Killing Ground by James Rouch Page B

borscht had been a cheese pie as delicate as only she could make it, and there had been fresh black bread and from heaven-only-knew-where she had produced ice cream, and homemade kvass on which, with several glasses of cognac, he had become quite drunk. He pushed the recollection from his mind. He no longer knew if she was alive or dead, or among the living dead in a labour camp.
    They crossed a single-arch stone bridge. On the far side, partially overhanging the road and the water, was an old flour mill. Scaffolding and the rotting boards of working platforms surrounded it on three sides. The attractions of its beautiful setting among the rugged tree-covered hills had not been enough to tempt its owners back into the Zone to complete the restoration.
    For several hundred meters beyond the lone building the road climbed steeply to a brow that gave a rare panoramic view. In the middle distance, perhaps two kilometres in a straight line, a great column of bare granite thrust high above the trees that masked its base. Topping it stood a Disneyland-style Gothic castle.
    Its grey stone walls soared to intricate turrets, spires and battlements. Wisps of cloud threaded between its highest features.
    Clarence unslung his rifle and used its powerful telescopic sight to examine the ancient fortress. The masonry seemed to grow directly out of the rock and in places it was hard to determine the point of transition.
    ‘There sure is a lot of shit going down around us.’ Ripper listened, and recognized the thundering report of an artillery missile impacting. Ages after the heavy report of its one-ton warhead came the distinctive double ‘boom’ of its recent supersonic passage.
    There was no time to take cover when the scream of jet engines filled the air. A contour-hugging MIG fighter-bomber flashed past close overhead and the clouds were lit with the glare of its afterburners.
    ‘He won’t get very far.’ Clarence rejected the instinctive but futile urge to send a bullet after the aircraft. ‘At the rate he’s burning fuel he is going to have to come down soon. One way or another. Something must have scared the hell out of him…’
    Flares ejected as decoys drifted down. The last was barely brushing the treetops when a slim flame-tailed missile lashed under incredible acceleration from the vicinity of the castle and hurtled after the plane. Ignoring the flares, it screeched past and bored into the cloud in pursuit.
    ‘Go on boy, go get him.’ Ripper cheered the Rapier. ‘It’ll get him. It ain’t even a contest. That’s one Warpac pilot who won’t be fretting himself over his fuel consumption for long.’
    ‘Did anyone pinpoint the launch site?’ Even through the field glasses Revell could make out nothing that would betray the missile’s lift-off point. Not for the first time he regretted his thermal imager had been lost with the APC. With it the location, bathed in the residue of the hot exhaust gasses, would have stood out like a neon sign.
    ‘Pretty close to the castle, I think.’ Lowering the rifle, Clarence used his keen sight in an attempt to decide if a smudge he saw among distant high ground was a trick of light or the faint remains of rapidly dispersing smoke. He couldn’t be certain. ‘I’ve got an idea it came from within that circle of hills. If you look, the road runs along the base of its plinth of rock, and the circle of hills is on the other side of it.’
    ‘That’s close enough. So somewhere down there is one of our air-defence batteries, or at least part of one. Their transport allocation is usually generous; maybe we can hitch a lift.’
    Taking the point, Revell was disappointed when they lost sight of the castle the moment they started downhill. The trees prevented more than an occasional tantalizing glimpse. But at least each one showed them that little bit nearer.
    Setting a fast pace, he maintained it even when he began to feel the strain himself. They had to make contact. Even if like