Body Count

by James Rouch

  “I never was any good in school drama productions. Best they ever cast me as was third spearman.” Ripper liked the feel of the AK47. Better still, he liked the knowledge that being a Spetsnaz weapon, all its bullets would have a dumdum effect at target. If he hit what he aimed at, he wouldn't need to fire a second time.

  “That's all you are right now, so you should be good at it.” Carrington prodded Andrea with his automatic. “We're in sight of the bastard.”

  Boris felt the sweat pouring off him. He was sure the guard on the door would see, would know, that something was amiss. With the others he kept against the wall, hugging its shadow.

  The challenge when it came was definitely slurred, but strong and carrying suspicion for all that.

  Making his voice as weary and subdued as possible, Boris gave vent to a string of obscenity. It must have carried conviction. The guard waved them on. He was reaching out to Andrea, when Revell's saw-backed blade stabbed upwards under his chin and plunged in through his jaw, mouth, tongue, and palate.

  The sudden weight against his arm told the major the shock of the blow had done its work. Twisting the knife as he withdrew it, he slid it in between two ribs to silently finish the job.

  Hidden within the porch, the murder went unnoticed, and they stepped through into the heart of the church. The smell hit them at once. There was cordite and blood and slaughterhouse smells, but there was also an almost tangible scent of fear.

  If anything, it was even darker inside, despite the mass of candles lit in every niche and on every ledge. There was one oasis of light, around the foot of the ornately carved wooden pulpit. It served to show the priest, arms outstretched, crucified with the hilts of knives sticking out of his palms.

  At first there appeared to be fewer people there, then Revell realized they were all herded and crammed in at the alter end. A tall Russian was in the act of hauling a girl from the crowd when he saw who had entered. His questioning shout was ag- gressive and alerted other men near him.

  Carrington gave Dooley a shove that sent the big man sprawling almost at the Russian's feet. It had the effect of defusing the situation for a moment. That was all that was needed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The knife Dooley thrust with all his strength plunged in underneath the Russian's groin. He screeched in agony, jumping so violently that the blade pulled clear.

  Jumping after him, Dooley had to deliver several more blows to finish him as he writhed and jerked. His further screams were drowned by the crash of fire from the escorts' Kalashnikovs and Revell's pistol.

  Andrea found her own target. Her saw-backed blade slashed across the face and then the neck of a Russian who was grabbing for his rifle. Still he didn't go down, and her third lunge took an eye clean from its socket. The fourth blow she delivered to the base of his skull as he toppled.

  Three had fallen to knives, four more went down in the hail of bullets that opened the attack. A fifth died as he went to take a shot from a choir stall, his head burst apart by the tumbling soft-nosed bullets.

  “There are two more.” A hastily aimed shot struck the stone by Revell's head, and sent a stinging hail of fragments into his neck.

  He scanned the interior, but it was Carrington who spotted the sniper, high up at the back of a balcony. Three streams of steel converged on the screen behind which the Russian ducked for cover.

  The ornate panelling splintered under the impact, but stayed in one piece. For a moment nothing happened, and then the screen toppled forward. Still standing behind it, the Russian swayed back and forth until a single shot struck him full in the chest and sent him crashing backwards out of sight.

  Numbed into silence, there was no reaction from the civilians, not even when Dooley extracted the knives pinioning the priest and the poor man wailed as he slumped to the hard cold floor.

  Revell had been searching the crowd for Sophia, afraid to look at the small heap of bodies behind the altar. At last he caught sight of her, hemmed in at the back.

  “It's okay, we've got them. You're safe, you can move.”

  “No, no, I cannot. There are two more. One of them is behind me. He has a grenade.”

  Revell felt suddenly very cold. Casually, he took a half-step to the side. He could just make out the Russian. He was young. His face held a rigid expression that was part fear, part determination, but mostly it conveyed desperation.

  “Boris, come here.” Revell said it quietly, not turning to look for their deserter. “I want you here.”

