by James Rouch
Taking time to count how many belts he had, Dooley decided he could spare one. His victims were writhing and moaning, plucking at their ruined limbs, from which sharp white shards of bone projected.
Casually, standing so he could fire from the hip, he emptied the rest of the belt into the tangle of flesh and weapons.
Dooley listened. All sound and movement had ceased. ‘See, you commie shits. I’m a humanitarian as well as a nature-lover. Maybe I should join Green Peace.’
Patting his pockets, he counted the number of spare magazines he had for his pistol, and checked that he still had his little hoard of jewellery and dental fragments. The simple action brought back memories of how he’d come by each item, the death he’d witnessed, and shared in. ‘Yeah, well, maybe not Green Peace.’
Little of the draft clearing the main passageway was clearing the side corridor that led to the aid post.
Within a few steps Revell found visibility again down to nil. They were forced to inch forward, not daring to lose contact with the wall. There were two other rooms to pass before they reached their objective at the end of the passageway.
Revell tried hard to recall the distances involved, and compare them with their present slow progress. In steps he could roughly calculate it, but how many shuffles were equivalent to one normal pace?
He tried using his thermal imager, but the invading Russians must have employed grenades whose smoke masked the wavebands on which it functioned, and he got virtually no picture at all.
His fingertips found the first doorway, and splintered wood where it had been forced open. It was tempting simply to hurl in a grenade, but some of the girls might have escaped or been herded into there. He had to be more discriminating in his tactics than he would have liked.
Making sure of the type of cartridge he had chambered, he hurled himself across the opening, blasting a shell at the cellar ceiling. There was no answering fire and he ducked inside, closely followed , by Burke. They were hardly in before a hail of bullets ripped past the door.
The room was comparatively free of smoke. Lined with steel ammunition boxes, many of them displayed evidence of having been sprayed with automatic fire.
‘You think they did the same all the way along?’ Burke could picture the scene as a Russian had braced himself in the doorway and swept every corner with blasts of high-velocity rounds.
‘Not if they saw what they’d hit in here. They must have shit themselves^’ Mentally Revell ticked off the shots he had fired. He didn’t need to reload, yet. ‘What’s in the next room?’
‘Karen…that is, they were clearing it to take the overflow of wounded.’ Burke remembered something. ‘The stuff they’d hauled out they dumped in the passageway.’
‘Were they stacking it both sides, or just one, and which?’
Closing his eyes, Burke tried to recall a detail that had been too trivial to note at the time. ‘This side… yes, this side. Against the wall between the next door and the sick bay.’
‘Right. We’ll make a dive for the next cellar. Same tactics as before. You still got that grenade?’
‘If I lose it you’ll know soon enough. The pin’s out.’
As he dashed for their next objective, Revell snapped off three fast shots that were rewarded with a muffled yelp of pain and the sound of a body falling.
Again there was no reply to the single flechette shot the major put into the ceiling, and when more bullets hosed along the passage they were already tumbling inside to a soft landing on rows of sleeping bags.
‘How far now?’ Pulling off his respirator, Revell gulped the tainted air. Before he had an answer to confirm his own estimate, they had to throw themselves to either side of the door as a grenade bounced past.
Fragments from it slashed through the opening, ripping apart the bedding and creating showers of down and lint.
‘By my reckoning, three steps to the stack of boxes, then five, no, six to pass it and then an immediate sharp left will put you facing the door of the dispensary.’
Revell drew a mental picture of what he expected to see when he got there. The trapped Russians would have herded their hostages to the far end of the room, to keep them out of the way and permit unobstructed action. Unless, that is, the troops were Spetsnaz.
There came the sound of a girl crying, and ugly grunted threats in Russian. The words might not have been understood, but their obvious menace was, and the crying ceased in a series of choking sobs.
‘They’re still alive.’ Burke said it to reassure himself, and then the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as there came a long wailing scream of sheer agony. The lunge he made for the door was blocked by the major.
