Part 13 (1/2)

”OK, then. Knacker the one in the signals office. Break one of the connections or whatever you have to do, but leave the other.

Have you swept the signals room thoroughly?”

He nodded.

”There's only the one in there.”

”Better do all the rooms the same.

Now I realised why our hosts had done so much redecorating: they'd painted over any bits of re plastering that had been needed.

The discovery unsettled me.

”I'm really disappointed,” I told Whinger.

”I hoped all that was a thing of the past.”

”Who are we to talk?” he said.

The truth of his remark kept me in a state of permanent unease. I confirmed to Whinger that I didn't intend to mention the bugs: we'd wait to see what happened if Steve took one out.

The day being Sunday, there were few people about on the camp, and we were left to sort ourselves out which suited us fine. There was more than enough admin and physical work to keep us busy. Sasha was in and out, making sure we had all we wanted.

It was clear that all our lads were going to have to take turns at cooking, and in mid-morning Sasha took Dusty our master chef and Mal off on a conducted tour of Balas.h.i.+ka's shops, from which they returned effing and blinding. The so-called Supermagazin was a disaster, and the only place they found any half-decent vegetables was in an open-air market, where locals were selling produce brought in from the country. In the Supermagazin they'd bought scabby oranges, and at the other place they had got eggs, onions, carrots, cabbages and potatoes; but still it looked as though we were going to be relying heavily on tins, packets and boil-in-the-bag meals designed for use in the field.

After lunch, under Sasha's supervision, drivers delivered two battered-looking Volgas, one mid-grey, one black, with worn tyres and rust showing through the paint where the mudguards joined the body. He explained that they were a slightly later model than his own, but similar. The grey one had 88,000 ks on the clock, the black 13,000 which obviously meant that it had been round the dial once at least When I asked if it was OK to drive around the dirt roads inside the training area, to familia rise ourselves with the vehicles, Sasha exclaimed, ”Why not?”

”How about going into town?”

”Whatever you like. You've got your licences OK. But inside camp, no red-and-white bars, please.”

He meant that we weren't to go through any of the safety barriers that blocked off the danger areas; but there was plenty of other s.p.a.ce, and four of us set out for a spin. Before we left, I got Steve to run his bug-hunter over both vehicles just in case, but the result was negative, and that rea.s.sured me a little.

Nevertheless, we didn't propose to run unnecessary risks, so we took covert radios and kept the Volgas a few hundred metres apart, chatting to make sure we weren't being followed.

The cars were sluggish and noisy, with heavy steering; but even though driving them was a pain, at least we had wheels of our own. I hadn't expected such freedom: I'd imagined we would be more closely supervised. The entire training area was ringed by the concrete wall, so we were in fact enclosed. We soon found that a perimeter track skirted the inside of the wall, heading out north-eastwards in the direction of the s.p.a.ce complex; and after a couple of ks we began to see, beyond the wall, amazingly large, white dish-aerials pointing skywards in seined ranks. Although I said nothing, I could immediately imagine why the Pentagon fancied taking that lot out.

The land was almost dead flat, with only a gentle rise and fall to relieve the monotony. Patches of pine and birch forest alternated with wide-open scrub and gra.s.s, crisscrossed by dirt tracks, reminding me of the training areas at Pirbright. Here and there a primitive wooden observation tower stuck up above the trees. Clearly the training area was well used, but two things about it made me feel reasonably secure. One was the sheer size of the landscape. In terrain as open as this it would be very difficult for anyone to watch us without our being aware of the surveillance. The other factor in our favour was the decrepit nature of the fixtures and fittings. On several of the wooden watch-towers the ladders had rungs missing, and the red-and white bafflers which Sasha had mentioned were bent and rusting. All this, we felt certain, reflected the cut-down in the Russian forces: clearly, they had n.o.body to do the maintenance and were generally short-staffed.

Three ks from base, as we were cruising gently, Rick suddenly pointed to his left. There, at the end of a glade with a shallow ditch running out along its base, was a derelict air-raid shelter or bunker a dome of concrete protruding from a bank of higher ground, with a small rectangular opening in the side that faced us.

I felt my heartbeat speed up. At first glance this looked an incredibly promising candidate for the burial of Orange. The perimeter wall of the training area was only a few yards behind it, the nearest dish aerials a short distance farther off. We'd never get closer than this. I could scarcely believe we'd found one site already.

”Black to Grey,” I called over the radio.

”Stopping to have a pee. Hang off and watch my back.”

”Grey. Roger,” came Whinger' svoice.

In the warm afternoon sun Rick and I strolled towards the bunker while Mal stayed at the wheel. Small birds were singing and the place had a peaceful atmosphere. All the same, I was nagged by a feeling that somebody was watching us.

