Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  When this is all over, and if I come through, I am going to hit every restaurant in this city and eat at least one of everything on the menu  .  .  .  except escargot, of course, since they look like dusty but runny snot.

  Sergeant Pangracs was speaking. He began with a question, “Is there anyone here who feels they can—on their own power, because there’s no one to help you—make it out of here on their own? Anyone? Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  He’s a lot more calm than I would be.

  “We can’t hold on here anymore. Those who are able are going to try to cut their way out. Those who can’t . . . you have three choices, and they all suck. You can, in the first place, trust your future to our attackers. Anybody here not know what they let us see that they did to those two prisoners? You know, skinned alive? Right. Still, it’s your choice.

  “Choice number two: I’ve been treating your pain with morphine sulfate. A good many of you will have built up some immunity by now. I might have enough left for everyone, but I might not, either. What I do have is Fentanyl, enough to put down every elephant in Uhura. Well . . . maybe every elephant. There’s no doubt, though, that it’s enough for you.

  “Thirdly, for those who demand certainty and don’t mind leaving a mess behind, nine millimeter.

  “But that’s pretty much it. So let me ask again, who wants to try to walk out under their own power? Get up and walk to the major, over by the doorway.”

  There was a stirring among some of the cots and pallets. Eleven of the wounded stood, some swaying and some reasonably well, and one by balancing on his one remaining leg. Three of the eleven promptly either sank back to their pallets or fell over or simply collapsed where they stood.

  The eight who could and were willing to try ambled or hopped over to Jan, who directed them to an assembly area, of sorts, on the ground level. For the remainder, Pangracs started to make his final set of daily rounds. He had one more noncom with him, plus a private, carrying ampoules and syringes on trays. There were also two bottles of medicinal brandy and several packs of cigarettes on the private’s tray.

  It’s not like they’re going to affect anyone’s health for the worse, Jan thought.

  At the first pallet was a thin man, looking about forty years older then he was, and leaning against a couple of thin pillows. Pangracs took a small paper cup from one tray and asked, “Drink, Jacques?”

  The answer came back in the form of a whisper, “I won’t say ‘no’ but . . .”

  Pangracs understood; Jacques couldn’t rise. Using one hand, his left, to raise Jacques’ head, he held the cup to his lips and more or less poured it in. That set Jacques to coughing, but not as much as did the cigarette lit by the private and placed between Jacques’ lips.

  “The neck, yes?” Jacques asked. “Which side?”

  “Show me the left side,” Pangracs answered. The wounded man took another drag of his cigarette, then twisted his head to offer the jugular. Pangracs held out his right hand for the syringe. He picked up a nearby alcohol lamp and held it near the neck to examine for the jugular. He found the pulsations, measured off a distance by sight, and then pronounced, “This will do well.”

  The vein was basically there for the taking. Pangracs placed the fingers of his left hand on the neck, pushed the needle in with a steady pressure from his right hand, and then depressed the plunger.

  “Easy as caaaa . . .” Jacques said, around the drooping cigarette. In less than a minute, he was gone. The private scooped up the cigarette, squashed it out, then replaced in it Jacques’ hand.

  “I’m not a ghoul, Sergeant,” the private said, indignantly. “What, did you think that I’d keep it?”

  One down; fifty-seven more to go, thought Pangracs. If I can keep my nerve up.

  Some were to prove at least physically easier. These were the ones who already had an IV going, into which the Fentanyl could be injected without further pain. But IV or not, they all took a little bite out of Pangracs’ soul.

  Three hours later, and with the sun outside beginning to set, there was no more moaning in the makeshift hospital, no more cries of pain, nor requests for medication or water or food.

  Jan had come and gone several times in those few hours, mostly to see to her troops. When she came back this time, even under the limited glow from the alcohol lamps, she thought Pangracs’ eyes seemed red and puffy. Still, his voice was calm as he said, “I can’t leave them. Two of them asked me to stay with them, not to leave them alone. I said I would, without thinking. Now I must.

  “Can I have a rifle, a few magazines, and a couple of grenades?”

  “I’m sure we’ve enough,” Jan replied, “but . . .”

  “ I gave my word. Maybe I’d have stayed anyway, though; you don’t euthanize fifty-eight comrades and just walk away from it untouched, you know, Major?”

  “I understand,” she said, even if I don’t actually know what you’re feeling. But that you’re wounded in the soul I don’t doubt. “I’ll have someone bring you a rifle and two grenades.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  —Confucius

  Leinenfeld, Sachsen

  After a half hour’s clandestine cranking to charge the computer’s batteries, Khalid had sent back to headquarters, in Balboa: “Pickup, two hours and forty-five minutes from now, flat rooftop opposite target’s house. Expect hot pickup zone.”

  “And,” said Khalid, “it’s showtime.”

  After a time-killing stop as a coffee shop, operating with flame rather than electricity, the three walked briskly to 2 Brunnenstrasse, opened the door, and walked in as though they had official business. Khalid almost choked when the mailbox cum buzzer system failed to show any such name as Ann-Marie Maybach. Then he realized, “The dumb shit put this in his own name.”

  “Well,” suggested Alix, “he’s probably the one paying for the rent and utilities.”

  “Likely,” Khalid agreed. “Fritz, pick the lock.”

  Dropping to one knee, Fritz examined the lock closely, then pulled out his tool kit and selected a tension wrench and a pick from those. “This one’s not especially hard,” he said.

  “Not especially hard” turned out to take almost two minutes. Still faster than I could have done it, thought Khalid.

  “Let’s go.”

  Quietly enough, all three passed through the door and went to the apartment on the second floor that the mailbox asserted was the finance minister’s.

  Fritz asked, “Pick this one? They’ll almost certainly hear me do it.”

  In answer, Khalid simply applied an authoritative rap to the door, announcing himself as he commanded, “Oeffnen. Polizei.”

  The door sprang open with alacrity. Behind it stood a rather well-built and at least moderately pretty Sachsen girl, redheaded, with blue eyes.

  “Frauelein Maybach?” Khalid asked.

  “Yes,” she answered, then demanded to know, “What took you so long? I had to . . .   well . . .   never mind. But I had to do that and pour half a bottle of whiskey into him to set him up for your arrival. He has a gun.”

  Alix figured it out first. She has called the Sharia police for the reward. Timing has just gotten shitty.

  “Where’s my money?” Ann-Marie demanded to know.

  “You’ll be able to pick it up from the police station tomorrow,” Khalid replied. “We don’t have a couple of mules with us to carry half a ton of gold.”

  “Well, I’ll want a receipt for him anyway, some proof that you captured him through my intervention.”

  “Get a piece of paper, then,” Khalid ordered her.

  “We’ve got problems,” Alix whispered.

  “I know,” replied Khalid. “What I don’t know is . . .”

  There was another knock on the door. Just as had Khalid, these interlopers ordered, “Oeffnen, Polizei.”

  “Go take care of the girl,” Khalid quietly ordered. “Fri
tz, go with her.” Then he flicked the safety off his rifle and informed the genuine Islamic police that the door was open. “Come in, it’s open,” he said.

  As soon as the door opened, and Khalid had a chance to see that there were only two of them, he opened fire. The two Islamic police went down in a tangle of arms, legs, holed clothing and flesh, and a good deal of blood.

  Alix came out of the bedroom in back with a handful of red hair attached to a handful of girl. At the living room, she let go of the hair to drop Ann-Marie’s head to the hardwood floor. Wham.

  Fritz emerged behind Alix, staggering under a great naked mass of lard with arms and legs. “He’s drunk as shit, blind staggering drunk. I’ll have to carry him.”

  “Right,” Khalid said. “Let’s go.”

  “What about the treacherous bint?” Alix asked. “Shouldn’t we at least gag and tie her?”

