Civilian Slaughter

by James Rouch

  Before that happened, before NATO Field Intelligence got their hands on her and put her in the cage reserved for ex-East German border guards, she would disappear. There were plenty of opportunities to join other, less official units fighting in the giant no-man's-land of the Zone.

  Perhaps she would start her own gang again. Men were so easy to control. As long as they were led to believe they were in charge they could be manipulated effortlessly. And they never realized.

  What would Major Revell do? He had kept the command together through more than fifty actions rebuilt it when their numbers had been reduced to that of a handful of wounded survivors. For most of her time with him the unit had operated almost like one of the old free-companies.

  Starved of weapons and vehicles, by an HQ that didn't approve of what it saw as the diluting effect of so-called private armies, it had kept itself supplied by taking what it wanted. Battlefield salvage, capture from the enemy and outright theft from their own dumps; that was how it had survived.

  From each of the best men she had plucked different skills. That of the sniper from Clarence, the subtle techniques of command from Revell, combat driving from Burke. And much more, from many others.

  She had fought off passes and outright attempts at rape. And been successful. Dooley's instruction in unarmed fighting had been an important factor in that.

  Looking down she saw the swell of her breasts above the flimsy ruffles of the whore's blouse. Ackerman had obtained it for her. The only part of the outfit she liked was the black leather boots. High heeled, they were tight fitting to the knee.

  Stupid women. Resorting to such things, and for what? In the case of the prostitute whose clothes she wore, so that she could get a man to make money, so that she could go out and get a man. It was pathetic, futile.

  Between her legs she felt the seam of the jeans rubbing into her. She looked about to see that she was alone. The woods were still. There was no sound. Leaning back against a tree she ran her hands from her throat, over her breasts, across her flat stomach to the tops of her thighs.

  A drink. She'd have given anything for a drink. But those had been Revell's terms. One drink, no raid. The major knew she would not take one, but he couldn't stop her thinking. Swallowing hard, she tried to push the thought from her.

  The action of unfastening her narrow leather belt was almost an unconscious one, as was the moving of her hands to her waistband. Edging the jeans from side to side as she eased them down over her hips, she closed her eyes. Very gently she slid her hand underneath her body and began gently to rub. At the first contact she was wet, and her fingers slid inside.

  Her mind was cluttered with thoughts that she didn't want. She thought of those stupid whores. All women were stupid, but at least they were usually clean, not covered in hair with those ugly stupid things between their legs. What of the whore who had worn this blouse. She would do anything for money, anything. Even do this, if she were given enough.

  Andrea's fingers moved more urgently. Yes, even this. The only difference to the scene laid out before the sniper's position was the gradual lengthening of the shadows. He could see only a small arc of the sky, above the distant horizon. It was free of cloud, and he hoped it would continue that way.

  He had checked very carefully before determining on this precise location for his hideout. The sun would set directly behind him.

  That was where it would be when he opened fire. Any special sighting device used in an attempt to spot his muzzle flashes would be hopeless, swamped by the flare of the sun's disc.

  There had been occasions recently when he had wondered if there was any point in continuing to try to evade what he knew to be inevitable.

  The odds against his continuing survival were lengthening dramatically with every day and every action in which he took part. He was already a statistical absurdity. He was but a few short of a kill total of three hundred. And those were the ones of which he could be as close to a hundred percent certain as was possible.

  A sniper rarely saw, close-up, the results of his work. Even when much of it was done at ranges of a couple of hundred yards or less. But when a bullet struck, men reacted in different ways. A hit in a limb usually produced a dramatic reaction from the target. A good solid strike in the torso or head was very different. It was like the air had suddenly been exhausted from a blow-up doll. They collapsed as if instantly deflated.

  At the closer ranges he often saw his victim's face before, at or even immediately after impact. If it was a head shot their cranium would explode a shower of blood and bone and brain tissue. The change of expression was always instantaneous. He never recalled specific instances, only had in mind a softly focused montage. There were never any dreams, but then he hardly ever slept, and only then when so tired he could not avoid its necessity.