”We won't go any closer,” I said quietly to Rick.

”Turn back.”

From fifty yards short of the structure, I could see planks and spars of wood piled up inside the opening. The shelter, whatever it was, appeared to be full of rubbish. All the better for us.

We slowly wheeled round and walked towards the car again.

Facing that way, I realised that there was one watch tower in sight, but it was a long way off, and, as far as we could tell, unmanned. To complete the casual picture, I went over and had a p.i.s.s against a gorse bush, after which we got back into the car.

”Mobile again,” I told Whinger.

”Nothing moving your way?”

”All clear.”

We returned to base without incident. Had I imagined the unseen eyes? Rick said he had felt nothing and he normally picked up danger signals before anyone else. Once again I started wavering. My first reaction, as we drove away from the shelter, had been. Right, let's go for it. Let's get the d.a.m.ned CND straight in there and not b.u.g.g.e.r about taking it into the city centre. Then the feeling of unease returned, making me realise how hasty I was being. Obviously we needed to recce the site properly before we went cras.h.i.+ng into it. Even though the building looked as though it had been abandoned for years, it could still be the scene of some training activity. Better keep calm, take time to settle in and get the feel of things.

”Carry on as planned,” I told Whinger.

”We'll aim to roll into town after dark.”

We had a meal Dusty produced a great corned-beef hash with plenty of onions and fried eggs on top and waited till it was fully dark. Then we backed both Volgas as close as we could to our block's rear entrance. I could tell that everyone was on edge, from the way they were talking in short bursts. We put d.i.c.kers out to watch either end of the building, and when they confirmed that the coast was clear, we began carrying the kit out.

From measurements taken earlier, we knew that one Lacon box would effectively fill the boot of each car, and that the rear doors were too narrow to take one at all. We'd therefore opened the boxes up and brought out the CNDs in their original packing. The main components, in their black steel cases, were forty inches by thirty by twelve, and the SCR, an incredibly heavy lump, was a twenty-inch cube. The cases had built-in handles at the corners for a four-man carry.

Before we left the building, Toad opened up the small compartment in the base of each SCR and brought out its Rat. I hooked one into my belt and gave the other to Pavarotti. Now those two had to stay within a hundred feet of their devices, otherwise the pagers would go off automatically and start transmitting their alarm signal.

I was s.h.i.+tting bricks as we came down the steps with the first of them. Having a thing like that in your hands is no joke. No matter how often Toad had a.s.sured us that an accidental impact couldn't set the bomb off, I kept wondering what would happen if one of us lost his footing.

Gingerly we lowered the first case into one boot. That just left room for the SCR box alongside. The second big case had to go on the back seat, and the combined weight put the Volga down on its springs. With two guys up front, the rear mudguards were almost on the tyres.

Sasha had told the guardroom we'd be going out, so we had no problem there. We flashed some big smiles along with our pa.s.ses, and the sentry raised the baffler, waving us through.

Then, on the main road, it was just a question of turning left and heading down the big highway into town.

The traffic was incredibly light. I thought of Sunday night on the M4, with a million cars all trying to pour back into London at the same time. Here, I realised, most of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who lived in the city centre had nowhere to go at weekends.

Whinger drove the lead car, the black one, with me beside him, map in hand. Rick kept the grey Volga four or five hundred yards behind, so that the two vehicles didn't seem to be a.s.sociated. With him was Pavarotti, and, squeezed into the back seat beside half of Orange, Toad. There was really no need for him to come with us, but at the back of my mind lurked the worry that while we were moving the devices around, something might happen to them. I could hardly imagine what the problem might be, but if one of them started ticking or heating up we might suddenly need Toad to deal with it.

The two cars were in radio contact, in case anyone saw trouble looming. The plan was for Rick to close up in the final stages of the trip, so that he could follow us and not have to worry about navigation. We also had pistols in underarm holsters, concealed beneath our jackets.

When we joined the thin stream of traffic, I realised what good cars the Volgas were to have. Never mind that they had zero acceleration and roared and wallowed like ten-ton trucks: they were anonymous, and scruffy enough not to arouse anyone's interest. As we kept to the right-hand lane at about sixty ks, any number of identical vehicles surged past on the outside.

That first run-in could hardly have been easier. The only threat was from the potholes which, with the huge load we had on board, could have done serious damage. Whinger often had to swerve to avoid a chasm ahead.

To help with the map-reading in the city centre, I'd made a list of the streets we needed to take. In fact, for most of the way all we had to do was follow the same highway right through, almost until we reached the Moscow River.