Plague Bomb tz-6

by James Rouch

  Sensing the beginning of the return of the gut ache he steeled himself for it, but this time the savage cramping struck with tenfold intensity. It didn’t help, only made it worse. Starting in his stomach the spasm wrenched down through his intestines.

  ‘Oh no, not fucking now…’ Gross hurled himself off the woman even as he was about to thrust forward into her body. Hampered by his loosened clothing, gathering it together about himself, he managed just a couple of steps before his bowels opened noisily.

  Foul smelling liquid ran down his legs. He couldn’t control it, and with each spasm came another gush of the watery excreta. Doubling with agony, frightened and weakened by the violent diarrhoea, he collapsed.

  At the same instant the whole building reverberated to a sharp explosion and a cloud of smoke blew in from the doorway and rose among the exposed beams of the roof, lit in shifting bands by the light filtering through the high set windows.

  ‘It hasn’t bloody worked.’ First to reach the still] closed doors, Burke leaned against them, and was precipitated inside as they swung open at the light touch.

  ‘Phew. Someone has dropped his guts.’ Pegging j his nose with thumb and forefinger, Dooley sidled in and from behind a carved draught screen and looked about the interior.

  ‘Search the place…’ Taking a step into the smoke-blued gloom, past Burke who was picking himself up, it was Revell who found the first of the civilians, his foot coming down on Professor Edwards’s ankle. ‘…there’re others.’

  Cautiously they fanned out to advance along all three aisles simultaneously. It was Hyde who discovered Gross and the woman.

  ‘Phew, you sure are lucky you can’t smell that fat guy, Sarge.’ Ripper had abandoned the Spartan comfort of the Marder’s bench seat and tagged along behind the searchers. Finding he hadn’t back-tracked far enough, he took several more steps to get clear of the worst of the stench. Times like this I wish I’d had my nose burned off.’

  Hyde turned his graft-patched face to the American, but said nothing. ‘Looks like these two were trying to make love, not war. All right, 111 take the man.’ He gripped Gross by the collar and started to tow him back to the door, leaving an intermittent slimy trail on the stone floor. ‘You bring the woman.’

  ‘Hey Sarge, I can’t do that, I ain’t fit for duty.’ Ripper illustrated his argument by flexing his shoulder, ceasing abruptly when he realized he wasn’t creating the impression he’d wanted to.

  Her temperature still soaring, Sherry Kane was unable even to react to the terrible sight of the sergeant’s ghastly appearance. The fever that racked and shook her deprived her even of the strength to exhibit fear. She tried to talk to the other soldier, the young American, but couldn’t. On his face was a curious expression as he stared at her half naked body, it was something she’d not seen any friend or client of hers display in a long time, it was embarrassment.

  ‘Here, Dooley, can you give me a hand, I got to move her.’

  ‘So move her.’

  ‘I can’t, not like this. It just ain’t decent.’

  ‘Then pull her fucking knickers up.’

  Like the others, Dooley had taken a good look at her, but he’d noticed her fever brightened dark rimmed eyes and perspiration smeared make-up as much as her semi-nakedness. ‘All that gabbing you do about the goings-on in those backwoods of yours, I wouldn’t have thought this would have bothered you, or are you going to tell me you only know how to pull them down.’ He kept his thick gloves on and it made the task of making her decent that much more difficult. The tight fit of the fabric to her body didn’t help and he had to keep turning her in order to inch the jeans over her wide thighs a fraction at a time.

  ‘Shit, it weren’t ’til I were going on for eighteen, when I met some city girls, that I even knew there were such things as underclothes. Back home I shoved my fingers and my tool up a load of skirts, but the only thing I’d ever found in my way was an occasional hand. It’s just that it don’t seem right touching her ‘til we been introduced. Anyhow, I can see you ain’t no gentlemen, keeping your gloves on.’

  ‘You show me a book of etiquette where it says I should take them off to do this and I’ll think about it, until then I’m keeping them on.’

