Exit wound

Another invisible aircraft laboured above us as I kick-started the Ural. I hoped the cloud cover hung in there. We needed all the help we could get.

104

0710 hrs

We soon found ourselves paralleling a four-metre-high chain-link fence. The fir trees the far side of it seemed to advance and recede as we continued, and in a few places crossed the wire in an attempt to overwhelm us.

It doesn’t matter what flag you’re flying or what uniform you’re wearing, every army in the world has certain things in common. The chain-link fence is one of them. The high command can’t seem to get enough of them. They don’t stop anyone getting in, but they’re great for hanging warning signs on. Red ones emblazoned with a skull and crossbones were pinned to it every twenty-five metres or so. I couldn’t read the Russian writing beneath, but the message was clear.

We throbbed away at the Ural’s top speed of 100 k.p.h. Its basic 750cc twin-cylinder sounded like a diesel truck. These machines hadn’t changed a bit since the Russians reverse-engineered the German Army’s BMW in 1939 – and Cuckoo was the real deal, one of the originals. It was designed to go to war, take a pounding and still come back for more.

Like most of the really good squaddies I knew, it was also a pain in the arse. Taking orders was not what it was about, and I rather liked that. There was plenty of feedback from the handlebars. It had its own way of doing things, and it didn’t care who knew.

It wanted to turn right whenever I accelerated, so I began steering left to counteract the pull. But easing off the throttle for a shift of gear made the bike yaw back to its original axis. I had to learn to feather my steering according to throttle input in order to keep the thing heading in the direction we needed to go.

Braking and turning were also no picnic. Hitting the front brakes pulled the Ural to the left, whether or not you wanted to go there. Right turns were even more hair-raising. If the change of direction was too sudden, the bike would start to lift.

We passed a barrack block overlooking a wet parade-ground. An endless line of wooden shacks stretched along its furthest edge, probably selling everything from beer to women. Neat lines of trucks and APCs glistened in the rain. Soldiers drilled or ran around at the double, all the normal business. It could have been any fortified military compound anywhere on the planet. It was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

We cracked on. I checked the odometer, watching it move up to the ten K mark. Anna slapped my left leg. We’d reached the truck stop she’d been told about. I pulled in.

This one had a hardware store. There were rows of shovels and picks lined up against a wall in some kind of display, next to knackered tractors that had probably left the production line in Stalin’s time.

I waited outside in the rain while Anna went in. I took off the helmet to get some air. My whole body felt grimy and stiff, like I’d spent the night in a trench. For some reason, a night in the open always feels worse after first light. It was the bit I’d hated most about being a squaddie.

Anna came out twenty minutes later, laden with gear. ‘Shall we fill it up at the pump?’

‘Not here. Let’s get on target.’

I put the helmet back on and we rode for another thirty K along the fence line. The skull and crossbones still made regular appearances every twenty-five metres or so. The occasional building materialized out of the drizzle beyond the wire. I didn’t have a problem with the bad weather. There would be no test firing until it cleared.

At the thirty-five K mark we reached the guts of the air base, and barrack block after barrack block, all drab concrete and flat-roofed, interspersed with semi-circular huts made of corrugated iron. The whole place was heaving with lads in uniform trying to look as though they were on the way to somewhere important.

We passed the main gates. A MiG fighter and a Hind helicopter gunship were mounted on plinths either side of them. Two sentries in fur hats and camouflage waterproofs stood to attention beneath them, AKs across their chests. Their pissed-off expressions reminded me that there was something about being a squaddie that I’d hated even more than waking up after a night in the open.

Runway lights throbbed in the gloom behind them, fading away into the distance. Several massive Antonovs were lined up on a concrete apron alongside jets and helicopters. Jeeps buzzed between them. I slowed down as much as I could without drawing attention to us. I gave my visor a wipe and scanned the place for a smaller white jet among the grey.

Nothing.

We pushed on, passing armoured fighting vehicles and general military traffic.

About a K further on, a dense block of trees came right up to the fence line and crossed over it. The chain link disappeared among its branches.

I braked and shouted down to Anna. ‘What do those signs mean? They saying the place is mined?’