Sky Strike tz-4 Read online

  Burke flexed his fingers over the controls, like a concert pianist warming up for a recital. ‘This must be the brake.’ A loud hiss of escaping air confirmed his guess. ‘Let’s see if I’m as brilliant with the rest. This’ll be the first time this crate has been out on the main line, quite an adventure for it. Reminds me of a story I read as a kid, about this…’

  ‘We’re not on the main line yet, and I don’t want to hear about Ivor the Engine, just drive.’

  If Burke hadn’t been enjoying himself he would have taken exception to the sergeant’s remarks, but he ignored them, and increased the engine revs as he released the brake. ‘Here we go…’

  ‘Backwards…’

  The loco’ stopped dead, and from behind it, audible above the crackle of small-arms fire and the crash of grenades, came the sequential clanging of the wagon buffers making repeated contact.

  ‘I know, I was just testing… trying it out.’

  ‘You’re trying me.’ From the cab window Revell blasted three puzzled Russian infantrymen who were openly but cautiously approaching the train. Caught by the merging storm of pellets they were mown down. ‘Now let’s get going.’

  There was a succession of less violent jerks as the locomotive took up the weight of the loaded hopper wagons in turn, and then they were rolling. The throat of the yard was dead-ahead, and Burke kept the speed to a steady walking pace as they approached a damaged section of track.

  ‘Keep going, keep going. We’ve got nothing to lose now.’ Not needing the officer’s urging, Burke increased the revs a fraction more, and then the wheels were squealing and clattering as the whole machine swung wildly from side to side. Then they were over, and could hear the wagons making the same passage.

  The last of the seven-car rake failed to negotiate the section, and slewed sideways, ripping up whole sections of track as it was dragged along, spilling its black load. For a moment it was caught, held back by the jumble of rails and sleepers, and Burke, sensing the sudden resistance, moved the regulator another notch and the screw-coupling broke.

  ‘Hold it.’ Scrutinising the track ahead, Ripper had seen a set of points against them. ‘I better do something about that, or we’re gonna find ourselves motoring back the way we just came.’ He opened the cab door. ‘You all reckon you can provide a mite of covering fire?’

  It was needed. Dooley and Andrea jumped out with him, to provide close support, while from the elevated position of the cab the others opened a furious barrage of fire on any other opposition.

  A dozen East German militia, unenthusiastic and un-stiffened by Russian troops, broke and ran even as they launched a half-hearted attack, leaving six of their number on the ground.

  An anti-tank rocket hit a coal wagon, sending a geyser of dust and dark smoke into the air as the shaped charge easily pierced the metal side and had its white hot fury dissipated among the load beyond. Burning coal tumbled from the roughly circular hole. A second rocket followed and sailed over the roof of the locomotive to self-destruct over a distant row of unmarked wagons. The consequences were near instantaneous, and dramatic, as a chain of massive explosions blasted the wagons apart when their ammunition cargoes erupted in spectacular fashion.

  Ripper was using a length of damaged track as a lever, but it wasn’t until Dooley threw his weight against it that the resistance of the locking device was overcome, and the route opened up once more.

  ‘All aboard.’ It was a strong temptation to sound the klaxon, but Burke forced himself to suppress it. The urge returned with renewed force as they approached the main line.

  Set after set of trailing points were burst open by the locomotive’s progress across the junction, and their driver had to move the regulator two more notches to overcome their retarding effect. Sluggishly, the motors responded as they pushed the speed towards the maximum for which they were geared.

  A file of Russian combat engineers were crossing the tracks and weren’t aware of the train’s approach until it was almost on them. Some scattered, tripping and sprawling on the multiple obstacles; others froze and could only stare uncomprehendingly: two died. In their panic they ran into each other and that moment of confusion cost them then-lives.

  Burke saw the horror in the men’s faces as the loco’s slab front caught them and they were swept beneath the wheels. Through the daubs and streaks of blood on the windscreen he saw a greater danger ahead of them. The tracks were carrying them straight towards it.

