by James Rouch
“Maybe they’ve deserted. Taken vehicles and skipped, right out of the city, perhaps. After all, we ran into a few who were trying just that.”
“Because you’ve seen a lot of men do that in the Zone, it doesn’t mean every unit is likely to disintegrate if it gets half a chance.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that, Colonel.” Revell could kick himself for suggesting anything. “But I do think we’re helping the Russians by building up this superman image of their Spetsnaz troops.”
“You’re an authority, you’ve fought them before?”
“No, all I’m saying is that I don’t believe the Russians have managed to build up and maintain elite troops trained to the standards that these are rumoured to have achieved.” Revell sought an example, and found an obvious one. “How about your outfit? Even with years of preparation, do you think you could find and train upwards of thirty thousand men to your standards?”
Col. Granger had flushed an angry red when the major had started speaking; gradually he managed to bring his temper under control. “So what are they then, boy scouts…?
“Simply well-trained troops who’ve had a good PR campaign organized for them in the West. Among them will be the good, the bad, and the deserters.”
“Fortunately I don’t subscribe to your theory, Major. I believe they will be holed up somewhere in the city centre, waiting for things to get back to normal, before popping up again.”
“You could be falling into a trap, Colonel, one of your own making. You work on that supposition, and you’ll be tying up troops and snarling up the city for a long time to come.”
Revell could see the colonel was not about to be convinced, but felt he had to give it one more try.
“They’ve had plenty of time to make a rim. They could have stolen transport, or hidden and waited to mingle with the first of the crowds coming from the shelters. Easy enough for them to obtain civvy gear.”
“That’s enough, Major. I’ll take care of matters my way. Don’t you have some transport waiting?”
For a moment, Revell stood his ground, then tiredness and apathy swept over him. What the hell, it wasn’t his fight any longer. Maybe he should make one more try. No, the hell he would.
Abruptly, Revell left the room. In the outer office he collected Boris. He was not alone. There were a number of the colonel’s troops there, all tough-looking heavily armed men. Their proximity was clearly causing Boris considerable distress. His manner was nervous and agitated.
“Major.” Boris hissed out the corner of his mouth as they went out. “In the last few hours, you have made me go up against drunken Spetsnaz, and sit in a room with ten SAS men. My bowels will not take what you are putting them through.”
“You’ll be okay. We’re finished with Munich. Transport is laid on. We leave as soon as we’re boarded.”
“Then my only regret is that it was not thirty-six hours sooner.” Going out through the front door, Boris walked straight into an SAS machine gunner draped with belts of ammunition. He jumped, apologized in Russian, and then went deadly pale as he realized what he’d done.
By the time Revell was outside, Boris was already two blocks away. Munich was returning to normal at an almost frenetic pace. Battalions of city employees were sweeping the streets, and squadrons of tow trucks removing burned-out, smashed, and abandoned cars. Damaged storefronts were being boarded over with sheets of pastel-coloured ply, giving the appearance of undergoing refit, rather than being hidden from the gawp of tourists.
True, there were more police on the street than was usual, but not exceptionally so, a few APCs parked in side streets, but that wasn’t such an unusual sight. Only the frequent roadblocks, where the identification of every man was double-checked, were out of the ordinary.
A few side streets were cordoned off, and the taint of smoke hung over the city, but the smell permeating the pedestrian malls was more likely to come from hot dog stalls and hamburger stands than buildings being damped down.
The main railroad station was still closed, after the destruction of its signal cabin by an overenthusiastic application of force by an SAS team. It was by truck that the Special Combat Company was to be moved.
There was no one to see them leave, bar the passing pedestrians, and they took no notice of so common a sight. The last men were climbing aboard, when a military police station wagon pulled up in front of the lead vehicle. Two police cars boxed in the little convoy at the back.
“Bloody hell.” From the back of the tail-end Bedford, Scully watched the police approach their officer. “This doesn’t look like a social visit.”
“Perhaps they’re going to bill us for any damage we’ve done.” Burke’s tone was caustic.
“Sure as fuck they haven’t brought a vote of thanks from the city fathers.” Dooley watched the conversation between the major and the officers. It was short, almost curt. During it Revell’s expression hardened. At its conclusion, he laid his submachine gun on the ground and emptied a pocket of shells. An MP pointed to his holster, and when Revell shook his head, a police officer stepped forward and reached for the pistol.
“They’re arresting the major!”
The shout Dooley gave as he jumped out was heard along the line of trucks. Suddenly every member of the company was leaping down and making for the rear of the convoy.
Seeing the numbers advancing on them, the police fell back to their cars. For a while, the four MPs stood their ground, until they were pushed and jostled against a store window that bowed ominously under the pressure. One of them tried to draw his side arm, but had it wrenched from his hand, unloaded, and then thrust back at him hard.
Two of them pulled their clubs, but those too they were relieved of, but those weren’t returned, disappearing instead into the encircling crowd.
Civilians, sensing trouble, scurried away. A police officer attempting to use his car radio had the handset pulled from his grasp and ripped out, complete with its coiled lead.
