Death March

by James Rouch

  “Actually we’d all like to know.” It was a question Revell had been on the verge of asking for himself. “They may have trained you two to consider yourselves expendable but me and my men are not, not to our way of thinking.”

  “OK,” Carson caught the almost imperceptible nod from Lieutenant Andy. “The Russian was clumsy. Some of the stuff in here is pretty basic engineering, springs, levers, and clockwork. Some of it works to slap the critical mass together when the time is right, but there are other bits that are working to keep them apart. They damaged some retaining devices. The clock could start any time and there is no way of controlling the point from which it starts so I don’t think I would be able to control the duration of the mechanisms run.”

  “I get it.” Dooley had heard. “We’re back to your five seconds to what ever. Can’t you just wedge some stuff in there, lock it up solid?”

  “Not that easy…”

  The hovercraft made a heavy impact, a collision with a derelict piece of farm machinery parked in the corner of a field. They had demolished a rotting gate and then struck the old combine, tipping it over and spilling air from their ride skirt so that the craft went down on one side.

  Using all his skill Burke kept the craft level and brought it to a halt under the shelter of several tall hedgerow oaks and behind the machinery with which they had collided. Using the front exit door in front of his position Burke got out to inspect the damage. He returned within a minute. ”Not too bad. It will take an hour at most. One of the reinforcing ribs has been lifted. It’s buckled and hauled up a couple of skirt panels with it. Sledgehammer would be too noisy, we’ll have to do it the slow way.”

  A momentary relief the rest of squad enjoyed at the announcement the damage was not worse was stifled by several sharp ticks from the Geiger counter. Carson went down on his knees and working intently on the mechanism beneath an inspection panel on the bomb. There was a sudden silence in the cabin, no questions, no comments. Collectively they shared the moment of ignorance and anxiety.

  “It’s OK. All under control.” Carson and returned a calliper-like tool to its place in a tool roll. “But I don’t think it will take another jar like that.”

  “You mean boom, as in mushroom shaped boom?” Dooley felt his guts churning. For the first time, as he got up from the floor, beads of perspiration showed on the young specialists face. Carson wiped it away with the back of his hand. It was a gesture not missed by the others. “The timer is now unstable. All I can do is keep an eye on it, intervene if the timer is triggered. When, if, that happens I will be able to see how long we have but not control over it.”

  “That’s it then, what ever the length of the count down you will not be able to stop it.” Revell shared with the others the fear of uncertainty. It was one thing to be in a fire-fight, where you knew the risks, felt you had some control over them. But riding with this unpredictable atomic bomb was another matter entirely. He could not expect the others to live with this nerve shredding risk for another thirty or forty kilometres through enemy territory and then likely have a fierce fire-fight to break through the opposing lines to reach safety. Certainly Andrea wouldn’t. Her face was white, so white that even her lips had paled. She looked to be on the verge of fainting.

  “Then we burn the thing. If you screw up and it goes off out here it won’t do any harm, there’s only a few farms and chances are those have been evacuated.”

  “The orders are to take it back. The decision to destroy it is down to me alone.” Lieutenant Andy prepared to stand his ground. An interruption from Libby in the turret broke what had the makings of a standoff.

  “You better take a look at this major. What on earth are the Russians up this time.”

  From the deep cover of the broad leafed trees Revell stood half out of the hull top and watched a column of slow moving civilians snaking across the fields a hundred metres ahead of them. Russian guards with Tommy guns and some with growling, teeth baring dogs on short leashes flanked the column. Revell would never have seen them in the dark except for the fact that the escort had powerful torches, with shielded lens, that they occasionally and briefly flashed to pan across the straggling line.

  Using night vision binoculars Revell saw the column tramping quietly and wearily. It was composed of a thousand or more civilians, both sexes and all ages. A babies cry would occasionally float across the field but was instantly stifled by a barked command from a member of the escort and a thin flicker of light would sweep across the civilians seeking the source.

