by James Rouch
Unable to get more sense from the man, Tarkovski thrust the cook aside and went out onto the roadway. He was not the first there, and had to elbow his way through a fast-growing crowd to see what was happening.
“Ah, yes. Now this will be much better than a load of stinking skinny civilians.” Eyes lit up in happy anticipation, Tarkovski watched the pair of personnel carriers and their accompanying vehicle labouring toward them over the badly potholed asphalt surface.
His men were obviously of the same opinion. The arrival of the closed trucks, packed with the wretched humanity of the camps, had aroused minimal interest, and no enthusiasm. These brightly coloured APCs were a different matter entirely. As the little column drove nearer, some of the waiting men were running backward and forward in excitement.
A woman riding on top of the lead transport waved energetically. She got a thunderous response from the fast growing mob milling about in the road.
Tarkovski shook his head, to try to clear it. This was no time to be drunk, well not yet. Why had he started so early, damn it. Although he’d never seen it for himself, he knew of Frau Lilly’s travelling brothel by reputation.
It had only a couple of hundred meters to go. The colonel shaded his eyes with his hand. Behind the APCs the sun was low and bright, it made their garish pink paintwork glisten.
Very pretty, very colourful, Tarkovski thought. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Fuck the drink. The spirits he’d drunk that day were still clogging his brain. He was trying to grasp the significance of an important fact, but it continued to elude him.
Shit, it couldn’t be that important. Tonight they’d have real party, and later on he’d get one of the girls alone. It would have to be one with great big udders. And when he’d got her alone and had what he wanted, he’d get that present for Petrov.
TWENTY FIVE
The mass of men were starting to surge forward, impatient at the APC’s slow progress. First to reach it, only yards ahead of the rest, a lieutenant leaped for the side of the moving vehicle. He grabbed hold, then lost it and rolled off. As he went down his uniform glistened brightly.
Tarkovski saw, and his brain made the final connection of what he had been trying to understand.
“The paint is wet, the paint is wet!” Left on his own in the middle of the road, he screamed after his men, now jubilantly crowding about the lead personnel carrier. “Run, get away!”
At least two thirds of his battalion were packing themselves about the eight wheeler. Above their shouting and whistling he couldn’t make himself heard or understood.
Mad with frustration and rage he looked to the gun emplacement. The gunners were searching for a way down. He waved them back.
“Petrov, you bastard. Stay where you are, open fire, you shit! Open fire!” Tarkovski tore his hair and whirled to look at the clusters of men now about both of the APCs. The third vehicle seemed to have gone. On the roof the gunners still stood in indecision. At the top of his voice the colonel ranted at them, spittle shooting from his mouth.
“Open up on them. Fire, you shits, fucking well fire!” The girl stood up, swaying enticingly, then she reached in among the litter of parcels on the roof and tossed two small black objects into the crowd. At the same instant she dropped from sight through the open hatch.
In the crowd there was a confused tangle of movement. Men who had recognized what was thrown panicked to get clear. Others who wanted to see what it was pressed forward and pinned them against the sides of the hull.
Either side of the APC there were eruptions of flame and smoke and blood. An arm spun through the air and screams drowned the sounds of the engines.
Every hatch aboard both transports clanged back and above every one appeared a rifle, grenade launcher or machine gun.
Chunks of flesh jumped from the crowd as bullets smashed into and through them. A mist of blood hung over the scene as the heavier turret-mounted weapons joined in.
Frozen for a moment, the flak gunners grabbed at the netting over their twin-mount and began to roll it back. Petrov was throwing himself into the gunner’s seat when his face was pulped and the back of his head blasted away in a single concave bowl of bone.
Tarkovski hardly saw the body that toppled past him to land with a sickening squelch on the cobbles, destroying the last of the skull.
The ladder slipped as he climbed and he had no time for obscenities as he smacked to the ground beside the corpse. Above him there was a drawn out scream and a jet of blood hosed out in a wide arc. A body flopped across the edge of the roof, an arm and leg and several yards of intestines dangling over the side. Blood and filth ran down the wall.
In swift succession came the familiar sounds of armour-piercing rounds punching through metal. Pushing himself to his feet Tarkovski hoped they were striking the slaughtering APCs, but the fire they started was above him as ready-use ammunition was ignited.
Moving steadily forward, the weapons aboard the APCs were hosing non-stop streams of tracer and grenades into every building and corner.
Two men ran for cover behind the field car. The vehicle seemed to jump and disintegrate in front of his eyes as it was hit by several converging streams of automatic fire.
Taking a last look around, Tarkovski could see no fire being returned. Yelling curses, he ran for the farmhouse door. He was no longer drunk. He passed the truck he’d noticed earlier. This time, though, he paid it no attention, assuming it had stalled alongside the building.
A grenade detonated on the cobbles as he threw himself behind the blast wall. There was a searing pain in his leg, and then he was in cover. When he tried to stand the limb collapsed under him, and he experienced the pain afresh. It was broken, he knew without looking.
Dragging himself, he secured the door and then crawled across to the table. It took a strength-sapping effort but he managed to reach up and grasp the holster on top, then collapsed back in agony. Every movement brought new experiences in pain.
