‘Wouldn’t have know that from the last meal you did.’ As he walked, Garrett broke tiny pieces from a chocolate bar in his pocket and surreptitiously slipped them into his mouth.
‘What was wrong with it? That was borscht, and it came out all right, considering the conditions under which I was making it.’
‘What were those little bits of meat floating in it? They were tough as old boots.’ Finishing the last of the bar, Garrett balled the foil and wrapper together, and when he thought he wasn’t being observed, flicked it away.
‘Cat.’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.’ Garrett tried to recall the taste but could only remember the texture, or lack of it. ‘The only cat I’ve seen in the Zone in the last six months is that one the major’s APC went over… Oh, sweet Jesus, you didn’t, did you?’
‘Why not? Think what it would have been like if it hadn’t been tenderized that way. Made skinning a bit messy though.’ Scully crammed the remains of the turnip back into the bag. ‘Hey, Boris!’
Farther down the line the conversation had been hardly audible to the Russian.
‘Yes?’ He was surprised to hear his name called.
‘What did you think of my cabbage soup?’
Hesitating, Boris considered his answer. He could not be sure that Scully, who had never talked to him before, was not simply involving him so as to score some obscure point. He hedged. ‘I did not have very much, but… it was quite good.’
And it had been, too. Boris had been surprised. Of course it did not have the special touch that made the dish so distinctly Russian, but it had been close enough to bring back many memories…
‘Pity I didn’t have any sour cream.’ Scully sought to excuse Boris’s slightly less than enthusiastic response, for the sake of appearances in front of the others. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes…’ Sensing what Scully wanted, and pleased to be involved in any conversation, Boris sought the right answer.
‘But then every cook in Russia has his own recipe, and your cabbage and beetroot were perfect.’ That was not the perfect truth, but Boris had been so glad to be taken off the permanent cooking detail he would now have said anything to maintain the current happy arrangement.
It had been hard for him, after he had settled down in the post of signaller for the company and had begun to gain the men’s grudging respect, if not Andrea’s, to be taken off such sensitive work because of orders from headquarters. There was still so much distrust toward those who had changed sides. Yet they were the ones who had most to fear from a Communist victory. A NATO soldier, if he was lucky, might survive as a prisoner; for him that was not an option.
The talk of food had reminded him of his hunger, and his mind drifted back to the last time he had enjoyed a steaming bowl of borscht at home, his last leave before… His mother must have saved coupons for several months to make the meal.
With the borscht had been a cheese pie as delicate as only she could make it, and there had been fresh black bread and from heaven-only-knew-where she had produced ice cream, and homemade kvass on which, with several glasses of cognac, he had become quite drunk. He pushed the recollection from his mind. He no longer knew if she was alive or dead, or among the living dead in a labour camp.
They crossed a single-arch stone bridge. On the far side, partially overhanging the road and the water, was an old flour mill. Scaffolding and the rotting boards of working platforms surrounded it on three sides. The attractions of its beautiful setting among the rugged tree-covered hills had not been enough to tempt its owners back into the Zone to complete the restoration.
For several hundred meters beyond the lone building the road climbed steeply to a brow that gave a rare panoramic view. In the middle distance, perhaps two kilometres in a straight line, a great column of bare granite thrust high above the trees that masked its base. Topping it stood a Disneyland-style Gothic castle.
Its grey stone walls soared to intricate turrets, spires and battlements. Wisps of cloud threaded between its highest features.
Clarence unslung his rifle and used its powerful telescopic sight to examine the ancient fortress. The masonry seemed to grow directly out of the rock and in places it was hard to determine the point of transition.
‘There sure is a lot of shit going down around us.’ Ripper listened, and recognized the thundering report of an artillery missile impacting. Ages after the heavy report of its one-ton warhead came the distinctive double ‘boom’ of its recent supersonic passage.
There was no time to take cover when the scream of jet engines filled the air. A contour-hugging MIG fighter-bomber flashed past close overhead and the clouds were lit with the glare of its afterburners.
‘He won’t get very far.’ Clarence rejected the instinctive but futile urge to send a bullet after the aircraft. ‘At the rate he’s burning fuel he is going to have to come down soon. One way or another. Something must have scared the hell out of him…’
Flares ejected as decoys drifted down. The last was barely brushing the treetops when a slim flame-tailed missile lashed under incredible acceleration from the vicinity of the castle and hurtled after the plane. Ignoring the flares, it screeched past and bored into the cloud in pursuit.
‘Go on boy, go get him.’ Ripper cheered the Rapier. ‘It’ll get him. It ain’t even a contest. That’s one Warpac pilot who won’t be fretting himself over his fuel consumption for long.’
‘Did anyone pinpoint the launch site?’ Even through the field glasses Revell could make out nothing that would betray the missile’s lift-off point. Not for the first time he regretted his thermal imager had been lost with the APC. With it the location, bathed in the residue of the hot exhaust gasses, would have stood out like a neon sign.
‘Pretty close to the castle, I think.’ Lowering the rifle, Clarence used his keen sight in an attempt to decide if a smudge he saw among distant high ground was a trick of light or the faint remains of rapidly dispersing smoke. He couldn’t be certain. ‘I’ve got an idea it came from within that circle of hills. If you look, the road runs along the base of its plinth of rock, and the circle of hills is on the other side of it.’
‘That’s close enough. So somewhere down there is one of our air-defence batteries, or at least part of one. Their transport allocation is usually generous; maybe we can hitch a lift.’
Taking the point, Revell was disappointed when they lost sight of the castle the moment they started downhill. The trees prevented more than an occasional tantalizing glimpse. But at least each one showed them that little bit nearer.
Setting a fast pace, he maintained it even when he began to feel the strain himself. They had to make contact. Even if like themselves it was another bunch of strays, there had to be benefits from their falling in together. For an anti-aircraft unit the advantage would be increased infantry to protect it. For his men it was a lifeline. Transport meant a chance to recover from their weariness, perhaps the opportunity to get sufficiently far ahead of the Russian advance to prepare some hot food. But most of all it offered the opportunity to move fast enough to escape being encircled by the enemy and killed or captured. And being captured by the Warpac forces was merely death postponed.
Looking back, the major saw that some of the company were straggling. ‘Sergeant Hyde, have them close up, regular intervals. If anyone falls out they’re to be stripped of ammunition and left behind.’
It worked, as nothing else would have done. Those to whom each step was agony found the strength to withstand the pain; those who felt they were about to drop from sheer exhaustion found untapped reserves of energy.
Like walking zombies they kept moving. With almost mechanical strides and with laboured breath whistling between gritted teeth they kept going. They knew they had to.