  “Major, I heard what the young woman said. With a gun I might take a chance, but no one has ever outrun a grenade.”

  “Tell him it's all over. Tell him all his buddies are dead or captured. He's fighting a lost cause. Lost and futile.” As he said it, Revell prayed there would not be the sound of gunfire from beyond the walls. If there were so much as a single shot, then the boy with the grenade, and little to lose, would know he was lying. Mercifully it stayed quiet.

  “I have told him, Major. He says he does not care about the others. He has his duty.”

  How long would the Russian keep his grip on the bomb? Revell knew he must have a tight hold on it, so his fingers would cramp and his hand tire quickly. He saw the Russian lift his eyes to follow something higher up.

  “No, don't.” He didn't look, but Revell figured it would most likely be Andrea who was looking for a vantage point from which to shoot. “Boris, tell him he's not going to get out of this alive.”

  “He knows that, Major. He says he is prepared to die for communism and Mother Russia.”

  “Ask him if he's prepared to the for a beer festival.” “He will think I am joking.”

  “Hell know I'm not. Tell him why today is a special day for Munich. Give it to him straight. I want him to know that his masters sent him in here to the, so that they could spoil a traditional West German booze-up.”

  The Russian listened. At first there was a contemptuous sneer on his face, as though he could hardly believe that such a pathetic tactic, so unbelievable a tale, would be tried. Gradually though, as Boris elaborated, doubt crept into his expression.

  He jabbed and pushed at the frightened people about him, and questioned them in halting broken German. Many were too terrified to frame any sort of answer. Some by their eagerness made him suspicious again, but in one form or another he got similar answers from all who replied.

  It grew darker in the church. By their contrast with the rapidly approaching night, the candles appeared the brighter. They moved and flickered in the drafts. Among the crowd a woman, or perhaps it was a man, began to sob. It was a low wracking sound that came from deep down. The priest was moaning quietly, and the two expressions of distress blended into an emotive background to the silent watch on the Russian.

  At last, he stood up. The press of bodies about him parted as if by magic to let him out. He had gone only a few paces, when a shot rang out and echoed about the vaulted ceiling of the church.

  The Russian crumpled, and as he did the grenade fell from his grasp. Those next three seconds were played out in horrific slow motion, filled with terror-stricken faces and frantic hopeless efforts to get away.

  Shielded by the shallow step below the altar rail, Re veil still felt the blast. Fragments passed so close he heard their super-fast passage through the air. And he heard the ugly sound of other jagged lumps of casing finding their mark among the press trying to escape.

  The violence of the explosion passed quickly. The suffering it had created was going to last a long time. Thirty or more people had been grievously injured. They lay tangled together, many partially stripped of their clothes, some of their limbs.

  Revell pulled bodies aside, sometimes finding they still lived and becoming more gentle with them. Many were almost unrecognizable, smothered as they were in blood and pieces of tissue and scraps of shredded clothing.

  He found Sophia, half-covered by the altar cloth. She was already going cold. The back of her dress was a mass of red blotches.
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  “I saw him. He's gone up in the bell tower.” Dooley helped Revell lift the girl's body and lay it on a strip of floor not speckled as yet with blood or too heavily littered with debris and scattered possessions.

  “We've got him, Major.” Carrington handed Revell an AK47 he'd picked up. “He can't escape. We've got him.”

  “No.” Revell felt hate twist him up inside and turn him into someone he didn't recognize, into something that wasn't human.

  “No, I've got him. He's mine.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The stairs climbed in a series of short steep flights. Before starting up, Revell listened intently. Not all the rage inside him could blot out his experience of this type of fighting, and he brought it all into play.

  As the staircase turned to the right, he transferred his pistol to his left hand. He was not such a good shot that way, but the change would enable his weapon to cover a greater arc as he climbed. The inevitably short range of any engagement would also help to compensate.