‘Not yet.’ Revell heard Sampson’s distinctive voice raised in protest, more shouting in Russian, the thud of a heavy blow and then a silence that could be almost felt.
‘What the fuck are they doing?’ Again Burke attempted to push past. ‘All I want to do is get in there and sort them out...’
‘Stay calm. Lose your temper and you’ll make mistakes.’ It was taking an effort for Revell to keep himself under control, and was harder still when another scream, of shorter duration this time, came from someone in the last extreme of agony.
From that he knew they had to be facing the elite Russian Spetsnaz troops. Coming in with no knowledge of the underground layout, and-quickly disoriented by the blinding smoke and dust, they must have blundered into this dead end, to be trapped by his and Burke’s fast arrival on the scene.
Like the hate-indoctrinated automatons they were, even at the moment when they should have been scheming to survive, the Spetsnaz had turned on helpless victims, perhaps seeking confidence by falling back on the skills in which they were most practiced.
Another random burst from an AK flashed past the door. Revell knew the Russians were carrying on a reconnaissance by fire, probing to see what the opposition would be like when they broke out. The moment they decided to do that, they would slaughter their hostages, except perhaps for one or two they might utilize as human shields, a standard Spetsnaz tactic.
At present, while they were sorting themselves out, they had most likely only one man on guard. He would probably be crouched low by the door, taking full advantage of any cover. Likely he’d built himself a rough barricade of boxes that were within his reach. He’d present a small enough target in perfect visibility; the chances of putting him down with a first-round disabling shot in these conditions was nil.
Carefully lobbed, a grenade might catch him, but fragments tearing through the open door would be indiscriminate killers. The enemy held all the cards. They daren’t delay any longer.
Another screeching howl of suffering made up Revell’s mind for him. For the sheath at his belt he withdrew his heavy-bladed fighting knife. In all the war so far it had done nothing more bloody than hack horsemeat steaks. Setting aside his shotgun, he replaced it with his Browning pistol. Weighing both, he settled for the knife in his right hand.
‘Put that grenade, near as you can, just short of the next doorway. When it goes off we go in, fast.’
Burke moved to the door. Sweat poured from him, but the dust-covered grenade stayed dry in his tight grasp. Just what the fuck was he doing here? He’d never pushed himself forward like this before. Shit, he was a combat driver; this wasn’t his sort of work. But there hadn’t been anyone special in his life before, not until a few hours ago.
There was the faint sound of a girl crying, and a harsh command in Russian was followed by the report of a stinging slap.
Without another thought he swung ‘round the doorpost, tossed the grenade and ducked back into cover.
A shout of alarm was smothered, and his ears punished, by the explosion in the confines of the tunnel. Grabbing his bayonet from his side he charged blindly into the unknown.
TWENTY TWO
The Russian in the doorway was sagging against the tumbled cases of his barricade. As Burke kicked out at his face he saw the bottom jaw was gone,
but still didn’t pull the blow.
A clatter of fire from the entrance gave him the direction he wanted and he fired three fast soft-nosed bullets toward the muzzle flash.
Searing pain in his side told him he’d been hit, but he ran on and thrust the bayonet to the hilt in a figure that was lunging at him.
The blade stuck, caught between the bottom ribs, and he fired with the pistol barrel touching his victim’s stomach. His wrist jarred at the recoil, but the impact did the trick, throwing the impaled man back. The blade came free with a sucking sound.
Shouts, screams and the ear-splitting reports of gunfire blared through the dimly lit cellar. Revell snapped a single shot into the face of a Russian who swung a rifle butt at him, side-stepped the falling body and bumped into a blood-covered form lashed to a chair. Its head lolled, and then the whole body bucked as bullets intended for Revell struck it instead.
He fired twice at a slab-faced Slav wrestling to clear a blockage in his wire- stocked AK, and missed. There was a snarl of triumph from the Russian as he succeeded and brought the weapon up, and then a look of blank incomprehension as a scalpel was skewered into the side of his neck.
