Target, p.32
Target, page 32
The rain had stopped by the time they left, but water was still dripping off the thatches and roofs, and the dust had become a slimy, sticky mud. Even with a four-wheel drive vehicle, Makovsky was conscious of the changed road conditions and drove slowly away from the village, cautious of skidding.
“They’re convinced,” said Makovsky confidently.
“Yes,” said the American.
“We were very lucky.”
“I was wondering whether we’d done enough …” suggested Blakey hopefully, “whether it wasn’t enough now just to talk to people … to spread the rumors.”
The Russian drove for several moments without any response. “I’d like to think so,” he said.
Blakey waited for the other man to say more, but he had apparently stopped.
“Well?” said the American.
“Mao is one of the biggest towns near the complex. They must draw a lot of labor from there. We should do something.”
The Russian was right, Blakey accepted miserably. “What?” he said.
“To poison the water supply would be most effective.”
“No more,” said Blakey insistently. “After that, we stop.”
“Yes,” said the Russian. “That will be enough.”
They found the supply river as they were driving away from the town. They filled their water-bottles and reserve cans, added their purifying pills and then implanted the slow release canisters in the river. Mao was just beginning to stir after the oppressive midday heat when they drove in. Their petrol was waiting where the American embassy had promised it would be, and they went through their duty meeting with the town’s leaders. Blakey suspected that there was a resistance here to any suggestion of the BADRA installation causing harm and accepted that they should have expected people living in a town to be less influenced than those in a village. It was difficult to assess a figure, but Blakey supposed that a large number of men from Mao were employed by the Germans. Perhaps the momentary disadvantage would become a positive benefit when they began becoming ill. Blakey realized what he had thought and the sickness immediately bunched in his stomach. He’d thought it! He’d actually allowed his mind to consider things the way that Peterson and Petrov and everyone else in Washington or Moscow were prepared to think. It must have been obvious from his expression, because he was aware of Makovsky looking curiously across the headman’s house at him. He tried to compose himself. The feeling of disgust remained deep in his stomach. There was the predictable invitation to stay overnight, which they refused; it would have meant sharing the food and the food would have been prepared with the poisoned water. Thou shalt kill but not be killed, thought Blakey again. This time there was no embarrassment at the blasphemy. He’d gone beyond blasphemy, he knew. There was no excuse, no pardon, no escape from perdition. He was damned, forever damned — perpetually, irredeemably, horrifyingly damned. He tried to recall the terrors of hell that had been used as a constant warning in the seminary and decided that any of these was too easy a retribution for the things he had perpetrated. He hurried the meeting to a close, cutting across the stylized courtesies that Makovsky and the African were exchanging before departure, anxious to get away from yet another place they had despoiled.
“What the hell’s the matter?” demanded Makovsky, immediately after he started the car moving from the township.
“Hell’s the matter,” said Blakey.
“I don’t understand.”
“It won’t be enough to resign,” said the American. “That’s just something else for my conscience … for me. That’s no real atonement.”
“There isn’t anything else.”
“There must be. Who do they think they are, these people who can determine sentences that we are being called upon to inflict?”
“That’s stupid reasoning. And you know it.”
“It’s my reasoning.”
“Then it’s stupid, like I said.”
“People should know.”
Makovsky slowed the car, so that he could turn to look at the other man. “What?” he demanded.
“They shouldn’t be allowed to do it, Peterson and Petrov and whoever else it is in whose name they operate. People, ordinary people should know.”
Makovsky stopped the vehicle completely. “They’d kill you,” he said, “if they thought for a moment you were going to attempt some public exposure of what we’re trying to do.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“They wouldn’t know, until it was too late.”
Makovsky reached out, gripping his arm. When the American looked up, he saw a wetness about the other man’s eyes. “I haven’t a country that’s free, not like yours is free,” he said. “I know the environment to which I will return. And I know better than you the sort of situation to which you will go back. You won’t be free, not for a long time. They’ll call it debriefing or processing or some other expression; our people, both our people, are very good at expressions which really mean things quite different from what they sound. You’ll be kept away from Jane and from Samantha and you’ll be studied and examined, and only when they’re completely satisfied that you’re not going to do anything which they would consider disloyal will you be set free. And the moment they think otherwise, then they’ll kill you. Jane will get her pension and Samantha’s schooling will be paid for and there’ll be some story of your being brave on an assignment and everyone will think you’re a hero.”
Blakey shuddered, the physical movement vibrating through him. “I could hide it,” he tried, stubbornly.
“No you wouldn’t,” insisted Makovsky. “I looked across that hut back there and I could have told you, almost word for word, what you were thinking. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone whose emotions are more on the surface than yours.”
