the Third Reich. Harry was determined to get them out of here and back to England, no matter the cost.
If that proved impossible, as a last resort he’d put a bullet into each of their brains.
The sounds of close-quarter battle were so loud they penetrated his helmet’s gel seal, making it difficult for him to communicate with his men, even using the throat mikes. The upturned table shuddered under the impact of concentrated rifle fire. At first he’d wondered why the
Panzergrenadiers
hadn’t just tossed a couple of potato mashers over and finished off all the white coats he’d put in the bag. They’d done just that on the floor below, killing half a troop of his men and the six technicians they’d been shepherding.
But then, von Braun and Dornberger hadn’t been part of that group. The Germans must have had orders to keep them alive no matter the cost. A mirror image of Harry’s own mission brief.
For the moment, then, they had arrived at a stalemate.
The frenzy of small-arms fire and hand-to-hand fighting that had marked the opening minutes of the encounter had settled down into a more measured exchange, with each side trying to pick off the other, man by man. Harry couldn’t even rely on his lads’ night vision to give them an advantage. The SS were kitted out with their own Gen2-type goggles. He and St. Clair could have blinded them with flash-bangs, which their 21C optics were smart enough to blot out. But the rest of his men were equipped with NVGs no more advanced than the Germans’—perhaps a little less so.
An SAS trooper next to Ronsard who’d raised himself up to take a shot suddenly flew backward, a gout of dark fluid jetting from his splattered skull.
“Merde,”
grunted the Frenchman.
“Who was that?” Harry asked St. Clair.
The giant noncom glanced over. “Looks like Asher, guv.”
“Bugger. I’ve had enough of this, Viv. They just have to keep us here long enough, and they win. That’s why they’re not pressing the issue.”
St. Clair nodded. “Fair enough.”
Captain Ronsard lifted his Ivan gun above the table and squeezed off a three-round burst. “You have a plan?”
“It’s a bear hunt. We can’t go through them. Can’t get around them. We’ll have to go over them.”
“Sorry, guv,” said St. Clair. “Left me jet-powered backpack at ’ome.”
“Not to worry. I have a cunning plan. Is Private Haigh still in the land of the living?”
It was a bugger of a thing not being able to call up his men’s biosigns. It meant he was never quite sure at any given moment who was drawing breath and who wasn’t.
“Gideon!” St. Clair cried in a harsh whisper. “What are you up to, you nasty little man? Not ’aving another wank, I ’ope.”
“No, Sergeant Major,” came the reply over the tac net. “I’m down by the big fridge at the back of the room.”
Excellent,
thought Harry. “Private Haigh, it’s Colonel Windsor,” he said as softly as he could while still being heard. “Stay right there, and try very hard not to get killed. You’re coming with me.”
“With you? Where, sir?”
“On an adventure, my boy. Just keep your fucking head down.”
Harry wormed his away over to St. Clair. Guns still barked all around them, and a shower of hot splinters pattered down on his helmet.
“I’m going up into the ceiling with Haigh,” he said. “He used to be a coal miner, so the confined space shouldn’t bother him. We’ll try to work our way over behind the krauts and drop down on them. You’ll have a second or two before they recover, more if they don’t kill us right off the bat. You need to clean them out, Sergeant Major, and quickly. The old-fashioned way. Like we did in Surabaya.”
Harry couldn’t see St. Clair’s eyes behind his combat goggles, but the grim set of his jaw was enough to confirm that he understood. Ronsard glanced up dubiously.
“Be ready in…twelve minutes,” the prince said.
“Yes, sir. Good luck,
If that proved impossible, as a last resort he’d put a bullet into each of their brains.
The sounds of close-quarter battle were so loud they penetrated his helmet’s gel seal, making it difficult for him to communicate with his men, even using the throat mikes. The upturned table shuddered under the impact of concentrated rifle fire. At first he’d wondered why the
Panzergrenadiers
hadn’t just tossed a couple of potato mashers over and finished off all the white coats he’d put in the bag. They’d done just that on the floor below, killing half a troop of his men and the six technicians they’d been shepherding.
But then, von Braun and Dornberger hadn’t been part of that group. The Germans must have had orders to keep them alive no matter the cost. A mirror image of Harry’s own mission brief.
For the moment, then, they had arrived at a stalemate.
The frenzy of small-arms fire and hand-to-hand fighting that had marked the opening minutes of the encounter had settled down into a more measured exchange, with each side trying to pick off the other, man by man. Harry couldn’t even rely on his lads’ night vision to give them an advantage. The SS were kitted out with their own Gen2-type goggles. He and St. Clair could have blinded them with flash-bangs, which their 21C optics were smart enough to blot out. But the rest of his men were equipped with NVGs no more advanced than the Germans’—perhaps a little less so.
An SAS trooper next to Ronsard who’d raised himself up to take a shot suddenly flew backward, a gout of dark fluid jetting from his splattered skull.
“Merde,”
grunted the Frenchman.
“Who was that?” Harry asked St. Clair.
The giant noncom glanced over. “Looks like Asher, guv.”
“Bugger. I’ve had enough of this, Viv. They just have to keep us here long enough, and they win. That’s why they’re not pressing the issue.”
St. Clair nodded. “Fair enough.”
Captain Ronsard lifted his Ivan gun above the table and squeezed off a three-round burst. “You have a plan?”
“It’s a bear hunt. We can’t go through them. Can’t get around them. We’ll have to go over them.”
“Sorry, guv,” said St. Clair. “Left me jet-powered backpack at ’ome.”
“Not to worry. I have a cunning plan. Is Private Haigh still in the land of the living?”
It was a bugger of a thing not being able to call up his men’s biosigns. It meant he was never quite sure at any given moment who was drawing breath and who wasn’t.
“Gideon!” St. Clair cried in a harsh whisper. “What are you up to, you nasty little man? Not ’aving another wank, I ’ope.”
“No, Sergeant Major,” came the reply over the tac net. “I’m down by the big fridge at the back of the room.”
Excellent,
thought Harry. “Private Haigh, it’s Colonel Windsor,” he said as softly as he could while still being heard. “Stay right there, and try very hard not to get killed. You’re coming with me.”
“With you? Where, sir?”
“On an adventure, my boy. Just keep your fucking head down.”
Harry wormed his away over to St. Clair. Guns still barked all around them, and a shower of hot splinters pattered down on his helmet.
“I’m going up into the ceiling with Haigh,” he said. “He used to be a coal miner, so the confined space shouldn’t bother him. We’ll try to work our way over behind the krauts and drop down on them. You’ll have a second or two before they recover, more if they don’t kill us right off the bat. You need to clean them out, Sergeant Major, and quickly. The old-fashioned way. Like we did in Surabaya.”
Harry couldn’t see St. Clair’s eyes behind his combat goggles, but the grim set of his jaw was enough to confirm that he understood. Ronsard glanced up dubiously.
“Be ready in…twelve minutes,” the prince said.
“Yes, sir. Good luck,
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