Blind Fire (3 page)

‘What you want is something to cuddle up to, like your buddy Clarence, with his little fraulein.’

‘He’s not my mate. The only thing we have in common is that we’re British. I don’t want nothing to do with that headcase. Anyway, I don’t reckon there’s anything between them. I’ve never seen him touch her.’

‘You’ve never seen me screwing, but I do it.’ Having wiped the rangefinder, Dooley stowed it in its compact carry case. ‘Nice little toy, saves a ranging shot, but when things warm up there won’t be much time for pissing about with gadgets. It’ll all be down to how fast we can stuff those little bastards down the tube.’ Dooley’s broad features creased into a wide grin again. ‘If the shits get close enough, we can chuck the crappy things. How’s your pitching arm?’

From his position among the clump of thistles on the crest, Revell could see the rest of his squad scattered about the slope below him. From behind, at the bottom of the reverse slope, came the constant throbbing of the Chinook’s engines. He’d kept Cohen with him, and maintained radio contact with the pilot. They might need a fast getaway soon.

‘Any sign of that ECM aircraft yet?’
‘Still on our own at the moment, Major.’ ‘OK, let me know the moment it’s on station.’ Hell, they were on their own alright. A full major, and his command consisted of six men, seven if he counted Kurt -and he wished he didn’t have to - and Andrea.

Another week and he’d have been putting together his new Special Combat Company, but this had come along first, a task more suited to a regiment than a squad. The rain was easing at last, that was something.

Away to his right he could see Sergeant Hyde, his face locked to the tripod- mounted Hughes sight-and-command box. Black threads of cable snaked from it in all directions, to the various launchers and missiles scattered across the ground between them and the road. Kurt lounged beside the sergeant, smoking, with one arm draped nonchalantly over an M60 machine gun.

Libby was off to the major’s left, manning the command box for the decoys, and down the slope from him were Clarence and the girl. Andrea had her favourite M16, with a grenade launcher clipped under the barrel. Through his binoculars, Revell could see her jacket pulling in at the waist and stretching tight over the backside it didn’t quite cover. Yes, she was quite something. He’d not told the colonel of his suspicions about her being the one who’d incinerated the Russian prisoner; though if he was honest with himself, he knew that they were more than suspicions. Lippincott would have privately applauded the action, but for the sake of appearances he’d have been forced to hook her out, and into a POW camp.

He couldn’t help himself, Revell was fascinated by her. Not just because she was so incredibly beautiful, not even because her aura of hardness made her such a challenge; it was something else, something much deeper. Maybe it was a reflection of a submerged facet of his own make-up. If they ever should make love, however willingly she did it, he could imagine it being a fight. His body confirmed what his mind wouldn’t admit - the prospect excited him.

That bitch of an ex-wife of his had never been prepared to explore new ways of making love. How many times had he offered to do anything she wanted? It must have been hundreds, and she’d called him a pervert. There had been a time, in the early days of the marriage, when he’d have happily been the bitch’s slave, done anything to please her, but all she’d ever wanted, and he’d suspected not even really wanted, was sex rarely, quickly and cleanly.

She’d always kept a box of Kleenex by the bed, and almost before he’d withdrawn she’d thrust a handful at him, telling him to ‘wipe yourself, you’re dripping on the quilt.’ Seconds later she’d cork herself with more of the same and disappear into the bathroom for half an hour.

It was no more than wishful thinking, but he could imagine it being very different with Andrea...

There was another dull boom followed by a ripple of minor explosions, closer this time. The Russians were clearing another pattern of mines. He had perhaps five more minutes to himself. It seemed that it was only in the last moments before an action, when everything had been done and checked and all there was to do was wait, that he ever really got the chance to spend a few minutes exploring his own thoughts.

His gaze flickered to the mortar, and Dooley and Burke. An unlikely pair: Dooley, the big mercurial scrounger from New York, and Burke, the oldest member of the squad, from an unfashionable part of London, who had a complaint for every occasion and an excuse for avoiding work just as often. Still they got on well enough. Pity the whole of NATO couldn’t manage such harmony. If they could, then weapon standardisation would be progressing faster, and the M60s might get changed for the excellent British light support weapon.