  “There are only a couple of places they could have come from in those numbers.” Revell watched as the column gradually passed them and was swallowed by the moonless night. “Either the Russians are emptying the smaller camps or they’re rounding up the people their chemical weapons have driven out of the city and herding the whole population out into the countryside.”

  “I get the feeling that the food we saw on the trucks and those poor devils are to get together somewhere but it’s not like the Reds to provide supplies on the scale we’ve seen, on any scale in fact.”

  “Could they be concentrating the refugees for some reason? Clarence had sat quietly thinking through the unusual events. “If the starving families living in the hedgerows hear that the Ruskies have a big food dump somewhere, then they will all head for it, fast.”

  “Kind of scuttles your plan for burning the bomb in these parts Major. Unless you want to risk nuking three sparrows, two voles and a few thousand displaced persons.”

  Toying with the broken strap on the pack, Carson tried not to look triumphant.

  “Seems like it will have to stay with us for a while yet.”

  Their Russian prisoner had surreptitiously monitored the exchange and could stay out of it no longer. He had flinched when the Geiger counter had become more active. “The civilians count for nothing Major. Leave the bomb here, burn it. Or bury it if you want to not run the risk of it detonating before we are at an optimum distance. On a minimum yield setting the worst those people have to face is the potential fall out, perhaps the danger of some flying debris. That is if they even halt near here, perhaps they will not.”

  “After your fumbling around in there,” Carson indicated the backpack, “there is no guarantee I will be able to select a low yield.”

  “I knew this area.” Boris had brought up a map onscreen. None of the symbols revealed anything out of the ordinary. “A year ago I came here when my division had been in battle and taken heavy casualties. It was regarded as a quiet sector, being used to rest and re-equip depleted Russian infantry division. It was so quiet that I was able to desert from here. I found the opposing American formations to be in much the same condition.”

  “So we assume that if we bump in to a Russian unit it is likely to be poorly armed green replacement troops, conscripts most likely.” Sergeant Hyde looked at the screen, examining the indicated network of narrow country roads around a little village at its centre.

  Boris hunched lower in his seat as he was crowded by the officer and NCO.

  “Christ.” Ripper muttered under his breath. “I hope our pet Commie doesn’t have much of that sort of information literally at his finger tips. If the Reds ever grab this wagon and plug in to the board they’re going to find out a lot of useful information real fast.”

  “Don’t worry, the board is rigged for destruction if it seems likely to fall in to enemy hands.” Sergeant Hyde had asked that question in the past. “In fact it will even go up in their faces if it is captured and they actually try to use it.” Ripper gave the Russians back a sour look. “Yeah, but he’s not rigged for destruction, is he.”

  Andrea lifted up the pistol with explosive bullets and made pretence of aiming it at Boris. “Yes he is.”

  * * *

  Hauling himself up and out through a roof hatch, Clarence pulled his sniper rifle up after him and began to use the night vision ‘scope to pan the countryside, examined the ground out as far as its high powered lenses woul
d permit.

  “Major, come here and have a look at this. There’s a village surrounded by open farmland about a kilometre ahead. At least it should be open farmland.”

  Scanning the area Clarence noted a small hamlet surrounded by huge fields, dotted with broad patches of woodland. “It looks as if that village is the refugees destination. There are trucks there, and more arriving.”

  “At this distance, with them having no substantial shelter, our bomb will wipe those fields clean as a pool table.” There was no need for Carson to look for himself. He knew the highly trained sniper would be correct about the distances involved and his own knowledge told him what could happen.

  “Get that skirt fixed.” Revell decided on a course of action that went against his common sense. It was likely there was nothing they could discover that reconnaissance aircraft or drones would not eventually uncover anyway but something, some intuition, told him that time might be an important factor. He knew that NATO over-flights had become rarer since Soviet missile batteries had started appearing along the southern front in large numbers. With vast areas to cover, this chunk of countryside would be way down on the list of priorities for the depleted NATO air forces.