“Then what am I going to do?” demanded Blakey, his voice anguished.
“Nothing,” said Makovsky, simply. “We’ve finished inflicting all the injury. Now we’ve just got to reinforce the suspicion, point them in the right direction. And after that we go back to N’Djamena, and you and I might get drunk. Then we’ll say good-bye forever and we’ll go back to our homes and never speak another word of what we’ve done.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to do that.”
“It’s a simple choice,” said Makovsky. “You either do that, or Jane will be a widow and Samantha an orphan.”
Blakey slumped against the seat, head thrown back. “Oh my God!” he said, agonized.
“I don’t think you’ve got one, not any more,” said the Russian.
Petrov had been very quick to gauge the advantage of the Jewish emigration from Russia to Israel, carefully choosing and infiltrating his agents over a long period and establishing cells in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It had been from one of his best established people that he had first learned the rumor of government concern about a rocket installation in Africa. The same man, an engineer who worked in the mistaken belief that success would guarantee the release of the rest of his family from the Soviet Union, informed the KGB chief of the mock-up near Beersheba. Petrov immediately activated everyone he had in the country and within twenty-four hours had information about the commando training in the south and the fuel dump in Egypt.
Aboard the destroyer in the Gulf of Guinea, Peterson was experiencing the first feeling of relief at Walter Jones’ news about Beth, when the contact came from the Russian. It was a secure line, with very little fade in the volume.
“They’re planning their own operation?” said Peterson.
“That’s the only inference,” said Petrov. “Did you tell them what we were doing?”
“I said there was to be an attempt. And asked Levy to hold his people in readiness in case we failed and there was a need for a second attempt.”
“My information is that they’re not going to wait.”
“They’ll ruin it.”
“Can you contact Levy? Get him to stop?”
“I can try,” said Peterson. “But if there’s been a decision made he’ll ignore it. I’ll get Washington to attempt to impose some pressure; there’s an aid allocation which might work in our favor.”
“We’ll have to warn everybody in Chad.”
“Yes,” agreed Peterson.
“And particularly the deep penetration group. That’s what the Israelis will be attempting — a tactical assault.”
“Bastards!” said Peterson, vehemently.
“We’ll have to kill them, if they make an attempt,” insisted Petrov. “I’ll try to impose what monitor I can, and if we learn there’s been an incursion, then our men must be ordered to intercept and remove them.”
“How the hell could we do that, without alerting half the country?”
“The launch is just three days away,” reminded Petrov. “We might not have time for such considerations.”
“It was going so well!” said Peterson, exasperated.
“And it’s got to continue that way,” said the Russian. “If the Israelis go in, they’re to be destroyed.”
29
The American and Russian commandos woke professionally, very quietly, both sides guarding against any unnecessary noise. There were still wraiths of mist across the jungle floor and through the coppice above them, and although the monkeys and birds were screeching and calling, the forest was not properly aroused. Any unfamiliar sound would have carried. Bradley got his men to the stream first; though it was still cold they stripped and washed. He judged them all sufficiently recovered from insect bites to shave. By the time the Russians straggled towards the water, the Americans were bent over their boots, clearing the soles of clotted undergrowth and buffing the uppers. Bradley was disappointed he could do nothing about the stained combat uniforms.
The Americans were breaking camp and clearing away all evidence off their presence when Sharakov approached. The Russian’s face was sore from mosquitoes.
“The soldier who was bitten is still delirious,” said Sharakov.
“What are you going to do?”
“I would abandon him here, but there’s the danger of his being discovered.”
Bradley nodded, unmoved by the callousness. “It’ll slow us down, having to carry him.”
“I regret it,” said Sharakov shortly and Bradley decided that the Soviet colonel regarded the problem as a weakness from his side and was irritated by it.
“It can’t be helped,” said the American.
The Russians had made a pallet from fallen branches, extending them at either end so that a man could get between the shafts front and back to support the one in the middle. The soldier appeared to be unconscious when they lifted him onto the improvised stretcher. The bearers’ packs were redistributed among the remainder of the troop.
Bradley timed the approach carefully, determined upon the maximum effect. Just as they were about to move and were sufficiently close together for everyone to hear, he said to Sharakov. “We’ll help with the carrying, if your men tire.”
“My men will not tire,” said Sharakov immediately.
“The equipment at least,” offered Bradley.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Bradley nodded acceptance at the refusal, happy he had increased the other man’s annoyance. They travelled as they had done the previous day, with front and rear guard, and the main body in the middle. Bradley was aware of Sharakov constantly urging his men on, determined to forestall any criticism for slowing the march towards the complex. There was no proper track, and so close were they to the lake and its irrigation that the jungle grew in a tangle of vines, creepers and trees. The stretcher was cumbersome to maneuver, frequently snagging on branches and trailing undergrowth. They changed carriers every hours, Sharakov moving impatiently around every transfer.