Again he saw Andrea. She’d shifted position slightly, bending one leg so that the material of her camouflage suit was pulled tight into her backside. What sort of underwear would she have on, if any? Hell, she was turning into an obsession, he was concentrating on the wrong things ... but he felt he was right, about her putting up a fight to add spice to intercourse. He’d not mind getting hurt, not if she did it; it’d be worth it, perhaps he’d enjoy the pain. There had been one occasion, years ago, before he was married, when he’d run a girlfriend’s mother to the airport...

He’d always thought Karen’s mother attractive, had indulged in an occasional fantasy when a long petting session with Karen had got him worked up, and he’d had to relieve the throbbing pain of frustration on getting back to his room. Heck, he’d always felt guilty about it. She must have been at least twice his age, getting on for forty, and anyway, you don’t think that sort of thing about your girlfriend’s mother ...besides, it was Karen’s fault for not letting him go all the way.

It was his first decent car, and he was proud of it, had paid for it himself, well
was
paying for it, gradually. They’d started out early, and they’d had lots of time in
hand.

Perhaps it was her maturity, she never giggled or sulked; or maybe it was her looks, her make-up was always perfect and her figure impressive. That day she’d been wearing a T-shirt and tight jeans. His eyes had kept straying to the front of her jutting top.

‘You like my new shirt?’ she’d asked.
He’d plunged, and known he’d blush as he did. ‘I like what’s in it.’

Christ, in the long twenty seconds after that he’d gone through agonies while she’d fixed him with a look he couldn’t comprehend. The breath she’d taken had only made his eyes stray more.

‘Pull over here.’ Her voice had sounded different, huskier. There had been no need to park right in among the trees, but he had. If she was going to make a scene he didn’t want anyone seeing, not until he’d had a chance to say sorry, cool her down.

‘That was naughty of you. Don’t you think I should punish you, or do you think you should punish me, for not being angry?’

Her hand was in his lap, kneading his erection. Shit, at that moment he’d have swapped the flashy red coupe for any clunker that had a bench front seat.

The way they clambered into the back, the clumsy tangling of arms and legs, were all a merciful blur. The next clear image was the soft white breast being crushed into his face, a hard pink nipple pressing against his lips until it gained entry, when he had to gasp for breath. And all the time she’d whispered, ‘You can hurt me, you can hurt me.’ Then the frantic contortions to reach buttons and fasteners, and she’d come before he was ready, clutching painfully hard at his body. Nails had raked his back and thighs. He’d slipped out, been unable to re- enter, and had finished on her smooth warm belly, ignoring the biting soreness as he rubbed against her body hair.

He’d broken up with Karen soon afterwards, and they’d moved that summer. The bruises had faded, but the deep scratches took longer to heal and he’d often examined them in the mirror. There had not been a second time, though he’d tried to make opportunities, driven past often enough...

The T84 driving cautiously into view looked squat, ugly and powerful. A second followed several lengths behind, and then a third. Revell lifted his respirator from where it hung about his neck, and used its built-in short-range radio.

‘OK everyone, take it easy. This is just the advance guard, we’re waiting for the main body.’ He saw the lead tank stop a good way short of the last lot of mines they had scattered. ‘Meanwhile, let’s see how they deal with that little problem.’

‘Same way as the others.’ Dooley’s voice was easily recognisable on the radio. ‘Too fucking fast for comfort.’
‘Shut the yakking, just listen.’

Hyde had been quick off the mark, getting in before Revell. That was why the major wanted him in the outfit. The hideously disfigured British NCO might resent having been drafted into the American squad, but he never let that interfere with his combat efficiency. When it came to tank busting, he was one of the best.

His record said nineteen Soviet tanks destroyed. It was possible that unconfirmed kills doubled that, and when an estimated number of APCs, armoured cars and ammunition trucks was added on, it made for one hell of an impressive total. Men like that were more precious than gold to their commanders, and no CO in his right mind was ever going to let one go. Well he’d got Hyde for a one-off special mission, and he was going to hang on to him, whether the sergeant liked it or not.

‘Now what the hell is that?’ Cohen parted the nettles for a clearer view of the strange vehicle motoring past the tanks. It halted a hundred yards from the highly visible mines.