  “While we are being repaired and before we’re ready to get away in a hurry if we need to, we’ll put out a patrol for a closer look.” Revell pulled out a grubby sack from under a bench and began rummaging thought the odds and ends of civilian clothing it held.

  “Oh great. Not enough we’re carting an ’A’ bomb about the countryside. Now you want us to go for a stroll in to a Ruskie prison camp.” Ripper watched as the Major selected an old coat and a threadbare scarf.

  Burke passed down the compartment. “Usually I’m happy to stay here while you lot go off on expeditions,” he made sure he did not brush against the two bulky packs, shuffling sideways past them. “This time I think I would rather be joining who ever goes. Being around those things is starting to freak me out.”

  Outside he climbed on to the engine housing to reach the toolbox he had fitted at the reclamation depot. “Now I have to hang around the damned thing while others wander off to a respectful distance.”

  “Could be worse.” Dooley took a long handled wrench and began to loosen the bolts securing the ride panels. He wiped each first with an oily cloth to reduce the squealing of the distorted metal as it resisted his efforts. Right under the trees it was so dark he had to work by feel alone, unable to see inches in front of his face. “Anything happens to Carson then you’re the only one among us with mechanical skills. I never thought to hear myself say it, but we can’t afford to lose you.”

  * * *

  The land was clean, uncontaminated by the chemicals that had saturated the Zone that commenced just a short distance away. Corporal Thorne pulled together the civilian rags that concealed his uniform; tugging at them where they bulged over the pistol and grenades with which he had armed himself. Not that it was unusual for refugees to carry weapons but the Russians were highly aggressive towards armed civilians and if they caught them the consequences were inevitable and swift.

  Hyde had seen his officer’s face when he had paused before accepting Andreas volunteering to go with the patrol. Though Revell tried never to make any public display of feelings for the girl the effort was imposing an obvious strain on him when she took some extra risk. Hyde knew that one day Revells’ protectionism towards her was going to lead them all in to trouble.

  It was Thorne who made up the last member of the patrol. As usual he wore a bizarre combination of cast-off civilian clothing that only a long time resident of the Zone would have worn. It blended khaki shorts over ragged jeans, old boots whose laces had been replaced with frayed string and a filthy dark blue windcheater topped off with a chequered Arab style scarf.

  Libby had volunteered but it had taken no thought on Revells’ part to turn him down for this job. Somewhere in the Zone was his girlfriend Helga. He missed no opportunity to look for her and once in so large a camp he would have been lost to them.

  The countryside they made their way through was well maintained, or had been until fairly recently. Although the area was covered in trees that should have provided masses of firewood, it was the gates and fences that had been pillaged. Even with the war on their doorstep the farmers had ploughed and sown with meticulous care until the very last moment. Now their work was all wasted, with the local boundaries of the Zone becoming so fluid it was too dangerous to stay and wait for a harvest they might never be able to bring in or would be contaminated if they did.

  They kept to a narrow track at the edge of the woodland, soon being joined by one or two other small groups of civilians, all heading the same way. No one spoke, no greeting was exchanged. As usual silence was a refugees best protection, keeping them safe by avoiding unguarded talk among strangers. It was always possible that those who heard your words were those who would seek money or favours from the Russians by betrayal.

  As they neared the camp they noticed more and more activity within the close spaced plantations of Firs. Under heavy camouflage were masses of Soviet infantry. Tents and improvised shelters filled some patches of woodland. In others were long lines of light armoured vehicles, scout cars and small armoured personnel carriers. Most appeared to be equipped with roof mounted anti-tank missiles or compact radar dishes accompanied by anti-aircraft armament. One area was filled with long lines of Zil trucks beneath camouflage netting leaving only narrow walkways between the rows. Sentries patrolled just within the borders of the trees, their guns cradled in the arms and ready to use.

