James Rouch - Hunter-Killer

Peering past the medic, Revell could make out daylight, or as much as could be seen through the thick dust and smoke. The whole of the top of the house had gone. Two white bars from his eyes to the corners of his mouth had been inscribed on the youngster’s face as his tears washed he blood and dirt from their tracks. Revell sat him down in York’s chair, first pushing the radio-man’s headless body aside.

‘Where is it, where is it?’ Cline scrambled about on the floor. He picked up a scrap of paper, then a second. ‘It’s all gone, my notes, all gone.’

‘Did we get the Gorshkov?’ Using his sleeve Revell wiped Fraser’s face, finding no injury.

‘I don’t know. They were jamming, more than I’ve ever seen. Have you seen the rest of my notebook?’ Glass broke under his hands but Cline didn’t notice. There was no more to be found. ‘Lousy bloody Russians.’ As though doing it for the first time, he continually turned the two scraps over and over in his hand. They were blank pages from the back of the book. ‘Should have taken more notes, filled it, then there’d be something on these.’

‘Is there anything left of the radio?’

‘No, Major.’ Boris pushed the equipment’s remains on to the floor. ‘Everything is broken, everything.’ Strips of clean bandage bound around his wrist made a stark contrast to the flame-singed remnants of his jacket. He pulled the remains together, but there was nothing to fasten it with, and little enough left to fasten. With difficulty, he began to strip the blood-soaked anorak off York’s body.

It was too much for Fraser, to see the decapitated corpse lolling back and forth as Boris clumsily worked at it with his one good hand. The medic drew his hood around his face and closed the opening with his hands, clenching them tight until the knuckles were pure white.

There was a fire at the back of the house, and other buildings nearby, what was left of them, were also beginning to burn. They might as well leave now, they’d be forced to soon enough anyway. There was nothing worth gathering up, Revell knew that without looking. He guided Fraser, and pushed Cline, ahead of him. Outside, the row of bodies had gone and little of what had previously been surrounding the house was still in place. The very paths had been torn up or buried, and deep craters dictated a zig-zag path as they moved away. Smoke stung his eyes, and he felt the heat of the flames consuming the heaps of rubble. It was a strange sensation that warmth, almost alien, like a brief recollection of a half-forgotten memory.

The numbing shock of the barrage was slow to wear off, Revell felt it clouding his mind, struggled to shake free of it. For no obvious reason, perhaps only due to blind instinct, he turned towards the shore.

Someone was shouting, running towards him. The major let go of Fraser, and reached for his 12-gauge assault rifle. He had hung on to it through everything, but now as he unslung it, it felt unfamiliar. As he brought it up to fire at the approaching figure, he realised how badly damaged it was. Deep inside, his mind sluggishly recognised the irony. The weapon was like him, intact but incapable of functioning properly. As he slowly examined it, fire-scarred hands carefully took it from his grasp.

There was no expression on Hyde’s face, there never could be, but Revell sensed the sergeant’s concern. ‘I’m OK, just a bit scrambled; take charge, will you.’ Only distantly did he hear Hyde bark a string of orders. Faces around him were indistinct, he just wanted to get away, be by himself, but there was something else he had to do first, something he had to tell the NCO. The thought crept through the darkness in his head, trying to surface. ‘Get the men over to the shore, the cabin. If anyone comes to pick us up, that’s where they’ll look first.’

‘That’s a fucking great ‘if’.’ Dooley took the major’s arm, and began to lead him, as he had earlier lead Fraser.

Revell didn’t resist. It was good to temporarily relinquish the responsibility of choosing what route to take. His legs moved mechanically and kept moving, even when his mind switched off completely.

‘The captain says he’ll send the signal when we surface.’ Hyde settled himself on the floor of the submarine’s control room beside the major.

Awareness was coming back to Re veil, but it was a slow process, and he needed moments to form thoughts that would normally be instantaneous. ‘Is there any word about the Russian ships?’

‘Not a lot, but the captain says that’s good. They should have popped up in the North Sea by now, but they haven’t. The Swedes are kicking up bloody hell. Doesn’t matter that the barrage destroyed the Lance, seems some of the Russian ‘overs’ went on to clobber seven sorts of brick dust out of the mainland. Accusations and counter-accusations are flying all over. Probably won’t come to a fight, but suddenly the Swedes aren’t friends with Moscow. Oh yes, one of their main complaints is about a ruddy great aircraft carrier that’s gone aground off Gothenburg. Thought you’d like to know that.’

Little by little, Fraser had edged out from the self-imposed internal exile of his hood. He looked around the shining clean control and crew-filled room. This was a better way to go to war, isolated at a distance from the death and ugliness. A crewman handed him a large mug of soup and he clasped his hands about it. The submariner was about his own age, and Fraser felt he could talk to him.

‘I’ve never been in a sub before, what sort is it?’

‘Oberon class, HMS Onyx. She’s a hunter-killer.’ Fraser put the soup back on the tray, pulled his hood tight across his face, and hid from the war.

HARD TARGET

BLIND FIRE

HUNTER-KILLER

SKY STRIKE

OVERKILL

KILLING GROUND

PLAGUE BOMB

CIVILIAN SLAUGHTER

BODY COUNT

DEATH MARCH

Copyright © 1981 by James Rouch

An Imprint Original Publication, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.

First E-Book Edition 2005

Second IMRPINT April 2007

The characters in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

THE ZONE

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Produced under licence from the Author, all rights reserved. Created in Australia by Ian Taylor © 2005