James Rouch - Hunter-Killer

He was aware of Revell standing in the doorway at the top of the steps and knew that he too would be counting off each second until the moment when they would be able to delay no longer.

There was a freezing wind whistling across the open ground at the end of the taxiway, but Hyde made no concession to it by pushing his hands into his pockets or pulling up the hood of his parka. He liked the cold, and besides, he hardly felt it on his face as it struck at the deadened nerves in the rebuilt tissue.

‘Can’t leave it much longer, Sergeant…’ He heard the major’s shout at the same moment as he spotted the jeep that was racing and bucking across the grass towards them in defiance of every airport regulation. As the distance narrowed he made out Burke behind the wheel, and a sullen-faced Libby sat in the back, flanked by Clarence and Dooley.

The ground crew were finishing their work and boarding their transport as the jeep rocked to a stop, cutting four brown gashes in the soaked and ice particle-laden grass at the edge of the concrete. Even as Hyde followed the others up into the aircraft, the steps were being hitched for towing, and he had to jump a widening gap to board.

‘I always say, if you got to go to war, then if you can’t do it in style at least do it comfort.’ Ripper slumped in the seat and put his feet up on the back of the row in front.

‘You’ve got a funny idea of being comfortable.’ A dozen cigarette stubs and matches were strewn about Burke’s feet on the floor of the sled-mounted cabin. An echo of the vibration from the aircraft’s hull kept them in slight but perceptible motion. ‘Mind you, one of these would make a nice bingo hall.’ He surveyed the serried rows of safety harness equipped seats. ‘You could even strap the old girls down, make sure they stayed for an extra card and stop them collecting their winnings.’

‘Where’s everyone else?’ Arching his back to relieve the aches caused by an abortive attempt to sleep stretched out along a row, York peered around.

‘The artillery lads are scrambling about on the two sleds at the back. They’ve got a real eager beaver of a captain and a sergeant-major who looks like he eats privates for breakfast.’ Yet another spent match was flicked away as Burke finished the second packet of the day, and sent it, crumpled, in its wake. ‘The others are in the crew room behind the flight-deck, they’ve got coffee there.’

‘So long as the sergeant-major only eats his own privates, or beavers, I ain’t bothered, and I’ll wait for the crowd to clear around the coffee.’ York dipped his hand into Ripper’s bag of large white mints and helped himself. The moment he tasted the first one, he put the others back. ‘This is a heck of a long hop. I thought we were going into action on the west coast of Sweden, not the other side of Mongolia.’

‘The major says we’re taking a scenic route, just to make sure we get thoroughly lost among the civvy traffic’ With three vigorous puffs Burke reduced the king-sized cigarette’s length by half, bringing its glowing tip that much nearer his heavily nicotine-stained fingers. ‘We’re just as bloody likely to get shot down tiddling about like this as we would be if we hedge-hopped straight there. Apart from the chances of the Swedes or the Ruskies noticing we’re not what we’re supposed to be, we’re bloody likely to get shopped by any civvy pilot who gets a whiff of what’s going on. They don’t take too kindly to having their lives made more dangerous by the military using the civvy routes as cover.’

‘Now why don’t you relax.’ Giving every appearance of intending to follow his own advice, Ripper slumped lower in his seat, so that his oversized helmet was tipped forward by the back of the chair, over his eyes. ‘This is like travelling first-class, compared to what it was like in that SAC Galaxy I came over in. Why hell, if we asked real nice maybe the lovely little Andrea would do the stewardess bit. She could give me in-flight or indecent attention anytime.’

‘Where is she anyway?’ Standing on a seat, York looked over the rows. ‘She don’t seem the sort to go and have a chat and a coffee.’

‘I should imagine she’s head of the queue to ask the major for permission to bump off our pet Commie.’ A new packet was extracted from a deep pocket and Burke lit his forty-first cigarette.

‘I bet that guy Clarence is crowding close behind her. Why’ve we got our own tame Ruskie anyway?’ Ripper was indignant. ‘What can he do we can’t?’

Burke watched ash float slowly to the floor now greying about his feet. ‘Talk fluent Russian for a start. What do you think we got all that extra radio gear for? When things get hot the Commies won’t have time for piddling about with coding. If we can monitor what they’re jabbering about it could be bloody useful, especially if they’re nattering about how much shit they’ll be shovelling in our direction.’ The smirk that Burke turned on was aimed at York. ‘He’ll be keeping you busy.’

‘I’ll have enough to do, keeping the command links open in the face of the jamming the Reds are bound to try, without having to help out a cruddy amateur. The way I see it, chances are I’ll end up working all the equipment and that beetle-browed shitty sod will be operating nothing more difficult than his notepad and pencil.’

‘Well, ain’t we just lucky to have such a brilliant radio operator. You reckon you’ll be able to cope alright then?’

The gentle sarcasm was lost on York, and he took no exception to Ripper’s remark. ‘Of course I will, but that’s not the damned point, I shouldn’t have to. For this job I ought to be a corporal at least, with a couple of guys under me.’ He suddenly noticed the looks the others were exchanging. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Course we do.’ Only the top of Ripper’s helmet was now visible, and his voice floated out from between the rows. ‘You want a couple of guys under you, that’s fine, so long as you don’t want me for one. I prefer girls. There ain’t ever been no faggots in my family, we’ve all been dead straight, ’cepting that fifth cousin I heard tell of, the one who got kinda fond of livestock, if you get my drift.’

Several of the filter tips began to roll sluggishly in the ash as the aircraft banked to a fresh heading. Pulling out his small compass, Burke checked the new direction. It was south-east. They were beginning the final run. Removing another cigarette from the pack before he had finished the last he took another long look around the cabin. Well it seemed strong enough, and he’d examined the great steel skids below it earlier, but every time he thought of the way they were leaving the aircraft his stomach fluttered and he broke out in a sweat. If there had been even a pretence of a steering mechanism to hold on to, it would have helped.

When those huge chutes popped and dragged the cabin-sled out, every one of them, strapped helpless in their seats, was going to be at the mercy of blind luck. The aircraft struck turbulence and dipped before recovering. For a terrifying moment Burke had wildly imagined that the drop was coming now, that there had been an accident and he and the cabin were about to start a long and steepening dive into the freezing water of the Kattegat. His hand shook as he lit another cigarette.

‘What you got there?’ Sergeant Hyde leant over Clarence’s shoulder and tried to see what he had so hurriedly stuffed into his pack. He reached in and pulled out the surprisingly heavy small screw-top cannister. Barely the size of a modest Thermos flask, it felt like it weighed twenty pounds or more. ‘You quite sure you want to undo it, Sarge?’ There was nothing in the sniper’s tone that conveyed threat or warning, but Hyde hesitated before taking hold of the top and starting to unscrew it. ‘Don’t.’