Red Storm Rising

by Tom Clancy

  “Relax, guys. This road here breaks off the main road, and those lights could just be—shit!” Edwards cursed. The lights hadn’t taken the sweeping turn on the coastal highway. They were coming down the road to the farm. Was it a car or a track with its driving lights on? “Spread out and stay awake.” Smith stayed with Edwards, and the two privates moved downhill about fifty yards.

  Edwards lay prone, his elbows propped up on the wet grass and binoculars to his eyes. He didn’t think they could be spotted. The Marine pattern camouflage made them nearly invisible in daylight as long as they didn’t move rapidly. In the dark they were transparent shadows.

  “Looks like a pickup, four-by-four, something like that. Lights are pretty far off the ground, bouncing around too much to be a track,” Edwards thought aloud.

  The lights came directly—but slowly—to the farmhouse and stopped. Its doors opened, men got out, and one stepped in front of the headlights before they were extinguished.

  “Damn!” Smith snarled.

  “Yep, looks like four or five Ivans. Get Garcia and Rodgers over here, Sergeant.”

  “Right.”

  Edwards kept his binoculars on the house. There were no electric lights lit. He guessed that this area got its power from Artun, and he’d watched the bombs wipe that plant off the map. There was some internal illumination, though, maybe from candies or a hurricane lamp. It really was a lot like home, Edwards told himself; our electricity went off often enough, from nor’east-em storms or ice on the wires. The people in that house had to be asleep. Working farmers, early to bed, early to rise—wears you out and dulls the brain, Edwards thought. Through the lenses he watched the Russians—he counted five—circle the house. Like burglars, he thought. They looking for . . . us? No. If they were looking for us, there’d be more than five guys in a four-by-four. That’s interesting. They must be looting—but what if somebody . . . Jesus, we know that somebody lives there. Somebody lit that lamp. What are they up to?

  “What gives, sir?” Smith asked.

  “Looks like we got five Russkies. They’re playing peeper, looking in the windows and—one just kicked the door in! I don’t like the way this is going, troops, I—”

  A scream confirmed his evaluation. A woman’s scream, it cut right through the falling rain and made them feel someone’s terror, chilling men already cold.

  “People, let’s move in a little. We stay together and we damned well stay alert.”

  “Why we movin’ in now, sir?” Smith asked sharply.

  “ ’Cuz I say so.” Edwards stowed his field glasses. “Follow me.”

  Another light was lit in the building, and it seemed to be moving around. Edwards walked quickly, keeping low in a way that punished his back. In two minutes he was a few yards from the truck that had driven in, no more than twenty yards from the home’s front door.

  “Sir, you’re getting a little careless,” Smith warned.

  “Yeah, well, if I guess right, so are they. I bet—”

  There was a sound of breaking glass. A shot rang out through the semidarkness. It was followed by a blood-chilling shriek—and a second shot, and a third. Then there was another scream.

  “What the hell’s going on in there?” Garcia asked in a rasp.

  A hoarse male voice shouted something in Russian. The front door opened and four men came out. They conferred for a moment, then split into pairs, going left and right to side windows, where all four men stood to look inside. Then there came another scream, and it was perfectly clear what was going on.

  “Those son of a bitches,” Smith observed.

  “Yeah,” Lieutenant Edwards agreed. “Let’s back off and think about this for a minute.” The four men retreated about fifty yards and bunched together.

  “I think it’s time we do something. Anybody disagree?” Edwards asked. Smith just nodded, interested in Edwards’s change of demeanor. “Okay, we take our time and do it right. Smith, you come with me and we go around the left. Garcia and Rodgers go around the right. Go wide and come in slow. Ten minutes. If you can take ‘em alive, that’s okay. If not, stick ’em. We try not to make noise. But if you gotta shoot, make Goddamned sure the first burst does it. Okay?” Edwards looked around for additional Russians. None. The four men slipped out of their packs, checked their watches, and moved out, crawling through the wet grass.

