James Rouch: Death March

The southern accent was accentuated, almost exaggerated and was accompanied by a gap toothed smile so broad it seemed to go half way around his head.

“We were told there was one man who had to have special do or die protection. Is that you?” Revell saw that his own men were gathering around to take a closer look at the newcomers.

“Oh that will be Carson. Come here young fella, say hello to the Major. He’s going to take real good care of you.”

The long limbed marine with the pack slothered forward. He looked at first glance like a boy but there were lines about his eyes and a look within them that suggested he was older than the first impression made him out to be. “Hi.”

Andy made no further effort to draw him out. “Anyway, he’s kind of brainy and I reckon his kin must have money stashed somewhere, because he’s real popular with the girls. Or maybe its just because parts of him glow in the dark. I know his stripes indicate he’s only a sergeant but if it does come to a sticky situation then you haul him to safety and leave me to rot.”

Carson coloured. Some of his apparent innocence though was lost in the quietly muttered obscenity that the lieutenant did not hear.

“Never do anything to offend a guy who carries ‘A’ bombs for a living, first lesson my Daddy taught me.” Dooley grinned across at the lad and got a sheepish grin in return.

“Don’t you worry big fella. That’s not a nuclear device my buddy has now. It still ain’t nice, but it don’t glow in the dark.”

Stashing the bulky case of thermite took some arranging, and a lot more arguing. It was settled by Revell. “It goes in the middle, on the floor. Fix a safety harness on it, no, make that two. I don’t want it rolling about and igniting, not that it would make any difference a metre or two either way. It would cook us all before we could get out.”

“Oh it could matter major.” Carson looked up from stashing the decorated container. “I checked up on that. For legal purposes, say if it were family members involved, then a nano-seconds difference as to who fried and died first would matter for legal reasons in the event of execution of a will. It’s like when twins are born, only different.”

“Carson!” Lieutenant Andy shook his head. “Stop making with the explanations of niceties like that will you.

“OK Lieutenant.” Carson looked about the interior of the Iron Cow. “Hey, you have a serious amount of room in here. Kind of nice after being crammed into the hell seat on a Bradley.”

“This lot are not normal.” Clarence had entered to take up his usual position by the rear ramp. He settled the butt of his long barrelled Barret sniper rifle on the floor and closing his fingers around the long barrel closed his eyes to sleep.

Andrea took up position beside Carson. “Does your officer know what to do with the bomb if you are knocked out?”

“He’s got a rough idea.” From a pocket Carson took a sheet of ruled paper. Sketches on either side of it showed panels, dials and the wording, ‘stick key in here, or maybe here’. “See, dead easy.”

Libby had paused on his way to his turret seat and craned his neck to survey the drawings. He looked disappointed at their simplicity. “Well I hope it gives us a long count-down.”

“Can the bomb go off under circumstances other than your selecting the correct sequence? Can it go off by accident.” Andrea felt sick, hearing how casual the men were discussing the weapon they were due to retrieve. The thought of riding with the bomb was making her feel dreadful, jarring her nerves. The briefing from Major Revell had come as a shock to her. The others, after a moment’s surprise, had not really shown any emotion or worry.

Carson put his head close to Andrea, and hesitated for a moment as he smelt the rich aroma of a scented shampoo. “Oh for sure.” He inhaled again and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Yes it can, lots of ways. That’s why me and the lieutenant are here. We like to be useful.”

As she moved away Carson experienced a pang of regret at losing the pleasure at her nearness. And to himself added in an undertone, “And now I don’t regret having to leave my Playboy magazine behind.”

The pair of Challenger tanks had been positioned carefully, taking advantage of the tumbled steel and rubble of a collapsed office block. In several places the ruins still smoked, adding those faint wreaths to the cover of the rusting metal and broken sheets of cladding.

Their commanders conversed quietly with their crews and each other, taking their time to find their targets and zero in on the first of them. When they fired it was to raise a huge fountain of wet debris as their joint muzzle blasts tore at their concealing mounds.

Fired within a fraction of a second of each other the impact of the high explosive rounds had a devastating effect on a structure across the river. The ground floor, a restaurant, disappeared from sight inside a vast cloud of dust. As that rose it revealed the frontage had been utterly destroyed, along with the two floors immediately above it. The top floor of the building shuddered and then began a progressive collapse into the roadway. With them fell the Russian machine gun posts that had been positioned on the rooftop and in a dormer window immediately below it.

Reloading fast the huge tanks again fired almost in unison, this time sending high explosive plunging in to the steadily thickening cloud of the smoke screen. Their impacts out of sight, it was the collapse of a church tower that indicated the accuracy of their aim. Again smoke and dust soared high, adding substance to the dirty white pall the NATO mortars were rapidly achieving.

At thirty-second intervals the pair of British tanks continued to pound any intact building on the far side of the river. They had fired ten rounds each before the first retaliatory shell impacted on the lip of the wharf to their front. It was an armour piercing round and it plunged into the massive baulk of timber lining the edge, splintering its centre section and tearing it off to float away on the swirling waters.

It took only a moment for one of the tank commanders to identify the location of the enemy tank, a T72. Even as he did a second round flashed across the river and skimmed the top of his tanks turret, tearing away a bank of smoke dischargers and throwing them, burning, a hundred yards on to a distant over-turned Volkswagen Golf saloon.

He swore loudly and clapped his hand to his arm, dropping down in to the turret for a dressing to be applied.

Before the enemy125mm cannon could launch another shot, the other Challengers main armament belched flame and sent an armour piercing shot in retaliation. As it left the barrel, ruffling the tightly strapped thermal sleeve the shell cast aside the halves of the cradling sabot and left the tungsten core to lash out at colossal speed. The Russian tank was already starting to reverse to a new position when the impact came.

A fist-sized chunk of steel was gouged from its turret roof, ploughing between two reactive armour blocks and sending them spinning away without detonating. Every inch of the powerful machine vibrated and it rocked back under the massive blow. A towing hawsers draped around the turret side was torn away and the roof mounted spotlight and anti-aircraft machine gun reduced to mangled brackets.

It paused and then exhaust gasses plumed high as it continued its retreat. While it did a wild shot was unleashed from its high velocity gun but it was fired before the muzzle was brought to bear. The tracer in the tail of the shell briefly revealed its flight and it struck a pile of steel beams and glanced off, to an impact far away in the west of the city.

The exhaust from the straining engine enabled the NATO commanders to track the Warsaw Pact armoured vehicle even when piles of rubble concealed its progress. When it reappeared a hundred metres further along the bank it exposed barely sufficient of its turret to enable its gun to re-engage the British tanks, they were waiting for it.