James Rouch - Body Count

Before any more could be landed and his collarbone broken, Revell threw all his weight against the knife. He could feel it grating along bone as it stripped cartilage away and severed arteries.

There was a metallic bump, and the pistol slid off the roof. Strong hands fastened on Revell’s neck, and his head was forced back as they tightened their grip. Still he held the knife, driving it ever deeper into tissue.

The major’s face was only inches from the Russian’s, he could smell whiskey on his breath, but only see him in outline against the lighter western sky. With all his effort concentrated on it, the knife had now slit the Russian’s leg open from mid-thigh to knee, but he showed no sign of weakening. If anything, the stranglehold was becoming tighter.

Only the corner of the flak jacket’s collar caught beneath the throttling fingers prevented them cutting off his air completely. Even so, he could feel his head starting to swim, his senses to reel, and he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

With all the effort he could muster, he pushed up hard with his feet. His left hand let go the hold on the Russian’s clothing, and his fingers jabbed for the man’s face. One found his eye, and there was a scream.

Thrashing about, the Russian overbalanced and as he toppled, he took Revell with him. They slid down the roof, locked together.

At the edge, Revell managed to grab hold of a stone statue. For an instant his adversary’s webbing caught on the same projection, then slid free, and he was gone. As he consolidated his hold, Revell heard the ugly sound of a heavy landing far below.

Resting awhile before making the attempt, Revell hauled himself into the valley between the roof and the tower. He would not have been able to make the next move — raising himself at the full stretch of his arms into the window — if others had not gripped him and assisted.

“That the last of them, Major?” Dooley handed over his water bottle.

As Revell swigged deeply, feeling the tepid water sluice the dust from his lips and throat, he heard a furious outbreak of firing from the other side of the city centre.

“That was the last of that bunch. But it doesn’t sound like the body count is complete yet.”

The number of civilians on the street was increasing. More and more were leaving the shelters in search of food or medical help. Others were trying to get back to their apartments or hotel rooms for a wash and a change of clothing, or to check that their property was not the booty of looters.

Armed civilian gangs were on the streets also. Most had only improvised weapons, but some had obtained guns or even crossbows from sporting goods stores.

The majority were on foot, but people who could get to their cars — and thieves who could get one started — were trying to leave the city.

Attempts were being made to get food and drink to those still in the shelters. Much of it was being “requisitioned” from food stores and restaurants. Sometimes the owners would appear and engage in vitriolic slanging matches with police organizing the depredations.

There were all the ingredients for a disaster, and on a local scale at least, it was beginning to happen. On Ludwigstrasse police trying unsuccessfully to control a mob fired shots in the air. A nearby Panzer grenadier section thought they were coming under fire and opened up. It took twenty minutes for the mistake to be recognized. By then there were thirty dead and twice as many wounded.

“The city is coming apart at the seams.” Mayor Gebert surveyed the bodies being dragged to the side of the road.

The police car he had been using to visit parts of the city cleared of the Spetsnaz forces sat quietly steaming on its flat front tires in a barber shop doorway. The stump of a crossbow bolt still projected from a sidewall.

Revell and his men had arrived too late to tackle the band of looters. They could only put a cordon about the area, until an ambulance arrived for the driver. Not that there was much chance of the criminals returning. The jewellery store they had been disturbed in the act of cleaning out had nothing but display pads remaining on show.

The steel grill formerly protecting the windows had been wrenched aside and the alarm clamoured shrilly, until Burke put several rounds into it. Even then it continued to produce a subdued tinny rattle.

“I thought we were getting on top of the situation?”

“We are, Major, but the cost is escalating too far, too fast.” There was still the sound of shooting coming from other quarters, but allowing for the fact that some of it would be between police and looters, the number of Spetsnaz engaged seemed smaller.

Listening intently, Revell decided that the nearest gun battle was several blocks away. “Do we know how many of them dropped into the city?”

“You don’t seriously think the military are keeping me informed, do you?” Gebert was contemptuous. “One of my… one of Stadler’s SWAT teams took a prisoner. He was removed by a GSG9 antiterrorist squad. I don’t know what technique they used, but after they interrogated him, they declared that a hundred Spetsnaz had made the drop.”

Revell snorted his disbelief.

“I agree. I knocked the arrogance out of them by telling them that a police sweep of the park had revealed one-hundred-and-ninety-six canopies. The Reds hadn’t bothered to try hiding them. Too keen to get on, I suppose.

“So, allowing for a handful to have gone astray, my first guess of about two hundred won’t be far from the mark.” Revell felt pleased with himself.

“Yes, I mentioned your estimate. I am afraid that proving the elite units wrong may not have added to your popularity with them. Hence…” Gebert swept his hand in a gesture that took in the deserted street and the disabled police vehicle.

“Do you know who, besides the SAS, is in on it now?”

Gebert looked to where his driver was .vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood from his bullet-pierced earlobe. “Not everyone. SAS are certainly in command, but they’re too thin on the ground to hog the whole show to themselves, so they’ve grudgingly allowed two squads of GSG9, Stadler’s SWAT teams, and a platoon of Bundeswehr Airborne Infantry to join in.”

“Generous of them. Are they getting results?” Revell saw the tracer of a cannon shell smack into the top storey of a tower block a kilometre off.

“That’s another reason you’re not popular. They’re keeping a score board. Going solely on actual body count, your Special Combat Company is in the lead. The police would actually be at the top, but each of their kills is being chalked up as a separate engagement.”

“How accurate is the tally then?” Revell had a lot of experience of field commanders and higher ups, falsifying body counts. He’d known them not just be doubled, but increased as much as tenfold.

“That I have to give them.” Gebert moved on to the sidewalk as an army ambulance pulled up, accompanied by a pickup crammed with armed police. “They are only allowing verified kills. When I left, they were waiting for the fire brigade to get into a burning school before adding what they believe to be three more to the sheet.”

The urge to ask the total had to be fought down by Revell. Gebert was shrewd enough to know the question he wanted to pose.

“One-hundred-and-fifty-seven when I left twenty minutes ago. The cost is mounting enormously though. I do not mean that in a monetary sense.” Watching the driver being assisted to the rear of the Land Rover ambulance, Gebert dismissed he smashed front of the jewellers.

“As yet we do not have a figure for civilian casualties. It is likely though that it will rise into the hundreds, I think.”