Red Station

THIRTY

Doug Rausing felt his eyes closing and pinched his arm hard. Falling asleep right now wasn’t good. He checked his watch. He was surprised to find that Conway had already been gone forty minutes. Still, that was OK; it took that long to get down to the water and start on the way back. He could take another forty if he had to — and some. Lack of sleep was something you got used to in Delta; that and being thirsty, uncomfortable and wishing you were in a nice bar somewhere, sucking down a cold beer.

He checked through the monocular. It was easier to carry than field glasses and lighter, too. He’d first used it in the Marine sniper section, and had grown to trust it.

The lake looked the same as before; lighter now, but no sign of anything that shouldn’t be there. The surface of the water carried the same glitter he’d noticed on previous mornings, a ghostly sheen as if someone had lit it from underneath. Must be some kind of optical flare, where the coming dawn was feeding early rays across the land and into the tiny wind ripples running from east to west.

A crow rose from the trees to the right, an untidy black shape. He focussed the monocular, tracking the bird’s progress as it lifted into the sky. Must be the early bird he’d heard talk about; keen to be up and out there, like Conway.

Another crow joined the first one, this time with a sound of protest, wings clattering.

Something had disturbed it.

Rausing felt a flicker of alarm. He checked his watch, then tracked along the route Conway should be taking back from the lake. Down one way, back another; it was standard procedure. That way you didn’t run into an ambush. He was tempted to use the radio, but they were under silent conditions unless open warfare broke out.

A third crow lifted out of the trees, and another, the protests louder, and Rausing wonderer if Bronson and Capel had decided to make a move. They were dug in at least three hundred yards further on, and would have no reason to come this way; their orders were to stay apart, to limit possible exposure.

Yet something wasn’t right; he could sense it. Conway could move like a ghost — they all could. But Conway was the best.

A snap echoed up the slope, like a twig breaking. Then silence.

Rausing tracked across the terrain again, looking for the slightest sign of movement. He knew the noise wasn’t Conway; the man didn’t tread on twigs. Then a chilly feeling swept right through him.

Jesus, he thought. What twigs? There are no trees down there!

He swung left again. The lake was empty, same as the grass leading down. Same with the edge of the trees.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

He swore and toggled his radio. ‘Conway. Come in. You OK?’ His voice was too loud, and he bit down on the temptation to move out. ‘Dammit, Con, come in, man!’ It wasn’t approved comms procedure, but who the hell was there to hear him?

Silence.

He tried the other two again. ‘Capel… Bronson. You there? Come in.’ But they weren’t listening… or couldn’t. He went back to scouring the landscape. Another two sweeps and he’d bag up and move out.

Then he heard a rustle behind him. Fabric on grass. A faint shift in the air. He grinned with relief and turned his head. Conway, the sneaky bastard, had come round the long way just to freak him out It was the last thought he ever had.