Part 8 (1/2)

A hundred yards. Clarence chambered the first of the two special bullets he'd taken from the lead-lined container. Seventy-five. He laid the barrel gently in the notch he'd carved in the parapet, and aimed over open sights at the T72. It wasn't a side-on shot, the bullet would impact at an angle of about forty degrees: that increased the thickness of metal it would have to penetrate.

The tank's cannon roared again and sent another sh.e.l.l over their heads. Once more it was the unoffending trees. that took the extreme punishment. Far from helping its crew pinpoint their position, the sledgehammer tactics only served to conceal the squad more, adding to the eye-confusing litter of debris about them as smouldering bark and lengths of shattered timber rained down.

Fifty yards. Clarence waited. Forty. Clouds of smoke billowed high above the tank, the multiple exhaust pipes emitting the beat of the big V12 diesel.

A pencil-slim spurt of white and blue flame from the side of the tank's hull, dead centre, just below the top run of track, was the only and unspectacular evidence of the lead-sheathed round's place of impact. Clarence chambered the second bullet and sighted once more, but it wasn't needed.

With its engine screaming at maximum revs, the tank's left track locked and it spun through a half-turn before lurching to a stop as its motor cut.

Suddenly deprived of their mobile cover, the marines hesitated a moment. That cost two more of them their lives as Hyde and the rest of the squad let fly with every weapon. The survivors fell back, firing off hesitant ill-aimed bursts, then turned and began to run.

Standing up and taking her time, Andrea put the last of them down, her M16's magazine emptying as their final cries echoed back.

There was no smoke or flame coming from the tank, it just sat there, silent and immobile. Libby glanced at it frequently as he worked to deepen his slit-trench. Just as he looked up to check it once more, he saw the distinctive flame-tails of missiles rising from the north of the island. He pointed them out to Sergeant Hyde.

'Could be SAMs, nothing to do with us anyway. Probably some Commie wetting himself and short-circuiting a firing switch.' Hyde grabbed Andrea's rifle, and prevented her from sending a second burst at a wounded Russian who was attempting to crawl away. 'Don't waste ammo. That b.u.g.g.e.r has got mates who'll be along soon. He won't be taking any more part in the sc.r.a.p. Let him go, save your bullets for Commies who can hit back.' A single shot ploughed into the ground between the NCO and the girl, and Hyde m ade no fresh attempt to stop her when she fired on the casualty they'd spared, and who now supported himself against a tree, aiming with a clumsily held AK74.

Hit by several bullets the Russian threw up his arms and fell backwards. A spurt of flame rose from his body as the contents of an ammunition pouch ignited. Cartridges in the broken magazines began to cook-off, and the corpse jerked with each volley.

'Stupid sod.' Libby went back to his digging.

'Maybe he was trying for a medal.' Through borrowed binoculars Ripper watched the burning corpse jump and twitch. Some of the rounds were going into the body and smas.h.i.+ng what wasn't already being consumed by the flames.

'More likely the poor s.h.i.+t was scared of going back arid reporting failure. Either he was deliberately committing suicide, or he was using up the last of his ammo to make his story more convincing...'

'Or maybe he was a party member,' Dooley added to Hyde's speculations.

'Could be.' Surfacing from the pit he'd made, Burke lodged the blade of his shovel between the upper thighs of a Russian corpse. 'Could well be. Those bleeding card carriers take the cake. Me, I don't reckon any Ruskies, but those real Commies, the party members, nastiest lot of f.u.c.kers you'll ever meet. If they hadn't started this b.l.o.o.d.y war we'd have had to do something about them some day.'

'Here's your chance to do something about them today.' Jumping back into his trench, Hyde tried to count the number of enemy troops pouring from the far woods. He couldn't, there were too many... hundreds, and another tank. And this time the Russians were using their cla.s.sic tactics. As armour and infantry charged, showing none of the slow-paced caution displayed by the earlier patrol, 120mm mortar sh.e.l.ls began to fall.

There were no individual ranging shots. The first salvo of five sh.e.l.ls fell a hundred yards short, the second, fifty. Hyde ducked down in his trench, clamped his hands over the welded flesh of what had been his ears, and waited for the battery to zero in on his squad's position.

'I couldn't track the SAMs, not with this equipment, but one of those planes is gone from the screen, and there's nothing else to account for it.'

Revell had to accept the bombardier's explanation of the Swedish aircraft's disappearance. The Russians must have gone mad, or if they hadn't, then a battery commander had. Perhaps the Swedes might put up with having one of the islands scorched and battered, and their coastline littered with wrecked s.h.i.+pping; but there was no way they'd shrug off the deliberate destruction of one of their fighters.

'Those three s.h.i.+ps left behind by the second battle group are moving.'

'Forget them. Do we have the Gorshkov Gorshkov in range yet?' Pacing didn't bring the moment nearer any faster, but it gave Revell something to do. He almost tripped over the woman's body, catching his foot in the sacking draping her, so that it moved and revealed her staring face, spotted with the first marks of frostbite. Even had she survived the wound-Ripper had inflicted, she would have almost certainly have lost her legs, and parts of other extremities. in range yet?' Pacing didn't bring the moment nearer any faster, but it gave Revell something to do. He almost tripped over the woman's body, catching his foot in the sacking draping her, so that it moved and revealed her staring face, spotted with the first marks of frostbite. Even had she survived the wound-Ripper had inflicted, she would have almost certainly have lost her legs, and parts of other extremities.

'She's slowed a lot, must be jamming like mad, but if I've picked the right image from among the ghosts on this screen then we can have a go any time.'