On tiptoe to inflict the wound, Karen was thrown aside as the man lashed out, caught off balance. His rifle swivelled in her direction and then a blood-smeared bayonet sliced across his throat.
Reeling, bewildered, he turned to counter the new danger. The bayonet struck a second time, thrust at a sharp upward angle just below his ear.
Following the body down, Burke straddled it, took the hilt of the weapon in both hands and plunged it repeatedly into the Russian chest, each time lifting his hands as high as he could. He stopped only when he was exhausted, long after the man was dead.
Karen helped Burke to his feet and fussed over the blood that seeped through a tear in his jacket, making it cling to him as the material became soaked. He gently held her hands away and went to the figure in the chair.
Using a wad of dressing, he applied pressure to the hideous wound across the side of Boris’s face. Accepting a roll of broad bandage from Karen, he wrapped it around their radioman’s head, feeling the bulk of the dressing subside as it filled the empty eye socket.
Hauling himself to his feet, Sampson tentatively felt the large contusion at the base of the back of his neck. He knuckled his eyes to clear them of double vision. Gathering himself to take over from Burke, opening Boris’s jacket and cutting away his undershirt to examine the tight cluster of exit wounds below his left shoulder. ‘They grabbed him on the way in. The stupid little guy was so scared he called out in his own language. Those animals started on him without warning. I tried to stop them and they must have swiped me a hard one from behind. They weren’t even questioning him. It was like it was normal practice, just started cutting him.’
There was a rattle of M60 fire from the corridor. Revell looked around the room. The smoke and dust were clearing. It looked like a charnel house. One of the attackers was still moving, and he crushed his boot down hard on a hand that was too near a discarded automatic for comfort. Looking up at him, the Russian tried to spit, but succeeded only in dribbling. It was an effort that proved fatal. Somewhere inside him a blood vessel ruptured and filled his throat to drown him.
The scene in the room was overwhelming. Several of the wounded had been trampled or hit by fragments or ricochets.
‘I’ll send you some help.’ Revell got no reply. ‘Old William and some other wounded are in the passageway.’
‘Okay.’ Sampson set upright a drip that had been knocked over, and hauled the corpse of a Spetsnaz off the girl with the head wound. ‘I’ll be there in a moment. Hell and shit! I thought I’d seen everything in the Zone, but this is just plain horrible. Why the hell do we go on doing this?’
‘To stay alive.’ Revell had seen enough; he started to leave.
‘You call this living?’ Sampson picked up the body of a girl. The side of her head had been blown away and white brain matter dripped from her shattered skull. ‘This is fucking butchery.’
Revell had no reply. On his way out he checked Dooley. Old William sat beside him, cradling an M16 and grinning a toothless grin. He made his customary nod at the major.
‘Added a few more to the collection.’ Dooley patted the M60. ‘Three more and I can send them off and get a set of storage jars.’
There were at least eight bodies lying half inside the postern doorway. Wisps of smoke rose from tracer lodged in them.
Mounting the cellar steps, Revell crossed the ground floor, past the row of dead whose numbers would shortly be swollen. Already those killed by the blast were being hauled aside to join them. Andrea was helping, using one hand.
He would have sent her down to be attended to, but she studiously ignored him, and he passed on without comment.
There was sporadic incoming artillery fire, but it was arriving at predictable one- minute intervals, indicating that it was an East German battery employed. Though the air was full of the dust and smoke they pounded from the ruins, after the cellars it tasted clean and wholesome.
It was tempting to take advantage of the set intervals to take a shortcut across the rubble, but instinct made Revell choose the safety of the more difficult route under cover. That saved his life, when a twin-barrelled 30mm flak tank blasted the top of the ruins with a thirty-round burst.
On the far side of the valley another smokescreen was forming. Out of range, another attempt was being made to breach the minefield. There were comforting reports of explosions to indicate that the work was going slowly or badly.