“Hold it, hold it.” Revell had to bellow at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the threats being hurled at police and MPs. “Back off, all of you.”
THIRTY-TWO
The pile of firearms on the sidewalk grew as the men handed in the weapons they had obtained in the city. Revell stood to one side, watching the process.
In turn each man would step forward, unload, show the breach of his weapon was empty, and add it to the stack. The first few had thrown the rifles and submachine guns down hard, obviously hoping to damage them. When the lieutenant in charge of the military police detachment protested, Revell had to order more care taken.
It was an impressive collection, and the assortment of grenades and ammunition beside it was no less daunting.
“That’s everything. We can go now?” Revell got no reply. The police were totally absorbed in worried contemplation of the heap of ordnance they’d suddenly inherited. “Oh, one last item.”
The police jumped back in alarm as a tattered flak jacket landed among, and scattered, bullets and bombs.
It was as they started to drive north out of the city, that Revell began to realize just what effect the Russian assault had created. The road was packed with vehicles of every description. Anything that would drive, and for which fuel could be found, was taking part in a huge exodus.
Every car, truck, and bus was piled high with luggage, and packed tight with passengers. Bumper to bumper the traffic crawled away from Munich.
At the cost of two hundred troops, the Soviets had crippled a vital war production centre. Many of those leaving had not been anywhere near the fighting that had taken place. The majority had at most only seen the smoke or heard a faint echo of the gunfire.
This fleeing mass was on the move because its nerve had snapped. Living on the edge of the Zone for so long had taken its toll. The carefully calculated attack, its surgically precise objective had succeeded and been achieved.
Munich wasn’t going to disintegrate, not today, perhaps not nex
t month, but inevitably it would. The Oktoberfest would go on, starting a couple of days late. Attendance would be down, but probably not noticeably so, considering what had happened.
In days the scars of battle would be gone, the blaring headlines forgotten by all but .those who lost family or friends, or whose business had suffered.
What was beyond recovery was the production at the armaments factories. Many immigrant workers would shift to other production centres, but a significant proportion would be lost, returning home.
And those who stayed, those without the courage to uproot themselves, or those too stubborn to do so, they would be looking over their shoulder all the time they worked. They would worry about their families, about their future.
From this time onwards, the Warpac bombers would only have to stray a few meters outside of the Zone to trigger an air raid warning. The inevitable reaction in Munich would shut down the city for hours or even days.
The convoy moved slowly north. In an hour they had covered barely six kilometres. They were still within the city’s suburbs.
Riding in the cab of the leading truck, Revell gradually became more and more aware of the driver’s preoccupation with the temperature gauge. He wasn’t surprised when they pulled off the road and on to the forecourt of a service station.
While their truck joined the queue for the water hose, Revell waved the rest of the column to park on the verge. Many of the men took advantage of the stop to stretch their legs. Several also took the opportunity to go behind a paling fence and relieve themselves.
A few private cars were also pulling in to fill up at the pumps. Revell watched them idly while he waited. It was a self-service gas station, and after getting out, each driver would go through much the same ritual.
After unlocking their filler caps, they would look at the pumps. Inevitably noticing that the previous sale was still registered, they would look towards the pay booth. A short impatient wait would be followed by a fruitless visit to the cash desk, and then a return to the car.
Vehicles holding several passengers always became the scene of an urgent discussion. The culmination of that was usually the quick topping-up of the tank, followed by a hurried departure. Not many made a second visit to the booth to push through the correct money and the necessary accompanying fuel ration coupons.
Hyde had also been watching what was going on. He joined the major. “You wouldn’t think this place would be deserted, at a time like this, would you? I’d have expected them to be charging well over the odds, grabbing all the profit they can.”
Revell looked up at the company logo. “It belongs to one of the big groups. The staff don’t give a damn. They’re probably a few kilometres ahead of us in traffic.”
“I suppose so, but it just doesn’t feel right somehow.” Hyde looked towards the booth. I’ll just take a look around.”
In the car wash, Hyde discovered two bodies. They were those of a woman in her early twenties and a little girl. Dragged inside, they had been dumped carelessly on the concrete floor. When he called his officer over, he pointed out the nature of their injuries.
“The woman has been shot in the back from close range. Didn’t waste bullets on the kid. Looks like she was clubbed. Smashed in her skull. This would be the work of looters, I suppose.”
“I don’t think so.” Revell felt the bodies. They still retained some body heat. “I peeped in the booth. The cash register is still packed with notes, and there’s a mass of coupons. Single-shot execution isn’t looters’ style either.”
Hyde knew what the major was thinking. “No, that’s Spetsnaz style, when they haven’t got time to indulge in a spot of rape or torture.”
“My very thoughts. This couldn’t have happened more than thirty minutes ago. The bodies are still warm.”
“She must have kicked up a fuss when they stopped for gas.” Hyde looked again at the child. Her face and blonde hair were smothered in blood that had oozed from a gash at the centre of a massive depressed fracture. “They must have taken the woman out quick, and then bashed the kiddie when she saw what was happening.”