  Five hundred yards further on, a lone, old, rust-streaked T55 tank crushed flat a section of the corrugated iron fencing flanking the track, thumped down the three-foot step on to the permanent way and parked broadside on, straddling the steel ribbons running parallel to those taking the train away from the encircled yard.

  An officer stood on the tank’s engine deck, and he had to move back half a pace to avoid the overhanging stowage bin welded to the turret’s rear as it traversed to bring its cannon to bear.

  Smoke hid the T55 for a second, and a big ball of orange tracer flashed past the cab to skin the length of the train. Libby could see the Russian officer’s urgent gestures, could imagine the tirade of threats he’d be screaming at the vehicle’s commander and gunner.

  Grabbing their last rocket launcher from the floor, Libby pushed it out through the sliding side window and, against the buffeting of the air and the loco’s jolting motion, tried to take aim. It was near impossible, but with the range down to two hundred yards and the tank about to fire again, he had nothing to lose. He sent the rocket on its way.

  The flame-tailed missile roared towards its target, and missed, the small but powerful warhead going on to demolish another panel of the trackside fencing. But the mere sight of it was sufficient for the tank driver. He sent his charge surging forward to get out of the line of fire, and in his panic stalled in the path of the train.

  A hand, the major’s, clamped down hard on Burke’s arm to prevent him reaching for the brake, but their driver hadn’t intended to: instead, at the instant he realised collision was inevitable, he rammed the speed selector as far as it would go.

  ‘Hang on.’ Revell just had time to raise his arm before his face when a shower of broken glass swept into the cab from the shattered windscreen, and he was thrown forward, hard into the controls.

  Expecting the restarted tank to get clear in time, the officer remained on the engine deck, and paid dearly for the miscalculation. The loco’s buffer caught the rear of the T55 and spun it around. Smashed face-first into the back of the turret, the officer rolled off the hull and was smeared from existence as the armoured vehicle ground over him.

  There were more impacts as the third and fourth wagons in the rake also clipped the tank. The last jolt tipped the T55 on its side, so that the tip of its cannon barrel made contact with the overhead catenary system. Fire crackled over the armoured vehicle, the surge of high voltage spot welding its steel hull to the tracks.

  A single figure that half-crawled, half-tumbled from the loader’s hatch in the turret had the flesh of his face and hands burnt blue, while his leather suit and rib-padded helmet smouldered and charred away in dark flakes.

  ‘We’re OK, keep up the speed.’ Loud grinding noises were coming from beneath their feet, and Revell could see great fans of sparks flying past the windows as the crushed metalwork was worn down against the wheels.

  ‘Shit, we made it. We’re on our fucking way home.’ Dooley tried to dance a little jig with Andrea, but she pushed him off, and he staggered back into Sergeant Hyde.

  ‘Quit it, you fat oaf. Before you start celebrating, take a look.’ Turning his face into the blast of cold air coming in through the open front, Dooley saw that they had turned off the main line and were now on what looked like a long-neglected spur heading towards an industrial area. ‘How the fucking hell did this happen? Where the bloody hell are we going?’

  ‘How the sodding hell should I know, I’m only the driver.’ As the curve of the branch line became sharper Burke had to ease b
ack the speed to keep the loudly protesting wheels on the track.

  Don’t start laying the blame on me.’ Ripper became conscious of several pairs of eyes on him. ‘Hell, the lick we were going it were making my eyes go funny trying to watch the track. I tell you what though, I reckon I got a kinda idea where we’re going right now.’

  ‘Think you might let me know before we run out of track?’ Burke had the brakes on hard now, and their fierce application was filling the cab with a banshee scream of metal on metal.

  Ripper pointed along the tracks to where they passed out of sight behind the bases of a row of tall cooling towers. ‘Looks to me like this spur is taking us back to the place where all that flak was parked. Ain’t enough they screwed us up on the way in. Seems that we’re about to give them a chance to have another try.’

  FIVE

  ‘Every fucking time I start to enjoy me-self…’ Applying the brake savagely, Burke brought die train to a halt at the crest of a gentle downgrade.

  ‘All change.’ The drop from the cab was greater than he’d estimated, and Dooley made a heavy landing on the oil-stained ballast, almost f ailing.

