James Rouch - Body Count

It would take only one bullet, or a grenade, to unleash all the horrors contained in the pipes and tanks about them. And besides, he and his men had already done all that could be expected of them. Hell, they weren’t even supposed to be armed.

The civilians had been released, and the Spetsnaz still on the loose posed a small threat to anybody now. It could only be a matter of time before they were located and rounded up, or finished off.

From the flyover, the police would have had a grandstand view of what happened. Reinforcements were certain to be on the way. There was just no need for the him and the section to put themselves further at risk.

Even as he reasoned that way, he sensed that the others were looking at him, waiting for his decision. The same thoughts would be in their minds. Revell could be pretty certain that all of them were coming to the same conclusion.

“Okay, we’re going in after them. Stay in contact, but don’t bunch. No firing without a clear target. Our ammo situation isn’t that much better than theirs.”

They started forward, walking into the complex under a gantry that carried runs of piping over a service road. Walkways crossed and recrossed overhead. Steam hissed from of large retorts. Lights on control panels glowed an eerie green and angry red through the clouds of drifting vapour.

“Shit.” Ripper looked at Andrea. “This is like walking into hell.”

A smear of blood gave them the vital information they needed. It told them the point at which the hurrying Russians had turned off the road, into the heart of the chemical plant.

Hands that must have been clutching a gaping wound, had for a moment sought support on a stanchion. In making an effort to get going again, the wounded Russian must have pushed himself off. Where his fingers had dragged and left parallel lines of blood, they pointed to the fresh heading as clearly as any signpost.

Revell and his people were in a narrow passageway this time, hemmed in by masses of complicated pipe runs. Girder latticework carried more of the same above them.

The traces of blood became more frequent. It was clear from the signs that the disabled man was having to stop and rest more frequently, was having trouble keeping up. Just as obvious was the fact that no one was offering him assistance.

Twice more the trail of blood indicated changes of direction, until they were travelling along between rows of tall anonymous distillation vessels.

With the sky overcast, it was impossible for Revell to be quite certain, but he had the feeling they had begun to go in a wide circle.

He couldn’t believe that the Russians were doing it deliberately. They must have seen the police on the flyover, must know the autobahn no longer offered an escape route. So if they were going back on their tracks — and he was becoming certain they were — then they were doing it through disorientation.

Perhaps it had been brought on by exhaustion, or an accumulation of stress. Whichever it was, advantage could be taken of it, if they acted fast.

Through a gap in between the towers, Revell saw an elevated walkway. He pointed it out to Sgt. Hyde. “If we use that, I think we can get ahead of them.”

Without waiting to see if he was followed, Revell started up an access ladder. Pipes that he brushed past felt warm. Some throbbed with the pulsing volumes of gas and liquid being pumped through them.

Their feet made the mesh of the catwalk rattle and clatter. The major could only hope that the other noises created by the plant would cover it. They’d travelled two hundred meters when they recognized below them a junction they had passed earlier.

Spreading out, they sought what concealment there was. Revell took up position behind an intersection of two huge pipes. His elevated vantage point gave him a clear view of the junction and the first few meters of the roads that ran into it. He didn’t have to wait long.

There was no opportunity to count them. One second the road below was empty, the next the Spetsnaz were walking into their sights.

Shorts bursts and single shots lashed into the group. Suddenly and unexpectedly, those Russians who were not down were throwing away their weapons and putting their hands in the air.

Dropping down to the ground, Revell’s first move was to toe away those rifles that might still be within reach. Joined by his section, Revell examined the Spetsnaz who had been hit.

Three were already dead, another three would be shortly. A mortally wounded NCO died even as Revell turned him over to remove his knife and pistol. The other two had only moments left.

Shot from above, the bullets had entered through their shoulders and upper torsos. Tearing down through their bodies, the tumbling rounds, misshapen after hitting bones, would have inflicted massive multiple injuries internally.

The three who had surrendered had escaped serious injuries, collecting no more than four flesh wounds among them. All looked as shocked as if they’d been hit badly.

“They’re an ugly-looking crew.” Scully appropriated a particularly nice knife as a trophy.

“Have you looked at yourself recently?” Andrea finished a tally of the captured weapons and ammunition. “Only sixteen rounds between them.”

Dooley took the Soviet rifles and, resting them one at a time against a pile of cast-iron flanges, stamped them to scrap. “Has anybody noticed there’s only nine of the fuckers?”

It took only a quick check to reveal that none of the dead or dying had a wound consistent with the type Sgt. Hyde had inflicted earlier.

Aware how poor his Russian was, Revell still tried to interrogate their prisoners. Though the gist of his questioning must have been understood, none made a reply. Among them at least one probably comprehended English, but nothing brought any response.

“I don’t think it’s that they don’t understand.” Revell gave up. “I think it’s more that they can’t be bothered.”

Certainly the appearance of the captured men bore that out. Whatever training and abilities had enabled them to survive so long, it all seemed to have deserted them. With their heads hanging, their manner completely apathetic, they were like cattle waiting for slaughter. But the comparison was not that accurate. Cattle, with an awareness of death, would have become restless, fretful. These men were completely bereft of animation. If they comprehended their situation, then apparently it didn’t move them at all.

Even when another of the wounded died noisily, they did not look up. When ordered, by gestures, to sit with their hands clasped on top of their heads, they did so without bothering to move themselves by so much as a single step from the bodies.

“Hold them here, m take Andrea and backtrack. He can’t be faraway. They probably bumped him off when he couldn’t keep up any longer. No wonder they stand there looking like they’re resigned to death. They kill their own so easily, life can’t mean much to them.”

Revell retraced the route by which the Spetsnaz had reached the ambush. A minute’s walk brought them within sight of the missing man.

He’d expected to find a body, but even from a distance it was obvious that he was still, just, alive. The Russian was sat propped between two squat pressure tanks. The whole of his jacket was saturated in blood, and his left arm hung limp at his side. He hadn’t seen them.

With his good hand, he held a small object to his mouth, and was tugging at it weakly with his teeth.

Andrea and the major fired at the same instant. Their target’s body jerked under the impact, and his bloodstained hand released its grip on the grenade.

For a long moment, the dead man’s jaws stayed locked on the pin, as the fragmentation bomb dangled from his mouth. Then a last rattle of breath passed his lips, and the device fell harmlessly into his lap.