  There was no sound from above, and he started up, one step at a time. He transferred his weight carefully from one foot to the other, making sure at all times that he was perfectly balanced.

  Still he had no indication of how close the Russian might be, and then as he came within a few steps of the third landing, he heard a repetitive bumping. He knew what it was before he saw the fragmentation grenade. It rolled to a stop against an angle of the wall, and he caught the briefest glimpse of the cylindrical green bomb before ducking as low as he could.

  A fraction of a delay, and then the device detonated. Dust poured from every crevice, and pieces of casing zipped from the walls and stairs.

  Before the thunder of the echo had died, Revell had snatched a concussion grenade from his belt, extracted the pin, counted off a brief delay, and then lobbed it upward as hard as he could.

  It was a dangerous tactic, but all the more likely to succeed because it would be unexpected. With a crash the grenade burst, and at the instant it did, Revell was moving upwards as fast as he could in the severely reduced visibility.

  As he neared the top, he snapped off single shots into the dust-enhanced gloom ahead. There were no answering reports.

  Eyes streaming and lungs gasping for air, Revell reached the first of the shuttered windows. Fighting down his laboured gasping breath, he peered into the murk. Crouching down, he fired across the interior of the tower, and heard his own bullet ricochet madly back past his ear.

  The fog was clearing fast, and he felt a strong gust of air on his face. An eddy in the rapidly dispersing dust cloud revealed a shutter gaping open, immediately opposite him.

  From outside came the sound of a body landing, and hands scrabbling for grip on a pitched roof. When he reached the opening, he could just make out a dark form moving rapidly across the roof, working up towards the ridge at a tangent. Revell fired the rest of the magazine as fast as he could, feeling the Browning's heavy recoil as he sent each 9mm round at the Russian.

  One of the bullets must have found its mark. The figure reared up, and a rifle clattered away down the roof and over the edge to the long drop into the street. The Russian didn't follow the weapon, instead he managed to get a hand to the ridge and began to haul himself up.

  Revell dropped from the window onto the roof. The drop was longer than he expected, and he lost his balance and was winded as he fell sideways against the brickwork of the tower. Instinctively his hand went to the butt of his knife. It was still there. Taking it out of its sheath, he settled it firmly in the palm of his hand before starting up the slope.

  Above him the wounded Russian had managed to get astride the ridge and was using both hands to pull his injured leg over.

  I’ve got you!” Revell hurled himself the last few yards and was about to lunge at his target when the muzzle flash of a pistol dazzled him.

  His night vision gone, Revell only heard, not saw, the second shot fired. It too missed at point-blank range, but he felt the heavy roar at along the side of his Kevlar helmet, almost ripping it away. Wildly he lashed out in a long slashing cut with the blade, and felt it connect.

  It was only out of the corners of his vision that Revell could see. To look straight ahead was to experience again the searing light of the muzzle flash. Risking everything, he let go with his left hand of the projection he'd been clutching and grabbed blindly for his opponent.

  His fingers brushed and then held tight a wad of material. The butt of a pistol came down hard, first on his helmet and then on his shoulder. Twice the blow was repeated, and he felt his arm going numb. In a last desperate attempt, he once more slashed upwards with the knife.

  Again it connected, this time deeply penetrating flesh and muscle that he felt constrict and grip the blade. Wrenching it hard, at the same moment he felt another smashing blow.

  Before any more could be landed and his collarbone broken, Revell threw all his weight against the knife. He could feel it grating along bone as it stripped cartilage away and severed arteries.

  There was a metallic bump, and the pistol slid off the roof. Strong hands fastened on Revell's neck, and his head was forced back as they tightened their grip. Still he held the knife, driving it ever deeper into tissue.

  The major's face was only inches from the Russian's, he could smell whiskey on his breath, but only see him in outline against the lighter western sky. With all his effort concentrated on it, the knife had now slit the Russian's leg open from mid- thigh to knee, but he showed no sign of weakening. If anything, the stranglehold was becoming tighter.