  There was another scream, but none after that. Edwards was glad there weren’t—he didn’t need the distraction. The crawling was a slow, tiring effort that sapped the strength from his arms. Edwards and Smith took a long route, around a tractor and some other implements. When they came into the clear there was only one man on their side of the house. Where’s the other one? the lieutenant asked himself. Now what do we do? You gotta stick to the plan. Everyone’s depending on you.

  “Back me up.”

  Smith was amazed. “Let me, sir, I—”

  “Back me up,” Edwards whispered. He set his M-16 down and drew his combat knife.

  The Russian soldier made it easy, as he stood on tiptoe, entranced with the goings-on within the farmhouse. Ten feet behind him, Edwards got to his feet and approached one slow step at a time. It took him a moment to realize that his target was a full head taller than he was—how was he supposed to take this monster alive?

  He didn’t have to. There must have been an intermission inside. The Soviet private slumped down and reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, then turned slightly to light one from a cupped match. He caught Edwards out of the corner of his eye, and the American lieutenant lunged forward with his knife, stabbing the larger man in the throat. The Russian started to cry out, but Edwards wrestled him down and slapped his left hand over the man’s mouth as he struck again with the knife. Edwards twisted the man’s head one way, and the knife the other. The blade grated against something hard, and his victim went slack.

  Edwards felt nothing, his emotions submerged in a flood of adrenaline. He wiped the knife on his trousers and stood on the man’s body to look in the window. What he saw caught the breath in his throat.

  “Hi, guys!” Garcia whispered. Two Russian privates turned to face a pair of M-16s. They had left their rifles in the truck. Garcia gestured at the ground with his rifle, and both men went facedown, spread-eagled. Rodgers frisked them both for weapons, then went around the front to report in.

  “Took ’em both alive, sir.” He was surprised to see their “wing-wiper” lieutenant with blood on his hands.

  “I’m going in,” Edwards told Smith. The sergeant nodded quickly.

  “I’ll cover you from here. Rodgers, you back him up.”

  The lieutenant moved through the half-open door. The living room was empty and unlit. The noise of heavy breathing came from around the corner, and a steady pale light. Edwards approached the corner—and found himself faced with a Russian in the process of unbuttoning his pants. There was no time for much of anything.

  Edwards rammed his knife under the man’s ribs, turning his right hand within the brass-knuckled grip as he pushed the blade all the way in. The man screamed and lifted himself up on his toes before falling backward, trying to get himself off the knife. Edwards withdrew and stabbed again, falling atop the man in a grotesquely sexual position. The paratrooper’s hands tried to force him off, but the lieutenant felt the strength drain from his victim as he moved farther forward to stab him again in the chest. A shadow moved and he looked up to see a man stumbling forward with a pistol—and the room exploded with noise.

  “Freeze, motherfucker!” Rodgers screamed, his M-16 aimed at the man’s chest, and everyone’s ears ringing from the thunder of the three-round burst. “You okay, skipper?” It was the first time they had called him that.

  “Yeah.” Edwards got to his feet, letting Rodgers precede him as he backed the Russian up. The man was exposed below the waist, his pants hobbling his ankles. The lieutenant picked up the pistol the Soviet had dropped and looked down at the man he’d knifed. There was no doubt that he was dead. H
is handsome Slavic face was contorted with surprise and pain, and his uniform blouse was soaked black with blood. The eyes might have been marbles for all the life they contained.

  “You okay, ma’am?” Rodgers asked, briefly turning his head around.

  Edwards saw her for the second time, sprawled out on the wooden floor. A pretty girl, her woolen nightdress torn apart, barely covering one breast, and the rest of her pale body, already red and bruised in several places, exposed for all to see. Beyond her in the kitchen Edwards saw the unmoving legs of another woman. He went into the room and saw a dog and a man, also dead. Each body displayed a single red circle in the chest.

  Smith came in. He looked around the room, then at Edwards. The wimp had fangs. “I’ll check the upstairs. Heads up, skipper.”

  Rodgers kicked the Russian down to the floor and placed his bayonet point in the small of his back. “You move and I’ll fuckin’ cut you in half,” the private snarled.

  Edwards stooped down to the blond girl. Her face was puffing up from blows to the jaw and cheek, her breath coming in shudders. He guessed her age at twenty or so. Her nightdress was destroyed. Edwards looked around and, pulling the cloth off the dining room table, draped it over her.

