James Rouch - Civilian Slaughter

She had fought off passes and outright attempts at rape. And been successful. Dooley’s instruction in unarmed fighting had been an important factor in that.

Looking down she saw the swell of her breasts above the flimsy ruffles of the whore’s blouse. Ackerman had obtained it for her. The only part of the outfit she liked was the black leather boots. High heeled, they were tight fitting to the knee.

Stupid women. Resorting to such things, and for what? In the case of the prostitute whose clothes she wore, so that she could get a man to make money, so that she could go out and get a man. It was pathetic, futile.

Between her legs she felt the seam of the jeans rubbing into her. She looked about to see that she was alone. The woods were still. There was no sound. Leaning back against a tree she ran her hands from her throat, over her breasts, across her flat stomach to the tops of her thighs.

A drink. She’d have given anything for a drink. But those had been Revell’s terms. One drink, no raid. The major knew she would not take one, but he couldn’t stop her thinking. Swallowing hard, she tried to push the thought from her.

The action of unfastening her narrow leather belt was almost an unconscious one, as was the moving of her hands to her waistband. Edging the jeans from side to side as she eased them down over her hips, she closed her eyes. Very gently she slid her hand underneath her body and began gently to rub. At the first contact she was wet, and her fingers slid inside.

Her mind was cluttered with thoughts that she didn’t want. She thought of those stupid whores. All women were stupid, but at least they were usually clean, not covered in hair with those ugly stupid things between their legs. What of the whore who had worn this blouse. She would do anything for money, anything. Even do this, if she were given enough.

Andrea’s fingers moved more urgently. Yes, even this. The only difference to the scene laid out before the sniper’s position was the gradual lengthening of the shadows. He could see only a small arc of the sky, above the distant horizon. It was free of cloud, and he hoped it would continue that way.

He had checked very carefully before determining on this precise location for his hideout. The sun would set directly behind him.

That was where it would be when he opened fire. Any special sighting device used in an attempt to spot his muzzle flashes would be hopeless, swamped by the flare of the sun’s disc.

There had been occasions recently when he had wondered if there was any point in continuing to try to evade what he knew to be inevitable.

The odds against his continuing survival were lengthening dramatically with every day and every action in which he took part. He was already a statistical absurdity. He was but a few short of a kill total of three hundred. And those were the ones of which he could be as close to a hundred percent certain as was possible.

A sniper rarely saw, close-up, the results of his work. Even when much of it was done at ranges of a couple of hundred yards or less. But when a bullet struck, men reacted in different ways. A hit in a limb usually produced a dramatic reaction from the target. A good solid strike in the torso or head was very different. It was like the air had suddenly been exhausted from a blow-up doll. They collapsed as if instantly deflated.

At the closer ranges he often saw his victim’s face before, at or even immediately after impact. If it was a head shot their cranium would explode a shower of blood and bone and brain tissue. The change of expression was always instantaneous. He never recalled specific instances, only had in mind a softly focused montage. There were never any dreams, but then he hardly ever slept, and only then when so tired he could not avoid its necessity.

The time was passing steadily; it never troubled him, the waiting. There had been a time, in the weeks after the stalling of the first Russian attacks, when he had waited literally days for a single target. These few hours were nothing by comparison.

There was one thought, pushed deep into the innermost recesses of his mind, that he was not ready to deal with. It had surfaced from time to time, but always been subdued once more, shunted into a cobwebby corner.

With his tally standing where it did, it was becoming harder to do that. This was the day he would fulfil his vow. The one he had made at the graveside of his wife and children. What a long time ago that seemed.

Then he had thought this a moment to look forward to, a time for laying down his burden and joining them. The realization struck him that he, a man who had handed out death hundreds of times, was afraid of it himself.

The interior of the APC was packed with weapons and ammunition. Hyde dropped in through a roof hatch and threaded his way forward. The fancy interior still smelled of perfume, but the crushed velvet seat covers were marked by dust and oil, and all the cushions had been thrown out. He sat in the commander’s chair, and let his body go limp.

Thirty minutes before the off. In this unit it was unusual to go into action with a specific start time. In getting everything ready it had been a help, given them targets to achieve. In preparing them for what lay ahead he wasn’t so sure.

He would have paced the loading, left them with only a few minutes to stand about. All the men wanted to see the job done, see the enemy battalion smashed hard, but they knew the possible consequences when they hit the KGB outfit. The consequences for those of them who returned were more certain. At the very least the command would be broken up.

For individuals the outlook was uncertain. A court-martial for Revell, possibly for Vokes and himself as well. For the others an assortment of dead-end or dangerous assignments. All of them would remain in the Zone. Getting out was a reward, not a punishment.

Except perhaps for him. In the Zone he was just another mutilated victim. Out in the world beyond he would be a freak. After so many years in the army it was hard for him to imagine any other life. But then, when he’d joined the combat company it had been hard to adjust to the free and easy atmosphere, after years of regimental life in a regular unit.

There was a noise behind him. Andrea had climbed in. Ignoring him, she checked through the number of M16 magazines by what would be her position.

Once the action started there would be no time to fumble about looking for things. Clips, grenades and satchel charges would have to come easily to hand.

Andrea finished her inventory and sat down at the far end of the fighting compartment. They said nothing, hardly glanced at each other. Each of them was waiting for the minutes to pass. Waiting for the others to join them, the motors to start. And the killing.

Tarkovski climbed unsteadily onto the flat roof. He had missed several steps on the home-made ladder and had skinned his ankles each time.

“Find out which of our tame refugees made that fucking ladder, and have him shot.” Shouting the instruction down to a passing private, Tarkovski almost overbalanced. He had to flail his arms to prevent himself from falling. The open bottle in his pocket spouted vodka over the side of his jacket.

“No, wait.” Sitting down heavily, Tarkovski felt at a splinter in his ankle. “If the shit is so damned good at woodwork, have him make a coffin. Tell him it’s his own.”

“Then do I shoot him, Colonel?”

“What a shit you are, Private. Where’s your bloody style. Put him in the coffin and bury him. No need to bother with the shooting.”

“What are you monkeys grinning at?”

Tarkovski rounded on the gun crew. Their faces instantly became blank masks, blank sweating masks. The colonel laughed.