‘I think it’s the reason for Dooley’s discomfort.’ For a moment the radio-man’s question had echoed one in Revell’s mind, then he examined the newcomer through his binoculars. It looked for all the world like an armoured fueller on tracks. A suspicion began to form.

Thick white vapour was hosed at tremendous pressure from a small remote controlled turret, set above the heavily protected cab. The artificial cloud swept forward over the mines, feathering in the light wind. There was a distant ‘crack’, as a flare bobbed from a discharger set into the turret front beside the stubby tube of the projector, and the dense floating mist became a roaring wall of yellow flame.

Instantly, there was a swift succession of explosions as every mine was triggered by the massive over-pressure. A puking wave of compressed and super-heated air raced outwards, setting the meadow into wave-like motion.

It gave the major no satisfaction to have his guess confirmed. The clearance technique was a refinement of the aerosol bomb, an American invented fuel/air munition that was seeing wider and wider application, as commanders grew to fully appreciate its value as an area weapon, rather than just as a sledgehammer way of clearing mines and booby traps.

Before the mass of debris raised by the blast had settled, the tanks were moving again. It was self-preservation as much as discipline that prompted the crews to maintain a safe distance between each other. The mine clearer began to follow, as the first vehicle of the column’s main body came into sight.

‘They’re not bunching. They’re going to motor straight through.’ Hyde’s fingers hovered over the miniature keyboard. What was that bugger waiting for? If Revell didn’t give the order soon, at the rate the Ruskies were motoring they’d all be clear in another couple of minutes.

The slight cratering caused by the multiple detonations didn’t even slow the T84s. They took it at speed, their suspensions soaking up the bumps and passing little of the jarring of the corrugations to their hulk.

‘Make a hole in the road. Take out that fourth vehicle.’ An anti-tank missile had jumped from the grass and was jetting towards its target even as Revell’s order came through. Hyde only had to keep the sight aligned on the target, as the flame-tailed projectile skimmed the tops of the grass, receiving its commands from the control box via the twin wires unreeling behind it.

Struck as it traversed the broken section, the round’s powerful warhead punching effortlessly through the side armour and into the pressurised fuel compartment, the Soviet mine clearer turned into a tracked bomb.

Ten times greater than its predecessor, the explosion sent flame, chunks of road and anonymous pieces of armour plate high into the air. A four-barrelled Shilka anti-aircraft tank, following fifty yards behind, was pushed off the road by the blast, and shed a track.

‘OK, fire as targets present.’ They’d have to be quick now, hit and run. That second blast had flattened much of the meadow, making them conspicuous. Revell watched the crew of the flak-tank as they baled out. The last man from the big radar-topped turret threw up his arms and tumbled over the side, as a third burst from Kurt found him.

Now the fields on either side of the road swarmed with targets, as the Russian column split up and drove around the obstructing crater. Hyde wasn’t confused by the choice of victims. Playing the control panel like a concert pianist, he sent missile after missile towards the racing Soviet armour. His second round was also a hit, square on the skirt armour of a T84, but it kept going. There was no mistake with the third, it struck an exhaust-spewing T84, setting off its ammunition and sending its turret soaring into the air, accompanied by the flaming bodies of its crew.

‘Ten rounds with the mortar, and then we get out.’ The chorus of protest from Hyde, Andrea and Clarence was not unexpected, but Revell knew it was too good to last -and it was.

It was Cohen who spotted the danger first. ‘There’s a Shilka and a self-propelled gun looking like they mean business.’

Using a disabled tank as cover, the quad-barrelled flak-wagon employed short bursts of tracer to direct the 152mm howitzer of the SP mount. ‘Let them have the decoys.’ Sods of earth rained about them, as a high explosive shell struck the ground between Revell’s and Hyde’s positions. The major spat dirt and grass, holding his breath against the rasping fumes and stench of high explosive.

Well away from the crest, the fringe of a clump of trees was brightened by flashes, simulating the back-blast signature of rocket launchers. Other pyrotechnique devices sent showers of powdered metal and foil strips into the air. It worked. The flak-tank switched its fire. Blurs of red and white tracer laced the trunks, bursting with bright splashes on impact.