  Only the corner of the flak jacket's collar caught beneath the throttling fingers prevented them cutting off his air completely. Even so, he could feel his head starting to swim, his senses to reel, and he knew he couldn't hold on much longer.

  With all the effort he could muster, he pushed up hard with his feet. His left hand let go the hold on the Russian's clothing, and his fingers jabbed for the man's face. One found his eye, and there was a scream.

  Thrashing about, the Russian overbalanced and as he toppled, he took Revell with him. They slid down the roof, locked together.

  At the edge, Revell managed to grab hold of a stone statue. For an instant his adversary's webbing caught on the same projection, then slid free, and he was gone. As he consolidated his hold, Revell heard the ugly sound of a heavy landing far below.

  Resting awhile before making the attempt, Revell hauled himself into the valley between the roof and the tower. He would not have been able to make the next move - raising himself at the full stretch of his arms into the window - if others had not gripped him and assisted.

  “That the last of them, Major?” Dooley handed over his water bottle.

  As Revell swigged deeply, feeling the tepid water sluice the dust from his lips and throat, he heard a furious outbreak of firing from the other side of the city centre.

  “That was the last of that bunch. But it doesn't sound like the body count is complete yet.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The number of civilians on the street was increasing. More and more were leaving the shelters in search of food or medical help. Others were trying to get back to their apartments or hotel rooms for a wash and a change of clothing, or to check that their property was not the booty of looters.

  Armed civilian gangs were on the streets also. Most had only improvised weapons, but some had obtained guns or even crossbows from sporting goods stores.

  The majority were on foot, but people who could get to their cars - and thieves who could get one started - were trying to leave the city.

  Attempts were being made to get food and drink to those still in the shelters. Much of it was being “requisitioned” from food stores and restaurants. Sometimes the owners would appear and engage in vitriolic slanging matches with police organizing the depredations.

  There were all the ingredients for a disaster, and on a local scale at least, it was beginning to happen. On Ludwigstrasse police trying unsuccessfully to control
a mob fired shots in the air. A nearby Panzer grenadier section thought they were coming under fire and opened up. It took twenty minutes for the mistake to be recognized. By then there were thirty dead and twice as many wounded.

  “The city is coming apart at the seams.” Mayor Gebert surveyed the bodies being dragged to the side of the road.

  The police car he had been using to visit parts of the city cleared of the Spetsnaz forces sat quietly steaming on its flat front tires in a barber shop doorway. The stump of a crossbow bolt still projected from a sidewall.

  Revell and his men had arrived too late to tackle the band of looters. They could only put a cordon about the area, until an ambulance arrived for the driver. Not that there was much chance of the criminals returning. The jewellery store they had been disturbed in the act of cleaning out had nothing but display pads remaining on show.

  The steel grill formerly protecting the windows had been wrenched aside and the alarm clamoured shrilly, until Burke put several rounds into it. Even then it con- tinued to produce a subdued tinny rattle.

  “I thought we were getting on top of the situation?” “We are, Major, but the cost is escalating too far, too fast.” There was still the sound of shooting coming from other quarters, but allowing for the fact that some of it would be between police and looters, the number of Spetsnaz engaged seemed smaller.

  Listening intently, Revell decided that the nearest gun battle was several blocks away. “Do we know how many of them dropped into the city?”

  “You don't seriously think the military are keeping me informed, do you?” Gebert was contemptuous. “One of my... one of Stadler's SWAT teams took a prisoner. He was removed by a GSG9 antiterrorist squad. I don't know what technique they used, but after they interrogated him, they declared that a hundred Spetsnaz had made the drop.”

  Revell snorted his disbelief.

  “I agree. I knocked the arrogance out of them by telling them that a police sweep of the park had revealed one-hundred-and-ninety-six canopies. The Reds hadn't bothered to try hiding them. Too keen to get on, I suppose.