A hundred yards. Clarence chambered the first of the two special bullets he'd taken from the lead-lined container. Seventy-five. He laid the barrel gently in the notch he'd carved in the parapet, and aimed over open sights at the T72. It wasn't a side-on shot, the bullet would impact at an angle of about forty degrees: that increased the thickness of metal it would have to penetrate.

The tank's cannon roared again and sent another sh.e.l.l over their heads. Once more it was the unoffending trees. that took the extreme punishment. Far from helping its crew pinpoint their position, the sledgehammer tactics only served to conceal the squad more, adding to the eye-confusing litter of debris about them as smouldering bark and lengths of shattered timber rained down.

Fifty yards. Clarence waited. Forty. Clouds of smoke billowed high above the tank, the multiple exhaust pipes emitting the beat of the big V12 diesel.

A pencil-slim spurt of white and blue flame from the side of the tank's hull, dead centre, just below the top run of track, was the only and unspectacular evidence of the lead-sheathed round's place of impact. Clarence chambered the second bullet and sighted once more, but it wasn't needed.

With its engine screaming at maximum revs, the tank's left track locked and it spun through a half-turn before lurching to a stop as its motor cut.

Suddenly deprived of their mobile cover, the marines hesitated a moment. That cost two more of them their lives as Hyde and the rest of the squad let fly with every weapon. The survivors fell back, firing off hesitant ill-aimed bursts, then turned and began to run.

Standing up and taking her time, Andrea put the last of them down, her M16's magazine emptying as their final cries echoed back.

There was no smoke or flame coming from the tank, it just sat there, silent and immobile. Libby glanced at it frequently as he worked to deepen his slit-trench. Just as he looked up to check it once more, he saw the distinctive flame-tails of missiles rising from the north of the island. He pointed them out to Sergeant Hyde.

'Could be SAMs, nothing to do with us anyway. Probably some Commie wetting himself and short-circuiting a firing switch.' Hyde grabbed Andrea's rifle, and prevented her from sending a second burst at a wounded Russian who was attempting to crawl away. 'Don't waste ammo. That b.u.g.g.e.r has got mates who'll be along soon. He won't be taking any more part in the sc.r.a.p. Let him go, save your bullets for Commies who can hit back.' A single shot ploughed into the ground between the NCO and the girl, and Hyde m ade no fresh attempt to stop her when she fired on the casualty they'd spared, and who now supported himself against a tree, aiming with a clumsily held AK74.

Hit by several bullets the Russian threw up his arms and fell backwards. A spurt of flame rose from his body as the contents of an ammunition pouch ignited. Cartridges in the broken magazines began to cook-off, and the corpse jerked with each volley.

'Stupid sod.' Libby went back to his digging.

'Maybe he was trying for a medal.' Through borrowed binoculars Ripper watched the burning corpse jump and twitch. Some of the rounds were going into the body and smashing what wasn't already being consumed by the flames.

'More likely the poor s.h.i.t was scared of going back arid reporting failure. Either he was deliberately committing suicide, or he was using up the last of his ammo to make his story more convincing...'

'Or maybe he was a party member,' Dooley added to Hyde's speculations.

'Could be.' Surfacing from the pit he'd made, Burke lodged the blade of his shovel between the upper thighs of a Russian corpse. 'Could well be. Those bleeding card carriers take the cake. Me, I don't reckon any Ruskies, but those real Commies, the party members, nastiest lot of f.u.c.kers you'll ever meet. If they hadn't started this b.l.o.o.d.y war we'd have had to do something about them some day.'

'Here's your chance to do something about them today.' Jumping back into his trench, Hyde tried to count the number of enemy troops pouring from the far woods. He couldn't, there were too many... hundreds, and another tank. And this time the Russians were using their cla.s.sic tactics. As armour and infantry charged, showing none of the slow-paced caution displayed by the earlier patrol, 120mm mortar sh.e.l.ls began to fall.

There were no individual ranging shots. The first salvo of five sh.e.l.ls fell a hundred yards short, the second, fifty. Hyde ducked down in his trench, clamped his hands over the welded flesh of what had been his ears, and waited for the battery to zero in on his squad's position.

'I couldn't track the SAMs, not with this equipment, but one of those planes is gone from the screen, and there's nothing else to account for it.'

Revell had to accept the bombardier's explanation of the Swedish aircraft's disappearance. The Russians must have gone mad, or if they hadn't, then a battery commander had. Perhaps the Swedes might put up with having one of the islands scorched and battered, and their coastline littered with wrecked shipping; but there was no way they'd shrug off the deliberate destruction of one of their fighters.

'Those three ships left behind by the second battle group are moving.'

