James Rouch - Body Count

And now? The money was lost, the truck would be confiscated and the goods still sat in the government warehouse. The only ray of light had been the major turning up to spring him. Even then the provost marshal wasn’t about to let him go until he had proof that the unit was going straight back into combat in the Zone.

“This ain’t the way to the station, Major. Where we going?”

“I don’t like to admit it, but I don’t know. All I’ve been told is that the Special Combat Company is to place itself at the disposal of the civil administration. We’re on our way to the city’s command centre, wherever that may be.”

“Must be to do with the looters. I’ve been hearing a bit of gunfire. Must be more of them than the police can handle.” The irony of the situation appealed to Ackerman.

The Audi turned the corner into Blumenstrasse, slowing to negotiate a partial roadblock caused by hastily abandoned vehicles. Their driver looked back over his shoulder.

“There was a lot of panic when the sirens went. There’ll be more after the all-clear, when those owners come back for their cars. The local police chief is very hot on air raid precautions. Failing to leave the road clear for emergency services means that — “

The windshield shattered into a million interlocking fragments and became opaque. At the same instant the driver’s head burst, smothering the interior and the other occupants with its contents.

At low speed, the Audi crunched the side of a parked panel van and came to a stop against an ornamental concrete tub planted with flowers. Its engine stalled.

Another shot rang out, and a bullet ploughed across the top of the roof to destroy the flashing blue lamp.

With the surviving MP, Ackerman and the major baled out and ran, crouched low, for the cover of a store’s arcade entrance.

From there they could see a body in the road. Nearby a motorcycle lay on its side.

“Where’s the fire coming from?”

Revell yanked the MP back, as he stuck his head out for a look around. “That’s a good way of finding out. Where were we supposed to be going?”

“The civil defence bunker, under the New Town Hall. We can’t get to it this way though. Not while that sniper’s out there.”

“Use your pistol on this door. We’ll go through the building and use the back streets.”

“Major, I can’t do that. Damaging civilian property is a real no-no.”

“Then walk out the front way. Well follow, if you prove it’s safe by staying alive for more than thirty seconds.”

Reluctantly, shielding his face with his hand, the MP put a shot into the lock. His half-hearted push, to see if he’d succeeded in breaking it, achieved no result.

A full-blooded kick by Ackerman did better. An alarm clamoured shrilly.

At the rear of the store, a locked fire door proved more resilient. It took a combined shoulder charge to burst it open.

With only the one pistol between the three of them, they could take no risks of running into any armed bands. They threaded their way through a succession of alleyways between the stalls in the Viktualienmarkt.

When they crossed an open space, a single shot passed between them, punching through the striped canvas screens enclosing a gift stand. There came a long clatter from within, as the shattered vases and figurines settled.

Revell realized that the shot could only have come from the tower of a nearby church. No looters would have hung about to take pot-shots. They were up against more than opportunist thieves. He struck off through a small plaza and into a maze of narrow passageways and courtyards.

“Who the hell is doing the firing?” Ackerman had picked up a short length of timber, in the absence of any other weapon.

Hugging the wall, the MP noticed with relief that the tower was masked by other buildings. “Must be commie fifth column. The police have been chasing after saboteurs all day. Seems a chunk of the local fire brigade have been put out of action. Kind of ties in with the fires in and around the city, I reckon.”

Signalling a halt, Revell surveyed the route ahead. To get to their objective, they had to cross a broad avenue, Maximilianstrasse. It looked the best part of a fifty-meter dash. There wasn’t a shred of cover. They would be in full view of the sniper every step of the way.

They made the run in an irregularly spaced group, breaking from the cover of the side street and piling on all the speed they could. Last to reach the far side, Ackerman literally threw himself into the shadow of a wall.

No shots came. While they paused to catch their breath, Revell tried to make sense of the situation. There seemed to be small-arms fire breaking out in several quarters of the city.

Sabotage he could understand, but communist deep-cover agents were usually far more subtle than to start a mere handful of fires. War production and communications centres were their more usual targets, along with power generation, transmission, and transport. Burning down a few buildings was going to make virtually no difference to the NATO war effort.

If it was intended as a psychological blow, aimed at the civilian population, then strange targets had been selected. He’d seen a part of the growing list at the provost marshal’s office.

Most were anonymous office blocks or unguarded warehouses. All they seemed to have in common was that they were individually and collectively of so little importance that they didn’t warrant any guard or special security arrangements.

Munich was a vital manufacturing, administrative, and military centre. And a cultural one as well. To Revell’s mind, the destruction of any of fifty buildings that he could think of, would have had a more damaging strategic or morale effect than all these combined.

There was also the extra ingredient of the gunmen. The shots he heard were coming from several separate locations. Direct confrontation was a tactic enemy agents had never employed, except on the rare occasions when assassination attempts had gone wrong. It was difficult to see what a handful of them could achieve in a city this size.

The last part of their journey was down the narrow Altenhofstrasse, to the rear of the town hall. They were within sight of the entrance they wanted, when a bullet smacked into and ricocheted from, a street sign post beside them.

It had come from the doorway. Revell had clearly seen the muzzle flash. He called out in English and in German. An answer came in the form of a burst of machine-gun fire.

“That’s some of my outfit.”

Starting forward at a lope, the MP made straight towards the opening, waving his arms and shouting. A second crackle of fire smashed his legs, and he went down screaming.

Again Revell tried to identify himself to the unseen sentry. This time he was told to advance with his hands up. Followed by a cautious Ackerman, he walked slowly forward. They passed the MR. His left leg had been virtually severed just below the knee. He was in pain too great to articulate, and watched them silently as they passed.

A few steps later, Revell reached the door and was allowed to squeeze his way in, past the heavy furniture being employed to partially barricade it.

“Oh Christ. Is he one of ours? Did I kill him?” Revell took in the machine gunners pale, frightened face. “You shot one of your own corps, but he’s not dead.”

“Aw shit. Fuck it, Major. Why didn’t you drag him in here?”

“You shot him, you fetch him. And don’t leave it too long, he’s bleeding heavily.” Revell walked on into the building.

Ackerman grinned at the sentry. “Better do it fast, when you get round to it. You’re not the only one taking pot-shots.”

Another guard conducted them down steep stone steps that smelled of cement dust and copper piping. A corridor at the bottom led to a strongly constructed blast-door with yet another armed sentry.