James Rouch - Hard Target

‘They are there.’ Andrea smashed out the windscreen and sent a tracer-laced burst towards the dozens of machinists jumping from the row of heavy trucks and trailers.

Revell used a whole magazine as they motored along the line, pumping a shot into the radiator of each precious vehicle. As he did, he could hear the blast bombs Hyde’s passengers were using tearing the guts out of the cabs and machinery decks. Lathes, drills and milling machines were smashed and toppled from their beds.

Panic was all around them. Time and time again, fleeing Russians would run straight into their fire. The terror and confusion was precisely what Revell had counted on. They were almost halfway round the perimeter road and not a shot had been fired against them so far.

The concussion from the grenades was punishing, threatening to burst their eardrums as waves of pressure from the blast bombs washed over them and rocked the vehicles. An explosive grenade Revell tossed at the side wall of a Song wooden hut had an unexpected effect. The entire side of the light structure collapsed in a shower of planks and splinters, to reveal the interior of a radar and radio repair shop. It was too good a target to miss. Ordering Burke to stop, the major used two flame tubes on the racked equipment and test benches. The single-shot weapons threw their charges of red phosphorus over everything, and the precious sets immediately began to explode in the heat.

As he sent the second on its way, before there was time to see the effect of the fountains of blazing chemicals, a bullet struck the roof of the car. It might have been careless shooting from Dooley, hosing bullets from the front of the truck as he fired the M60 from the shoulder, but in any case they had been stationary for too long.

Now they were passing welding and lubrication bays, and the sets of grease guns, gas bottles and arc welding kits, along with the AFVs parked by each, received their full share of attention. An eight-wheeled mobile crane and two armoured recovery vehicles parked nearby were given the same treatment.

Every blast wall and stack of stores they passed revealed new targets, but they brought fresh dangers as well. A burst of automatic fire came at them from between two Shilka flak tanks. They missed, and before the Russian could reload he was flushed from cover with a snap shot from a flame tube, and sent running with his clothes ablaze.

Thick smoke obscured the roof, dimming the powerful lights. It rose from a score of fierce fires in their wake. The pillars of curling flame marked their route, and it was that chain of beacons that gave away where they would be next.

Revell looked back to see that the truck was still with them. It was spitting bullets and incendiary materials from every side. As he turned back he barely caught a glimpse of the giant fork-lift truck bearing down on them, and then the shock of the collision threw him from his seat.

Twin broad spears pierced the unarmoured bodywork of the car and he heard a terrible high pitched scream, then the fuel spilling from the ruptured tank ignited and the vehicle was filled with glaring red flame.

Intent on finding the other flak gun, Clarence paid only scant attention to the nearly continuous crash and roar of explosions from the camp. He was determined, and certain, that he would be successful, and experienced no surprise or elation when on the seventh IR sweep he found it.

Shortly afterwards, both anonymous patches resolved into much more clearly defined configurations, and when he looked again through the image intensifier he was able to confirm that the Russian gun crews were removing the camouflage netting. He examined both with an expert eye. Neither was an easy target.

Gun crews, especially when they were in a pit, or behind sandbag walls as these were, were always difficult to hit. The most important member of the crew, the gun-layer, was inevitably behind armour, and the same shield gave cover to the loaders as they served the weapon. And when they weren’t actually at the gun, they were forever bobbing up and down. It would have helped if his elevation had been greater than theirs, but if anything both gun-pits were a little above him.

The first he’d seen uncovered was a single mount, about… yes, 57mm. A weapon that carried a lot of punch, with a decent rate of fire. And the other… wasn’t easy to make out. It was a multiple-barrelled mount, machine gun calibre by the look of it, most likely a quad 14.5mm. That was no toy either, it had a long reach and an incredible rate of fire if it was well served.

Which to tackle first? The crew of the 57mm piece had been first to uncover and prepare for action. He’d take that as an indication of their keenness to get into a fight, so he’d oblige them, but not with the sort of fight they were expecting.

The gun was elevating. The crew obviously believed the attack was coming from the air. Well, that suited him. Until they figured out, or were told the actual circumstances, they’d be whirling round and round and looking up. That would give him a perfect clear shot at their unprotected backs.

As though it were a match at Bisley, he carefully laid out his equipment on the groundsheet beside him and began his customary meticulous check on ammunition and rifle. In the next ten minutes or so he’d be finding fresh targets for them, adding further kills to his score.

As he worked he experienced a feeling of calm satisfaction. If he had just one regret about the whole business of being a sniper it was that his targets could never know, could never appreciate, the care he took over each shot. Unlike others whom he knew, he did not leave a trail of cripples and mental defectives in his wake. He aimed to kill and usually achieved just that; he could count on his fingers the number of times he had seen a man he’d hit crawl or stagger away and that was out of almost two hundred. It was a lot of lives, it was a pity it wasn’t more.

Higher and higher soared the screaming as the impaled Grepos threshed about, making his agonies infinitely worse. Fire was everywhere, flaring about the inside of the car, licking from its windows.

Revell struggled up from the floor beneath the steering wheel. Through the flames he glimpsed a Russian major slumped fiat-nosed against the bullet-holed glass front of the fork-lift’s cab. Andrea was just scrambling clear, and together with Burke she reached for Revell to help him out.

The back of the car was hidden by swirling flame that engulfed the East Germans. As Revell was hauled clear the last of the petrol exploded with a roar, and a jet of fire licked after him, scorching his jacket and the fabric covering of his helmet. A blistered hand thrust from a window made a mute despairing appeal for help, and then was lost in the smoke and boiling flame.

‘Into the truck.’ Letting go the last eight rounds in his magazine at a group of Russians trying to bring an unwieldy dismounted tank machine gun into action, Revell saw that the girl and driver had got in the back before jumping into the Ural’s cab.

‘We’ll never make it the rest of the way round! Make for the main workshop. Move!’

Hyde had already seen a road-block being prepared ahead of them, and had swung on to one of the radial roads even before Revell shouted.

A Russian standing precariously on a blast wall got off several shots at the truck, before being hurled from sight by a well-aimed burst from Cohen. Another tried rolling a grenade, but fell with a bullet through his neck before the bomb exploded harmlessly behind the vehicle.

It was packed in the back of the truck, with everybody trying to keep low and fire at the same time. Bullets kept striking the bodywork and high canvas top above it, but no one was down, although there were splashes of blood on the floor and the inside of the tilt.