A piece of the top of his boot had been driven into the hole in his calf. On the other side of the leg the leather bulged and blood welled sluggishly every time he moved. The large fragment that had struck him had passed almost from one side of the limb to the other. On the way it had snapped the bone, and driven at least a part of it out through the flesh on the far side. That was what was beneath the bulge.
In the farmhouse the sounds of battle were far less distinct. Not that he could call it a battle. It was too one-sided for that. His men had galloped cheerfully, deliriously, happily to their own bloody execution.
There was nothing to be salvaged but his life. He’d kept that this long, he wasn’t about to lose it now. He’d cheated the firing squad once, the hangman twice. This could not be any more difficult than that. First he had to find a place to hide.
There had been no resistance. Revell had thought that once he had heard a bullet skim past, but he could have been mistaken, or it could have been a spent round that had ricocheted from one of the metal-clad barns or silos.
Several of the outer buildings were alight. A huge barn was billowing vast quantities of smoke that was fortunately blowing away from them on the light breeze.
The whole area of the road and courtyard resembled a charnel pit. At least two hundred bodies littered the ground. Many of them, victims of grenades or multiple impacts, were flayed or even totally dismembered. Every wheel on the APC was smothered in a red slush.
Blood also spattered the armour. Carrington sprinted from the cover of a silo, his progress slowed when he slipped and rolled through the worst of the mess. He scrambled aboard, his hands feet and clothes daubing more gore on the sticky paint.
“It’s set. Five minutes. I’d have been back sooner but there was stuff bouncing all over the place out there.”
The turret gun blasted off behind Revell and punished his ears. Derelict machinery in an open front tractor shed sparkled as the bullets struck sparks from it. A body flopped down from the rafters, and a full bur
st into the roof brought down three more and started a fire among the shattered timber.
An anti-tank rocket soared from the corner of a much-holed barn. Revell just had time to duck before it struck. It impacted low on the hull, aft of the front wheel. The heat round blasted its jet of molten explosive into a box of reactive armour. With a roar the defensive charge exploded and disrupted the plasma stream, showering droplets of white hot material over the nearby bodies.
“It’s OK, we just lost a wheel, we’ve plenty more.” Revell acted fast to prevent a bail-out as the interior filled with smoke.
“It’s buggered the power steering as well.” Burke had to wrench hard at the wheel to get the ten-and-a-half tons of armoured vehicle turning.
“Where’s Hyde?” Finding the single periscope in the commander’s hatch gave him virtually no vision closed down, Revell opened up and put his head out.
“He’s off to our left. Looks like he’s fine.” Dooley had spotted the sergeant’s eight-wheeler first, through the turret machine gun sight. “What the hell. Doesn’t he know he’s being followed?”
“Get us over there fast.”
Holding on tight, Revell tried to see through the thickly swirling smoke as they bounced and jolted over a corner of what had been a deeply ploughed field.
As they came alongside, Revell hailed his NCO. “This is a raid, not a looting expedition. Get your men out of those trucks.”
Hyde shook his head. “No, it’s refugees, hundreds of them. I’ve got another fifteen jammed inside here. Looks like the KGB were getting set to do another massacre.”
“Let’s move then. We’ve done all the damage we can.” A burst of machine gun fire raked the tall grass between the vehicles. Both turrets traversed and poured a barrage into the barn from which the rocket had come. Grenades burst flame and fragments against the structure, while the dashes of green tracer punched in through the thin walls.
From somewhere inside came a secondary explosion, and a burning figure tottered into the open, followed by another hidden by all-enveloping flame.
No more shots were aimed at them as the APCs and trucks regained the road and started for the cover of the woods. Revell was looking up from his watch, at the farm when the charges aboard the pick-up detonated.
TWENTY SIX
A huge bubble of flame soared high above the cluster of buildings. The farmhouse itself appeared to bulge outward, dust and smoke spurting from every opening. Its walls disintegrated and the roof, stripped of many of its tiles, collapsed straight down into the ruin.
To Revell it appeared to happen in complete silence, then the report and shock wave swept across the fields, blinding him with a storm of dirt and grass seeds.
Hyde’s APC was already among the trees, with the lead trucks, when mortar shells began to fall along the tree line. A bomb struck a bough above the column and sent a hail of fragments through the thin bodywork of an old Zil radio van. It ran off the road and tipped slowly onto its side as the wheels struck a ditch.
An avalanche of screaming women poured through the rear doors as they burst open. Those unhurt threw themselves at the other trucks squeezing past the wreck. Others lay still or squirmed gently, clutching at gaping wounds.
With more of the mortar rounds blasting the edge of the woods, Revell had his crew dismount to load the injured onto the roof of the APC.
“Where’s that stupid old cow going.” Dooley spotted an elderly woman wandering away into the trees. He started after her.
The bomb that hit her must have been a freak direct hit, as it burst above the ground. The smoke drifted clear to reveal only half a torso, with lacerated legs still attached.
Several of those hauled onto the harsh metal of the armoured personnel carrier were clearly dying from their massive head wounds. Their mouths hung slack and they were deeply unconscious.
