There were three of them. All it would need would be for one of them to drop a grenade in, and that would be it. Should they by some miracle avoid that, then they'd be in no state to answer the burst of automatic fire that would inevitably follow.

The radio, resting on the twisted remains of the loader's seat, was suddenly jerked into the air as a Russian gave its protruding aerial an exploratory tug. Revell didn't give him the chance to pursue his curiosity further.

Five blasts from the shotgun threw open the hatch and caught two of the car's crew unprepared. The storm of pellets lashed into them and the multiple impacts threw them off.

Andrea fired at almost the same split second. Patiently she had been tracking the progress of the vehicle's commander and as the roar of the 12-gauge boomed about the interior of the hull, she put a compact burst through the hole in the turret front where the co-axial machine gun had been, and into the base of the soldier's spine as he sat on the hull front reloading his pistol.

Blood made the metal surround slippery, and Revell had difficulty hauling himself out. The recoil was savage as the improperly held shotgun put the contents of three sh.e.l.ls into the men on the ground. All of them were lying still, but he had seen others learn the hard way that a Russian who was down was not always out. A favourite trick of theirs was to play dead and then open fire on the backs of NATO soldiers after they had pa.s.sed.

Ignoring the helping hand offered, Andrea climbed from the turret. She didn't bother to look at the bodies.

A bullet bounced from the armour between them, striking sparks from the metal. A second cut through the air past Revell's face and they jumped down to seek the shelter of the tank's bulk.

A smattering of single shots followed, coming from the direction of a decrepit Tatra truck hung about with toolboxes and welding kits.

Machine gun fire came from another angle and probed for them with short accurate bursts that forced them to keep low. Only Andrea's M16 had the effective range to engage the enemy, and it wasn't enough. Taking a smoke grenade from his belt, Revell lobbed it beyond an angle of the hull and counted down the seconds to its ignition. Its bursting seeded a wide area with blazing pieces of phosphorus that gave off dense clouds of yellow-white smoke.

The first few paces they tried to hold their breath, but the exertion of running forced them to gulp for air, and instead they got the acrid fumes from the blazing chemical. It rasped in their throats, burned their lungs and even as they raced clear their eyes continued to stream from the irritation.

After only fifty yards the machine gun zeroed on them again and they had to take to a rough-formed trench made by the collapse of a sewer.

Mortar bombs began to fall, and though it was taking them the wrong way, they had to stay in the snaking excavation as red-hot slivers of casing scythed overhead. Above the continual bang of their detonation they caught the sharp loud bark of tank cannon. The T72's had run into the colonel's reception.

Now there was no chance of rejoining the squad. They were trapped on the wrong side of the fighting, and with the mortar fire continuing to pursue them with a single-minded vindictiveness they could only go on, in the hoping of finding an alternative route back into the city.

They shook off the barrage when they entered an area of docks and wharfs and warehouses, and pa.s.sed beyond its range.

Everywhere was utter devastation. Few of the huge buildings had been completely levelled, but what was left standing had been rendered useless by repeated bombing and artillery fire. Ships of every size and type lay alongside but without exception they had sunk at their moorings. A foot-thick layer of debris-bearing fuel oil carpeted the water and the stench from it was overpowering. Many of the ships had burned and the hulls and upper works were a uniform smoke-streaked rust red.

Nothing that could have been of the slightest use remained. The wheels had been taken from the overturned trucks, along with engine fittings and, in some cases, even axles. There was not a packing case that had not been broken open and its contents examined. Vessels that had keeled over until most of the superstructure was submerged showed signs of having been entered and searched. Save where the charred remains still hung from davits, every lifeboat and raft had been removed. It was as if a swarm of human locusts had scoured the docks from end to end.

Checking his map, Revell began to work towards where a bridge was indicated, and as they shifted course in that direction they became aware of the sound of an engine ahead of them. From its rough note, far worse even than the two ill-maintained T72s, it couldn't be a vehicle. Its beat was slow and ragged, as if each might be its last, but every time it wheezed, hesitated, and then managed one more.

