James Rouch - Hard Target

Hyde drove the truck straight into the huge repair shed, and braked to a halt in the middle of the thick walled structure. In long closely spaced rows on either side of them stood forty Soviet tanks, as well as some armoured missile and radar carriers.

The instant they stopped, a brisk fire opened up on them from a glass-walled office set high up on scaffolding at the far end of the workshop. Revell and Libby tumbled out to provide fire as Collins, Cohen and Rinehart set delay charges on each tracked vehicle, placing them inside open engine compartments or below turret overhangs. The electric motors of an overhead crane and the steel cradles holding replacement gun barrels received the same treatment.

It was as Collins sprinted across an open stretch of floor to reach a Ganef missile carrier that the unseen gunner on the balcony caught him. The bullets cut his legs from under him and he went down hard, lay still a moment, then gathered up the haversack he had dropped and crawled on.

Revell had only one magazine left; he’d been saving it for the generator on the way out. He snapped it into place,’ shouldered the weapon and fired a short burst. On hitting the balcony the rounds broke up, scattering phosphorus. The pellets ignited immediately on exposure to the air. The remaining glass in the office walls shattered in the tremendous heat and the rapid clatter of the AKM ceased immediately. A moment later a figure appeared, smothered in rippling hoops of fire from the waist up. It beat the air with flame-dripping fingers, tottered forward and dropped over the edge to the floor twenty feet below.

Cohen was first to reach Collins, as he finished setting the last of his charges behind the Ganef’s drive sprockets.

‘OK kid, we’re getting you out of here.’ Collins didn’t hear. He was in deep shock and both his legs were terribly shattered. Blood formed a large puddle about him, and marked his route from the middle of the floor. More of it soaked Cohen and Rinehart as they carried him to the back of the truck.

Revell slung the last satchel of explosives under the belly of an SA-8 missile launcher. ‘That’s it. Let’s go.’

Hyde didn’t look to see what speed they were doing, but when they hit the massive steel shutters that had been closed across the end doors of the drive-through workshop they crashed through them with hardly any check to their pace. The impact crushed in the Ural’s front panel work and friction-induced smoke began to pour from beneath a wheel arch.

A crowd of Russians scattered before them as they burst out and ploughed over them. Those not crushed beneath the wheels were mown down at point-blank range.

Seventy-five yards ahead lay the ramp by which they’d come in. Choking smoke swirled about them, now so thick that at times they could hardly make out the black-out curtain at its mouth.

Sixty yards to go, fifty, Hyde hunched over the wheel, willing greater speed from the engine. Forty and they had to make it, thirty, almost there, twenty, they’d almost done it, ten, nine…

Travelling fast, the jagged metal of the cab’s front struck the material, smacking one flap aside, tearing another down as it caught on the projecting torn metal of a fender.

‘Fuck it.’ There was no time for anything else. Libby threw up his hands to protect his face as the Ural thundered into the huge armoured recovery vehicle coming down through the outer doors.

Rugged as it. was, the six-wheeler was no match for a modified T72, with its inches of armour and a weight more than four times that of the truck.

There was no room to pass, but Hyde tried throwing the Ural at the narrow gap between tank and wall to reduce the shock of impact. The tank’s broad left track climbed on to and crushed the truck’s engine before it stopped.

Revell found himself looking at the belly of the tank’s pulley-and hawser-adorned hull. The passenger door was tight against the wall and the other, distorted by the collision, was jammed. There was only one way out. One swing of his assault-rifle pushed out the windscreen, and then followed by Hyde and Libby he scrambled out onto the cab roof.

The uncomprehending crew of the ARV were climbing dazed from their vehicle. Hyde gave them no chance. His rifle barked three times and they tumbled back out of sight.

Revel] jumped down and ran to the back of the truck where Dooley, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead, was helping the others out. A bullet zipped past him, very close.

‘I’ll fix those buggers.’ Hyde appeared, and pulled a rocket launcher from the tangle of equipment on the floor of the truck. ‘Take out the generator that might do it.’

Firing wild bursts from the hip Rinehart was already trying to do just that, but more bullets were coming at them, ricocheting from the concrete and striking sparks from the truck’s chassis and rear axles.

Aboard the six-wheeler, Cohen was attempting to extricate Collins from beneath the pile of ammunition boxes. The major jumped on board to help. As they pushed the last aside they saw that the effort had been in vain. Collins stared at them with unseeing eyes.

‘Join the others and have them start back for the skimmer.’ It took a hard shove to get Cohen moving.

Shouldering the launch tube, Hyde took careful aim.

Bullets buzzed past him and smacked into the concrete at his feet, but he stood rock steady and kept the sights aligned on the big generator trailer sixty yards away. Only the top half of it was visible above a substantial sandbag blast wall, and that view was constantly being lost as smoke from burning drums of cable eddied about it.

Hyde gently squeezed the trigger and sent the black painted anti-tank rocket on its way. A few yards clear of the launch tube the projectile’s main motor cut in and it raced towards its target.

They heard the crash of its impact, but smoke prevented them from observing precisely where. The arc lights remained on. Sergeant Hyde was reaching for another of the disposable launchers when the lights flickered, dimmed and faded. ‘Will you look at that.’ Rinehart stood transfixed. ‘Hell must be like that.’

It was a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno. The big underground complex was now only lit by the unchecked fires that raged within it. With the last of the machinery stilled, apart from the occasional bang of a round cooking off, the only noises came from the many trapped and wounded men. It was hard to breathe. The air was searing hot and filled with poisonous fumes from the fires.

A fresh flare-up from the direction of the knocked-out generator lit up the service road by which they’d escaped. It was filled with a hobbling, crawling mass of wounded.

All of them were making for the ramp. Rinehart brought up his rifle, but like Revell beside him in a similar pose, didn’t fire.

The approaching men were pitiful. Only a few were groaning or making any complaint, but they served to highlight the silence of the majority. Shattered limbs, terrible burns and massive stomach wounds were all to be seen.

‘We’ve done enough, let’s get out.’ Skirting the truck, Revell was first to leap on to the front of the ARV completely blocking the ramp. He helped up Hyde and then extended his hand to Rinehart.

A scattering of shots came from somewhere among the wounded. They were being used as cover. One clipped Hyde’s rifle and tore it from his grasp, another struck the armour at their feet and went on to bury itself in a thick baulk of timber attached to the hull-top.

Rinehart froze, dropped his assault rifle, then sprawled back to lay spread-eagled across the top of the recovery vehicle. A high velocity round had struck him between the eyes. His helmet could be heard falling from ledge to ledge inside the hull.