The warning came from the advance look-out after about two hours’ marching. About five hundred yards ahead was a clearing near to the water’s edge which the Sara tribe apparently used as a temporary camp while they were fishing. There were signs of recent occupation and some boats, about a mile offshore. The soldiers struck out east immediately, deeper into the jungle and away from the lake edge, to skirt the open area where they might have been seen.
“I wanted to attempt a daylight reconnaissance today,” said Bradley, careful to keep his voice neutral of any complaint.
“There’ll be time.”
“We’re still ten miles off.”
“The forest should thin out, as we get nearer.”
They stopped at noon, both sides instinctively moving apart when they settled to rest. The Americans ate their can-heated food, but Bradley noted that the Russian provisions were cold. He decided that the Russian group had recovered from their exhaustion of the previous day, and despite the additional burden of their unconscious colleague, they all looked remarkably fit.
Sergeant Banks approached Bradley just as the colonel finished eating.
“We going to make it in daylight?”
“We need to,” said Bradley. “I don’t want us blundering about in the dark, trying to discover what we’re up against.”
“The priests should be somewhere around,” said the sergeant unexpectedly.
“Probably,” agreed Bradley.
“We going to make any contact?”
Bradley shook his head. “No point,” he said. “Orders were that we were to remain self-contained units.”
“Wonder how they’ve made out?”
Bradley shrugged, uninterested in the conversation. “What do you think of the Russians?”
“Good men,” judged Banks, expertly. “Know a lot of jungle-craft.”
Bradley was about to order the Americans to their feet when he saw the Russians were grouping around the stretcher and that there was a sudden flurry of conversation. As he approached, Sharakov looked up. “He’s died,” he said.
“That’s another thirty minutes delay, for burial,” said Bradley. It was an automatic remark and not calculated to irritate this time.
“Fifteen minutes,” promised Sharakov.
Bradley looked beyond the other man. Three soldiers were already carefully lifting topsoil for later unobtrusive replacement and two others were standing ready to start the dig While they worked, others stripped the dead man’s pack of food, water and ammunition and then sealed the corpse in a body bag. Food across the separating gap the Americans watched in respectful silence. The body was interred and the grave covered in twelve minutes. The Americans rose expectantly and then appeared surprised when the Russians moved immediately away and started to prepare themselves to march.
“The Soviets have no religion,” reminded Bradley. “Not officially, anyway. There won’t be a service.”
“Still doesn’t seem right,” complained Sweetman, in mild protest. “He was a nice guy.”
“It saves us fifteen minutes,” said Bradley practically.
Even among soldiers, death still had its sobering effect. Bradley detected several nods of sympathy from his own men towards the Russians, and they stood around momentarily in head-bent, inward-looking stances.
For the first time since they had linked together, Bradley and Sharakov responded without trying to gain some psychological advantage, each hurrying his men into readiness and moving them out at speed, to prevent the mood of depressive uncertainty from increasing. Freed of the difficulty with the stretcher, their progress improved immediately. Very quickly, as Sharakov had predicted, the jungle began to thin, with less obstructive undergrowth. After an hour there was even an area of plain, a bald geological discrepancy in the middle of the forest. Promulka, one of the advance guard, had warned them of it and advised that it was safe to cross without fear of any observation, but its size still surprised Bradley when they reached it. There was a hardened animal track through the savannah to a muddied water-hole, and they were able to jog across, making up even more time.
It was mid-afternoon when they reached the jungle fringe, and Bradley and Sharakov lay at the very rim, field-glasses shaded against any tell-tale reflection from the sun, and studied the rocket installation, two miles away.
“Effective protection,” said Sharakov.
“Probably machine-guns in those control towers.”
“Wood construction,” said Sharakov, critically. “Easy to bring them down with an explosive charge.”
“Three miles from the perimeter to the rocket installation,” recalled Bradley, remembering the details of Bohler’s first transmission. “The noise of any attack won’t travel that distance.”
“It’s an advantage,” agreed Sharakov. “But it means we’ve got to achieve complete surprise when we take out that watchtower. If they’ve a chance to raise an alarm, there’s no way we will be able to cover that distance without serious interception.”
Both remained flat, wriggling backwards to the deeper protection of the trees before rising. Bradley selected Logan as the scout and Sharakov indicated the smallest man in his group, a thin, wiry soldier whom he identified as Gribanov. The two men crouched before Bradley and Sharakov, excited at the prospect of some positive action. The quietness caused by that morning’s death seemed to have disappeared completely.