In the echoing streets between the leaning bomb-scarred walls it was difficult to pinpoint precisely, but its location became obvious when they turned a corner and saw a group of elderly women working at the edge of a dock.

Hoses trailed from a throbbing pump, one over the edge of the wharf, the other up and into a large container mounted on a handcart fashioned from the rear end of a pick-up truck. The women were filthy, stained from head to foot with thick oil that glistened in the sun with hues of blue and green. They formed a chain that pa.s.sed buckets of oil from the surface of the dock to a cl.u.s.ter of opened drums.

A shot rang out as a girl with a rifle saw Revell and Andrea and fired at them. For a snap shot it came close, clipping the stock of Andrea's Ml 6 and jarring it in her hands.

The salvage party broke and ran, slipping and sliding in the mess covering the ground about them and made worse by the full buckets they dropped. In a moment they were gone, but the girl with the rifle, joined by a similarly armed companion, had taken cover behind the handcart and now proceeded to snipe accurately at every move the pair made.

Not close enough for a shouted explanation to be heard above the continuing throaty pulse of the pump, and unlikely to be believed even if it could be, they had no choice but to make a long detour.

'How do you like being bested by women, Major?' There was that taunting smile again. Using the mute excuse of pretending preoccupation with the difficulties of negotiating a tangled ma.s.s of girders from a fallen crane, Revell didn't answer, until she persisted by repeating the question.

'It's not a case of being bested, it just made sense to back off. We couldn't get through to them, certainly couldn't kill them, so this was the best course.'

'You felt no annoyance, no anger that two young girls, civilians, should force you to change your plans?'

'Why do you want to know, what does it matter to you?'

'Because I would like to know how your mind works, what it is in a situation that guides you to your decisions.'

It wasn't the exertion of threading and climbing through the steel web that made Revell's pulse and respiration race. Perhaps he'd got it wrong, maybe he'd read too much into her words but he could dare to hope this meant she was going to attach herself to him the way she had to others.

From Clarence she'd learnt all there was to know about sniping and camouflage and a.s.sociated skills; from Dooley every aspect of unarmed combat. And before Libby had deserted, it'd seemed she was about to batten on to him to pick his brains of all he knew about demolition and explosives and the larger calibre weapons.

Now, hopefully, it was Revell's turn. He was certain that none of the others had ever made it with her. Clarence wouldn't have said if he had, but he wasn't the sort to try. Dooley had constantly said he had, and no one had ever believed him.

If it was his turn, then she had chosen him rather than Hyde from whom to absorb the skills of command. The sergeant's disfigurement had not been any bar to his being chosen, Andrea had never been bothered by the NCO's ghastly appearance, and so Revell had always felt that he was in a compet.i.tion, but a compet.i.tion in which he was the only one who was really trying.

He mustn't blow it, had to keep the thing alive. 'This isn't the time or place. We can go over it later, if you like.' Oh d.a.m.n, he had to add that last bit. He'd wanted to be positive and encouraging, and he'd succeeded only in sounding lame.

'Yes...'

His hopes soared.

'...perhaps.'

And crashed. He'd screwed it, he just knew it, he'd screwed up. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n ... f.u.c.k. That was the first time he'd used the word, even to himself. He disliked swearing, especially the grossly obscene every-other-word type in which Dooley and Burke indulged, allowed himself nothing stronger than an occasional 'd.a.m.n', but now the word seemed appropriate. f.u.c.k ... word and meaning filled his mind ... f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. Savagely hard he kicked a splintered baulk of timber over the edge of the wharf.

It struck the oil with a smack that hardly raised a splash, only one low ripple that was absorbed back into the glutinous ma.s.s within a yard. But the action had an unlooked for result.

On impact it turned over a bundle of fuel-sodden rags, to reveal them as clothes on a corpse that had been in there a long time. The oil had largely preserved the body, but as it lolled face uppermost it displayed an expanse of teeth made more prominent by the contracting of the soft flesh around them. With lips drawn back the dead man grinned up at Revell and mocked him before turning back to float face down again.