As they drove into the woods more shells landed, straddling where they had been parked, riddling the overturned truck with thousands of slivers of steel and setting it ablaze.
Thick black smoke blotted out the road and their last view of the farm. Revell was not sorry to see the last of it. The stench from the civilians in and on the APC was almost overpowering. Blood was everywhere. It congealed on the metal, stiffened on his clothes, coated his face and hands.
They reduced speed to a crawl while he tried to bind field-dressings over the worst of the wounds he could reach. When they reached the spot where the pioneers waited to activate the mines for the road block, there was no room for them to board. After switching on the seismic, infra-red and other devices they had to jog alongside.
For a brief moment Revell felt relief flood through his body. They were safe now from pursuit, at least by land. It was unlikely that under the prevailing conditions the enemy would put helicopters into the air to seek them out; still it was a risk and he had a sky-watch maintained.
“How many of the shits do you reckon we hit, Major?” Ripper stuck his head up through a hatch, gulping in the comparatively untainted air.
“I wasn’t keeping a count, but it must be a couple of hundred we knocked out. It was almost too easy.”
“Wouldn’t have been if they’d got that flak gun into action. Clarence did a good job there. I saw him blow the gunner’s head clean off. Hell of a shot. Is he starting back now?”
“Should be on his way.”
The sniper reloaded, pushing the two empty magazines forward and out of his way. He was picking his targets with care, isolated men whose death would not be easily attributable to fire from any particular direction.
In several cases the bodies of his victims lay undiscovered fifteen minutes after he had put them down. That was not so surprising though, the whole area was littered with dead and wounded.
Such rescue work as was going on appeared totally uncoordinated, most of the effort being centred on the ruins of the farmhouse.
Clarence readjusted his ear plugs. The report of the Barrett’s firing was vicious in the confined space of his dug-out. He could be certain though, that at the target it would be completely inaudible. Death was coming to his targets with silent violence.
The activity about the farmhouse increased. It was tempting to put several bullets into the group. He could do it, and pull out fast, long before they could zero in on his position. But he wanted a better target.
It appeared that a body was being pulled out. It was a wounded man. Through his sight the sniper saw an arm move as he was lifted onto a litter.
A sudden furious motion among the drifting smoke brought his attention to a helicopter that was coming in to a fast landing.
It touched down, bouncing once before settling. A solitary figure jumped out and made toward the farm.
Tracking him, Clarence knew he was moving too quickly for a shot. Still following him, he unclipped the magazine, ejected the round in the breech, and by touch alone replaced it with one that held armour-piercing high explosive incendiary shells.
He reached the group by the litter. They fell back instantly as he strode among them.
The man on the ground stirred, appeared to be attempting to push himself to a sitting position. Clarence clearly saw him extend his arm toward the newcomer, as if to fend something off.
A flurry of action too swift at the distance for the sniper to follow, and then the figure on the ground arched, and collapsed back.
What on earth was happening? It was like watching an obscure mime show, with the story-line unknown and the characters barely glimpsed.
Striding back toward the helicopter, the man performed a familiar action. Even at that distance it could be recognized. He was holstering a pistol.
“Rastrelnikov.” Clarence knew the word well. It was one that all Russians, all members of the Warsaw Pact forces avoided mentioning. He had heard of such men. Theirs was the task of bringing instant punishment to Warpac commanders and officers who had failed. Rastrelnikov, the executioner.
Still he was moving too fast for a safe shot. Pannin
g ahead, Clarence aligned his sights on the helicopter’s pilot, sat in the cockpit directly facing the hideout. He did not have to look to see the killer reboard, he saw the little three seater bounce on its spindly tricycle undercarriage.
Nor did he need to be able to hear the change in engine note to know the aircraft was about to lift off. The reflection of the sun on the windshield shimmered as the blades rotated faster.
It was obviously a very old machine. He had to rack his brain to recall the NATO designation for it. Hare, that was it. Yes, three seater, no armour, no armament. The fuel tank was set high up, close behind the engine.
If he missed the pilot with his first shot, he would use the rest of the magazine’s contents to rake the fuselage in that general area.
Suddenly it was lifting, almost catching him off guard. And as it did it was swinging round. He was losing his view of the cockpit.
When it was thirty feet up Clarence snapped a single shot at the cockpit side window. The weapon kicked back hard against his shoulder. Damn! A miss. Must have allowed too much lead. The chopper was climbing still, and beginning to pick up forward speed, its nose tilting downward.
Again he fired and this time kept firing. He saw strikes on the rear starboard quarter, about where the fuel should be. A single shot went slightly wide, smacking into the base of the rotors.
Then he could only watch as it continued to gain height and move across in front of him. Without warning the helicopter yawed violently, practically going into a roll. The rotors were breaking from the hub, filling the sky with whirling blades of metal.
It fell like a stone, the tail boom distorting and almost breaking away before the chopper hit the meadow. The fuselage burst in a shower of torn panels, telescoping to half its length.
A truck bumped out of the farm toward the crash site. Before it was halfway there, smoke began to filter from the crushed cockpit. An instant later fire raged across the wreckage, starting secondary blazes among the surrounding swaths of wild barley.
