James Rouch - Hunter-Killer

Hyde turned to see that it was Libby who had grabbed his wrist. ‘I’ve just about had enough of you. The major may have laid on that last minute trip to the refugee registry for you, but you’re not under any special protection. I’m warning you…’

‘Go ahead then, but I’m warning you, Sarge. You undo that and you might lose your nuts as well as your face, or at least the use of them.’ Not for a moment did Libby relax his hold, until Hyde slackened his grip on the container top, then he let go fast and took a step back.

‘What’s in this?’ Although he repeated the question, there was a hardening suspicion in the NCO’s mind.

‘I think you know what’s in it, Sarge, but if you want to make sure then go ahead, open it by all means. Be my guest.’ Taking a sip at his coffee and pulling a face at the taste, Clarence reached out for and took the weighty cylinder from Hyde’s grasp.

‘How many rounds have you got?’ Libby maintained his distance. ‘Six.’

The crowd that had gathered drew back as the sniper undid the top and pulled out a single 7.62mm NATO rifle round, unremarkable except for its exceptional length and the unusual yellow and purple colour code bands about its tip. ‘Really, there’s nothing to be afraid of. The depleted uranium core is in a lead sheath.’

‘I’m the armourer, remember.’ Along with all of the others, Libby was staying well clear. ‘Those little buggers were withdrawn a year ago. The shielding’s inadequate. What the hell do you want with them?’ Clarence casually rolled the bullet in his palm, making no move to replace it. ‘On two recent occasions I’ve been in good positions for clear shots at Commie officers; long-range, but nothing exceptional. I’ve hit them and seen them go down, only to watch them get to their feet a few minutes later and sprint for cover under their own power. One of them offered himself a second time, and I only put him down permanently by using a head shot. They’re wearing a new type of body armour, it can’t be anything else…’

‘I ain’t heard nothing about no new body armour.’

Clarence brushed Dooley’s interruption aside. ‘Neither have I, but I’ve seen the evidence. I’m telling you, at a hundred yards or more, the worst those Ruskie officers suffered was a temporary loss of wind and dignity. I want to kill them, not play pat-a-cake. When they go down I want them to stay there, like they usually do.’

There was movement among the front rank of men gathered about the sniper, and Andrea pushed through. She lifted the bullet from his hand and examined it. ‘I thought that these were to be used against light armoured vehicles, or gunners behind shields.’

Retrieving the bullet, Clarence put it back in the cylinder. ‘That was their original use, yes, but if they’ll punch through sixty millimetres of plate at two hundred yards they’ll certainly go through this new personal protection the Ruskies are bringing into use, maybe out to six hundred yards or better.’

‘If those fancy flak-jackets have got a metal insert, you’ll get the added bonus that they’ll burst into flame, whoosh.’ Dooley turned the flame of his lighter to maximum and watched the six-inch pillar of flickering yellow.

‘So long as the core goes on to do its job, I don’t care if it paints them red, white and blue on impact.’ To end the exchange, Clarence stuffed the container into his pack and concentrated on his coffee. It was all a lot of fuss over nothing, like the mystique that surrounded the atomic demolition troops. Those men thought nothing of racing about the countryside in jeeps, toting suitcase-sized nukes; well, he felt the same about the bullets filled with spent fissionable material. He’d used them when they were first issued, though the strict guidelines had imposed severe limitations on their application on the battlefield. That and the fact that situations where they were suitable or available were not all that common. Even then, by the time he’d observed all the governing regulations, and perhaps first had to eject an already chambered standard cartridge, the moment when he could have used one had often passed.

Now though, he was glad he’d hung on to the bullets, even though coming up with a plausible excuse for not handing them in had not been easy at the time. There was no way he was going to stand by and watch the artillery lads enjoy all of the action. He would find a way to have some portion of it for himself, as large a slice as he could possibly carve.

‘I suppose it could be worse, but I don’t see how.’ The pilot handed the weather report to Major Revell. ‘That’s ten-tenths cloud, heavy snow, and winds gusting at twenty plus from the south and south-west. Forecast says the wind will drop, but not soon enough to do us any good.’

Revell barely glanced at the page torn from the message pad. He’d hardly needed the pilot’s summary either. By following the frequent updates for the DZ he’d gained a good idea of the steadily deteriorating general weather conditions. ‘This mission is important, can you still drop us?’

‘According to the orders I’ve got, I drop you, period. I presume that means regardless of weather or anything else from acts of God down. Either this mission is as important as you say, Major, or you got big enemies back at Headquarters.’

The Starlifter pitched in fierce turbulence, the autopilot correcting the violent motion before the pilot could over-ride it. ‘Will you look at that. I don’t ever get the chance to do any real flying… Like I say though, someone must really have it in for you. Have you crossed anyone real important lately, a three-star general, or maybe a HQ clerk? Tell you what, I wish I weren’t included in the risk with you. I’ve got eight flight-deck and handling crew who feel the same.’

‘How big is the risk under these conditions?’ It was Lieutenant Hogg who asked. He’d seen that their Russian was settled on a spare fold-down seat alongside the flight engineer’s control console, and now took an interest, a very personal interest, in the conversation.

‘Look, I’m no scaremonger, maybe it’s better you don’t know. This is a case where ignorance could be real bliss. What you don’t know you can’t worry over, and anyway, I’m the pilot, I’m the one who has to place the drop…’

‘And we’re the ones who have to make it, so tell us.’

The pilot’s hands rested lightly on the control column, riding with the movements dictated by the autopilot to whose cut-off his eyes kept straying. ‘OK, first, low altitude parachute extraction is strictly a clear skies assignment. If we have this,’ he indicated the large flakes of snow self-destructing against the windows in rapid succession, ‘then we also have problems. We’ve got all sorts of fancy gizmos on board, they’ll give me precise altitude so I let you go at the right height, and position so I let you go in the right place; what I haven’t got is a gadget that, as we go barrelling in at zero feet plus a bit in white-out conditions, is going to tell me whether or not there’s a clump of trees or a building dead ahead.’ Again his hand flirted with the autopilot cut-off, but withdrew. ‘Those sleds you’re going down on travel quite a ways after they touch. There’s three in the drop, so allowing for intervals between each, on an island two miles long I have to find a half mile stretch of reasonably flat land, blindfolded.’

‘Is there anything else, or is that the extent of the horror story?’ Hogg heard the pilot, but kept his eyes on the Russian. The man sat impassively, his heavy-jowelled face revealing no hint of emotion or reaction to the words he must have understood.

‘You want more?’ The pilot turned round in his seat. ‘Alright then, try this on. These big babies were never meant for this work. Starlifters were designed as strategic transports, heavy load, long haul, that’s their business. OK, so this is one of the early models and it’s been modified and re-allocated to tactical re-supply work, but it still isn’t happy hedge-hopping about the place, piddling about with nickel and dime loads that a prop-job could handle.’