Civilian Slaughter (19 page)

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. Panning 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.

Habit, almost amounting to instinct, caused Clarence to replace the magazine and methodically pump carefully aimed shots at the vehicle and its passengers. The truck stalled. Leaving two men dead in the cab, those riding on the open back jumped off and dove underneath for cover.

At that range, fifteen hundred meters, the sniper knew his bullets could pass clean through the truck's chassis and still find them. Or he could flush them into the open by igniting the gas tank. But he didn't.

He had, quite simply, had enough of killing. Pushing the rifle to one side, he stretched out and turned over on his back. It was good to at last take the pressure off his elbows, and to straighten the crick in his back, neck and shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, he removed his earplugs.

By now the sun would almost have set behind the hills. Very little light was finding its way in. He lay there, in the semi-darkness, trying to come to a decision he knew he could no longer put off.

TWENTY SEVEN
“Anybody care to explain what's happening here?” Revell left it to Sampson and some of the pioneers to carefully remove the casualties from the top of the APCs. The unloading of the stunned and bewildered refugees from the trucks he delegated to Sergeant Hyde.

Close to the children's graveyard was parked an immaculate M-34, two-and-a- half-ton truck. Revell didn't have to look at its insignia to know to what outfit it belonged. Standing in front of it were twenty MPs. In front of them, a pile of new pick handles.

Lieutenant Vokes had them covered with his pistol. He was flanked by two of his men holding levelled SA-80s, and Old William with his shovel.

With his Walther, Vokes waved forward a big sergeant from among the group. Revell recognized his face from the earlier incident. “Ball seems to be in your court.”

“We've been threatened. We are now. You're a witness.” Selecting a pick handle, Revell hefted it, and made an experimental swing. “Nice of you to bring us these. That's what they are, isn’t it? Presents?”

“My men were attacked last time. They were for our self-protection.” The sergeant was almost purple with suppressed fury at his situation. “We came here to take you in, under close arrest.”

“What's the charge?”
“You got all day?”
“Major,” Vokes had been listening intently to the conversation. “If you go with these men, I believe something will happen to you on the way to headquarters.”

“I won't be going with them.”
“Going to do a runner?”
Revell read the contempt on the sergeant's face, and then wiped it off. “I'm going in OK, but not with you. For two reasons. First, like my lieutenant says, there's a chance I might be in less than perfect health by the time I get there, if I do. Second, your transport has been commandeered.”

“The hell it has, who by?”
“Me. We've got wounded civilians here. Your truck is just the right size to take them in comfort, of a sort. You and these other thugs can walk. I'll give you an armed escort part of the way. To see you come to no harm, naturally. I'd get going right away if I were you. It's going to be as black as hell tonight. My men have torches but I doubt they'll lend them to you.”

“I'll herd them, Major.” Carrington pushed himself forward. “I haven't forgotten that crack about baby killers.”

“OK, take three men with you. Ride in one of the APCs, and set a fast pace. I don't want these specimens in these parts a moment longer than necessary. About six kilometres should give them a good workout.”

For a moment it looked as if the MPs were considering non-cooperation, then they saw the faces of their escorts and thought otherwise.

“Get the injured on board. I'll hitch a ride with them.” “You want your own escort, Major?”

Revell declined Dooley's offer, and a dozen more from others as he got his kit together. While he was gathering and packing it he noticed Andrea watching. Already she had changed back into battledress. He was jamming the last items into a borrowed kit-bat when she sauntered over.

“You watched me, in the woods?”
“I hadn't intended to, but when I saw what you were doing ...” “You saw everything?”
“Yes.”

“When, if you come back, I will do it again, for you to watch. You will enjoy that, as you enjoyed the last time.”

Her hand sought and found his erection. She squeezed it hard, trying to hurt, failing because of the thick folds of material. “Perhaps I will let you help me. Perhaps.”

He said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Did he hate her or love her? Shit, as if he didn't have enough on his mind.

Try as he did though, full as he was of worries about the situation he'd got himself into, he couldn't get her out of his thoughts. From the cab of the truck, as it pulled out, she was the last one he saw. 

“I don't like you, Major Revell.” The general leaned back in his chair, sucking hard on his pipe as he applied a match. “You shouldn't be in the army. You should be out their wandering the Zone with one of those renegade bands. Orders mean nothing to you. Discipline means about the same. You boss, because you certainly don't command, you boss a rag-tag outfit of misfits who wouldn't last five minutes in a decent military unit.”

“A lot of soldiers wouldn't last five minutes in my combat company, general.” “Always the smart answer. Well let's hear your smart answer to this one. How did we find out so fast that you were pulling a stunt? You'll never guess. We got it from the Reds. That's it, they spotted it on satellite before the 717th could report in themselves. Not nice finding that out from them. Spoiled the President's day, sort of.”

“Are they breaking the truce?”
“What the hell do you care? You know why it spoiled the President's day? Because he was on the hot line yesterday. Seems T Corp had put that file of yours and the films into a real special package. Yesterday they made a present of it to the Reds, with a note saying we'd show it to the up-coming Conference of Neutral Nations. The Reds don't need any more bad press at the moment, especially not while those gents are in meeting. So we were going to hold it over them, get some sort of useful deal out of them. One that would be in our favour.”