  The strictest of regulations must have been in force. No Russians came near them; none seemed to stir from their shelters. Only once, a Russian officer saw them slowing down to look between the trees and bellowed at them, gesturing at them with a machine pistol to keep moving. The whole scene was surreal. Usually such a situation would normally have meant soldiers swarming out to barter with or bully the passing civilians. But discipline must have been iron hard. Revell realised the sentries were keeping the Russian soldiers in as much as keeping the refugees out.

  He tried estimating the number of enemy soldiers but after they had seen three patches of woodland jammed with units he gave up. If the other plantations were as packed and they must be or there would be no point in jamming so many in to the few he had seen, then the best part of a division was close by. As they got nearer the refugee settlement the small parties travelling wearily across country coalesced into large and larger groups. Guards began to appear beside the human convoys. For the most part the escorts were few and far between, widely spaced except where a couple would get together to share a cigarette, and then a gap of a hundred metres would open up before the men wandered back to their positions.

  Several times Revell saw evidence of the ruthless herding of the civilians. The first time it was a body beside a wheelchair. Buckled spokes had prevented its further progress and its occupant, unable to keep up, had been shot. From the back of the head a large quantity of blood had run out to stain the grass with a glistening mess. A few paces away, almost hidden in the deep ruts of the muddy ground was the corpse of a young woman in a fur trimmed coat and headscarf. A burst of automatic fire had punctured her chest and abdomen.

  “A clear picture” Andrea walked past showing no emotion. “Perhaps he was her father. She must have gone for the Ivan who shot the old man. Foolish, there was nothing she could do that would help him. She threw away her own life.”

  “You’re all heart.” Much the same scenario had occurred to Thorne. He could picture the girl’s grief and fury when that had been the outcome after hours of exhausting herself pushing the chair. Perhaps the attack she had unleashed on the killer had surprised him, even momentarily frightened him. He hoped so. It was likely the guards were all too well aware how thin on the ground they were. A determined effort by the few men among the civilians, at the risk of some loss of life, could certainly have overwhelmed the escort.

  But to what
purpose. The presence of more enemy infantry in the area was now all too obvious. The refugees might have taken on the escort, perhaps grabbed a few weapons but then the world would have fallen on them, and not just on them. Likely a great swathe of the trudging column would have been slaughtered.

  The second time they saw death it was when their line merged with another column. Beside the route there was a child’s body, a girl of maybe ten years. A few steps from the widening trampled path, she had very likely been shot down when youthful thoughtlessness had prompted her to stray. Just visible were some wild flowers clenched in her hand. Perhaps it was the innocent urge to pick those that had been the cause her death.

  When the head of the column was within fifty yards of the single strand of rusted barbed wire that marked the camps perimeter they were called to a halt.

  “It’s a huge area, at least twenty hectares including the village.” Thorne estimated the encampments extent. It stretched right across the gently sloping farmland entirely surrounding the village.

  A ruddy-faced Russian officer bellowed for silence. He didn’t get it. For most of the civilians this was a new experience, they kept chatting. A loud burst of machine gun fire hosed tracer above their heads and they fell silent as swiftly, and as shocked, as if they had been slapped in the face.

  “There are rules. You will obey them or be shot. Do not go beyond the wire unless on an organised work party with an escort. Disobey and you will be shot. Do not speak to my guards. You will be shot. Do not create disturbance. You will be shot.”

  With that he turned on his heel, gesturing for the column to enter the camp.

  “Well you can’t say you haven’t been told. Simple and to the point. Thorne watched the civilians as they moved in to the area. Most seemed dazed, lost. Crowding around them came the vultures, the black market operators, with offers of help, offers of trade. Even those who managed to thread their way past those thieves were marked people. Their cleaner clothes indicated that they were new arrivals. What little they had in the way of valuables, even the most mundane of possessions they were not going to keep for long.