Take it,’ said the corpse, releasing the heavy plate from fingers of crusted bone. ‘I hope it serves you well.’
A mine went off somewhere to the right, its flash turning the falling snow orange for a moment and its thunder shaking the earth. In the momentary burst of light, Harry had seen an arc of skeletal figures stumbling ever closer to the dark huddled shape of the pill-box; so had the men inside. Armour-piercing machine-gun bullets screamed in the air, blowing apart Tartar remains and coming dangerously close. For all that Harry’s ancient shield was heavy, still it was rotten with rust and decay; he knew it wouldn’t stop a direct hit.
‘Go now!’ urged the dead thing where it struggled to its bony feet and lurched forward headlessly. ‘Kill some of them for me.’
Harry narrowed his eyes one last time through flurries of snow and fixed the location of the fire-spewing outbuilding in his mind, then rolled sideways through a Mobius door – and into the pill-box.
No time for thinking in there, and little or no room for movement. What had looked from outside like an old cowshed was in fact a cramped nest of steel plates and concrete blocks, slate-grey gunmetal and shining ammunition-belts. Grey light fought its way in through arc-of-fire and viewing slits, turning the cordite and sweat-smelling interior to a drifting smog in which call-sign One and his second in command coughed and spluttered where they worked furiously and feverishly.
Harry emerged in the tight space behind them, dropping his shield to the concrete floor as he swung up the loaded shotgun.
Hearing the clatter as the shield fell, both Russians turned in their steel-backed swivel chairs. They saw a white-faced youth in an overcoat cradling a shotgun, his eyes bright points of light above pinched nostrils and the grim, tight line of his mouth.
‘Who – ?’ gasped One. He looked like some strange, startled, waspish alien in his Chateau uniform, with his headset for antennae above goggling eyes.
‘How – ?’ said his second in command, his fingers automatically completing the task of fitting a new belt to the machine-gun.
Then call-sign One was scrabbling to snatch a pistol from his holster, and his second in command was coming to his feet, cursing.
Harry felt no pity for them. It was them or him. And there were plenty of others just like them to welcome them where they were going. He pulled the triggers: one for One, two for his second in command, and blew them screaming into the arms of death. The stench of hot blood quickly mingled with acrid cordite and the reek of sweat and fear, causing Harry’s eyes to water. He blinked them furiously, broke open the shotgun and reloaded, found another Mobius door.
The next pill-box was the same, and the one after that. Six of them in all, they were all the same. Harry took them out in less than two minutes.
In the last one, when it was done he found the chaotic mind of one of the fresh dead defenders and calmed him. ‘It’s over for you now,’ he said, ‘but the one who brought all this about is still alive. You’d be home with your family tonight if not for him. And so would I. Now, where’s Dragosani?’
‘In Borowitz’s office, in the tower,’ said the other. ‘He’s turned it into the control room. There’ll be others with him.’
‘I expect there will,’ said Harry, staring into the Russian’s shattered, smoking, unrecognisable face. ‘Thanks.’
And then there was only one thing left to do, but Harry fancied he’d need a little help to do it.
He snapped open the clamps that held the machine-gun in place on its swivelling base, took up the heavy gun and hurled it down to the hard floor, then lifted it and threw it down again. After being dashed to the concrete three or four times the hard wooden stock splintered lengthwise, allowing Harry to break off a jagged stake with a flat base and a sharp, hardwood point.
He reached for his cartridges and found only one left, gritted his teeth and loaded the single cartridge into his shotgun. It would have to be enough. Then he pulled open the pill-box door and stepped out into the swirling snow.