‘Tell him, guv, it’s only a bleedin’ F1 and Christ knows you’ve seen enough of them in your time.’
‘It would spoil his day, Vince,’ Cal replied, before adding, with Drecker still talking, ‘four-second fuses, he says.’
‘Just the job, then.’
The covering fire was no more than a distraction to draw a response, with the trio of Cal, Laporta and Vince racing for the back of the armoured van, then diving underneath, before crawling forward, the Spaniard to the front, his hand reaching out and up to bang on the cab door on the non-threatened side, an act he had to repeat three time before the driver responded and opened it. His unshaven face and half a naked body appeared right on top of that of his leader and some sharp words were exchanged.
‘Driver says his tyres are in shreds,’ Vince said quietly to Cal. ‘Golden boy is telling him to just do as he’s told.’
That was not the end of it, but Vince did not bother to say any more, it was just variations, it seemed, on the same points. Eventually the face disappeared and Laporta, as previously arranged, slid his rifle onto the floor and hauled himself up into the cab in a snake-like motion, the engine bursting into life as soon as the door slammed. By that time Vince and Cal were standing at the back, weapons ready.
‘If this don’t work, we are going to be in trouble gettin’ back to cover.’
‘Vince,’ Cal replied, with fitting irony. ‘When have you ever known my ideas not to work?’
The sound of the van moving forward was horrible, the shredded tyres soon flaying and exposing the wheel rims to the hard road surface. Never a speedy vehicle, due to the excess weight, it struggled to get up to the kind of pace necessary, with Cal and Vince not required to follow at more than a fast walking pace, bodies low to ensure that as it got closer to the building the angle of fire did not expose them, with yet more shots coming from the ditch and the popping sound of Laporta firing his own weapon through the cab slit.
The metal plating that protected the engine hit the corner of the barn with a thud and the van stopped dead, though the cloud of dust that came billowing up was reassuring. Gears crunching, it began to reverse, with Cal peering round from the back to see if it had achieved the effect he hoped. There was damage, but not enough, and he could imagine the anarchist leader cursing and urging a repeat. Because of the need to do that, Cal had a grenade in one hand and a finger of the other through the pin.
It took three hits to dislodge enough of the stonework and, not surprisingly, when the base blocks were removed, a good number of what they were supporting came down too, creating a cloud of choking dust and a fall that would have crushed the van had it not been plated in thick metal. As it was, reversing, because of the rubble created, took several jarring attempts.
The gap left when it did get clear was just a narrow and dark dust-filled hole with no way of knowing what was concealed behind it, and it was into that Cal tossed his grenade, on the assumption that whoever was on that machine gun, and there might be more than two, could not fail to figure out what they were trying to do, not knowing that once they were inside it was a very different kind of fight.
The two men were on the points of their feet waiting for the blast, which when it came pushed the heavy van into their backs. There was no time to even think on that; Cal spun out from behind, pistol raised, and fired off three rounds, before rushing for the hole, stumbling over the rubble, aware that Laporta was likewise firing into the gap, also that Vince was coming behind him.
Once through he went left and dived for the floor, Vince going right and doing the same. Neither stopped for more than a split second; both were up, hunched and moving in opposite directions, weapons out, knowing that, with eyes unaccustomed to the gloom, if there was an enemy close he could see them more clearly than they could see him. Cal found some stacked bales of hay as protection and stopped, breathing heavily and seeking clarity of vision.
The body lay against the opposite wall, nearer to where Vince was moving, his aim to get behind a long cart, loaded with sapling-type poles for making frames; that would give him some cover. As soon as he was there, Cal gave him the signs for one man down and his location and got a nod in return. Then, with his eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cal held up a trio of fingers, the sign that as soon as they disappeared he would move on three, that also acknowledged as Vince would move immediately after, his rifle ready to use.
When Cal came out from behind the hay it was as a dive into a forward roll in which he spun up onto one knee, pistol out and moving in search of a target. The bullet aimed at him passed his ear with a crack and he began to squeeze on his trigger, aiming at the hatless man in Civil Guard uniform on the open staircase, only to hear another shot and see him jerk backwards. Naturally he looked to Vince; he just twitched his head back and chopped to the rear with his hand.
Looking over his shoulder, Cal saw Laporta standing in the gap created by the armoured van, silhouetted against the sunlight at his back, a sitting duck of a target for anyone who wanted to shoot him. The shout, in French, which included the words that told him he was a stupid arse, at least moved him till his back was against stone. By that time Cal and Vince were moving rapidly for the stairs and, once there, taking them three at a time, though there was a slight pause to make sure the man Laporta had shot was no longer capable of being active.
At the top of the staircase there was just an open floor space, better lit than the ground floor, below which they stopped. With Cal crouching and aiming, Vince laid aside his rifle, pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it in the general direction of where he thought the machine gun might be, before they both dropped several steps and covered their ears, the thud of the thing landing and rolling audible.
The blast passed overhead, but no other sound came, and with great care Cal lifted his head to the point where his eyes were level with the floor, his pistol horizontal to it and ready for use. In air full of dust he took his time but it was soon clear there had been more than two men on a weapon; number three lay against the outside wall, just below the window from which he had been firing, his face covered in blood, with more, from some other wound, seeping from his body.
Even so, it was with some caution that Cal and Vince moved upwards and onto the first-floor planking, eyes searching in case there was an unknown threat. Not Juan Luis Laporta; he had followed them up, having stopped only to strip the man on the stairs of his weapons: a rifle and a pistol on a leather belt.
He came right up as if he were in his own home and marched noisily over to where the other body lay, looked at Cal and Vince, nodded, then went to the window, holding up the pistol belt to show his comrades. The second he came into view, stone chips began to fly, as did he as he dived back into safety, screaming curses at his own men, who could not hear him, damn them, for nearly killing him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Taking the machine gun out of the equation did not solve the problem completely; that bridge still had to be crossed and it was very quickly obvious, indicated by the level of movement, that whoever was in command over the other side had decided to hold his position. Shadowy figures carrying weapons, scurrying about, seeking cover and good fire positions were not about to withdraw. The light was going too; it would be dark soon and the decision had to be made whether to try a crossing immediately or wait until dawn.
Canals throw up different military problems to rivers, which, when not in spate, usually present crossing points, fords or flood plains where the water level is low. Add to that the banks are slopes, not walls. A lack of maps had been bad enough before; now it was crippling, because no one knew if there was another bridge within marching distance — there was certainly on this side no lateral road they could use — by which they could outflank the defenders, and nor did they have boats; if those had existed, owned by the locals, they had either been sunk or removed.