  “I’d like to brain the bitch but . . . Fraulein Maybach, can you stay here and keep your mouth shut or should we just kill you now?”

  Nursing a bump on the back of her head where Alix had dropped her to the floor, the Sachsen women replied, “But what about my money?”

  “Yeah, gag and tie her.”

  “Be better,” said Alix, “if we shot her.”

  Szczyt, Jagelonia

  Of the two IM-71s from what was called “the Siegfried Group,” under contract to Fernandez in Balboa, the lead bird was piloted by a former Volgan major named Kira Robertaevna Chuikova. She was a compact little set of flight controls, was the ex-major, and a highly talented pilot. She hoped, if this thing came off, that she’d get an offer from the Balboans. It might or might not pay better, but it was likely to be a lot more fun.

  As soon as she’d gotten the word, Chuikova and the other chief pilot had immediately launched, heading almost due west. She’d been told to travel nap of the earth, and to avoid major cities. The latter had been easy enough to do; there being only one major city in this part of Sachsen, but the first two hundred miles, near enough, had been across land so flat there was no irregular earth to fly in the nap of.

  Idiots can’t read a map.

  It was a two-hour flight, straight line, at max speed. At cruise speed, and dodging main cities, two and a half was more like it. This meant that Khalid had timed things . . .

  Leinenfeld, Sachsen

  “.  .  .  just that little bit off. Dammit. ’Course, that stupid, greedy redheaded bitch hadn’t helped.”

  While an overladen Fritz staggered up the stairs to the pickup zone rooftop, and Alex took point for him, Khalid followed behind, walking up steps mostly backwards, while making sure no one was following too closely.

  Then he heard a recently familiar voice, shrieking at the top of her lungs about how the infidels were stealing someone wanted by the new government. Wonder how the bitch got out. Note to self, ask Alix if she was ever a girl scout and if she ever learned to tie a knot.

  By the time Khalid reached the rooftop, there was a sizable crowd—and sizable and armed crowd—collecting on the street and in a parking lot just off it. And, one supposes, there’ll be one more on the other street in a few minutes, too.

  Someone bearded and scruffy looking, but armed, popped their head around and loosed a round in Khalid’s direction. The Druze returned the favor, but neither hit the other.

  “And here,” Khalid muttered to himself as he scampered higher up the stairs, “is where I curse myself for not saving out a dozen or two of grenades from all that largesse I brought to the mosques.”

  He emerged onto the roof to see that Fritz had dumped Olaf’s still inebriated body on the asphalt, and was laying out five alcohol lamps to create a cross. Fritz struggled with a small cigarette lighter, but finally got the things lit.

  Khalid told Alix, “Get eyes on those two towers to the west,” even as he took up a prone position to engage anyone coming out of the same horizontal hatch he had.

  Siegfried Group Helicopters One and Two

  Her copilot saw them, the alcohol lamps, before Chuikova did. She ordered the other IM-71, “Kill running lights here. Circle overhead and look for threats, I’m going in.”

  “Roger.”

  Leinenfeld, Sachsen

  A head emerged from the horizontal hatch. Khalid blew the top of it clean off. There, that ought to discourage them a little. And . . . and . . .  yes, there it is; what my comrades Cruz and Montoya told me was the sweetest sound in creation: friendly helicopters come to get you out of a tight jam.

  There were no running lights Khalid could see, but he could follow the helicopters pretty well by sound. One was circling overhead—hope they’ve got decent night vision—while another drew closer. Then, suddenly, the one that had been closing was there, on the roof, and bouncing a bit. He felt more than heard one of the door-mounted machine guns rip a few yards of cloth in the general direction of that horizontal hatch, And I’m damned glad of it.

  Khalid ran to Fritz and helped him get Olaf back on his own broad shoulders. As Fritz reached the helicopter door, the door gunner jumped out and led him to the rear clamshell, then helped him hoist the finance minister aboard and lay him atop the flat surface of one of the interior extra fuel tanks.

  Alix isn’t used to this. I told her but without the experience  .  .  .  I’d better go get her.

