“Let’s go, Jacko. It’s north.”
“London?”
“Yes.”
The Range Rover crept away from ‘Newcastle’, the code name for their present location, and headed for ‘London’, the code name for their next destination. The vehicle steadily gathered speed, no aggressive motoring or lights to advertise their presence. Once they were away from the habited area though, Jacko put his foot down and raced down Pankgrafen Strasse. He weaved the vehicle around the corners of the narrow road, occasionally tilting over if he took one too fast; doing over eighty kilometres an hour at times, and without lights, as he took them north-west, running parallel with the rail ring. Speed was of the essence if they were to meet up with the train again.
Bradley peered ahead through the windscreen looking for the turning on the left, the narrow, partially hidden lane that would take them south-west where the train might well stop again before continuing its journey north-west; then turning west to head deeper in country.
“There, Jacko!”
Bradley was thrown forwards as Jacko slammed on the brakes before turning violently left, the low-lying branches smacking the Range Rover’s windows as they bounced down the narrow, weaving track. Bradley hit the button of the sunroof and the large hatch whined as it steadily slid back.
“Can’t see a fucking thing,” Jacko moaned.
Bradley climbed up onto his seat and hoisted his head and shoulders through the large cavity, gripping the front edge of the hatch as the vehicle ground and bounced its way along the track, heading towards the railway line that was now directly opposite them. He shouted down through the hatch, “I can hear it. Keep going.”
Smack! A large branch struck Jacko’s window. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Keep going!” Bradley ducked as a low-hanging branch nearly took his head off, some of the thicker twigs painfully scraping across the top of his head. He was suddenly thrown forwards as Jacko brought the tour car to a violent halt. “Fuck, Jacko!”
“Sorry, it was either that or we’d be sat on the rails in front of the bloody train. Can you hear it still?”
“I might if you’d turn the bloody engine off.”
“Sorry.” Jacko turned the key, and the Range Rover shuddered into silence.
“Nothing.” Bradley slid down into his seat, opened the door and ran towards the railway line that crossed directly in front of them. He stepped onto the tracks and made his way into the centre, in between the two sets of lines. He peered south, looking for the solitary light that would indicate the steam engine was coming towards them. He cursed under his breath. They couldn’t have missed it, surely. He crouched down then lay down next to one of the steel lines, placing his ear flat against its cold surface. He put the palm of his hand over the other ear and listened. At first, all he could hear was the muffled white noise inside his own head. But then, a deeper rumble was being transmitted down the line: faint at first, but growing steadily louder, the vibrations of the wheels turning on the track, the distinctive click as it passed over a joint. It had to be the one. Often it was touch and go. An impatient engine driver might anticipate the lights, keen to keep to his schedule and move slowly ahead, while another may be distracted, chatting to the fireman and not as fast off the mark. But tonight they had struck lucky: it was on its way.
Bradley picked himself up off the rails, suddenly conscious of how vulnerable and exposed he was, concentrating on his target and not his environment. He laughed to himself; struck by a train would be his epitaph. He ran over to Jacko. “It’s on its way. You do the count and I’ll do the flash.”
Then he ran to the Rover and hauled out the a sports holdall, where the camera was, and placed it on the bonnet. Dipping in, he pulled out the Nikon F3, its chunky MD-4 motor drive attached, followed by the Metz flash attachment which he quickly connected. He plugged the lead of the oblong battery pack into the flash, switched it on then slung the battery pack, held by a leather strap, over his neck and shoulder. He was ready. The ASA rating was set for 1600. Although the pictures would be slightly grainy, it was good enough for what they needed tonight: evidence and clarification of their sighting. While Bradley moved up to the railway line to be in position and ready, Jacko turned the vehicle around so it was in the right location, should they need to make a quick getaway, before joining his tour commander.
“Can you see the light yet?”
“Yes. Seems to be nice and slow,” responded Bradley, a tremor of excitement in his voice. “Get ready.”
Bradley was on Jacko’s left, angling himself so he faced the side of the oncoming train, and Jacko was on the right, his pocket memo recorder in his hand ready. Two minutes later, the train crept past them, steadily gathering speed. The flash lit up the area as Bradley took photographs of each piece of equipment as the wagons travelled past them. Clack…clack. Clack…clack. The tarpaulin-covered missile launchers looked menacing as they towered above the two intelligence operators. Clack…clack. Clack…clack. The high-pitched whine of the flash recharging could be heard in between the sound of the wheels on the rails, the occasional squeal of tortured metal against tortured metal.
Clack…clack. Clack…clack. “Launcher, launcher, launcher, launcher, resupply, resupply, goods wagon, Zil 131 box body, Gaz 66…” Jacko’s voice could be heard amongst the mishmash of sound as he recorded on the hand-held tape recorder what he was seeing pass by in front of him.
Clack, clack, clack, clack. Phutt, whine, phutt, whine. Bradley took as many photographs as he was able, quickly making his way through the rest of the 72-frame film. Its purpose was not to provide detailed technical photography, but to provide a record and pick up on anything that the two operatives may have missed. All this information would be fed back to their sister intelligence unit in West Germany, a specialist unit highly experienced in imagery analysis — not just ground photography but also images from the air and even satellites. The train sped past faster and faster until the brake car shot past them, and the train slowly dwindled into the distance, disappearing into the darkness.
“How many?”
“I reckon eighteen launchers and half a dozen resupply.”
Bradley didn’t respond.
“Did you get that? Eighteen?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“What’s up?”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t? Spit it out.”
Bradley rubbed the side of his face. “They’re headed for Magdeburg.”
“How do you know that?”
“The rail ticket.”
“So?”
“Three Shock Army already have a Scud-B Brigade. These belong to a different unit.”
“Could they be for another GSFG unit?”
“I’m not aware of any Scud Brigade from GSFG being out of barracks. I’ll check when we get back. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the vehicle, stowed their kit and made their way back to Newcastle where they would continue their watch; perhaps treat themselves to a lukewarm cup of coffee. After remaining alert for the sight of more military trains, at 0745, their stag finally over, they headed back towards Checkpoint Charlie. The replacement tour had contacted them to say they were infiltrating from the south, so they went west, leading any potential tail away from the location.