‘You?’
‘I’ve got to try to get inside and silence the bugger.’ Vince was then given the same assessment as he had passed to Laporta, the notion he had formed lying under the armoured van. ‘I have a suspicion we have to get across that bridge as quickly as we can.’
‘You need two at least for a job like that, guv.’
He was right, and by the look on his face, Vince was suggesting that he be the second person. ‘But can we leave the lads to work on their own?’
‘They have to start sometime, and provided they don’t get too pushy this is as good as any.’ Responding to the enquiring look, Vince added, ‘I’d put that kid Jock in charge, he comes across like a natural and I think the lads respect him.’
‘I never asked what he did.’
‘Field sports he was, pole vault.’ That occasioned a grin. ‘Come in handy if they do blow the bleedin’ bridge, eh!’
‘So will the swimmers.’
‘Here comes the Happy Hun.’
Drecker arrived at a crouch, machine pistol in hand, one of his squad leaders behind him, and Cal was glad to see his pockets were bulging.
‘Laporta,’ he demanded.
Cal jerked a thumb. ‘I’ll go forward with him, Vince; you come too once you’ve sorted out the lads.’
Getting in front of Drecker, Cal was struck by the fact that the communist commander was only heading forward now, once he had been asked for something, whereas he had done what would have been expected from a subordinate commander, gone forward immediately. There was no point in dwelling on that; it was necessary to deal with what they faced now. Over his shoulder, he explained what they faced and how he intended to go about neutralising it.
‘Before I give you what you have asked for I must see for myself if it is a good use of such scarce and valuable weapons and that you will not just waste them.’
There was a great temptation to tell him he was ‘a cheeky bugger’; he was a military ignoramus as far as Cal could tell, but the need for diplomacy won out. Getting the grenades was more important than telling this sod he knew what he was doing. What Drecker’s response did tell him, though, was that the limited cooperation from the communists, which he had up till now only speculated on, looked as if it might be real.
When they joined Juan Luis, Drecker’s parsimony was not greeted by any Spanish restraint or diplomacy; indeed there was a loud and fractious argument, which only stopped when Cal interrupted in German to find out what was going on.
‘This man does not command me or my cadres,’ Drecker shouted.
Proving to Cal he was not the only one who could work by tone alone, Laporta addressed him in French. ‘This communist pig will wait till there is easy glory to be had, when half my men are dead, then he might do something.’
The use of the word ‘cochon’ was unfortunate – Drecker knew what it meant and the two began spitting at each other in Spanish, this reaching a crescendo as Vince joined his guv’nor, which was just as well, given he could translate most of what was passing between them, imparted with his usual laconic manner.
‘Seems, guv, that while both their mothers were no better than they should be, neither of ’em has a dad. ’Part from that there’s a load of guff about politics.’
‘Have you seen Decker’s oppo?’ Cal whispered. The squad leader had his hand on his pistol, the flap on the holster was open and his gaze was fixed on Laporta. ‘Now, has he been told to do that or is he just nervous?’
‘It’s me that’s nervous, guv, but I think they’ve agreed that we can have a couple of grenades.’
Still furious from his dispute with Laporta, Drecker pulled the grenades from his pocket and handed them over, his expression turning haughty as he indicated he would show Cal how to use them. So intent was he – or was it arrogance? – that he did not see the look aimed at Vince, which was one of frustrated impatience at his pedantic tone.
‘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.