'Tell the gunners we're going for broke. Every tube at the carrier. We'll give the Ruskie admiral thirty seconds after we open up. If the crud hasn't retaliated against Swedish territory by then, commence count-down on the Lance. You can use all the remaining decoys this time, York. After this we shan't be needing any more.'

Revell would have given everything to be able to tap, understand and absorb the deluge of radio traffic between the carrier and Moscow, and between the radar- direction, fire-control and reload crews aboard each vessel. That would have told him if something would be coming their way, and when, and how much - but maybe it was better not to know. Only the need to keep Sweden neutral as long as possible had prevented the battle group from wiping the island off the map. The fact that there were Russians on it meant nothing. A single battalion of Soviet marines and their equipment was worth less than nothing in the eyes of the High Command in the Kremlin, when balanced against a vitally needed fleet, and a s.h.i.+p that carried the prestige of the whole country.

There was some small consolation for Revell in knowing that, at the short and still closing range between the island and the battle group, some of the wars.h.i.+p's heavier missile armament would be less than effective. Designed to operate against targets fifty or more miles away, it would be almost impossible for the s.h.i.+p's radar to gather and set the missiles towards the island, when their sonic or high subsonic speeds would put them over the dot of land even before the first course correction following launch could be transmitted.

But it was only a very small consolation. Those powerful vessels each had a secondary armament of missiles and conventional weapons capable of delivering a torrent of explosive on to any target, at any distance. Certainly more than enough to saturate the two or three square miles of the island several times over.

The surface radar screen put everything into perspective. To the north, the tail- end of the second battle group, the stragglers whose speed or control or both had been affected by the attack. Nearer the island, the three slow-moving dots of the crippled vessels trying desperately to get out of the path of the approaching carrier and escort, and closer still the slowly fading blip that was the sinking Ivan Rogov. Ivan Rogov. But it was the third battle group on which Revell concentrated all his attention. But it was the third battle group on which Revell concentrated all his attention.

Aboard those s.h.i.+ps, radar operators would be scrutinising their own screens, watching for the first signs of a third attack. The admiral responsible for the carrier group would be on the bridge of the Gorshkov, Gorshkov, s.n.a.t.c.hing every signal that came in, and dictating an endless stream of his own as he tried to get permission from Moscow to hit back if his precious s.h.i.+p came in for the same treatment that had been meted out to the first and second battle groups. s.n.a.t.c.hing every signal that came in, and dictating an endless stream of his own as he tried to get permission from Moscow to hit back if his precious s.h.i.+p came in for the same treatment that had been meted out to the first and second battle groups.

'Waiting for the word, Major.' Cline was constantly updating the carrier's position on the data links, and doing everything he could to confirm that the particular blip he had chosen was indeed the Gorshkov Gorshkov and not a decoy transmission. and not a decoy transmission.

'They're not going to like us doing it to them again.' York noticed a slight but perceptible falling off in the quant.i.ty of enemy radio traffic. 'I think they've got themselves near enough ready now, Major. The flap's over, now they're just sitting there, waiting, like a b.l.o.o.d.y great cat for a little weak mouse.'

'Not as weak as all that.' Revell held his fire a moment longer.

The lead escort s.h.i.+ps were slowing down as they drew abreast of the island, to make a corridor of defensive fire for the carrier as it pa.s.sed.

In the silence of the room, Revell could hear mortar fire, punctuated by the crack of a cannon and the near continuous rattle of machine guns. Hyde too had a fight on his hands, but he had started early. It was time for them to join in. 'Fire.'

FOURTEEN.

Above the thunder of the mortar barrage, above the crash and clatter of cannon and automatic fire, Hyde heard the multiple rocket launchers go into action. He had to turn, squirming around in his trench, to watch the projectiles ride their tails of flame into the sky. Their scream blotted every other noise from existence as they leapt upwards in a never ending stream. He couldn't watch them all, the Russian marines were getting close, and he had to turn back to add the puny contribution of his rifle to the pathetic volume that was all his squad could muster against the weapons ma.s.sed against them.

Soviet infantrymen were falling, many of them, but there were always more to keep the attack pressing forward. The wave of relief Hyde had experienced when the rain of mortar sh.e.l.ls suddenly ceased was instantly wiped away by the realisation that it marked the moment for the enemy to close in and finish the unequal battle.

'Take that, you s.h.i.+ts.' Determined to use every last round, to sell himself as dear as he could, Hyde sent a burst into a knot of marines 'advancing ahead of the main body. Four of them went down. He replaced the clip and sighted again. He could see the open mouths of the men who were still advancing, they must be shouting but he couldn't hear them.

A mortar sh.e.l.l fell close, and Hyde felt needles of fire in his side. This might be his last chance, he took careful aim.

The Russians seemed to dissolve, fall apart. There was a gigantic explosion and bodies and limbs were suddenly flying through the air. A dozen more of the ma.s.sive detonations followed in quick succession and the attack faltered, stopped, and was destroyed.

The open ground was torn into a b.l.o.o.d.y moonscape under the pulverising blows. The knocked-out tank disappeared inside a huge fireball that lifted to reveal no vestige of the machine. Stalled, abandoned by its crew, the second 172 was lifted and thrown thirty yards, all forty-six tons of it, to land upside down in a steaming crater.

As shock wave after shock wave washed over him, Burke clung to the earth. At every blast the hard ground smacked into his face, but he didn't move, preferring its punishment to the consequences of raising his head. Two enormous explosions that erupted almost simultaneously ended the pounding, and after a moment he cautiously looked up.