Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

— This belonged to my friend.

Leo felt anger rising through his body:

— This was his watch.

The officer began to shake. Leo tapped the watch, commenting:

— I’m going to have to take it back.

Leo tried to unclip the worthless watch. As he did, he lifted his leg, pressing his knee against the man’s injured, bloody chest, pushing down hard:

— You see… this is a family heirloom… it now belongs to Timur’s wife… and his sons… his two sons… two wonderful sons… two wonderful boys… It belongs to them because you murdered their father… you murdered my friend…

The officer began to bleed from his mouth and nose, his arms feebly patting Leo’s leg, trying to push it away. Leo kept his knee steady, maintaining pressure on the injured torso. The pain from his bruised knee caused his eyes to water. They weren’t tears for Timur. This was hatred, revenge, the force of which made him push down harder and harder. The material of his trousers was soaked with the officer’s blood.

The strap unclipped, coming free from the officer’s limp wrist. Leo put it in his pocket. The remaining five men in the back of the truck were looking at him, terrified. He walked past them, calling out to the prisoners on the ground:

— One of these officers is dead. We have space for another.

While they offloaded the body, an event which none of the prisoners questioned, Leo examined the watch. As the rage began to seep away, he felt weak, not out of regret or shame, but tiredness as the most powerful of stimulants — revenge — flushed out of his system. That depth of anger must be how Fraera felt about him.

Leo peered at the injured guard walking to the truck, the replacement for the officer he’d just killed. His arm was wrapped in bloody bandages. Something was wrong. The man was nervous. Perhaps he’d also been involved in Timur’s murder. Leo reached out, stopping him, taking hold of the bandages and pulling them back, revealing a long, superficial cut stretching from his elbow to his hand, self-inflicted. The same was true for the injuries to his head. The man whispered:

— Please…

If caught he’d be shot. If the prisoners thought the guards were exploiting their kindness, a kindness they’d never been shown, the entire operation would be at risk. After the execution of the other guard, Leo hesitated only briefly before allowing him into the back of the truck.

Lazar, speaking through Georgi, was addressing the other prisoners, explaining to his followers his reasons for wanting to leave:

— I do not expect to live much longer. I am too weak to fight. I thank you for letting me go home.

The young leader responded:

— Lazar, you have helped many men. You have helped me. You have earned this request.

The other prisoners chimed in agreement.

Leo approached Lazar, assessing his appearance:

— We need to dress as guards.

Leo, Lazar, and Georgi stripped three dead guards of their uniforms. They hastily got changed, hurrying, fearful the prisoners would change their minds. Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, Leo took the wheel, Georgi in the middle, Lazar on the other side. Prisoners opened the gates.

Suddenly the young leader banged his hand on the truck door. Leo was ready to accelerate off, should he need to. But the man said:

— They’ve agreed to accept the wounded as a sign of good faith. Good luck, Lazar, I hope you find your wife and son.

He stepped away from the truck. Leo put the vehicle into gear, driving past the remains of the two guard towers, through the perimeter gates, and onto the highway, heading directly to the military encampment on the other side of the plateau.

RUNNING AS FAST AS HE COULD, the radio operator arrived at the outer gates. The prisoners were watching as the truck set off along the highway. Out of breath, the operator exclaimed:

— They’re leaving already? But we haven’t told the regional commander. We haven’t told him we’re sending the sick and injured. Should I run back and tell them?

The young leader grabbed the man’s arm, stopping him:

— We’re not going to tell them. We cannot fight a revolution with men who want to run away. We must make a lesson out of Lazar. The others must learn that there is no option but to fight. If the soldiers open fire on their own injured guards, so be it.

LEO DROVE SLOWLY, edging along the highway toward the temporary encampment. With only two kilometers remaining, midway between rival camps, his eye was caught by a single puff of smoke on the horizon.

The view disappeared, engulfed in a cloud of dust. An explosion dug up the highway, only meters in front of the truck. Dirt and ice and shrapnel cracked against the windshield. Leo swerved, avoiding the crater. The right tire slipped off the tarmac. The truck almost rolled over, shaking as it passed through the smoke, lopsided. Heaving the steering wheel, he pulled the truck level, skidding back into the middle of the highway. He checked his rearview mirror, staring at the scooped-out portion of tarmac.

Another puff of smoke appeared on the horizon, then a second and a third; they were mortar rounds fired one after the other. Leo slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The truck surged forward, trying to accelerate under their trajectory, exploiting the fractional lag time between firing and impact. The engine growled, its speed slowly building. Only now did Lazar and Georgi turn to Leo for an explanation. Before they could speak, the first shell landed directly behind — so close the rear of the truck lifted up. For a fraction of a second only the front tires were touching the highway and Leo could no longer see anything except the road, the cabin facing directly down, angled toward the tarmac. Convinced the truck was going to flip over and land upside down, he felt more surprised than relieved when the rear sat back with a jolt, knocking them out of their seats. Leo struggled with the wheel, trying to regain control. The second shell landed wide, missing the highway, showering the truck with ragged chunks from the plateau, shattering the side window.

Leo swerved, abandoning the highway just as the third shell landed — a perfect shot, detonating exactly where the truck had been. The tarmac was ripped up, the remains thrown into the air.

Crashing across the uneven icy tundra, bumping up and down, Georgi cried out:

— Why are they firing?

— Your comrades lied! They haven’t called us in!

In the side mirrors Leo saw the injured guards, confused and panicked and bloody, peering around the canvas, trying to work out why they were under fire. Using his elbow, Leo knocked out the cracked side window, sticking his head through and shouting at the guards:

— Your uniforms! Wave them!

Two of the guards stripped off their jackets, waving them like flags.

Four puffs of smoke appeared on the horizon.

Unable to accelerate across the tundra, Leo had no other option except to hold the truck steady and hope. He imagined the shells arcing in the air, rushing up, then whistling down toward them. Time seemed to stretch — a second becoming a minute — and then the explosions sounded out.

The truck was still bumping along. Glancing in the mirror, Leo saw four columns of dust rising behind the truck. He smiled:

— We’re under their range!

He hammered the steering wheel in relief:

— We’re too close!

The relief melted away. Up ahead, at the edge of the temporary encampment, two tanks rotated their turrets toward them.

The nearest tank fired, an orange burst. Leo’s body involuntarily tensed, the air sucked out of his lungs. But there was no explosion — in the side mirror he saw the shell had ripped through the truck’s tarpaulin and exited the other side. The gunner would not make the same mistake twice, directing the next shell at the steel cabin where it was sure to detonate. Leo punched the brakes. The truck stopped. He threw open the door, climbing up onto the roof of the cabin, taking off his jacket, waving, shouting: