by James Rouch
Sampson knelt by the corpses. “Hey, those little girls are dead shots. Both through the head.”
“Look again.”
“I'm not mistaken, Major, but if you say so.” Sampson turned and prodded the bodies. “Hot shit. Sorry ladies. Hell, will you look at that.”
On the first Russian, Sampson pulled at his camouflage jacket and pointed to a neat puncture wound immediately below the rib cage on the right-hand side.
“No exit wound, but from the position, I'd say that went clean through his liver. The man was dying.” He turned to the second body.
This time he had had to look harder, but he found what he knew the major had expected him to look for. “Must have been a ricochet to get him through the leg. That would have been below the window level. It's broken alright. He wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry.”
“They're shooting their wounded, that's horrible!” Sharon put her hands to her face and stared at the remains. “How can they do that? They could have lived, with treatment. Certainly one of them would.”
“They're indoctrinated to think of cruelty as a virtue. By those standards, this would have been almost maudlin.” Revell walked through the rooms. In an alcove behind a big old-fashioned photocopier, he found what he was looking for.
A pile of brick and plaster debris, below a ragged man-sized hole in the wall, showed where the rest of the Russian squad had mouse-holed out of this building and into the next. He could be confident that if they investigated they would find a similar thing in there, and very likely in the building after that. By this time they would be far away. Pursuit would be pointless, and dangerous. There had to be a strong possibility that the escape route would be mined. That he would happily leave to the experts to deal with.
“Sgt. Hyde.” Until he caught sight of an empty soup carton, Revell had not even thought of food. Now he realized he was hungry. “Do you know anywhere close by where we can help ourselves to a bite? Doesn't have to be anything fancy. So long as it's likely to have a well-stocked fridge.”
The question showed how little the major knew about Hyde's life outside of the Zone. With his fire-ravaged facial disfigurement, he'd hardly been out at all during their week in the city. During the day he'd stayed in his room, watching television. If he did go out, it was at night, away from the well-frequented quarters. What sort of fancy restaurant would have even let him through the door, to frighten the clientele.
I’ll ask Carrington; he's been out and about.” “No need, Sarge.” Ackerman had given up trying to get a quick grope with either of the women. “What sort of grub do you want? Chinese, Turkish, Indian -”
“We want the sort you don't have to cook.” Revell cut short the recital. “In case you haven't noticed, everyone is down the shelters. There are no chefs waiting for us to march in and order.”
“Got just the place, Major. Right around the corner, close by the Hof Garden.” “That'll do. Sergeant, tell Garrett to report in our new position. Well see the women back safely on the way. The city seems fairly quiet at the moment.”
“Lull before the storm perhaps.” Hyde began to herd the men downstairs. “I think I prefer it when I can hear shooting coming from all over. At least then we know that not all the Reds are hanging about around here.”
Ackerman pushed past others to get into the lead. He felt like rubbing his hands. He never imagined he'd have stood a chance to make money out of a day like this.
He'd managed to pocket a few trinkets from the haul the Russians had stashed in the getaway car. Now he was set to make a handful of cash. Old Frau Schmid had told him she couldn't afford to decorate or buy new tables and chairs. She had joked that a moderate amount of war damage would be nice, if it could be arranged. A friend had told her the compensation was quite generous.
Then he'd been joking, too, when he'd said he would see what he could do. It rather looked as if he actually would be able to arrange something after all.
EIGHTEEN
“Looks like the major's not very happy.” Ackerman put his feet up on a table and scuffed them as hard as he could across its polished surface. He'd already wiped them with the tablecloth.
“I don't think he's getting a lot of sense out of them.” Dooley cut a thick slice from a sausage and made a sandwich of it between two crackers. “Whoever is running this show appears to be suffering from a nasty case of conflicting objectives.”
“Long words for you at this time of day.” Burke licked the remains of a slice of cheesecake from his fingers. “At any time of day, come to that.”
“Overheard the major say it. Sounded good, I thought.” “So it does, but what's it mean?” Helping himself to another slice, Burke picked cherries from its top before biting into it.
“If you want a free translation, it means that the committee of generals who are bothering the chief of police are adding indecision to incompetence.” Carrington paused at the table on his way to the kitchens. “Common sense says locate and contain the enemy. Wait until we've got the strength to tackle them properly.”
“Why don't we?” Burke dropped a large blob of cream. He was about to wipe it up, when Ackerman smeared it into the threadbare carpet.
“Because the politicians want the city back to normal as fast as possible.” Not too fast, Ackerman thought. Not until he'd finished here. He went through into the food preparation area and surreptitiously wrenched an electric socket from the wall. So far all he'd done was minor acts of vandalism. He'd have to come up with better than that. On her return, doubtless Frau Schmid would add a few touches of her own, but if she was to get sufficient reparations to redecorate and refurnish, the damage would have to be more than superficial. The more she was able to claim, the bigger his rake-off. He looked about for inspiration.
“Give the men another ten minutes.” Revell knew the rest was as much for himself as the others. He took a swig from his bottle of wine. It didn't go well with the food he had eaten.
His conversation on the radio had been frustrating. Even during the course of it, his orders had been modified twice. It was as if plans were being changed from moment to moment, as fresh incidents were reported in and circumstances altered slightly. He could get no information at all as to what other groups might be working on his flanks.
He'd gained the impression that his was the only group hunting down the Russians in the city centre. From the sounds of gunfire coming from every point of the compass, he realized that was not the case.
A helicopter passed overhead, but their guard on the door was unable to identify it from the brief glimpse he had. The throbbing beat of its rotors indicated a military type, but that could mean anything, or nothing. It gradually faded from hearing.
Revell looked at his map. Their next objective was on Marienplatz, Munich's main square, the heart of the city. What, he wondered, had decided them on that as their priority target.
There were several large public shelters there, as well as subway entrances. That meant a lot of people under dire threat. But a factor that might have weighed as much was the fact that the New Town Hall adjoined it on one side. Either way, with large numbers of civilians in the area, it had all the makings of a messy fight.
Ackerman was alone in the kitchen when the order was passed to move out. Obvious means of creating damage, like causing a gas explosion or turning the fat- fryer up full, he'd had to reject.
Destroying the whole restaurant would be going too far. The only thing he could think of was to leave the doors of the fridges and freezers open.
As he did so, he noticed that a lot of the packs displayed long past use-by dates. That didn't come as any surprise. It tended to bear out the complaints he'd heard from several of the men, about the quality of the food. Most - after tasting such cold dishes as were to be found - had elected instead to dine off brought-in food, such as cheese and sausage.
No wonder the old girl was short of cash. No local would eat there, and most tourists would sample it only the once. He'd be helping the NAT
O cause if he didn't wreck the place. At least if she went out of business there'd be fewer cases of food poisoning.
As they began to file from the building, Revell heard the return of the helicopter. Its distinctive beat definitely marked it as a gunship, but it still stayed out of sight behind the skyline of buildings.
The noise diminished and he pushed it from his mind. He had counted the last man out of the restaurant, when suddenly the air was filled with its roar. It raced in low across the formal gardens, its downwash throwing the shaped hedges into frantic movement.
He began to run as the beat of the blades and howl of its engines swamped everything. Behind him the front of the restaurant was blasted apart by a long burst of fire from a 30mm chain gun.
At a speed he hadn't known he could achieve, Revell made it to a subway entrance and threw himself down the steps. He buried himself against an angle of the wall, as he heard the aircraft banking and coming in for another strafing run. But this time it was not the cannon it employed. Instead it rippled a salvo of three rockets.
The first landed short, smashing into the road and gouging a crater that lashed the front of the building with chunks of hard material. Both the second' and third missiles plunged straight in through the shattered frontage of the eating place. Their detonations blended and sent jets of dust and debris from every window.
In slow motion, the front wall began to sag. As it folded and fell, so the edge of the roof began to dip, sending a shower of tiles slithering to the road in a clattering hail that went on for a long time.
“That's one of ours.” Ackerman vaulted over the edge of the staircase and landed next to the officer. “That was an Apache. What the fuck are they playing at?”
Risking a look, Ackerman was in time to see the upper floors of the restaurant collapsing into the ruins. Then the remainder of the roof caved in, to complete the work of destruction. The place where they'd recently been resting had ceased to exist. Where it had stood, there was only a ragged gap in the row. A thick pall of dust billowed about the street.
“Shit. The old girl would never believe he'd had a hand in that. Talk about overdoing it!”
Overhead the gunship was still circling, searching for movement on the streets. Against such firepower an attempt to move would be suicidal. Ackerman was thinking that nothing would induce him to go out on that street again, when Revell ordered him to do just that.
“Find the others. Tell them to stay under cover, well dispersed. Let Sgt. Hyde know that I'm going to try the subway. If the civvies got away, then the tunnels will be clear, and we can get to Marienplatz.”
Revell watched his messenger get safely to the other side of the road, then had one last go at getting through on the radio. He could get no response from the bunker. It appeared to be off the air completely.
He made his way into the subway. He took no special precautions, didn't expect anybody to be there. By this time in the morning, the evacuation should be well underway, even nearing completion. But if it was, then the effort had not reached this station as yet.
His entrance into the packed ticket hall created an electric reaction. A large part of the crowd cowered fearfully away, trampling each other and crushing some people against the walls and barriers. Another, smaller, section of the mass became aggressive, standing their ground, even edging forward.
A tall blond boy stepped to the front, waving a passport. “I am Swedish. I am a neutral, see, I have -”
Even as he opened the document, he was grabbed and hauled back into the throng. Many of the mob held improvised weapons, and they began to move towards the officer, threateningly.
Broken bottles, lengths of piping, pieces of timber were all displayed as they shouted.
“You'll have to kill us all...”
“Come on then...”
They were beginning to surround him. Revell tried to fall back towards the entrance. He shouted to them, in English and in German, but they weren't in a mood to listen.
“I'm with the NATO forces-”
“We know your tricks...”
That's how Spetsnaz operate...”
Revell sensed that fear was prompting - among some of the civilians - a suicidal last stand against what they thought was a Russian paratrooper.
Rapidly they were becoming more confident as he failed to take positive action. They had managed to surround him and began to close in. Nothing he could say would get through to them, convince them of who he was.
He was the enemy, that was their only thought. The mob rushed at him.
NINETEEN
Revell felt the mass of hands grabbing at him, trying to wrest his submachine gun away from him. A length of timber was swung down at his head. It grazed the side of his helmet and landed hard on his shoulder, numbing his arm. Only the thickness of his padded flak vest prevented it from doing worse harm.
He shouted as loudly as he could, but neither his imperfect German, or English, made any impression on his attackers. Blows rained against his arms and hands where he clung to the MP5. Fingers were plucking at his holster, trying to remove his pistol.
It was the struggling and tussling of the mob itself that prevented their immediate success. Several though had fastened strong grips on his submachine gun, and he could not resist their efforts much longer.
There was a face at the back that Revell recognized. It was Sophia. She was trying to pull the men off, calling to them, but failing to have any effect. Constantly she had to pick herself up after being knocked aside by the mad scramble.
A shot rang out, deafeningly loud in the confined space. The bullet penetrated the suspended ceiling and brought down a light fitting and a shower of fragments of plastic. Still lit, the neon swung back and forth, making wild shadow patterns on faces.
Two more shots rang out and destroyed other panels and neons above them before the crowd finally backed off. The shouting and baying halted, and Sophia took advantage of the lull to tell everyone she could reach that she knew Revell.
Andrea had her MP5 levelled at the attackers, who were now slowly pressing back into the main body of the crowd. Apart from them a little, stood a police officer, not knowing which side to join.
Crossing to Revell, Sophia looked as if she would have put her arms about him, but she saw Andrea's expression and stopped short in front of him.
“I am sorry. We are all frightened. There have been shots at some who tried to leave, to see what was happening. We thought the Russians had taken the city.”
“Well, they haven't, not all of it. Are things bad down here?”
“It is getting worse. There have been fights. There is talk that one man was killed on the platform, and that others were wounded by knives and bottles. How much longer shall we be down here?”
He could hear the strain in Sophia's voice. For the first time he was conscious of being able to hear a constant undercurrent of groaning and crying coming from the crowd. Occasionally there would be an aggressive demand for silence, followed by a loud slap and then more shouting from several voices, accompanied by ever louder wailing.
“I understood they were going to get you all out through the subway system. Has nothing been done?”
“A few have been seen to go into the tunnels. Most are too frightened to make the attempt. I believe it is far worse down there. They have no sanitation for such numbers.”
I’ll see if I can find out what's supposed to be happening. As I understood it, everything was organized.”
Accompanied by both women, Revell went to the entrance and a few steps up towards street level, to get better radio reception. Though he tried for several minutes, he had no better luck than earlier.
His men wouldn't like it, but they could cope with being hunted by one of their own gunships, until the situation was brought under control somehow. But the civilians below needed reassurance. There was none he could give them. It wasn't even wise to mention the evacuation plan, in case it had been dropped. A false hope could be as dangerous as
a real fear in these conditions.
“Does no one care? They can have no idea what conditions are like in the shelters.” Sophia was near to tears.
“I expect everything is being thrown in to the effort to clear the Russians out first.” Revell could think of no other excuse to make. “It's unpleasant I know, but they are safe.”
In truth though, that wasn't something that Revell could be certain of at all. He thought again of those senior officers he'd seen in the bunker. There might be those among them who were brilliant at organizing logistics - the nuts and bolts of running and feeding an army - but this was a situation they were hardly equipped to handle.
The comfort of the air-conditioned bunker, with its generous allocation of space, gave them no insight into what it was actually like for the other half million in the city. Very likely they had not even given it a thought, taking it for granted that the conditions that prevailed for them were universal.
The general's bunker had been built long before the war. Originally it had been solely intended for use as a civil defence operations centre, in a post nuclear strike scenario.
Shelters built at the start of the war, for the mass of the population, had few of the same refinements. Civilian administrations had balked at the high expenditure involved in fitting all of them out to that standard. In the majority of cases, air- filtration, sanitation, and the necessary stocks of food and medical supplies had been given scant attention.
The rapid advances of the first Russian attack on West Germany had triggered a defeatist attitude among many politicians. Many had even tried to convince themselves that occupation was for the best. In their eyes, it would at least result in reunification.
But the stalling and then staying of the onslaught, resulted in the formation of the huge north-south no-man's-land-the Zone. With the armies locked in battle within that well-defined area, those who opposed the shelter program had been able to get it cut back. What was happening in Munich was the consequence of that.