  “You okay? Come on, you’re alive, honey. You’re safe. You’re okay now.”

  Her eyes seemed pointed in different directions at first, then they focused and came over to the young lieutenant. Edwards cringed to see the look in them. His hand touched her cheek as gently as he could.

  “Come on, let’s get you up off the floor. Nobody’s going to hurt you, not now.” She started shaking so violently that it seemed the whole house would join her. He helped her up, careful to wrap the tablecloth all around her. “Come on.”

  “Upstairs is clear, sir.” Smith returned, holding a robe. “You wanna put this on the lady? They do anything else to her?”

  “Killed her mom and dad. And a dog. I imagine they were going to do her, too, when they got finished. Sarge, get things organized. Search the Russians, get some food, anything else that looks useful. Move quick, Jim. Lots of things we gotta do. You have a first-aid pack?”

  “Right, skipper. Here.” Smith tossed him a small package of bandages and antiseptics, then went back out the door to check on Garcia.

  “Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned off.” Edwards wrapped his left arm around her shoulders and helped her up the steep old wooden steps. His heart went out to the girl. She had china-blue eyes, obscenely empty of life though even now they caught the light in a way certain to attract any man’s attention. As they just had, Edwards thought. She was only an inch shorter than he, with pale, almost transparent skin. Her figure was marred by a slight bulge at the abdomen, and Mike had a good idea what that was, the rest of her figure was so perfect. And she’d just been raped by one Russian, paving the way for a long night of it, Mike Edwards thought, enraged that once more this foul crime had touched his life. There was a small room at the top of the twisting stairs. She entered it and sat on the single bed.

  “Wh-wh-who—” she stammered in accented English.

  “We’re Americans. We escaped from Keflavik when the Russians attacked. What’s your name?”

  “Vigdis Agustdottir.” The slightest sign of life in her voice. Vigdis, the daughter of Agust, dead in the kitchen. He wondered what Vigdis meant, sure that it wasn’t pretty enough.

  He set the hurricane lamp on the night table and broke open the pack. Her skin was broken along the jawline, and he swabbed disinfectant there. It had to hurt, but the girl didn’t wince at all. The rest of her, he’d seen, was just bruised, maybe some scrapes on her back from the hardwood floor. She’d fought hard to defend herself, and taken a dozen punches. And certainly she was no virgin. Just a bloodied face. It could have been far worse, but Edwards’s rage continued to grow. Such a pretty face desecrated—well, he’d already reached that decision. “You can’t stay here. We have to leave soon. You’ll have to leave, too.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. I understand—I mean, when the Russians attacked, I lost some friends, too. Not the same as your mom and dad, but—Jesus!” Edwards’s hands shook in frustration as he stumbled through the meaningless words. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner.” What is it that some of the feminists say? That rape is the crime that all men use to subjugate all women? Then why do you want to go downstairs and— Edwards knew that something almost as satisfying was in the works. He took her hand and she didn’t resist. “We’re going to have to leave. We’ll take you anywhere we can. You must have family around here, or friends. We’ll take you to them and they can take care of you. But you can’t stay here. If you stay here, you’re sure to get killed. Do you understand?” He saw her head nod jerkily in the shadows.

  “Yes. Please—please leave me alone. I must be alone for a little.”

  “Okay.” He touched her cheek again. “If you need anything, call us.” Edwards went back downstairs. Smith had taken charge. There were three men on their knees, blindfolded, gagged, and hands tied behind their backs. Garcia was standing over them. Rodgers was in the kitchen. Smith was sorting through a pile of stuff on the table.

  “Okay, what d’we got here?”

  Smith regarded his officer with something akin to affection. “Well, sir, we got us a Russian lieutenant with a wet dick. A dead sergeant. A dead private, and two live ones. The lieutenant had this, sir.”

  Edwards took the map and unfolded it. “Damn, ain’t that nice!” The map was covered with scribbled markings.

