Gregori could be smugly satisfied with himself. Zucharnin had frequently absenting himself from head quarters on fishing trips and during those periods of absence he had sat in his place at planning meetings. Drip by drip he had influenced the outcome of those, chipping away at the allocations of armoured and airborne support. On his superiors return he’d sadly reported the outcome, but not that he had engineered it. Andropov was well aware that having made sure Zucharnin was short of the helicopters and armour he needed had been a risk but he had done it through hint and innuendo without taking any part in the direct decision-making. His contribution to the meetings had seemed so slight he had rarely featured in the minutes. There was method in what he had done and the way he had done it. By ensuring Zucharnin had barely sufficient manpower but an ample supply of ammunition to do the job had ensured that failure would be his and his alone. Grigori would be there to step in, to pick up the pieces and to succeed in his place. Any miraculous turn around of the battle would be to his credit alone.
If it came to an inquiry then the members of any tribunal, knowing how parsimonious had been their ammunition scales when they were field commanders, would have scant sympathy for any complaint about the quality of the troops he had been given when his ammunition supplies had been so lavish.
The mass infantry assaults would stall, he was certain that they would. But whatever the reason he would have his excuse to eliminate Zucharnin, then he would unleash the surprise he had prepared. His assault troops would leapfrog across the river at Nurnberg, using the bridging equipment he had held back. It had been a thorn in the Warsaw Pact side since the first days of the war. It still held out and threatened every advance in that sector. Already the cities defences had blunted and stalled a dozen major assaults.
He had spent so much time working on this plan. All the time as second in command he had been forced to do no more than organise the training of reserve troops. Even now he looked again at the map on his wall and in his minds eye saw advancing columns and fleeing enemies.
There were still nagging doubts in his mind. There was the salient centred on Bayreuth, further to the north. Zucharnin had used the area to hold troops being refitted and brought up to strength. When he took over it would be better to not be too adventurous in that direction. Better to use those second rate infantry units to continue to hold the northern flank than to risk them in an advance that might fail and need reinforcing with units from elsewhere.
But even with this limitation on his objectives he would still be the hero of the hour. Nurnberg would be a huge defeat for the British and the West Germans. They would have no choice but to pull back and with luck the retreat would turn in to a route. The old fools in the Kremlin would have to promote him to full general at last. He clenched his fist, he could feel a Marshals baton in it already, and Zucharnins neck under his heel.
“At least he doesn’t weigh much.” Thorne had wrapped strips of cloth around the pliant hawthorn branches to form a litter. He wished he had instead tied at least one around his face. The old man smelt terrible and his body still leaked some of the filth he had evacuated as he fought for his last breaths.
Twice the slight body had slipped off the makeshift stretcher, or rather through it, when the thin material forming the sling had given way. The Russians had not allowed them to gather better timber from the fir plantations and they had been forced to use all that was available, a stunted overgrown shrub growing beside a near derelict cottage. It was so spindly that it had not even been raided for firewood, not as yet. Eventually though even its roots would be grubbed out.
The scrap of rag covering the old man face kept falling away and Andrea in her character as a grieving daughter had frequently to replace it.
The Russian escort trailed along behind them. The soldier had picked some daisies and was, with some blades of young wheat, creating a miniature bouquet. With his rifle slung over his shoulder he was taking no interest in the burial party.
The pit was enormous and had obviously been excavated with explosives. The sides were ragged and chunks of loose material stuck up in places through the single layer of corpses in the bottom.
They carried the old mans body to the far end. Had the Russian guard been paying attention he would doubtless have objected and stopped them as soon as they reached the hole. Instead he traipsed along behind them, taking no note of where he was, intent only on the miniature flower arrangement he was going to press and mail to his girl friend in Minsk. He did look up as the body tumbled down the crumbled side of the grave, and started to look round to see where the sole mourner had got to, and received Andreas blow on the side of the jaw with total surprise.
She would have delivered a second blow but he sagged to his knees and slumped sideways to join the body that was still slowly rolling to its final resting place. They ended up enmeshed, a tangle of arms and legs.
“Come on, the squad will be wondering where we’ve got to.” Revell led a fast pace through the straggling plantation. It had already been harvested of mature trees but those too stunted or storm damaged had been left, and with the high piled debris from where the trees had been trimmed they had ample cover to make it back to the Iron Cow.
Two bodies lay beside it, two Russian officers. They had been stripped of the heavy quality coats, pistols and badges.
“We let them walk right up to us.” Dooley was examining the Makarov pistol he had kept for himself. “They were chatting away, happy as you please. Must have come as quite a shock.”
“The ultimate, I imagine.” Revell looked at the bodies. “You took a chance, if they’d been on the button they could have run off yelling for help.”
“Once they’d seen us it seemed safer to keep our heads down and let them come to us.” Burke was stood on the top of the engine housing, packing tools, binding each of them in strips torn from the coats, to stop them from rattling.
“How come they got so close”?
“They came up from the other side of the hill Major. We could only keep a watch from beneath the hedge and that had a limited view. If I’d put someone on the other side or on top of the wagon they’d have been visible for miles. These two just came up on our one blind spot.” Sergeant Hyde was securing a gag on their technician prisoner. “At the last moment this perisher spotted them and went to call out, Libby just managed to clamp his hand over his mouth in time. I don’t want to take any more chances.”
“Are there any others about?” Revell ushered the crew aboard.
“Far side of the hill there is a GAZ command car with a driver reading a book.” Hyde stowed an M60 that had been positioned outside. “He could be their driver. Their boots don’t look mucky enough to have walked too far over this ground. I think they must have trotted up here for a view of the woodland, to check their camouflage, or something like that. If we’re taking off in that direction then he can’t miss us. The thing has two damned great aerials so he can call down problems for us pretty quick.”
“I think we can deal with that OK.” Revell was last in and smacked the control to close the rear ramp.
Using minimum power Burke nudged the APC through the hedge and started almost to glide the machine down the hill towards the distant staff car. They were still a couple of hundred metres away when the driver saw them. He got out of the car, folding a page to mark his place, calmly put his book on the seat and then stood waiting with his head on one side in an attitude of puzzlement, not recognising the unmarked hovercraft.
At fifty yards distance his alarm showed and he reached back inside, bringing out a radio microphone. Even then he acted undecided. At twenty metres, as the approaching vehicle accelerated towards him he began to bring the microphone up to his mouth, then threw it down and turned to run.