  The time was passing steadily; it never troubled him, the waiting. There had been a time, in the weeks after the stalling of the first Russian attacks, when he had waited literally days for a single target. These few hours were nothing by comparison.

  There was one thought, pushed deep into the innermost recesses of his mind, that he was not ready to deal with. It had surfaced from time to time, but always been subdued once more, shunted into a cobwebby corner.

  With his tally standing where it did, it was becoming harder to do that. This was the day he would fulfil his vow. The one he had made at the graveside of his wife and children. What a long time ago that seemed.

  Then he had thought this a moment to look forward to, a time for laying down his burden and joining them. The realization struck him that he, a man who had handed out death hundreds of times, was afraid of it himself.

  The interior of the APC was packed with weapons and ammunition. Hyde dropped in through a roof hatch and threaded his way forward. The fancy interior still smelled of perfume, but the crushed velvet seat covers were marked by dust and oil, and all the cushions had been thrown out. He sat in the commander's chair, and let his body go limp.

  Thirty minutes before the off. In this unit it was unusual to go into action with a specific start time. In getting everything ready it had been a help, given them targets to achieve. In preparing them for what lay ahead he wasn’t so sure.

  He would have paced the loading, left them with only a few minutes to stand about. All the men wanted to see the job done, see the enemy battalion smashed hard, but they knew the possible consequences when they hit the KGB outfit. The consequences for those of them who returned were more certain. At the very least the command would be broken up.

  For individuals the outlook was uncertain. A court-martial for Revell, possibly for Vokes and himself as well. For the others an assortment of dead-end or dangerous assignments. All of them would remain in the Zone. Getting out was a reward, not a punishment.

  Except perhaps for him. In the Zone he was just another mutilated victim. Out in the world beyond he would be a freak. After so many years in the army it was hard for him to imagine any other life. But then, when he'd joined the combat company it had been hard to adjust to the free and easy atmosphere, after years of regimental life in a regular unit.

  There was a noise behind him. Andrea had climbed in. Ignoring him, she checked through the number of M16 magazines by what would be her position.

  Once the action started there would be no time to fumble about looking for things. Clips, grenades and satchel charges would have to come easily to hand.

  Andrea finished her inventory and sat down at the far end of the fighting compartment. They said nothing, hardly glanced at each other. Each of them was waiting for the minutes to pass. Waiting for the others to join them, the motors to start. And the killing.

  TWENTY FOUR

  Tarkovski climbed unsteadily onto the flat roof. He had missed several steps on the home-made ladder and had skinned his ankles each time.

  “Find out which of our tame refugees made that fucking ladder, and have him shot.” Shouting the instruction down to a passing private, Tarkov
ski almost overbalanced. He had to flail his arms to prevent himself from falling. The open bottle in his pocket spouted vodka over the side of his jacket.

  “No, wait.” Sitting down heavily, Tarkovski felt at a splinter in his ankle. “If the shit is so damned good at woodwork, have him make a coffin. Tell him it's his own.”

  “Then do I shoot him, Colonel?”

  “What a shit you are, Private. Where's your bloody style. Put him in the coffin and bury him. No need to bother with the shooting.”

  “What are you monkeys grinning at?”

  Tarkovski rounded on the gun crew. Their faces instantly became blank masks, blank sweating masks. The colonel laughed.

  “Cheer up, you miserable shits. We're going to have a party.” He scanned the road to the east. “Some of our favourite people are coming. Lots of little civilians. That'll be nice, won't it.” A hint of menace came into Tarkovski's voice.

  “I said that'll be nice, Private Ivan Petrov.” He stuck his face into the man's, breathing alcohol fumes all over him.

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel. Very nice.”

  “Do you know, I'll have a better party than I did last time, if you'll do me a little favour.”