  Khalid ran around the front of the IM-71, rather than face the invisible whirring human blender of a tail rotor. He reached Alix and took one knee. “We did it, love! We did it! That toad of a finance minister safely aboard! Now it’s our turn.”

  He reached down to lift her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, not out of desire but out of the sheer exhilaration of “Mission accomplished.”

  Then two things happened, almost simultaneously. First, she shuddered and fell—rather, was pushed, against him. Second, the overhead helicopter fired a long burst into one of the two towers to the west.

  Feeling her go limp and slump against his chest, Khalid grabbed one arm, bent at the waist while draping that arm over one shoulder, stood with her torso dropped across his back. As soon as he did he felt a warm trickle running down his back. He ran for the back clamshells and hopefully some medical aid.

  There was light to see by, inside the helicopter, once they’d risen far enough off the ground. With Alix dropped atop the extra fuel tank, the one Olaf was not corporeally overflowing, Khalid began tearing at her clothing to get at what he was pretty sure was a bullet wound. One of the door gunners brought over a first-aid kit, but shrugged to indicate he had no real idea how to use it.

  Neither seeing nor feeling a wound in front, he flipped her on her side to examine her back. He didn’t see a need to take her bra off; the entrance wound in her back was well above it.

  Sucking chest wound, maybe.Khalid tore into the aviation first-aid kit, not understanding a word written therein. Some things were obvious, though. When he found a cravat-style bandage in plastic packaging, he ripped open the plastic, carefully, and pressed it over the entrance wound. He held it in place by hand until he could get Fritz’s attention and get him to hold his hand on it. Then he used the bandage to tie the plastic in place. Finally, he eased her back to lie on her own back, hoping the weight would help to seal the wound before her lungs collapsed. Lastly, he covered her with her own bloody shirt against the windchill inside the IM-71.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness, which might have been a good sign except that she kept getting more and more pale.

  She’s bleeding inside and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m worried about shock.

  Khalid indicated to the door gunner that he needed a blanket but could neither make himself understood nor find one by scrounging. Ultimately, he took off his own shirt and covered her with that.

  “Doesn’t help. Shit.”

  Alix woke up toward the end. It was only for a minute but in that minute she had some very lucid seconds. She reached out one hand to take Khalid’s, then let go of his to reach up
and pull him down toward her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saving my country’s army and my country.”

  Khalid felt her face, where it was pressed against his cheek, twist into a smile. “I only told you I greatly preferred women. I didn’t say I was entirely exclusive and closed-minded on the matter. I wish you had asked . . .”

  Her hand dropped again and he took it. He told her back, “So do I.”

  Sometime between then and landing at Szcsen, he felt her body shudder, one, twice, the third time hard, and the fourth weakest of all. Her grip on his hand relaxed, let go, then bent at the wrist, fingers to the floor.

  He stroked her now very relaxed and extremely pale face and repeated, even though she could no longer here, “So do I.”

  Tauran Union Defense Agency Headquarters, Lumiere, Gaul

  Jan felt compelled to ask Pangracs one more time, “Are you sure you won’t try to break out with us?”

  “No,” he replied. “I stay here with them.”

  I could, I suppose, order him out. But what was the old saying? Ah, yes; it was “never give an order you already know won't be obeyed.”

  “I thought you would still hold to that but I had to ask,” she said. “Good luck, Sergeant Pangracs.”

  “Good luck to you, too, Major Campbell.”

  “Sergeant Greene?” Campbell asked, in the open central area on the ground floor that they were using as an assembly area.

  “Here, Major,” Greene replied. She walked to him, then looked out the same window he did, facing the network of fences and alleys, overfilled—and stinking—garbage cans and overbloated—and stinking even worse—dead bodies.

  They couldn’t see any of that with the naked eye, of course, because for their little attempt at escape, Jan and Greene had settled on a time of zero illumination, with not even the smallest of Terra Nova’s three moons overhead.