'Forget them. Do we have the Gorshkov Gorshkov in range yet?' Pacing didn't bring the moment nearer any faster, but it gave Revell something to do. He almost tripped over the woman's body, catching his foot in the sacking draping her, so that it moved and revealed her staring face, spotted with the first marks of frostbite. Even had she survived the wound-Ripper had inflicted, she would have almost certainly have lost her legs, and parts of other extremities. in range yet?' Pacing didn't bring the moment nearer any faster, but it gave Revell something to do. He almost tripped over the woman's body, catching his foot in the sacking draping her, so that it moved and revealed her staring face, spotted with the first marks of frostbite. Even had she survived the wound-Ripper had inflicted, she would have almost certainly have lost her legs, and parts of other extremities.

'She's slowed a lot, must be jamming like mad, but if I've picked the right image from among the ghosts on this screen then we can have a go any time.'

'Tell the gunners we're going for broke. Every tube at the carrier. We'll give the Ruskie admiral thirty seconds after we open up. If the crud hasn't retaliated against Swedish territory by then, commence count-down on the Lance. You can use all the remaining decoys this time, York. After this we shan't be needing any more.'

Revell would have given everything to be able to tap, understand and absorb the deluge of radio traffic between the carrier and Moscow, and between the radar- direction, fire-control and reload crews aboard each vessel. That would have told him if something would be coming their way, and when, and how much - but maybe it was better not to know. Only the need to keep Sweden neutral as long as possible had prevented the battle group from wiping the island off the map. The fact that there were Russians on it meant nothing. A single battalion of Soviet marines and their equipment was worth less than nothing in the eyes of the High Command in the Kremlin, when balanced against a vitally needed fleet, and a ship that carried the prestige of the whole country.

There was some small consolation for Revell in knowing that, at the short and still closing range between the island and the battle group, some of the warship's heavier missile armament would be less than effective. Designed to operate against targets fifty or more miles away, it would be almost impossible for the ship's radar to gather and set the missiles towards the island, when their sonic or high subsonic speeds would put them over the dot of land even before the first course correction following launch could be transmitted.

But it was only a very small consolation. Those powerful vessels each had a secondary armament of missiles and conventional weapons capable of delivering a torrent of explosive on to any target, at any distance. Certainly more than enough to saturate the two or three square miles of the island several times over.

The surface radar screen put everything into perspective. To the north, the tail- end of the second battle group, the stragglers whose speed or control or both had been affected by the attack. Nearer the island, the three slow-moving dots of the crippled vessels trying desperately to get out of the path of the approaching carrier and escort, and closer still the slowly fading blip that was the sinking Ivan Rogov. Ivan Rogov. But it was the third battle group on which Revell concentrated all his attention. But it was the third battle group on which Revell concentrated all his attention.

Aboard those ships, radar operators would be scrutinising their own screens, watching for the first signs of a third attack. The admiral responsible for the carrier group would be on the bridge of the Gorshkov, Gorshkov, s.n.a.t.c.hing every signal that came in, and dictating an endless stream of his own as he tried to get permission from Moscow to hit back if his precious ship came in for the same treatment that had been meted out to the first and second battle groups. s.n.a.t.c.hing every signal that came in, and dictating an endless stream of his own as he tried to get permission from Moscow to hit back if his precious ship came in for the same treatment that had been meted out to the first and second battle groups.

'Waiting for the word, Major.' Cline was constantly updating the carrier's position on the data links, and doing everything he could to confirm that the particular blip he had chosen was indeed the Gorshkov Gorshkov and not a decoy transmission. and not a decoy transmission.

'They're not going to like us doing it to them again.' York noticed a slight but perceptible falling off in the quant.i.ty of enemy radio traffic. 'I think they've got themselves near enough ready now, Major. The flap's over, now they're just sitting there, waiting, like a b.l.o.o.d.y great cat for a little weak mouse.'

'Not as weak as all that.' Revell held his fire a moment longer.

The lead escort ships were slowing down as they drew abreast of the island, to make a corridor of defensive fire for the carrier as it pa.s.sed.

In the silence of the room, Revell could hear mortar fire, punctuated by the crack of a cannon and the near continuous rattle of machine guns. Hyde too had a fight on his hands, but he had started early. It was time for them to join in. 'Fire.'

FOURTEEN.

Above the thunder of the mortar barrage, above the crash and clatter of cannon and automatic fire, Hyde heard the multiple rocket launchers go into action. He had to turn, squirming around in his trench, to watch the projectiles ride their tails of flame into the sky. Their scream blotted every other noise from existence as they leapt upwards in a never ending stream. He couldn't watch them all, the Russian marines were getting close, and he had to turn back to add the puny contribution of his rifle to the pathetic volume that was all his squad could muster against the weapons ma.s.sed against them.

