James Rouch - Sky Strike

Ripper pointed along the tracks to where they passed out of sight behind the bases of a row of tall cooling towers. ‘Looks to me like this spur is taking us back to the place where all that flak was parked. Ain’t enough they screwed us up on the way in. Seems that we’re about to give them a chance to have another try.’

‘Every fucking time I start to enjoy me-self…’ Applying the brake savagely, Burke brought die train to a halt at the crest of a gentle downgrade.

‘All change.’ The drop from the cab was greater than he’d estimated, and Dooley made a heavy landing on the oil-stained ballast, almost f ailing.

‘You weren’t much fucking use were you?’ Glaring hard, Burke crammed all of the sarcasm he could into the accusation.

Ripper paused as he turned in the doorway and sought for the top step with his foot. ‘Heck, now you can’t blame me. I seen tidier crows’ nests than that tangle of tracks back there a ways. I only said I knew how to spike a point, I didn’t offer no guarantees about keeping us heading in the right direction for ever.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Squeezing past the driver, Hyde waited his turn to disembark. ‘Is he complaining about having his new toy taken from him?’

‘Sure is. I wonder he don’t throw a tantrum and bust it, stop anyone else having fun.’

Until Ripper spoke, Burke had been about to grudgingly accept the situation, but now he got an idea, and stubborn: ‘Major, I take it we don’t have a use for this old Commie rattletrap any more.’

‘Glad you’ve got the message at last. Now get your carcase out here. We’ve territory to cover, fast.’

Alone in the cab, Burke reached for the brake handle. The motor was still turning over, raggedly, with occasional surges. He’d have liked to have sent it off under full power, but he hadn’t the time to rig the controls in a manner that would overcome the built-in fail-safe devices, and so this would have to do. Releasing the brakes, he climbed out to join the others.

‘What you been doing in there, saying goodbye to it?’ Ripper’s boisterous laugh caused his helmet to slump down over his eyes, to leave his broad grin showing.

‘Sort of, if you must know.’ Several seconds elapsed before Burke could be really certain that the wheels were turning, but once he could detect movement, it rapidly grew more obvious.

Trundling with increasing momentum, the locomotive rolled noisily past. Burke felt the warmth of the smoky exhaust, pungent with the stench of unconsumed fuel, and then as the rake of wagons passed, the fierce heat from the burning coal-load of the fourth in line. Red-hot slag tumbled from a circular hole in the side of the wagon, and there were screeches and masses of sparks from a bogie wheel that had jammed. Furnace heat from above sent the white metal of its bearing in dribbles of molten silver globules to splash brightly on the track bed.

The train never made it as far as the cooling towers. Barely a quarter of its journey completed, it rolled violently as it hit a junction. Ballast flew up, and the train left the track. Flying granite chippings were replaced by a spray of mud as the locomotive ploughed to £ gentle halt in soft ground flanking the line, its wagons still upright, and coupled, the last of the zig-zag formation clear of the tracks.

Burke tried to grab a launcher from Cline. ‘Get your hands off. You want to finish the job then stay behind and tear it apart with your teeth. I’m saving this for the Ruskies.’

‘Admit it, Burke.’ Giving their driver a shove that sent him several paces forward, after the others, Sergeant Hyde took a last glance at the wreck, now fast disappearing behind smoke and steam wreathing from the partially spilled load of burning coal.

‘Today just isn’t your day.’

‘When is it ever. When is it fucking ever’

They hadn’t expected to run into Russians so soon, not within a few hundred yards of the tracks, while they were still among the ruins of the abandoned industrial area.

From the glassless window of the dilapidated, almost roofless workshop, Libby could see the back of the big six-wheeled Gaz truck, parked among the piles of scrap metal close to the wall of the old foundry. The building stood on its own, precisely in the centre of the weed-infested, rubble-strewn wilderness they had to cross to get away from the area.

‘They been there quite a time, motor’s near cold.’ Ripper returned the pocket infra-red ‘scope to Hyde. ‘Wonder what they’re doing out here?’

‘It’s not what they’re doing, but how many of them are there, that’s what we need to know.’ Revell had been making his own examination of the building, but apart from the Russian army vehicle, there was no other evidence that the place was even occupied.

‘I can tell you.’ Among the heaps of rusting castings, Andrea had spotted three tyreless pedal-cycles and a pram-wheeled handcart.

‘And so can I.’

The instant he had seen the truck, tucked from sight in that isolated place, Boris had known why it was there. ‘It is a black market operation. Once I was involved in such a thing myself. There will be three or four men involved at most. Less would be to invite violence and robbery, a double-cross: more would mean too great a dilution of the profits.’

‘They make much money at it?’ At the mention of money, Dooley’s interest had been aroused. He hung on the Russian’s words.

‘Sometimes, if it is being done on any scale, but usually such things are a once-only transaction, a supply clerk or sergeant taking advantage of yet another administrative error. Only rarely do they get to do it twice. There are many who do well out of spying on their comrades, and word soon gets around. If an officer is involved then he may be able to smother an investigation, but whether he succeeds or not, it will be he who takes the profit, and the men who take the risk.’

There was a tight malice-filled smile on Andrea’s face. ‘And it can be a very great risk, if the Russians are not careful. When they are too few in number, or too drunk, or too trusting, my people drive a hard bargain.’ From its sheath she took her wide-bladed saw backed knife, and sliced a long sliver of iron hard wood from a bench top.

‘You want me to scout it, Major?’

‘No.’ Revell took no time to consider the sergeant’s question. ‘No, there isn’t the time for refinements. We’ll have to hope they’re keeping their heads down because of the raid. We’ll go in at the run, well spread out just in case they have got a sentry. Some of us will get through. If we reach the building without being seen we’ll regroup to cover as many of the doors and windows as we can. There’ll be civvies in there so I want a clean job, use knives where you can. Let’s go.’

There was a hundred yards to cover. A hundred yards of muddy, rutted ground that was littered with foot-catching rubbish invisible among the sprouting weeds and grass. Twice Libby almost fell; the second occasion actually going down on one knee before he recovered his balance. It put him a little behind most of the others, with only Boris lagging further back. There was taut, colour-draining terror on the Russian’s face. Terrified of being in the front line, with the chance of sustaining a disabling wound that would mean his being left behind, he was equally frightened of losing contact, of being left on his own behind enemy lines and so he ran at a constantly varying pace, first lagging, then catching up as, in turn, the whirling conflicts of the opposing decisions surged to the fore.

On the far right of the line, Libby saw Hyde run close to Clarence, and then watched the sniper veer further to the flank and drop into cover, already fixing the silencer to his Enforcer as he did so.