Voke was fussing with the sterile pad inside the shoulder of his jacket, but stopped when Revell came into the dugout. ‘You have noticed the timing of the shells?’ He nodded knowingly to himself. ‘East Germans, always so precise. Their employment against us would explain why there have been no chemical rounds. The Russians do not trust them with them, since that time when a whole regiment tried to defect to the West, after hitting the Russian divisions to either side of them with Sarin and VX.’
‘Not many of them made it though, did they?’
‘True, the Reds bombed them to pieces as they crossed the Zone. But at least when we fight them it is one less factor to worry about.’ Voke grinned, glanced at his watch and held his helmet down hard as a 155mm shell crashed into the wall below their position. ‘Right on time.’
‘I think we’re going to have to blow the dump. They’ll be through into the valley by tomorrow morning.’ It was bitter for Revell to have to admit that defeat, but he had to be realistic. At least he would have the satisfaction of blowing apart the Russian’s prize even as they reached for it.
‘There is a problem, Major.’ Voke was apologetic. ‘I have tested the circuit, and there appears to be a slight fault.’
‘How slight is slight?’
Sweeping his arms wide and shrugging in a resigned gesture, Voke was no longer smiling. ‘The link was deeply buried, and was still working after the castle fell, but it is not now. I think it would be unlikely we could trace the fault; it could be anywhere between here and the complex.’
‘Shit.’ Gauging the distances involved, Revell estimated the nearest of the dumps would just be within range of their TOW missiles.
He was suddenly aware of Andrea by his side. Her wrist was bandaged and splinted. Reading his mind once again, she handed him a laser rangefinder.
The reading was three thousand six hundred meters. ‘There’ll be a bit of wire to spare.’
Voke shook his head. ‘The installation is hardened. With what we have I do not believe we could penetrate several meters of earth and then a meter of steel- reinforced concrete. And in any event, the munitions and fuel are on the far side. A direct hit anywhere else would do no more than very localized damage.’
Revell sat back and thought about it. His eyes met Andrea’s. There was no expression in hers. For the first time he could recall, he felt no wave of sympathy for her, as he invariably had when she’d been
injured in the past.
‘Can it be done manually, from down there?’
‘I was afraid you would ask that, Major.’ Despite his words, Voke’s smile had returned. ‘The answer is yes. There is such an emergency system. When it was installed a joker hung on it a notice saying ‘suicide switch.’ There would be little chance of getting clear.’
‘We don’t have a choice.’ For Revell now there was a lot of planning to be done. ‘It’ll take the Reds the best part of the night to break through into the valley. By then we should be long gone, most of us. A small stay-behind group will have to blow the dumps at the last moment. Once they go up all hell will break loose. They’ll know we’ve done a runner.’
An airburst detonated overhead and chunks of shell-casing drummed against the roof of the strongpoint.
Brushing dust from his shoulder, Voke winced as the movement aggravated his wound. ‘If you are taking the wounded with you then you will need as long a head start as possible.’
Andrea looked up at the words. ‘It would be madness to burden the escape group with wounded.’ She glanced at her wrist. ‘With the more serious cases, that is ...’
‘We are not leaving anyone behind; you know what they can expect at the hands of the Russians. This unit has never left wounded to fall into their murdering hands.’
‘I’m telling you, Major-Revell, sir, that it don’t matter what you say—it can’t be done.’
Forcing down his instinctive response to the medic’s insubordination, Revell waited for the explanation, drumming his forefinger against the stock of his shotgun.
‘There’s two down there with head wounds who’ll die if we try to move them, three with open chest wounds who’ll die when we move them, three real bad gut wounds who won’t make it any distance at all, a double amputee who’s hanging on by a thread and eight cases of multiple fractures of the hip and leg who are going to be hell to move. And that’s not counting all the walking wounded who will either need help, like Ripper, or who are in no state to give a hand with the others, like the lieutenant here, or Andrea.’
