Gavin Smith - Special Purposes - First Strike Weapon

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1987, THE HEIGHT OF THE COLD WAR. For Captain Vadim Scorlenski and the rest of the 15th
Brigade, being scrambled to unfamiliar territory at no notice, without a brief or proper equipment, is more or less expected; but even by his standards, their mission to one of the United States’ busiest cities stinks…
World War III was over in a matter of hours, and Vadim and most of his squad are dead, but not done. What’s happened to them, and to millions of civilians around the world, goes beyond any war crime; and Vadim and his team—Skull, Mongol, Farm Boy, Princess, Gulag, the Fräulein and New Boy—won’t rest until they’ve seen justice done.

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“Not taking any risks,” the Fräulein said quietly. Multiple redundancies, it was clever. “The guards on the bus have to be in contact with the island.”

The Saracen parked up behind the mine-rolling vehicle. The bus moved and the zombies surged forwards, but not at full sprint. It didn’t look as though they had the scent yet. The mine-roller came forwards. It looked like a World War II tank, but not German; American, possibly. Pushing a big, heavy, gore-encrusted, zombie-flattening roller. The dead became red smears. The mine-roller came out just far enough for the Saracen to get past, and then it reversed and the bus rolled back into place.

“Did you see that?” the Fräulein asked.

“One of them ran in behind the tank-thing,” Princess said.

“Give me your rifle,” Vadim said. Princess looked conflicted for a moment and then handed her Dragunov to him.

“Don’t mess up my scope,” she warned him, and Gulag chuckled from the bed. Vadim looked through the scope. Even with the increased elevation, he couldn’t see much – the bus and the concrete wall blocked his view – but he did see someone appear in the turret of the roller with an MP-40 submachine gun. He saw the muzzle flash, heard its chatter a moment later. “Wrong tool for the job,” he said to himself. The guard wore a grey tunic and a German stalhelm helmet, with its distinctive coalscuttle shape. Through the scope, Vadim could see the swastika on the helmet and the two Nordic lightning bolts of the SS on the tunic’s collar. He felt the old hatred bubbling up.

Suddenly the zombie – the one-socked naked man they’d seen earlier – bounded into view and started climbing up the tank. The guard was firing the MP-40 on full automatic, spraying it everywhere. Vadim saw an explosion of matter from the back of the zombie’s head and it fell out of sight. It was sheer dumb luck that the man in the turret had hit anything at all. It was a shame; Vadim had found himself rooting for the naked zombie. He heard shouting coming from the bus. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but whoever was shouting sounded angry.

He moved the scope off the bridge and followed the Saracen as it headed north and curved out of sight towards the town. He lowered the sniper rifle and handed it back to Princess.

“Are you coming with us?” Vadim asked Gulag.

“You’re going after the vehicle?” the Fräulein asked.

Vadim nodded. “We’re going to need to capture at least a couple of them alive,” he said.

“To interrogate?” Gulag asked. He couldn’t quite keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Vadim nodded again.

“I’m in.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

2014 GMT, 24th November 1987

Barrow-in-Furness Bus Depot, North-West England

GULAG APPEARED FROM behind the back door of the Saracen and wrapped his piano-wire garrotte around the neck of one of the SS soldiers. He dragged him backwards, clearing the Fräulein’s field of fire to cover the driver. Vadim and Princess covered the last two soldiers. They’d left Skull to catch up.

“On your knees,” Vadim ordered the men as Princess disarmed them and took their ammunition. Gulag’s victim was drooling blood as the Muscovite started sawing through the neck. The SS soldiers ignored Vadim to stare at their friend’s murder.

“Now!” Vadim snapped and they went down on their knees.

“Out!” the Fräulein snapped at the driver, dragging him out and pushing him onto his knees next to the other two.

“Watch,” Gulag whispered in English to the three prisoners; the Fräulein had taught him the word at his request. He let the soldier slide to the ground, before putting his boot on the back of the soldier’s head and sawing faster. The SS men watched in horror.

“Please,” one of them whispered. He spoke with a British accent.

“It’s the spinal cord that’s the most trouble,” Gulag muttered in Russian. Vadim gritted his teeth. Even he didn’t like the sound.

The Saracen hadn’t been difficult to track through the black snow, even stopping at a hardware store en route for Gulag. By now they had worked out that they were in Barrow-in-Furness. Vadim was sure he’d heard the name before, from a list of sabotage targets; he was sure the shipyards built military vessels.

It had been a short journey further north through the town to a large depot housing the local bus fleet. The SS men had hurried in before attracting too much attention from the dead. It hadn’t been difficult for Vadim, Gulag, Princess and the Fräulein to find their own way in, and Skull would have no problems following them.

Gulag’s man’s head fell off.

“No!” one of the soldiers cried out. Another soiled himself. The third man’s hand shot to his mouth, tears in his eyes. Gulag let the dripping garrotte hang from his hand.

“Tell them it’s harder than it looks,” Gulag said in Russian.

“As members of the SS, I won’t insult your integrity by assuming you’ll talk after such a display. You are, after all, the Master Race,” Vadim told them and nodded to Gulag. The Muscovite made a show of cleaning the garrotte, coiling it and putting it away. He took the hammer out of his webbing and one of the nine-inch nails from a pouch, then tipped the helmet off the crying SS man, the driver. He was a nondescript man, balding a little, with glasses. He looked soft, more like a bureaucrat than a soldier. He reminded Vadim a little of the photographs he’d seen of Himmler.

The man started begging.

“Shh, dignity,” Gulag admonished in Russian. He tired to hold a nail to the man’s head, but the man threw up, fortunately – for him – missing Gulag.

“What do you want? Please, just tell me what you want,” he begged. Vadim held a hand up to forestall Gulag.

“Who are you people?” Vadim asked.

“My name’s Bernie, Bernie Andrews. I own – I owned a garden centre,” he whimpered. Vadim wasn’t entirely sure what a garden centre was, but it wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“You’re English, correct?” Vadim asked. The man nodded. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“We’re re-enactors,” he said, as though that explained everything. Vadim looked at him blankly. “We dress up as soldiers from the past and re-enact their battles.”

“Why?” Vadim asked, mystified. Bernie stared at him.

“Y’know, history.”

Vadim did not know.

“And they give you real weapons for this?” the Fräulein asked. “Live ammunition.”

“Well, no, but some of the guys… we meet dealers and other enthusiasts, so we’ve amassed quite a collection.”

“The tanks?” Vadim asked.

“Just the MGs, the main guns aren’t functioning; that’d be insane.”

“Yes. Yes, it would,” Vadim muttered. “You bought the tanks?”

The man nodded again.

“For playacting?”

“To learn about history, by recreating parts of it.”

“The worst parts of it,” the Fräulein muttered.

“Why the SS?” Vadim asked, still not sure he understood what was happening. If members of a society could afford to equip themselves with military equipment for fun, then that society had to be pretty decadent.

Bernie shrugged. “They’re interesting,” he said.

“What’s happening?” Gulag asked in Russian.

“They dress up like this for fun,” Princess told him. Gulag looked confused.

“So you’re not Nazis, then?” the Fräulein asked suspiciously.

“Of course not, that would be terrible.”

“Where are the people you took prisoner on the beach?” Vadim demanded. There was a quiet tapping on the side door that they’d snuck in through. Gulag strolled over towards it.

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