It was difficult for Revell to be certain, but he had the impression that the traffic was flowing even slower than it had been when they pulled off. “If they grabbed their transport in Munich, then they don’t have cross-country capability. That means they’re forced to stick to the roads, and we can catch them.”
“There are thousands of vehicles. If they’ve changed into civvies, how the hell are we going to find them?”
“Well flush them out. How many weapons did we manage to keep back altogether?” Revell recalled the MP5 he had wedged under the passenger seat on the Bedford.
“Eight submachine guns, sixteen full magazines. And Andrea kept a hold of four phosphorus and two fragmentation grenades.”
“It’ll have to be sufficient. Get our best section out on the road. We’re going hunting.”
THIRTY-THREE
With a typical German respect for the rules, the traffic had confined itself to the three north-bound lanes. Hardly any drivers took advantage of the occasional gaps in the central crash barriers to get on to the deserted south-bound carriageways.
One that had already regretted the decision. A Citroen, displaying French licence plates, had collided head on with a Mercedes belonging to the autobahn police.
As Revell and his group advanced on foot between the rows of cars, they made no attempt at concealment, even deliberately making great show of the weapons they carried. They shouted back and forth between themselves, and had early proof that the tactic could be effective.
Twice within the first kilometre, their noisy progress flushed looters from cars up ahead. The first time it was three girls. They abandoned a near new Audi and raced up an embankment. As they went, they dropped a trail of boxes of perfume, jewellery and leather jackets.
When Dooley passed their vehicle, he reached in, grabbed an atomizer, and sprayed himself generously with Chanel. “Want not, waste not.”
A little further on, he handed the remainder of the spray to a young girl gaping from the open window of a Saab. He got a scowl from her father who sat behind the wheel. As soon as he was past, he heard the bottle break on the road, and the window being wound closed.
The second group of looters they unwittingly stumbled across was a different proposition. When the nearest of the section was still a hundred meters off, they suddenly swung their big Volvo hard into the car beside them, bulldozed past it, and tried to escape.
They got only as far as a wire mesh fence at the top of the steep-sided cutting they were in. Wheels spinning on the soft turf, the heavy car could make no impression on the obstruction, and began to dig itself into the ground. It sent up fans of grass and soil as the tires failed to find a grip.
Throwing open the doors, five male occupants jumped out. The last to do so carried a shotgun. He blasted with both barrels towards the road, then fumbled to reload.
The response to the brief burst fired over their heads by Revell was to throw their hands in the air. Then, uncomprehendingly, they watched as the soldiers stalked past and ignored them.
Once they realized that they were not being arrested, the men suddenly threw themselves into ill-organized frantic activity. While one of their number attacked the fence with wire cutters, another hurled himself back inside, and the rest put their shoulders to the rear of the car.
Part of the section’s rearguard, Andrea watched the looters’ strenuous efforts. “Such a lot of work, and for what?”
“Who knows.” Ripper was tempted to take a pot-shot, but resisted the urge. “But whatever it is, by the time they’ve sold it for a tenth of what it’s worth, and split the proceeds between five of them, it’s only going to be worth beer money.”
Andrea saw one of the men go to pick up the shotgun. She didn’t wait to see if he intended to use it. Her three-round burst broke his back and he crumpled, screaming, onto the trampled grass.
The others piled
into the Volvo as it began to nudge through the fence. Andrea was about to fire again, but remembered their shortage of ammunition. She had to watch the car disappear from sight.
Ripper knocked on the driver’s window of the vehicle that had been rammed. A white-faced woman sat still gripping the wheel. Three young children were crying and fighting in the rear.
“Your car’s wrecked, lady. If you go back down the road a ways, you’ll find an Audi no one is using.”
Walking on, neither of them saw the crippled looter finally get his fingers to the trigger of the shotgun. Tormented by the excruciating pain of his wounds, he jabbed the twin barrels into his mouth, and fired.
It was a gamble, but Revell was putting everything on the Russians continuing to try and blend in with the fleeing population of Munich.
He knew that at any time the Reds could swing out of the stream of traffic and make faster progress by using the unobstructed south-bound lanes. He had to count on their not doing that. His hope was that they would realize their best chance of getting clear of the area lay in staying with the herd.
There would be police checkpoints somewhere up ahead. With such a heavy flow of traffic, there was no way every vehicle and its occupants could be scrutinized. Once over that hurdle, the Spetsnaz could head off in any direction.
Each time the section approached a large truck or bus, Revell felt his stomach start to churn. It was a familiar sensation — fear. If the Russians were cornered, they would very likely fight to the last man.
A gun battle among the lines of cars — most laden with whole families — would be horrific. The main hope of avoiding that lay in the section’s ostentatious advance spurring the enemy to make a break for it.
They moved on steadily. Here the autobahn ran through the centre of derelict land. It must once have been a vast switching yard. There was little sign of it remaining. Broad swathes of concrete and ballast, broken only by intruding clumps of weeds, alternated with patches of stunted shrubs.
