Ian Slater - Force of Arms

Quickly Aussie and Brentwood passed the word — no more flares, wait till all flare light had subsided, then attack, home plate being the front of the cave’s closed door.

But the ChiComs weren’t cooperating, still sending up flares from behind boulders, and the flames from the burning hulks of the knocked-out T-59s were lighting up the area. Brentwood knew that to rush out would be to have his men mown down. And so once again, all the SAS/D could do was wait, yet to wait was to give the Damquka garrison more time to respond. In civilian life it was called being between a rock and a hard place. Brentwood turned to his runner. “Tell Salvini and Choir to spread out far right flank, far left. Mimic a charge and maybe we can get the ChiComs to use all their flares.”

The messenger nodded, repeating the order. “Simulate flank attacks to dummy Chinks into using up flares.”

“You’ve got it,” Brentwood said. “Go!”

Rosemary had made sure that all the windows were latched as well as having slipped the dead bolts, and had been sitting, sipping her tea in the kitchen, when she’d heard the dolphins squeak. Vibrations from the wind. She wanted to throw the blasted dolphins away. No, she couldn’t. Robert had bought them for her — well, for the baby really. And besides, dolphins were the submariners’ logo. It would soon be dawn, but it was still dark outside. The important thing, she told herself, was not to let her nerves get on edge now she was so close to having “toughed it out,” as Robert would say. By herself. She hadn’t panicked — well, a little, and she may have lifted up the phone, but she hadn’t used it, that was the point. And she knew it was precisely these little victories that gave one the courage to see it through — well, Andrea would accompany her to the hospital when the baby’s time came. But what would happen if Andrea couldn’t — if her child was sick?

“Then, my dear,” she told herself aloud, “you’ll just have to do it solo.”

“What the hell you on ‘bout?”

She had tried to yell, but no sound would come — only a gasp as if she’d been completely winded. He was big — over six feet, black, and the knife blade caught the living room light. “You scream, I’ll cut your fuckin’ head off, lady. You unnerstand me?”

“Yes,” she said, sitting on the edge of the chair, her knuckles white with fear. “I haven’t got any money—” she began, her throat so dry she couldn’t finish.

“Don’ you give me that shit, lady. Old man’s credit cards.”

“He has them,” she said.

“Oh sure. Listen — don’t leave home without ‘em!”

“Th-that’s right,” she said.

“Where’s he gonna use ‘em lady — bottom of the fuckin’ sea?”

“I’m telling you the truth — truly—”

“Then give me yours, honey.” He was so close now she could smell him — cigarette smoke and beer — but she didn’t think he was drunk. He moved too quickly for that. “Gimme yours,” he told her. “Hurry up!”

“They’re in my bedside drawer.”

“Well what the fuck you standin’ here for? Go get ‘em! I want your bank cards and your secret little number.”

She heaved herself out of the chair, heard the dolphins squeal. “I’ll get them,” she said.

“That’s right, momma, you get ‘em.”

As she walked through the door from the kitchen into the hallway toward the bedroom, she remembered what Robert had told her: Try to get your breathing under control — if it isn’t, your aim will be off. You’ve got to hold the gun steady enough. She knew he would kill her if she didn’t get him first. She knew it — not because she knew credit cards would be of no use if she were left alive to talk, but because she’d seen it in his eyes. And all this time she’d been worrying about the Chinese sending agents to eliminate or terrify the wives and families of—

“Move yo’ ass!” he said.

By the time she reached the bedroom she was perspiring heavily, her hand on the metal knob of the bedside table. She suddenly became ice cold, focused on what she had to do.

The phone rang.

“Fuck — you got a message machine?”

“No,” she said.

“Shit — how come you got no fuckin’ machine?”

“I’ve — we’ve just moved onto the base. I haven’t—”

“Shut up. You answer. Say you’re in the bath. You’ll ring back.”

“A bath?” she said. “At five in the morning?”

“Shit — shit—”

The phone stopped ringing.

He was staring at it, went over to rip it out, then changed his mind. “Fuckin’ phones. If it rings again—” He wasn’t sure how to play it. “Just hurry up. C’mon — cards — and gimme that fancy ring on your finger.”

She still had her hand on the cool metal handle and opened the drawer. She made a quick move with her right hand and froze.

“This what you lookin’ for, honey?” He pulled the gun from his hip pocket and with one swipe, pistol-whipped her to the bed, blood running down from her cheek. He kicked at her legs. “You fuckin’ bitch — stay on the bed.” She was on her stomach, and he grabbed her by the hair, the gun in one hand, the knife in his pocket so he could clout her about the head a couple of times, she whimpering in fear and trying to cover her face from the blows. He reached over, tore open her nightdress, grabbed a breast, and squeezed it roughly. She gasped in pain.

“You like that, huh?” he said, his breath all over her. “You makin’ me hard, white trash. You want it, huh — you askin’ for it?”

“No, no, I — please, the baby!”

“Fuck the baby. Fuck you, little smart ass. Now you got five seconds to get your cards else I’ll kick you right in the gut. How’s that? You like that?”

She heaved herself off the bed, went to the closet, and was barely able to reach a shoe box.

“Hey,” he said, “wait!” But it was too late. The lid was on the floor and the box’s contents spilling out. He started in fright, but there was no gun, only traveler’s checks.

He picked up a wad of five-hundred dollars in American Express. He saw they were the double signature types either spouse could sign. “Hey, Rosemary, now we’re cookin’.” She was slumped by the closet, barely able to stay upright, he standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the hallway. Rosemary was trying to hold up the top of her nightdress, and he was staring at her breasts rising and falling with fear. He pocketed the gun and, after picking up the checks, started to fondle her breasts, and she was stiff with fear. She knew without the slightest doubt that he was going to kill her. What use was the robbery to him if he could be reported?

“Hell,” he said, “you ugly everywhere else with that bun in the oven, honey, but you got nice tits. Kneel down in front of me. Here, I’ll sit on the bed, tell you what we’re gonna do—”

The shot crashed through glass and hit him in the left shoulder, flinging him toward the bedstead. For a split second Rosemary saw the gun sticking out of his back pocket and grabbed it. She fired once, twice — she fired till the chamber was empty, the bed and wall splattered in blood and bits from his head, an artery gushing blood like a burst pipe. She dropped the gun and didn’t hear the knocking till a few seconds later. When she let Andrea in, the second mate’s wife looked calmly at the carnage. “Good girl, Rosie. That’s the way. You killed the bastard.”

“No!” It was a scream of pain from Rosemary, the service .45 she had been holding dropping to the floor.

Andrea embraced her. “Now, honey, you have a damn good cry. I’ll call the MPs. You sit — c’mon in the living room.”