Sometimes it seemed that even the dead were against him.

There was a bridge, and it was still intact. They would not have to follow the river upstream to find the oar-powered ferries that had brought the unit across.

As they approached, Revell listened for the sound of fighting from the direction of Kirchdorf, but above the continual booming of Russian sh.e.l.ls exploding in the city he could not make it out.

Once the bridge had carried a multi-lane autobahn, but it had taken many direct hits and now only a single-lane track wound across it, twisting past and between the many craters and sections where the road bed had been severely damaged by rounds that had failed to penetrate.

Some had done more than that though, they had punched right through. As he pa.s.sed, Revell could see the river a long way below through a ragged-bordered hole. The various layers of the bridge's construction showed clearly, and shreds of metal from a bomb fin caught in the exposed ends of reinforcing rods, still bright and shiny where the paint had been stripped from them, showed that the damage was recent.

From the centre of the bridge they had a good vantage point over that half of the city. Sh.e.l.l bursts kept a permanent pall of dust and smoke in suspension over it and here and there rose a black column that marked the place of some more lasting blazes.

'There should be many more fires.' Andrea scanned those quarters under attack. 'It must be that there is little left to burn.'

Within a minute Revell had lost count of the number of incoming sh.e.l.ls. He watched an impressive display of fire control as all the artillery fire ceased abruptly, and then shortly after recommenced with its entire weight falling on a single location that was instantly hidden behind flame and smoke. If the Russians were short of replacement uniforms, they weren't short of ammunition.

A stray explosive round fell short and pounded the riverbank behind them, sending a large piece of the nose and fuse through the parapet ahead of them in a shower of stone and cement dust.

They stepped up their pace to get clear of the exposed position as quickly as possible, breaking into a run when two more sh.e.l.ls followed, impacting on the wreck of a railway bridge alongside, cutting the last ribbons of rail with which it connected both banks.

Too late Revell saw the wire and grabbed for Andrea to stop her. There was no time to dive for cover, all he could do was lunge forward to try to shield her with his body.

A brilliant flash blotted out their vision as a vividly bright fireball blossomed on top of the parapet. Revell felt himself being lifted and the thought flew through his mind that he was being blown over the side of the bridge, into the poisonous depths of the Elbe, then he struck the other parapet, and everything went black.

He didn't hurt, not badly. There was a violent buzzing inside his head and his body felt like it had spent a whole day being tossed about inside a cement mixer, but there didn't seem to be anything broken.

Opening his eyes, or trying to, transformed the buzzing to an agonising ringing. All he could see was a white mist, and he risked the pain he knew it would bring to shake his head to try to clear it.

Gradually the pain subsided to a pounding ache, and he tried again. Through a milky haze, blurred vision began to return. As it did, the first thing he made out was the group of men standing close by. Visible only in outline he could see the silhouettes of Russian helmets, and at the same moment he saw that Andrea was hemmed in by the group, and had been disarmed. One of the men was reaching towards her...

SEVEN.

Through the lenses of spectacles that appeared to be half an inch thick, the old man scrutinised their ident.i.ty cards. Although he held them up close to his face, he still kept a tight grip on the sub-machine gun.

'I can see why they gave him a short-range weapon. He can't see far enough to use a rifle.'

If the old man's sight wasn't perfect, his hearing was in no way impaired, and he glanced from the pieces of card to scrunch his wrinkled features and glare at the major.

'We may not be young,' he indicated the other oldsters who made up the bridge defence group, 'but we can still teach you something about war.' He pointed to a mound of artificially arranged rubble. 'There are six Communist a.s.sault engineers in there. We taught them about war; and you, how did you like your flying lesson?'

The memory of the b.o.o.by-trap blast grenade was too recent, and its aftermath too much still with him for Revell to say anything. He caught the card flicked back at him, and as he fumbled to catch it, noticed the old man carefully hand Andrea hers, and give her hand a squeeze as he did. 'How do we rejoin our unit?' Holding on to Andrea's hand, the old man very deliberately took a long time before answering Revell. 'You do not. We have no time for such niceties. You report to the Office of Reserve Manpower. It is on Adolphsplatz, near the stock exchange. Go by the shortest route. If you b.u.mp into your unit on the way then it is your lucky day, if not ...' He shrugged. 'Have you eaten?' 'No.' Revell was surprised by the sudden concern. 'Then you had best get a move on. They only serve one meal a day there, in thirty minutes.'