  “Certainly, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Oh good. Well if you find another plump little beauty like you did before, I would like to taste her before you do. You still have a passion for licking them, haven't you?”

  Petrov froze.

  “Shy, in front of your friends. Tell me, what happened to that pretty little plump girl. Did you marry her?”

  “The colonel is joking.”

  “The colonel never fucking jokes.” Tarkovski bellowed so loudly the man took an involuntary step backward, stumbling on the edge of the sandbag emplacement.

  “She, she fell down stairs and broke her neck, Comrade Colonel.” Tarkovski shook his head sadly. “So many of them do, don't they. I tell you what, before it happens again, you bring any little girl you find to me. Not too little, mind, I like them with big udders. Then while you hold her I'll give her a good lick and then I'll watch you do it to her, until she pisses. You'll enjoy that Petrov. I always do.”

  Tarkovski made his way back down, slipping and falling the last three steps. He picked himself up, and laughed. He looked at the men watching him from the roof, and deliberately pushed the ladder over.

  “Hope you don't miss the party. I tell you what, if you do, Petrov, I’ll take care of the plump ones and I’ll cut out the piece you like and throw it up to you.”

  Taking out his bottle, he hoisted it in mock salute and staggered inside, trying to stifle a burp. He paused in the doorway, and shouted to a junior sergeant trying to look busy with a clip-board.

  “Let me know as soon as the trucks return with those refugees, I mean our guests. This time I want first pick. Oh, I do love a good party.”

  The three vehicles stopped well within the border of the woods and dropped off the pioneers with their stores. Revell slid down from the roof of the APC with them and walked to the Toyota pick-up.

  Carrington wound down the window. “Something the matter, Major?” “No, everything is running smoothly. Remember to keep in close behind me. We're not supposed to be an army unit so let's not make ourselves conspicuous by imposing convoy discipline. If shooting starts before we get in among them, then abandon this wagon and grab on to the nearest APC. If we do make it, you know what to do.”

  “Sure do.”

  Revell went back to the lead APC. Andrea was arranging herself on the roof, sitting with her legs spread wide, one knee drawn up.

  Putting her hands under breasts she bounced them up and down. “Will this do, Major?”

  “Yes.” Revell had to brush past her to reboard, and caught a hint of perfume. He couldn't be sure if it was hers or if it was from inside the APC, which still reeked of it.

  The pioneers were already at work, emplacing off-road mines and other automatic devices.

  Revell gauged the position of the sun, made calculations as to how long it would be before it touched the surrounding wooded hills. He thought of Clarence. The sniper had been ready and waiting for several hours. He too would be trying to judge the sun's height above the ridges. Inevitably he would be carrying out last checks on checks he had already made.

  “OK, mount up. All hatches closed but not locked,” Revell looked at Andrea. “Best keep yours open. You might need to take cover quickly if they rumble us.”

  “I can take care of myself, Major.”

  He thought of what he had seen in the woods, when he'd followed her, hoping to talk. “I know you can, and do.”

  “Comrade Colonel. The trucks have returned.” It took Tarkovski several seconds to absorb and understand the announcement. Shit! He hadn't meant to drink so much today.

  He leaned over the side of the bed and shoved his fingers down his throat. The stinging bite of the vomit helped bring him around. A flask of water emptied over his head and a gargle with brandy assisted. Drying his face and hair, he went to the door.

  “Where the hell are they?” Tarkovski blinked, dazzled by the sun, now very low in the sky. “Am I supposed to play hide and seek?”

  “They are over by their compound, Comrade Colonel.” The junior sergeant had to keep ducking and weaving to keep in front of the staggering officer.

  “What the hell are they doing all the way over there. Is the party to be at their place? And stay still, you shit. Where are you?”

  Another stagger disoriented Tarkovski and he turned a complete circle to face the sergeant once more.

  “There you are. Stay there. Now, without indulging in any more shadow boxing. Where are the refugees?”

