James Rouch: Hard Target

Revell saw the pinned-up sleeve over the stump of the colonel’s left arm and read the bitterness and frustration in his voice. He lowered his own when he spoke again, but every word was punched out sharp and clear.

‘Smash them? All we’re ever allowed to do is carry out a few raids, maybe lay an ambush or two. The rest of the time we sit in holes in the ground waiting for the next mass Commie attack. We should be taking the war to them in a big way, tearing their eyes out, not pecking at them.’

‘Not a fucking chance.’ With a neatly manicured nail Lippincott prised a sliver of soggy wood from between his top teeth and flicked it to a far corner of the office. ‘You don’t think our cruddy political bosses want us to start winning, do you? Shit, no. Of course they’ll dole out just enough hardware to let us hold the Reds, and on occasion enough to enable us to mount division strength attacks, with limited objectives of course, to keep up morale and give the newsboys some fresh footage – but they sure as hell don’t want us to start pushing the Commies right back. If that happened, the Reds might be tempted to break that cosy little hot-line agreement and take the war outside the Zone. None of those skunk-faced rats in Westminster or on Capitol Hill want any nukes falling in their back garden.’

‘You want me to tell my men that? You want me to tell them we’ve a job to do. but we mustn’t do it too well ?’

‘Don’t get smart, Major. This mission is important. The Hanover salient is our last chance to deny the Reds a straight run to Essen and the Ruhr and the Channel. You knock out that workshop, screw up 2nd Guards Army, and you’ll buy us more time to consolidate.’

From the top of a stack of papers in his in-tray the colonel took a type-written sheet and waved it in front of Revell.

‘No, it ain’t a new brand of arse wiper, it’s a note from a two-star general. He says the press will be getting this story. They’ll be encouraged to make a big splash about British-American cooperation if the mission goes well. Now I ain’t about to disappoint a two-star general, so don’t balls it up. No friction, understand? I want everything to go as smoothly as a well-oiled cock up a nice slack fanny, or else.

Libby’s fist hit PFC Dooley a solid blow in the gut. As he fell to his knees the big American lunged forward and, catching his opponent by surprise, brought him down too. Before Libby could regain his feet Dooley was on him and the breath whistled from them as they pounded each other.

‘What the bloody hell is going on here? Break it up.’ Corporal Howard pushed through the tight circle of men that had formed around the combatants and was then in turn pushed aside by his sergeant.

At that moment the more powerfully built American was on top, hands locked about Libby’s throat. Hyde hesitated a fraction of a second, undecided which was the best way to end the fight without giving grounds for further aggravation between the Americans and his men. But even as he stepped forward to pull them apart himself, Major Revell came through the crowd on the far side and instantly delivered a savagely powerful chop to the back of Dooley’s neck.

Eyes bulging, tongue protruding between teeth half-hidden by foam, he began to topple to the floor. His fall was arrested by the officer, who grabbed his ears and hauled him to his feet.

Revell spoke quietly, never taking his intense pale blue eyes from the semi-conscious man’s face. In the general silence the words carried to everyone there. ‘Listen to me, Dooley. The colonel said ‘no friction’, you understand?’ The soldier went cross-eyed, attempted to shake his head, winced and nodded. ‘One warning only on this one. I know you, Dooley. It happens again and you’ll be doing mine clearance with a jack-hammer, OK?’

Dooley’s knees had gone rubbery and only the officer’s tight grip kept him upright. He nodded, again with the same painful result. Letting go his hold, Revell turned to Hyde. ‘Any idea what all this was about?’

‘No, Major.’ Hyde shook his head. ‘No idea at all, but it won’t happen again.’ By Christ it wouldn’t, he wasn’t going to be shown up in front of an officer from another unit, American, British or whatever. But especially not in front of this one. Although he’d so far had little contact with the American forces that made up half the NATO troops fighting in Europe, he had in his mind’s eye a composite image of a typical Yank officer. Revell didn’t fit it at all.

The three hovercraft personnel carriers that would carry them on their mission were almost ready. Sergeant Hyde suspected that the flare-up had occurred as a result of Dooley’s constant attempts to pilfer pieces of equipment from the Iron Cow. Libby and Burke had spent weeks gathering together a complete set of accessories for their transport, from wrecks and other unofficial sources and Libby in particular had been steadily growing more irritated with the big American’s jackdaw tendencies.

Revell sat on a packing case, occasionally glancing at the map board resting in his lap, but most of the time watching the final preparations going on about the skimmers. Working conditions inside the ruined block of shops that served as a camouflaged company HQ and vehicle repair shed were appalling. The air was permeated with the stench of bleach that failed to lay the taint of cordite from the frequent conventional long-range bombardment missiles with which the Russians pounded the salient. There was only such natural light as filtered in to work by – the generator had been yet another casualty of the current spares shortage -and the floor was littered with debris, grease and broken glass.

Casually, on the transparent cover of the map of northern Germany, the major drew a broad arrow with his blue marker pen, from their present position five miles east of the centre of Hanover, to a point about thirty miles closer to the old East German border, near Gifhorn. He looked at the line, so easy to draw, taking only a second to do. How long would the real journey take, racing from one piece of safe ground, to another, constantly probing for holes in the Russians’ network of ground surveillance radars? It would take all of the remaining few hours of darkness to reach the target area. Most of the way they would be travelling through territory controlled by the Russians. There were gaps in the defences, but the deeper they went the harder the gaps would be to find, and with radio silence ordered they could expect no help if they ran into trouble, and the chances were that they would.

There would have to be ten minutes set aside for a final briefing, it certainly wouldn’t take longer than that. They had their weapons, a mission and a circle on a map. And that was it.

For two weeks his men had been holding defensive positions, with nothing to do but grow bored and become irritable. And now suddenly it was all rush again. All the preparations for a mission that called for meticulous planning were having to be completed in eight hours.

‘We’ve finished loading now, sir.’

Revell looked up. Master Sergeant Windle was stood casually in front of him. Good dependable old Windle, with the emphasis on old. He should have been rotated back to the States a year ago, but he’d played on the shortage of experienced sergeants, and wangled one extension after another. Still, while Windle was around, all was well. He’d come through so many actions without a scratch that the men had begun to believe he was immortal and regarded him as the embodiment of their luck. It was a theory that the next thirty-six hours would put severely to the test.

‘OK, have everyone muster by Hyde’s skimmer. Was there something else?’ From Windle’s perceptible hesitation before turning away he knew there was. ‘This British bunch, Major.’ Windle needed no second opening. ‘Their sergeant’s got a face like the phantom of the opera; their driver is the laziest creep I ever set eyes on, and the one who goes round with a sniper rifle substituting for a security blanket, well he’s off his head.’