'Thanks.' Revell's a.s.sault shotgun had been retrieved by a member of the senior citizen's equally ancient squad, now the old man who held it reluctantly handed it over.

As they made to leave, the major felt a hand on his arm. It was the oldster with the sub-machine gun. 'You are one of those who came up the river?' 'Yes.'

'I hear there were not many of you, only a handful of tanks and a few supplies.'

Revell thought of all the casualties they'd taken on the way, but he said nothing about that. 'We're just an advance guard, there'll be a lot more coming.' The old man shook his head. 'I do not think so. Until now the Russians were expecting an attempt by land, or even by air. Now they know better and will not let it happen again. We have been fighting them a long time, we know what they are like. They live in fear, for your success some of them will die, others will not let you jeopardise their lives. No more convoys will get through. The Communists will die fighting rather than be tortured and executed by the KGB for not having tried hard enough.'

Gnarled hands enclosed his, and Revell saw tears in the oldster's eyes.

'We have done all we can, we thought others would now take the burden but we see that we must finish the task ourselves. But thank you for trying. Thank you.'

He went back to help his squad rig a fresh trip wire and replace the blast bomb. His step was unsteady and the weapon and spare magazines seemed to weigh him down.

Like the Englishman down the sewer, Revell recognised a man who was near the limit of his endurance. It was a miracle the old boy had survived this long. Many half his age must have succ.u.mbed to disease, or cracked under the nervous strain. Revell was learning a lot about Hamburg, but he was learning a lot more about its people.

'I've no idea where they are.'

The clerk spoke very loudly when he answered Revell's question about where his unit might be. He was about to leave the table when the clerk leant forward and whispered.

'Couldn't say anything while others were listening, it's bad for morale. I did hear something. The colonel's fire-brigade took a lot of casualties in a sc.r.a.p with some Commie tanks. Seems the Reds sent a weak force forward to draw the fire, then sent in a full squadron. Must have been a real rough-house. The count was four T72s brewed up and a couple more disabled. Sorry though, no idea where the colonel is now. You'll just have to go wherever you're wanted now.'

Revell rejoined Andrea sitting against the wall halfway along the platform. The underground station was packed. Every inch of s.p.a.ce, even between the tracks, was occupied by people sleeping or queuing or gathered in small groups to talk or play cards. A few, those lucky enough to be near one of the few low power bulbs, were reading.

A cross section of humanity was there. All types, all cla.s.ses were represented. In one corner a pa.s.sionate young man was earnestly talking to anyone he could get to listen. He was being watched by a pair of middle-aged civilian police officers, who began to sidle closer as the youth tried to press leaflets upon unwilling people who had not been as oblivious to the presence of the officers.

In the queue waiting for new pa.s.ses stood an elderly couple who had known better times. They tried, unsuccessfully, to distance themselves from those about them, holding their Antler luggage tight and making withering looks at anybody who brushed past or knocked against them.

From an alcove at the extreme end of the platform came a bellow of raucous laughter. A group of Turks were trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous. They were a small remnant of the ma.s.s of immigrant workers who had mostly returned home at the outbreak of war. Those who remained were the ones too poor to make the journey back to their homeland, or those wanted there by the police or draft boards, or who were engaged in some illegal racket so lucrative, like drugs, that they had been unwilling to pull out until the last moment, and then had left it too late.

Now they huddled close together in the recess, shushing each other to silence as they forgot their purpose for a moment and laughed too loud at a joke, or celebrated a winning hand too noisily.

The people they were avoiding were the armed men and women wearing blue armbands, who roamed through the crowds selecting those they needed for various tasks.

