“I’ll do a quick recce first Jacko, then come back.”
“Radio?”
“No. If I come running, you’ll see me soon enough and I probably won’t have chance to radio a warning. So, keep focused, mate. We’re in the middle of a hornet’s nest here.”
“What do you need?”
“I’ll take the camera with me now, but I’ll need the monkey wrench when I return.”
Jacko reached across the seat and pulled the camera out of Bradley’s bag down in the footwell of the passenger seat and handed it to him. It was a Nikon F3. Bradley checked the lens and film. He probably had at least fifty frames, more than enough left. Normally he would replace it with a full seventy-two, just in case, but he didn’t want to hang around the area for too long. The drive motor was attached so there was no need to wind it forward manually after every shot.
“I’ll be about ten minutes.”
“Watch yourself out there.”
He made his way south through the trees, feeling alone and isolated within seconds of being away from the Range Rover. After about fifty metres, he turned east, closing in on the spur line. The hammering continued in the distance to his right, and now he could hear the occasional shout in Russian from the tank crew beavering away at their tasks. He made his way towards the edge of the copse, the railway line suddenly appearing in front of him, no more than four strides away. Beyond it, a further three or four metres, the spur line. He was opposite the tail end of the line of flatcars and, on top of the last one, two T64s, one of them a T64BV1K, a command variant, and, more importantly, it was adorned with kontakte armour: ERA (Explosive Reactive Armour) bricks.
He knelt down, the excitement welling up inside, and looked along the length of the train. The next flatcar had two more tanks on it, as did the third. The fourth had only one on board; its companion had been driven onto the ramp. The remaining flatcars were empty, the tanks lined up ready to be driven to the barracks. It was now quiet. It looked as if the soldiers were taking a break.
Bradley scanned for sentries. None could be seen. He edged forward slightly. The tank crews seemed to be congregated around the single structure that constituted the Ramp’s only building. On sneaking around there one dark night, searching for anything that had been dropped or left that may be of intelligence interest, Bradley had come across a senior sergeant educating one of the new recruits in another aspect of his training. The sergeant’s trousers were bunched around his ankles, the recruit bent over a rickety table, with the sweaty NCO thrusting behind him. They were as startled to see Bradley as Bradley was to come across them.
Bradley pulled his camera off his shoulder, checked the settings, adjusted the ‘f’ stop until he was happy with the speed, and focused in on the tank closest to him, no more than ten metres away. He clicked away, constantly stopping to check he didn’t have company, taking thirty to forty shots in total, covering the full tank then zooming in on specific aspects of interest. Once satisfied, he replaced the lens cap and made his way back to the Range Rover and Jacko. Time for the real work to begin.
“Everything still OK?” enquired Jacko.
“Yes, they’re taking some sort of a break.”
“You going for it then?”
“You bet. Pass me the monkey-wrench.”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“It’s in the black tool wrap in the back. I hid it so the bloody REME couldn’t pinch it.”
Leaving Bradley to pack the camera away safely, Jacko left the vehicle, checking the area about him as he did so. It had become second nature, and it was surprising how the slightest movement was picked up, often subconsciously. He went to the back of the vehicle and looked about him again. You can get bloody paranoid doing this job, he thought. Lifting up the rear window, he reached into the small compartment they used to keep stuff out of sight and pulled out the black tool wrap. He opened it up and took out the monkey wrench, an adjustable spanner, rewound the wrap and replaced it. Shutting the rear window quietly, he returned to his driver’s position.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Bradley left the vehicle, handed Jacko the spanner before he shrugged off his parka and leaned in and threw it onto the back seat.
“Dressed for speed, eh?”
“Too bloody right. It’s warming up now anyway.” The stocky, five foot eleven, mousey-haired operator grinned back at Jacko. “Here we go again, eh, mate?”
Jacko, six foot one, but spindly and with a narrow face and dark hair, returned the smile. The adrenalin was pumping through both of them. Jacko knew what his commander was going to do. Equally, he knew the consequences if it didn’t go to plan. It wouldn’t be the first time they had been rumbled. They took some serious risks at times in order to gather important Intelligence. He handed Bradley the spanner again and wished him luck. Bradley eased the door shut with a satisfying click and Jacko gave him the thumbs up.
Chapter 4
Bradley moved past the rear of the vehicle and stealthily made his way back through the trees. With his green barrack trousers, (they weren’t allowed to wear combats as it might be interpreted as aggressive by their Russian allies,) and his light brown № 2 shirt beneath his woolly, green, army jumper, he blended into the background fairly well. He reached the edge of the copse again, where he was earlier, opposite the tail end flatcar. He again searched the area for any signs of a sentry, or indeed any of the crew.
The quiet was suddenly shattered by the roar of a UAZ 469, a small Soviet utility Jeep as it sped past on the other side of the tank-mounted flatcars, heading for the Ramp, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. The light breeze wafted exhaust fumes over to Bradley’s position. It was now or never, he thought as he loped across the feeder line, a gap of four metres; then he was at the spur line and the last of the flatcars. He was panting as he ran up against the edge of the tank tracks that slightly overhung the platform, more from a sudden increase in his pulse rate than a lack of fitness. He was at the furthest corner. He made sure the spanner was secure and heaved himself up onto the left-hand edge of the wooden platform where he found himself up against the back of the T-64 command tank. The tank was facing left to right, in a position where it would be able to drive along the flatcars to then come off onto the Ramp. In front of it: another tank, facing the same way.
He decided to get to the other side where he would be less exposed to the tank crews further up the line. He shuffled along the end of the flatcar, gripping the back of the tank for extra support and lurched along, constantly checking about him for any indication of discovery. He clocked the characteristic exhaust vents at the rear for the 6TDF engine, capable of producing over one thousand-brake horsepower, and the ten-metre telescoping antenna lying along the top of the turret. When extended, it would provide a signal for the R-130 radio inside. He eased his way past the pair of supports for the optional fuel-drums that could be carried at the rear. None were present now. He needed to get to the front of this tank, positioning himself in between the two, to secure some of the ERA blocks. Being in between the two T-64s would make him harder to spot. He slipped around the side, placing the tips of his boots on the caterpillar track itself as the tank was so wide it extended beyond the platform. He tottered past the six stamped, small, evenly-spaced, dual road wheels, his elbows resting on the tank sides. The height of the tank reached just below his shoulders. He paused. Moving on the balls of his feet was tiring, although he was conscious that time was passing. He continued again along the side. The T-64 had a drive sprocket at the rear, idler at the front and four return rollers. The first, second, fifth and sixth road wheels also had hydraulic shock absorbers.