  ‘You weren’t much fucking use were you?’ Glaring hard, Burke crammed all of the sarcasm he could into the accusation.

  Ripper paused as he turned in the doorway and sought for the top step with his foot. ‘Heck, now you can’t blame me. I seen tidier crows’ nests than that tangle of tracks back there a ways. I only said I knew how to spike a point, I didn’t offer no guarantees about keeping us heading in the right direction for ever.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Squeezing past the driver, Hyde waited his turn to disembark. ‘Is he complaining about having his new toy taken from him?’

  ‘Sure is. I wonder he don’t throw a tantrum and bust it, stop anyone else having fun.’

  Until Ripper spoke, Burke had been about to grudgingly accept the situation, but now he got an idea, and stubborn: ‘Major, I take it we don’t have a use for this old Commie rattletrap any more.’

  ‘Glad you’ve got the message at last. Now get your carcase out here. We’ve territory to cover, fast.’

  Alone in the cab, Burke reached for the brake handle. The motor was still turning over, raggedly, with occasional surges. He’d have liked to have sent it off under full power, but he hadn’t the time to rig the controls in a manner that would overcome the built-in fail-safe devices, and so this would have to do. Releasing the brakes, he climbed out to join the others.

  ‘What you been doing in there, saying goodbye to it?’ Ripper’s boisterous laugh caused his helmet to slump down over his eyes, to leave his broad grin showing.

  ‘Sort of, if you must know.’ Several seconds elapsed before Burke could be really certain that the wheels were turning, but once he could detect movement, it rapidly grew more obvious.

  Trundling with increasing momentum, the locomotive rolled noisily past. Burke felt the warmth of the smoky exhaust, pungent with the stench of unconsumed fuel, and then as the rake of wagons passed, the fierce heat from the burning coal-load of the fourth in line. Red-hot slag tumbled from a circular hole in the side of the wagon, and there were screeches and masses of sparks from a bogie wheel that had jammed. Furnace heat from above sent the white metal of its bearing in dribbles of molten silver globules to splash brightly on the track bed.

  The train never made it as far as the cooling towers. Barely a quarter of its journey completed, it rolled violently as it hit a junction. Ballast flew up, and the train left the track. Flying granite chippings were replaced by a spray of mud as the locomotive ploughed to £ gentle halt in soft ground flanking the line, its wagons still upright, and coupled, the last of the zig-zag formation clear of the tracks.

  Burke tried to grab a launcher from Cline. ‘Get your hands off. You want to finish the job then stay behind and tear it apart with your teeth. I’m saving this for the Ruskies.’

  ‘Admit it, Burke.’ Giving their driver a shove that sent him several paces forward, after the others, Sergeant Hyde took a last glance at the wreck, now fast disappearing behind smoke and steam wreathing from the partially spilled load of burning coal.

  ‘Today just isn’t your day.’

  ‘When is it ever. When is it fucking ever’

  They hadn’t expected to run into Russians so soon, not within a few hundred yards of the tracks, while they were still among the ruins of the abandoned industrial area.

  From the glassless window of the dilapidated, almost roofless workshop, Libby could see the back of the big six-wheeled Gaz truck, parked among the piles of scrap metal close to the wall of the old foundry. The building stood on its own, precisely in the centre of the weed-infested, rubble-strewn wilderness they had to cross to get away from the area.

  ‘They been there quite a time, motor’s near cold.’ Ripper returned the pocket infra-red ‘scope to Hyde. ‘Wonder what they’re doing out here?’

  ‘It’s not what they’re doing, but how many of them are there, that’s what we need to know.’ Revell had been making his own examination of the building, but apart from the Russian army vehicle, there was no other evidence that the place was even occupied.

  ‘I can tell you.’ Among the heaps of rusting castings, Andrea had spotted three tyreless pedal-cycles and a pram-wheeled handcart.

  ‘And so can I.’

  The instant he had seen the truck, tucked from sight in that isolated place, Boris had known why it was there. ‘It is a black market operation. Once I was involved in such a thing myself. There will be three or four men involved at most. Less would be to invite violence and robbery, a double-cross: more would mean too great a dilution of the profits.’