Somewhere among the throng a baby began to cry. There were few children on the platform and everyone stiffened at the sound and all conversation ceased immediately. It was as if the people's nerves were so finely tuned, stretched so far, that if the jarring noise went on a moment too long they would snap.

It stopped, and the relaxation of tension could be felt. A pause, only of a second or two's duration, but seeming longer, then the hubbub restarted as loudly as before.

'You have plenty of ammunition for those?' Revell was surprised at being spoken to in English, and even more so at the fact that the speaker wore the remnants of a British army uniform, bearing the insignia of a major in the Royal Engineers. He noticed just as quickly that he wore a blue armband. 'Enough. What's your interest?' Revell felt a strong twinge of irrational jealousy as he noticed Andrea making a frank and thorough appraisal of the almost effeminately handsome officer. But the boyish good looks and quite diffident manner were belied by the ma.s.s of weaponry he carried, in the shape of a pair of holstered pistols, a silenced Patchet sub-machine gun and several grenades that hung from his belt and webbing.

'I've got a bit of a job on and I'm a little short on firepower, had a few losses recently. I need a couple of good hands to ride shotgun, rather appropriately.' He tapped the barrel of Revell's 12-gauge.

'We were hoping to rejoin our own unit, if it still exists. Can you tell us what the task is?' Revell made a point of placing himself between Andrea and the stranger.

'You must be new. Off the convoy? Of course you are, silly question, you couldn't have come from anywhere else. Actually I don't have to tell you. The rule is, if you're picked, you go. No questions, just do it, or ...' He didn't add any more, just indicated the police.

'I'd still like to know.'

'I'll tell you as we walk. 'Without looking to see if they were followed, he climbed down onto the track, and taking a torch from a pocket, led them into the gaping black crescent of the tunnel.

'The name's Thorne. I lead a group of odds and sods who specialise in suckering the Reds into traps. We're getting quite good at it, but we tend to use rather a lot of ordnance, more than our few explosives plants can turn out, so we get what we want from Ivan's Gift Shop.'

'It has been mentioned before, what is it?' Thorne stopped and flicked the torch beam on to Andrea's face, letting it linger a moment until she put up her arm to shield her eyes. 'You'll be there in a couple of minutes, then you'll see for yourselves. Hope you've got strong nerves. I've been there dozens of times, and it still gives me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. We make a detour here.'

A hole had been smashed in the tunnel wall, and from it a smaller hand-hewn branch sloped upwards. After thirty feet it opened into a trunk sewer. In this one, though, there was hardly any smell, just an acidy tang, like that from a goldfish bowl overdue for cleaning.

'Not the prettiest of routes I'm afraid. But then the city isn't all that much to look at now.'

Thome beckoned them to move to the wall and they clung to its crusted surface as three handcarts were trundled past. The first was piled with an a.s.sortment of non-ferrous sc.r.a.p, the others with barrels whose slopping contents gave off pungent fumes that Andrea and Revell recognised from their journey through the docks.

'Be grateful, you could have been hooked out for a job like that. I've heard that some of those people don't see daylight for months at a time. Like the burial squads, they get extra rations, but then I wouldn't like to do that either. Here we are.'

Rungs set into the wall led to a heavy steel cover. Climbing to its top, their guide rapped three times on its underside. After a short wait there was a creaking, rending noise and the cover began to rise, admitting a growing wedge of light.

They clambered up and into a brightly lit underground car park. This one was intact, the Russian gunners and bomb aimers had failed to find or penetrate it, and it was just as well. Stretching away between the supporting pillars were long, ma.s.sively strong, trestle tables, their undersides braced with thick wooden props or angle-iron.

On the benches were variously sized wooden cradles, but it was what those cradles held that caught Revell's attention. Each pair of them supported a bomb or rocket. Most were partly dismantled, many of them were badly battered, and all of them were clearly of Soviet or East German origin.

In a far corner a steam generator hissed and bubbled, and not far off a stack of gas cylinders was coated with a crust of frozen lox.

'Our stuff is over there.' Thome led the way to where some men sat on and around a camouflage-painted Jaguar XJ saloon.