  ‘Very sensible.’ Burke had found an excuse to come and oversee the operation. ‘I can feel the heat coming off her from here. Gloves might not stop you catching something, but every little precaution helps. You know, cleaned up, with some of that muck off her face and with about twenty pounds shed off her arse and hips, she’d be quite nice, not special but nice.’

  Sherry heard, and the tears that ran down her streaked face mingled with beads of perspiration and went unnoticed.

  The sweep down the centre aisle was led by Clarence, and as he came level with the lectern, he heard a noise from a dark corner beyond the choir stalls. Motioning the others to hold back he crept silently forward until he could see all but a small angle of the space.

  High overhead there was a ragged bordered hole in the church roof. Bulks of timber and fragments of slate littered the floor below it and for some distance around. Taking another step it was impossible to avoid the shattered pieces and they grated beneath the sniper’s boot.

  It was not just the appalling smell of excreta that made him want to be out of there. Every breath he took brought also the oppressive scent of decay that pervaded the whole place, filling it and him to overflowing. ‘Come out. I haven’t the patience to wait long.’

  There was no response, but Clarence heard the noise again, like that of an animal shuffling to compress itself into the smallest possible space.

  Without looking he double checked that a round was chambered in the Enfield, and took the pace that would bring the whole of the poorly lit area into his field of vision. As he did a shaft of light streamed through the gaping roof and illuminated it graphically.

  Stubble darkened Webb’s chin and dust and cobwebs smothered the rest of his person. Concealment no longer possible, he stood and adopting a manner of haughty contempt, brushed himself. ‘I suppose it is your intention to kill me.’ He could not suppress the catch in his voice that betrayed his true emotional state. Fear showed also in his trembling hands, and he stuck them deep into his pockets to hide them.

  ‘A tempting idea, better not mention it too often, there’s others in the squad who might be unable to resist it.’

  Revell came forward, and noticed close by the remains of a human skeleton. A print dress that lay in mouldy folds over the bones and a nearby bucket and mop marked it as that of a cleaner. The skull had been virtually destroyed by a smashing blow, and the weapon lay nearby.

  The big metallic cylinder had burst apart on striking the unyielding surface of the floor. Revell pointed it out to the civilian. ‘Have you seen what you’ve been sharing your hidey-hole with?’

  ‘Of course. Another of your filthy American chemical weapons. You can’t frighten me with it, it has been there a long time, the contents will be inert by now.’

  ‘When you commie lovers get it wrong, you certainly do it in the biggest possible way.’ Taking up the mop, Revell ran it along the side of the crushed cylinder. ‘We must have some pretty smart armourers, seeing as how they’d have to load munitions where all the handling instructions are stencilled on in Russian.’

  ‘A trick, to put the blame elsewhere.’

  ‘Well if a fairy story like that gives you peace of mind, then you think that. I suppose there’s no way I can make you believe that’s not a US chemical weapon?’

  ‘That’s correct, none at all.’ Webb succeeded in injecting sneering condescension into his words, but even to him it was not entirely convincing.

  ‘Pity. I thought I might have been doing you a favour by telling you I’ve seen one of those before, not as big though. It’s a free fall munition the Russians developed for the Vietnamese to use in Cambodia, and used themselves in Afghanistan. They’re supposed to make a retarded fall and scatter their contents at a predetermined
altitude as they come down. Looks like the ‘chute failed on this one and the dispersal mechanism was activated.’

  ‘So? Of what interest can this be to me.’ There was a tight dryness in Webb’s throat, and something of his affected composure was evaporating.

  ‘Like I said, it’s not a chemical weapon. It’s actually designed to deliver lots and lots of nasty little beasties called bacteria. From them you can get any one of a hundred very unpleasant diseases, most of which you haven’t even heard of, and certainly wouldn’t like to contract. We call them plague bombs.’

  ‘I demand that you treat me… for… for whatever I may have caught… immediately.’