  “We got another set of binoculars, a radio—shame we can’t use that! Some rations. Looks like shit, but better’n nothin’. We done good, skipper. Bag five Russians with three rounds expended.”

  “What do we need to take, Jim?”

  “Just food, sir. I mean, we could take a couple of their rifles, and that’d double up our ammo load, y’know? But we’re already loaded pretty heavy—”

  “And we aren’t here to fight a war, just to play scout. Right.”

  “I think we oughta take some clothes, sweaters and like that. We taking the lady with us?”

  “Have to.”

  Smith nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. Hope she likes walkin’, sir. Looks like she’s in decent shape, ’cept for being pregnant. Four months, I’d say.”

  “Pregnant?” Garcia turned. “Rapin’ a pregnant girl?” He muttered something in Spanish.

  “Any of them say anything?” Mike asked.

  “Not a word, sir.” Garcia answered.

  “Jim, take a look at the girl, and get her down here. Her name’s Vigdis. Easy on her.”

  “Don’t worry, sir.” Smith went upstairs.

  “The lieutenant’s the one with it hanging out, right?” Garcia nodded and Edwards went around to face him. He had to remove the gag and blindfold. The man was his own age. He was sweating. “You speak English?”

  The man shook his head. “Spreche deutsch.”

  Edwards had taken two years of German in high school, but suddenly found himself unwilling to talk with this man. He had already decided to kill him, and he didn’t wish to speak with someone he was about to kill—it might bother his conscience. Edwards didn’t want his conscience to remember this. But he watched the man for a minute or two, examining what sort of person would do what he had done. He expected to discover something monstrous, but didn’t. He looked up. Smith was leading Vigdis down the stairs.

  “She’s got good gear, skipper. Nice warm clothes, her boots are all broke in. I expect we can get her a canteen, a parka, and a field pack. I’d let her bring a brush an’ girl stuff, sir. I’ll get us some soap, too, and maybe a razor.”

  “Way to go, Sergeant. Vigdis,” Edwards said, getting her attention. “We will be leaving soon.” He turned to look back down at the Russian:

  “Leutnant. Wofür? Warum?” What for—why did you do all this? Not for me. For her.

  The man knew what was coming. He shrugged. “Afghanistan.”

 
“Skipper, they’re prisoners,” Rodgers blurted. “I mean, sir, you can’t—”

  “Gentlemen, you are charged under Uniform Code of Military Justice with one specification of rape and two specifications of murder. These are capital crimes,” Edwards said, mainly so that he could assuage his conscience for the other two. “Do you have anything to say in your defense? No? You are found guilty. Your sentence is death.” With his left hand, Edwards pushed the lieutenant’s head back. His right hand flipped the knife into the air, reversing it; then he swung it viciously, striking the man’s larynx with the pommel. The sound was surprisingly loud in the room, and Edwards kicked him backward.

  A terrible thing to watch, it lasted several minutes. The lieutenant’s larynx was instantly fractured, and its swelling blocked his trachea. Unable to breathe, his torso bucked from side to side as his face darkened. Everyone in the room who could see watched. If any felt pity for the man, none showed it. Finally he stopped moving.

  “I’m sorry we weren’t faster, Vigdis, but this thing won’t be hurting anyone else.” Edwards hoped that his amateur psychiatry would work. The girl went back upstairs, probably to wash, he thought. He’d read that after being raped one thing women wanted to do was bathe, as though there were a visible stigma from being the victim of an animal’s lust. He turned toward the remaining two. There was no way they could manage prisoners, and what they had been up to merely provided him with a good excuse. But these two hadn’t hurt the girl yet, and—

  “I’ll take care of it, sir,” Garcia said quietly. The private was standing behind the kneeling prisoners. One of them was making some noise, but even if he hadn’t been gagged, none of the Americans knew a word of Russian. They had no chance at all. Garcia stabbed from the side, sticking his knife completely through one neck, then the other. Both men fell. It was over quickly. The private and the lieutenant went into the kitchen to wash their hands.

  “Okay, we load them back into the four-by-four and drive it back to the main road. We’ll see if we can fake an accident and torch the vehicle. Get some liquor bottles. We’ll make it look like they were drinking.”