recall the taste but could only remember the texture, or lack of it. ‘The only cat I’ve seen in the Zone in the last six months is that one the major’s APC went over ... Oh, sweet Jesus, you didn’t, did you?’

‘Why not? Think what it would have been like if it hadn’t been tenderized that way. Made skinning a bit messy though.’ Scully crammed the remains of the turnip back into the bag. ‘Hey, Boris!’

Farther down the line the conversation had been hardly audible to the Russian.

‘Yes?’ He was surprised to hear his name called.

‘What did you think of my cabbage soup?’

Hesitating, Boris considered his answer. He could not be sure that Scully, who had never talked to him before, was not simply involving him so as to score some obscure point. He hedged. ‘I did not have very much, but... it was quite good.’

And it had been, too. Boris had been surprised. Of course it did not have the special touch that made the dish so distinctly Russian, but it had been close enough to bring back many memories…

‘Pity I didn’t have any sour cream.’ Scully sought to excuse Boris’s slightly less than enthusiastic response, for the sake of appearances in front of the others. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes…’ Sensing what Scully wanted, and pleased to be involved in any conversation, Boris sought the right answer.

‘But then every cook in Russia has his own recipe, and your cabbage and beetroot were perfect.’ That was not the perfect truth, but Boris had been so glad to be taken off the permanent cooking detail he would now have said anything to maintain the current happy arrangement. 

It had been hard for him, after he had settled down in the post of signaller for the company and had begun to gain the men’s grudging respect, if not Andrea’s, to be taken off such sensitive work because of orders from headquarters. There was still so much distrust toward those who had changed sides. Yet they were the ones who had most to fear from a Communist victory. A NATO soldier, if he was lucky, might survive as a prisoner; for him that was not an option.

The talk of food had reminded him of his hunger, and his mind drifted back to the last time he had enjoyed a steaming bowl of borscht at home, his last leave before ... His mother must have saved coupons for several months to make the meal.

With the borscht had been a cheese pie as delicate as only she could make it, and there had been fresh black bread and from heaven-only-knew-where she had produced ice cream, and homemade kvass on which, with several glasses of cognac, he had become quite drunk. He pushed the recollection from his mind. He no longer knew if she was alive or dead, or among the living dead in a labour camp.

They crossed a single-arch stone bridge. On the far side, partially overhanging the road and the water, was an old flour mill. Scaffolding and the rotting boards of working platforms surrounded it on three sides. The attractions of its beautiful setting among the rugged tree-covered hills had not been enough to tempt its owners back into the Zone to complete the restoration.

For several hundred meters beyond the lone building the road climbed steeply to a brow that gave a rare panoramic view. In the middle distance, perhaps two kilometres in a straight line, a great column of bare granite thrust high above the trees that masked its base. Topping it stood a Disneyland-style Gothic castle.

Its grey stone walls soared to intricate turrets, spires and battlements. Wisps of cloud threaded between its highest features.

Clarence unslung his rifle and used its powerful telescopic sight to examine the ancient fortress. The masonry seemed to grow directly out of the rock and in places it was hard to determine the point of transition.

‘There sure is a lot of shit going down around us.’ Ripper listened, and recognized the thundering report of an artillery missile impacting. Ages after the heavy report of its one-ton warhead came the distinctive double ‘boom’ of its recent supersonic passage.

There was no time to take cover when the scream of jet engines filled the air. A contour-hugging MIG fighter-bomber flashed past close overhead and the clouds were lit with the glare of its afterburners.

‘He won’t get very far.’ Clarence rejected the instinctive but futile urge to send a bullet after the aircraft. ‘At the rate he’s burning fuel he is going to have to come down soon. One way or another. Something must have scared the hell out of him…’