Soviet infantrymen were falling, many of them, but there were always more to keep the attack pressing forward. The wave of relief Hyde had experienced when the rain of mortar sh.e.l.ls suddenly ceased was instantly wiped away by the realisation that it marked the moment for the enemy to close in and finish the unequal battle.

'Take that, you s.h.i.ts.' Determined to use every last round, to sell himself as dear as he could, Hyde sent a burst into a knot of marines 'advancing ahead of the main body. Four of them went down. He replaced the clip and sighted again. He could see the open mouths of the men who were still advancing, they must be shouting but he couldn't hear them.

A mortar sh.e.l.l fell close, and Hyde felt needles of fire in his side. This might be his last chance, he took careful aim.

The Russians seemed to dissolve, fall apart. There was a gigantic explosion and bodies and limbs were suddenly flying through the air. A dozen more of the ma.s.sive detonations followed in quick succession and the attack faltered, stopped, and was destroyed.

The open ground was torn into a b.l.o.o.d.y moonscape under the pulverising blows. The knocked-out tank disappeared inside a huge fireball that lifted to reveal no vestige of the machine. Stalled, abandoned by its crew, the second 172 was lifted and thrown thirty yards, all forty-six tons of it, to land upside down in a steaming crater.

As shock wave after shock wave washed over him, Burke clung to the earth. At every blast the hard ground smacked into his face, but he didn't move, preferring its punishment to the consequences of raising his head. Two enormous explosions that erupted almost simultaneously ended the pounding, and after a moment he cautiously looked up.

The scene had been changed beyond all recognition. What had recently been snow-covered ground, swarming with white-clad yelling troops, was now a wasteland of churned and heaped soil, dotted with the gruesome and not always identifiable remains of broken bodies.

A handful of shocked and wounded Russians wandered about the periphery of the area. Now and again one would collapse to become another grisly ornament on h.e.l.l's landscape. Dark red flame licked from a trackless tank upside down in a crater.

'That wasn't our stuff that was from the ships. The Ruskies have clobbered their own ruddy men.' Libby emerged from the ground, to join the others who were looking in awe at the results of the bombardment.

Even Andrea could only stare, for once not thinking to aim at the enemy wounded tottering away between what was left of the trees.

Several pillars of black smoke were rising from the north of the island accompanied by the sound of ammunition burning, and an occasional fountain of white fire laced with red and green tracer.

'I sure as h.e.l.l don't know why those guys are going that way, there just ain't nothing left for them to go back to.' Ripper half-lifted his rifle to his shoulder to take a shot, but lowered it again.

'The state those poor b.u.g.g.e.rs are in, they don't know where they're going.' Hyde could feel the slivers of metal in his side as he moved the muscles in which they were embedded. He'd had worse, much worse. Most of the others were flecked with blood, and Dooley had a long cut across one cheek. He kept fingering it, and asking Ripper if it looked like it'd leave a scar, his tone suggested that he was hoping it would. 'Right, back to the house. We're not needed here any more. The Russian navy had done our work for us.'

'Obliging blokes, aren't they?' Libby shouldered his rifle. He was eager to get back within the shelter of those four walls. It might lack creature comforts, but the house was a better place to wait for their pick-up than out here. h.e.l.l, he was getting fond of the place. In his mind's eye he'd been working on various ideas of how to turn it into a nice home for him and Helga. Now he was almost looking forward to spending a few more hours there.

As he took his first step towards it, the whole length of the village erupted. Libby stopped, seeking the house through the dust and smoke and flying snow. It was still there, still safe.

Two more of the big missiles struck, bracketing the house and hiding it inside a storm of giant debris. Slowly at first, then faster, Libby began to run towards the village. Briefly he saw the house again; a wall had gone, the roof, much of the upper floor, then another round plunged down and flame hid it once more. Fraser was smothered in blood. He half-staggered, half-fell over the mangled tangle of bodies partially blocking the stairs.

Peering past the medic, Revell could make out daylight, or as much as could be seen through the thick dust and smoke. The whole of the top of the house had gone. Two white bars from his eyes to the corners of his mouth had been inscribed on the youngster's face as his tears washed he blood and dirt from their tracks. Revell sat him down in York's chair, first pushing the radio-man's headless body aside.

'Where is it, where is it?' Cline scrambled about on the floor. He picked up a sc.r.a.p of paper, then a second. 'It's all gone, my notes, all gone.'

'Did we get the Gorshkov?' Gorshkov?' Using his sleeve Revell wiped Fraser's face, finding no injury. Using his sleeve Revell wiped Fraser's face, finding no injury.