  ‘They make much money at it?’ At the mention of money, Dooley’s interest had been aroused. He hung on the Russian’s words.

  ‘Sometimes, if it is being done on any scale, but usually such things are a once-only transaction, a supply clerk or sergeant taking advantage of yet another administrative error. Only rarely do they get to do it twice. There are many who do well out of spying on their comrades, and word soon gets around. If an officer is involved then he may be able to smother an investigation, but whether he succeeds or not, it will be he who takes the profit, and the men who take the risk.’

  There was a tight malice-filled smile on Andrea’s face. ‘And it can be a very great risk, if the Russians are not careful. When they are too few in number, or too drunk, or too trusting, my people drive a hard bargain.’ From its sheath she took her wide-bladed saw backed knife, and sliced a long sliver of iron hard wood from a bench top.

  ‘You want me to scout it, Major?’

  ‘No.’ Revell took no time to consider the sergeant’s question. ‘No, there isn’t the time for refinements. We’ll have to hope they’re keeping their heads down because of the raid. We’ll go in at the run, well spread out just in case they have got a sentry. Some of us will get through. If we reach the building without being seen we’ll regroup to cover as many of the doors and windows as we can. There’ll be civvies in there so I want a clean job, use knives where you can. Let’s go.’

  There was a hundred yards to cover. A hundred yards of muddy, rutted ground that was littered with foot-catching rubbish invisible among the sprouting weeds and grass. Twice Libby almost fell; the second occasion actually going down on one knee before he recovered his balance. It put him a little behind most of the others, with only Boris lagging further back. There was taut, colour-draining terror on the Russian’s face. Terrified of being in the front line, with the chance of sustaining a disabling wound that would mean his being left behind, he was equally frightened of losing contact, of being left on his own behind enemy lines and so he ran at a constantly varying pace, first lagging, then catching up as, in turn, the whirling conflicts of the opposing decisions surged to the fore.

  On the far right of the line, Libby saw Hyde run close to Clarence, and then watched the sniper veer further to the flank and drop into cover, already fixing the silencer to hi
s Enforcer as he did so.

  Their pace slowed as they neared the objective, first to a jog, and then to a series of low-crouched lopes.

  Cline was first to reach the truck, checked its cab and then moved to its rear. With the tip of his rifle barrel he parted the canvas flaps closing the tilt, and jumped back as a, dozen large scrubby-leaved cabbages rolled out and fell loudly into the mud.

  Seeing the building’s side door start to open, Libby leapt forward, but Andrea was nearer, and faster.

  Expecting nothing more than East German sneak thieves, the Russian private held his Kalashnikov threateningly, but did not have his finger on the trigger. The surgically sharp blade swept upwards and the soldier’s expression was transformed from menace to shocked intense agony.

  Already buried to the hilt beneath his chin, Andrea gave the knife a wrenching half-turn and the flow of blood from the soldier’s mouth and nose became a torrent that carried with it his severed tongue and shreds of brain matter.

  As body and rifle tumbled noisily to the ground there was a shout inside the building. Hurdling the girl, pulled down by the Russian’s death throes and still trying to extract her knife, Libby plunged into the dark chill of the foundry.

  Great shapes loomed over him; lumps of soot from the furnace walls showered down as he collided with cobweb-decorated chains hanging from a gantry, unintentionally sending them clanking and jangling against the chipped and heat-coloured brick. The place was filled with the deafening echoes of the multiple collisions; dust, soot and rust fell as a dark rain from the beams high overhead.

  As he grabbed at them, and succeeded in reducing the sound to a gentle rhythmic clinking, he heard the shout again. It wasn’t a call of alarm, and the words were heavily slurred. Whoever was doing the shouting was too lazy, or more likely too drunk, to come and find out for himself what was going on.

  Hearing the others moving into the building behind him, Libby cautiously edged forward into the cavernous interior. Ahead he could see a group of figures squatted about a stack of food on the floor: stepping into the open to challenge them, he was instantly blinded as a far door was thrown open and a brilliant shaft of light streamed into his eyes.