  ‘Of course we will, soon as we get back. Have to wait and see what you develop before we can start pumping anything into you.’

  There was no way that Revell was going to tell the terrified man that in all probability either dehydration or ultra-violet light from the sun had rendered the biological agent harmless, and that the cleaner had been its first and last victim. He couldn’t touch the civilian, but he could terrify him and let him inflict the torment of abject fear upon himself at least for a while.

  Revell was a realist. He knew there would be no jail sentence for Webb or such of the others as should survive, when they finally got back to England or the States. Most likely Webb would be allowed to go quietly into early retirement, kept in comfort by an inflation proofed state pension. None of this would ever surface in the press. The many agents of influence the communists still had deeply implanted in the British civil service would see to that. Neat cover stories would be furnished to explain away the death of the others, under the guiding hand of KGB controllers the whole affair would be smoothed over and hidden away forever.

  As a pale faced Webb was herded toward the entrance, Revell was tempted into serious consideration of Andrea’s solution to any unsatisfactory situation. For her life was much more simple. She saw everything as either good or bad, and what she thought of as bad she swept away in a hail of automatic fire. But he had his orders, and knew that the extent of the retribution he could inflict on the traitor was to let him hold for as long as possible the mistaken belief that he had been contaminated.

  ‘We can’t take these three with us.’ Thorne surveyed the line of sick in the porch. ‘They’re all stretcher cases, we haven’t got the room.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy having them as company even if they were fit, with all of them screaming, scratching, sweating, puking and shitting I’m even less keen.’

  Dooley moved upwind of Gross. The fat man’s bowels were open all the time and a thin trickle of sluggish fluid ran along a time worn groove in the porch and down the stone steps.

  ‘Put them in their own transport then…’

  ‘Won’t work, Major.’ Hyde had anticipated that. ‘I’ve checked, and they’ve not enough fuel for the return journey. The Marder uses diesel so we can’t even siphon some into the Range Rover.’

  ‘They want to meet their friends the Russians,’ unable to stay away any longer, Andrea pushed through the men to stand threateningly over the prisoners, ‘let me see to it that they are still here when the communists arrive.’ She levelled her rifle at the civilians.

  * * *

  It would be close, uncomfortably close, but his men would get there first. Rozenkov could enjoy a j degree of satisfaction at knowing how great Morkov’s anger and frustration would be at having his men just beaten in the race to intercept the delegation.

  The liaison officer had almost caught him. From the very start of the operation he’d been deliberately misinforming him by incorrectly positioning the pins marking the GRU units. It was not by much, not sufficient to be immediately detectable in the satellite pictures, but enough to make a difference in the last lap, if the trick hadn’t been spotted.

  Again he read Morkov’s intercepted radio message. It was simple, brutal, uncompromising. The closest GRU company was ordered to contact the civilians before the KGB, or else. There was no time for games any more, the manoeuvring, the intrigue, had ceased.

  Only by being able to do both well had Rozenkov worked his way to his present position, but as important to him had been knowing when to replace the velvet glove with the spiked knuckle duster.

  There was something he had almost forgotten to do. Picking up the phone, he was put through to the duty room. ‘Rozenkov… Advise the building’s security staff that Major Morkov is to be arrested the moment he returns. Also, have a section keep watch on his apartment should he go there instead, the same action to be taken. Inform me immediately, oh yes, and there is no need for restraint. I would like the major to be made aware of my displeasure.’

  Strangely he could almost feel, not sympathy, rather an understanding of the man. In a way Morkov was much as he had been twenty years before, but he’d learned a lesson the major would now never get the opportunity to, of knowing when to let a chance go, of balancing risk against reward.

  In all probability Rozenkov could have got this far five years earlier, if he’d been prepared to gamble once or twice, but instead he’d chosen to take the slower but more certain safe way to the top. In fact, thinking back he could recall others who, accepting risks he’d declined had paid dearly for their impetuous ambition.

