Hunter Killer by James Rouch Page A

slipped on the mantle of command very quickly ... too quickly? It was tempting to give him his head, but Revell decided that until he knew the youngster’s capabilities it would be sensible to restrain, or at least contain, his enthusiasm. ‘We’ll be doing that in just a minute. What’s your speciality?’
    ‘Radar and fire-control systems, sir.’
‘OK, pick what men you need, as few as possible, and stick to that. The rest of us will take care of moving and sighting the launchers.’ For a fraction of a second it seemed that the bombardier might dispute the order, his face had fallen when most of his men had been removed from his command; but he obviously decided against it, executed an impeccable salute and departed.
    Checking his watch, Revell noted that they only had nine hours of darkness left. If they couldn’t get finished they might have to risk working during the day. Speed was everything now. ‘Sergeant Hyde, stop those men clowning about and get them up here, now.’
    Hyde had already observed the antics of Dooley and York as they attempted to mount the slippery bank. They were hauling themselves up by the rope, but even so, making hard work of it. His annoyance was increased substantially by the fact that the American officer had noticed and commented on the charade before he’d done so himself.
    ‘Get a bloody move on, Dooley. You’re the one who’s supposed to be super fit, the muscle man. I’ve an old grey-haired aunt who could climb that faster.’
    Reaching the top, Dooley paused before attempting the final heave that would pull him on to level ground. ‘I’ve already been up and down the fucking thing a couple of dozen times, shoving that crappy seat and its passengers. Shit, even I run out of puff sometimes.’ The sergeant’s boot hovered above his fingers, threatening to crush them into the frozen soil. ‘But maybe I can summon up a little extra,’ he added as he saw the danger to his precarious handhold. 
    Still clutching the rope, unable to climb past Dooley’s obstructing bulk, York started complaining.
‘Shut your racket.’ Hyde reached down and jerked the radio-man to his feet as soon as Dooley was out of the way. ‘Useless pair of buggers, join the others.’ For a moment York thought he might risk a reply, but Revell was close by, and though he might have chanced it with the British sergeant, there was no way he’d take the same risk with his own officer. Hyde was hard, but Revell was just plain cruel. Even a tough nut like Dooley never tried anything with the major around.
    Before he started out for the house, York made a final examination of their handiwork. That was a good job they’d made of camouflaging the sledge and cabin. With the snow beginning to fall heavily, sprinkling the mottled fabric strips sewed to the net, the whole thing was starting to merge with its surroundings. It would already be virtually invisible to the naked eye at more than a few yards.
    For the next couple of hours there would be sufficient residual heat from the bodies for the cabin’s temperature to remain above that of the terrain surrounding it. Revell knew it wouldn’t be much, but it would be enough to stand out on the infra-red screen of any patrolling Swedish or Russian craft doing a sweep of the islands. It was no longer sufficient to hide an object from sight, and camouflage of that sort was not always worth the vast effort frequently involved.
    Multi-spectral surveillance made it virtually impossible to keep anything from the prying lens and sensors of the latest photographic and electronic detectors. It was crazy, but maybe the time had come when it would be better to leave important installations such as radar sites and headquarters out in the open. With an enemy like the Communists, who never took anything at face value and who attributed the same evil cunning to others that they practised themselves, maybe they’d get away with it. It was a tempting idea ...possibly a