'I don't know. They were jamming, more than I've ever seen. Have you seen the rest of my notebook?' Gla.s.s broke under his hands but Cline didn't notice. There was no more to be found. 'Lousy b.l.o.o.d.y Russians.' As though doing it for the first time, he continually turned the two sc.r.a.ps over and over in his hand. They were blank pages from the back of the book. 'Should have taken more notes, filled it, then there'd be something on these.'

'Is there anything left of the radio?'

'No, Major.' Boris pushed the equipment's remains on to the floor. 'Everything is broken, everything.' Strips of clean bandage bound around his wrist made a stark contrast to the flame-singed remnants of his jacket. He pulled the remains together, but there was nothing to fasten it with, and little enough left to fasten. With difficulty, he began to strip the blood-soaked anorak off York's body.

It was too much for Fraser, to see the decapitated corpse lolling back and forth as Boris clumsily worked at it with his one good hand. The medic drew his hood around his face and closed the opening with his hands, clenching them tight until the knuckles were pure white.

There was a fire at the back of the house, and other buildings nearby, what was left of them, were also beginning to burn. They might as well leave now, they'd be forced to soon enough anyway. There was nothing worth gathering up, Revell knew that without looking. He guided Fraser, and pushed Cline, ahead of him. Outside, the row of bodies had gone and little of what had previously been surrounding the house was still in place. The very paths had been torn up or buried, and deep craters dictated a zig-zag path as they moved away. Smoke stung his eyes, and he felt the heat of the flames consuming the heaps of rubble. It was a strange sensation that warmth, almost alien, like a brief recollection of a half- forgotten memory.

The numbing shock of the barrage was slow to wear off, Revell felt it clouding his mind, struggled to shake free of it. For no obvious reason, perhaps only due to blind instinct, he turned towards the sh.o.r.e.

Someone was shouting, running towards him. The major let go of Fraser, and reached for his 12-gauge a.s.sault rifle. He had hung on to it through everything, but now as he unslung it, it felt unfamiliar. As he brought it up to fire at the approaching figure, he realised how badly damaged it was. Deep inside, his mind sluggishly recognised the irony. The weapon was like him, intact but incapable of functioning properly. As he slowly examined it, fire-scarred hands carefully took it from his grasp.

There was no expression on Hyde's face, there never could be, but Revell sensed the sergeant's concern. 'I'm OK, just a bit scrambled; take charge, will you.' Only distantly did he hear Hyde bark a string of orders. Faces around him were indistinct, he just wanted to get away, be by himself, but there was something else he had to do first, something he had to tell the NCO. The thought crept through the darkness in his head, trying to surface. 'Get the men over to the sh.o.r.e, the cabin. If anyone comes to pick us up, that's where they'll look first.'

'That's a f.u.c.king great 'if'.' Dooley took the major's arm, and began to lead him, as he had earlier lead Fraser.

Revell didn't resist. It was good to temporarily relinquish the responsibility of choosing what route to take. His legs moved mechanically and kept moving, even when his mind switched off completely.

'The captain says he'll send the signal when we surface.' Hyde settled himself on the floor of the submarine's control room beside the major.

Awareness was coming back to Re veil, but it was a slow process, and he needed moments to form thoughts that would normally be instantaneous. 'Is there any word about the Russian ships?'

'Not a lot, but the captain says that's good. They should have popped up in the North Sea by now, but they haven't. The Swedes are kicking up b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Doesn't matter that the barrage destroyed the Lance, seems some of the Russian 'overs' went on to clobber seven sorts of brick dust out of the mainland. Accusations and counter-accusations are flying all over. Probably won't come to a fight, but suddenly the Swedes aren't friends with Moscow. Oh yes, one of their main complaints is about a ruddy great aircraft carrier that's gone aground off Gothenburg. Thought you'd like to know that.'

Little by little, Fraser had edged out from the self-imposed internal exile of his hood. He looked around the shining clean control and crew-filled room. This was a better way to go to war, isolated at a distance from the death and ugliness. A crewman handed him a large mug of soup and he clasped his hands about it. The submariner was about his own age, and Fraser felt he could talk to him.

'I've never been in a sub before, what sort is it?' 'Oberon cla.s.s, HMS Onyx. HMS Onyx. She's a hunter-killer.' Fraser put the soup back on the tray, pulled his hood tight across his face, and hid from the war. She's a hunter-killer.' Fraser put the soup back on the tray, pulled his hood tight across his face, and hid from the war.

THE ZONE Series by James Rouch:

HARD TARGET.

BLIND FIRE.

HUNTER KILLER.

SKY STRIKE.

OVERKILL.

KILLING GROUND.

PLAGUE BOMB.

CIVILIAN SLAUGHTER.

BODY COUNT.

DEATH MARCH.