  A check of his watch and a simple calculation told him that the helicopters would be making their rendezvous shortly. Sure as he was of success, he would still feel better when those civilians were safely aboard and on their way to a reception by the gathering representatives of the world’s media. Reaching to turn on the radio, he felt he could already begin composing his announcement to the Central Committee…

  It was the second-in-command of the unit who came on the air, and that immediately brought Rozenkov’s full attention back to the operation. If all had been as it should be then his senior would have answered. In the communist system seconds-in-command were used to do the dirty work, break bad news, accept blame.

  ‘Give me your position.’ The coldness in Rozenkov’s tone reflected the sensation in the pit of his stomach, and then he knew it was justified, when the map references he received showed the gunships to be sixty kilometres short of where they should have been.

  ‘Why has there been a delay?’ Ice filled his belly. ‘… I do not want to hear about mechanical failures, I want to hear nothing but that you have made the interception and have the civilian delegation on board… I do not care… use your best speed regardless… If the other falls behind, if it falls apart in midair, I do not care. You must make that interception, keep this channel open, I shall be listening.’

  Fools, idiots. He would kill them with his bare hands and his teeth if they failed. There was nothing more he could have done to stress the importance of their mission, and they had reduced speed when a fault had developed aboard the second gunship. It was unbelievable, after everything, to have it all put at risk by an overcautious pilot worrying about vibration from a gearbox.

  Of one thing he could be sure, both aircrews would now be piling on all the speed they could. Normally there would have been conversation between the two craft, but they knew he would catch every word and so communication was kept to a bare minimum, mostly the passing of information and advice about the faulty drive shaft.

  Rozenkov listened dispassionately as first an increase in vibration, then a rise in the temperature of the transmission oil, and then a fire were reported. He heard the frantic efforts by the flight deck crew to get the automatic extinguishers to function, and their anguish and desperation when they failed and the flames began to spread. Their words came as a garbled stream of curses and invective and pleading. Though he didn’t touch the volume control Rozenkov heard the shouting go louder and louder until suddenly it was gone.

  It was a little while before he heard the call-sign of the remaining craft. The pilot’s voice was a shade too high, his delivery a little too fast.

  ‘…report that KGB helicopter gunship seven-four-nine has exploded in mid-air at low altitude
. There are no survivors. I… I await your further orders.’

  ‘There is no change. You are no longer handicapped by the other craft, that is good. Now you should make better time…’

  FIFTEEN

  Bullets ricocheted about the entrance to the church, smacking razor-like fragments from the stone with every impact.

  Andrea’s reaction was fastest, finger already on the trigger, she swivelled and fired a whole magazine from the hip, then followed it with a rifle grenade in the direction of the Russian scout car that had appeared at the end of the street.

  ‘Back inside.’ More of the heavy machine gun rounds followed the first long burst as Revell grabbed the fat man by a wrist made slippery by the obnoxious pool it lay in and towed him back into the shelter of the building. ‘Clarence, find the entrance to the bell tower, see what we’re up against. That little wagon wouldn’t have had a go at us if it’d been on its own.’

  All of the squad were safe, though Thome’s face bled from cuts made by slicing stone chips, but in the confusion of the scramble to get into cover, Webb had seen his chance and made a break.

  Revell saw the civilian run to the Range Rover and jump in to start it. He levelled his shotgun at the vehicle, but held his fire as it began to accelerate toward the armoured four-wheeler, now joined by a second, turretless, version.

  Having to duck while more of the tracer laced bursts drilled and smashed the fabric of the porch, when he looked again Revell saw that the Rover was stalled after a glancing collision with a derelict truck. He could hear the starter motor whirring fruitlessly, see Webb furiously wrenching the ignition key in and out time after time.

  The centre section of the peaked roof of the second armoured car began to elevate, and beneath it as it rose could be seen the snouts of a row of anti-tank rockets. Flame spurted from the rear of that mounted on the far left and the missile shot from its launch rail.