  “By their compound, Colonel. They are still aboard their transport.” “Oh brilliant. Watch my lips, you shit. Why are they all the way over there while I am waiting for them here,” he raised his voice to a scream, “like a fucking spare prick at a wedding.”

  “The drivers say they have been aboard all day and they smell...” “You are as much use as a cock on a priest. Stick your nose in there.” With a hefty shove he sent the NCO reeling into the farmhouse doorway.

  He jumped back out as if propelled by a physical force, retched violently and then puked.

  “And you think I'll be bothered by the fucking smell. On the double, get them over here.”

  “Comrade Colonel, Comrade Colonel!”

  “Stop screeching, what's the excitement?” A battalion cook came racing around the corner of the building. His paunch wobbled as he ran and his apron flapped tight against his legs. “Coming across the fields Comrade Colonel, it's coming across the fields!”

  Unable to get more sense from the man, Tarkovski thrust the cook aside and went out onto the roadway. He was not the first there, and had to elbow his way through a fast-growing crowd to see what was happening.

  “Ah, yes. Now this will be much better than a load of stinking skinny civilians.” Eyes lit up in happy anticipation, Tarkovski watched the pair of personnel carriers and their accompanying vehicle labouring toward them over the badly potholed asphalt surface.

  His men were obviously of the same opinion. The arrival of the closed trucks, packed with the wretched humanity of the camps, had aroused minimal interest, and no enthusiasm. These brightly coloured APCs were a different matter entirely. As the little column drove nearer, some of the waiting men were running backward and forward in excitement.

  A woman riding on top of the lead transport waved energetically. She got a thunderous response from the fast growing mob milling about in the road.

  Tarkovski shook his head, to try to clear it. This was no time to be drunk, well not yet. Why had he started so early, damn it. Although he'd never seen it for himself, he knew of Frau Lilly's travelling brothel by reputation.

  It had only a couple of hundred meters to go. The colonel shaded his eyes with his hand. Behind the APCs the sun was low and bright, it made their garish pink paintwork glisten.

  Very pretty, very co
lourful, Tarkovski thought. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Fuck the drink. The spirits he'd drunk that day were still clogging his brain. He was trying to grasp the significance of an important fact, but it continued to elude him.

  Shit, it couldn't be that important. Tonight they'd have real party, and later on he'd get one of the girls alone. It would have to be one with great big udders. And when he'd got her alone and had what he wanted, he'd get that present for Petrov.

  TWENTY FIVE

  The mass of men were starting to surge forward, impatient at the APC's slow progress. First to reach it, only yards ahead of the rest, a lieutenant leaped for the side of the moving vehicle. He grabbed hold, then lost it and rolled off. As he went down his uniform glistened brightly.

  Tarkovski saw, and his brain made the final connection of what he had been trying to understand.

  “The paint is wet, the paint is wet!” Left on his own in the middle of the road, he screamed after his men, now jubilantly crowding about the lead personnel carrier. “Run, get away!”

  At least two thirds of his battalion were packing themselves about the eight wheeler. Above their shouting and whistling he couldn't make himself heard or understood.

  Mad with frustration and rage he looked to the gun emplacement. The gunners were searching for a way down. He waved them back.

  “Petrov, you bastard. Stay where you are, open fire, you shit! Open fire!” Tarkovski tore his hair and whirled to look at the clusters of men now about both of the APCs. The third vehicle seemed to have gone. On the roof the gunners still stood in indecision. At the top of his voice the colonel ranted at them, spittle shooting from his mouth.

  “Open up on them. Fire, you shits, fucking well fire!” The girl stood up, swaying enticingly, then she reached in among the litter of parcels on the roof and tossed two small black objects into the crowd. At the same instant she dropped from sight through the open hatch.

  In the crowd there was a confused tangle of movement. Men who had recognized what was thrown panicked to get clear. Others who wanted to see what it was pressed forward and pinned them against the sides of the hull.