Rudakov was behind the Commandant. 'They are on the perimeter path.'
'Any weapons?'
'Nothing that the watch-towers have reported.'
'Together in formation, men, only act on my orders.
Exactly on my orders.'
Best foot forward, Vasily Kypov marched his men into the mouth of the camp. They were a pretty sight. They might have had a band playing because each man was in step, and as they progressed across the snow towards the centre of the compound the snow flew smartly from their boots. Kypov. kept his head erect, glanced to the side with the shift of his eyes. He must dominate, that was the first rule in handling a rabble. Dominate and control. When Rudakov had said they were on the perimeter path, he could not register the significance of that information. Kypov saw the significance when he was fifty metres into the camp. He was marching into a vacuum. The zeks were distanced from him, he could not reach out and touch them with the power of his small force. The silence and the linked arms were unnerving. He had reached the centre of the camp, the very centre. Between the huts, beyond the buildings, the line of zeks confronted him. Small blurred figures in front of him, and on either side.
Blurred because of the water at his eyes, the water of frustration, of biting anger. If he marched his men to the left then he gave up all contact with the prisoners on his right. If he marched further forward then he could not dominate those behind him. If he held the centre ground then he must bellow to be heard. Amongst the scum was a brain that had bettered his. He stamped to a halt. Where was Rudakov?
Rudakov should have known. Rudakov had let him march onto shifting ground. Rudakov, at the bloody back. He turned to face his men. He saw them fidget, finger their rifles. And they had not taken the dog out, the bastard dog was still wet in the snow. Every soldier had seen the dog.
Twisted neck, blue tongue, helpless teeth, bruised fur. Shit.
And which way to face, when he addressed the scum? Shit.
And if he made his speech, what was his message, conciliation or threat? Whose was the brain that had bettered him?
Shit. Only the silence, only the linked arms of solidarity.
The training of the paratrooper won out. He took a deep sighing breath. He repeated to himself his first sentence. He was a toad puffed up to frighten the distant creatures.
'You are to form into your ranks. If my order is not obeyed the most severe penalties will be exacted on all prisoners. The troops with me are armed. If you do not move immediately I will order them to open fire at random upon you. You are completely surrounded, and there are additional machine-guns sited in the towers.'
He turned slowly on his heel. He looked for a movement, for the first man to break the chain and step forward. Silence beat over him, and the linked arms mocked him.
Three men stood under each of the four towers and watched Michael Holly for the signal.
He was very tense, and around him was the hiss of anticipation. Eight hundred men, and they waited on him.
The hunger was forgotten, the cold was stripped away, the tiredness had gone. A racing excitement clawed him. Away behind the outlines of the low roofs of Hut 2 and Hut 3 he saw Kypov and behind him the guns, and behind them Rudakov. in thirty seconds I will give the order for random fire.
Whoever has led you to this is a fool. You have been misled, turn your backs on this idiocy, you have less than half a minute…'
He saw the rifles ease up to the shoulders, he saw the barrels waver to select a target. He heard the smatter of sound as the catches were nudged from 'Safety'. He heard the bleat of Kypov's voice.
'You have fifteen seconds. These are automatic rifles, above you are machine-guns. I am going to count the last ten seconds. I am going to start to count.'
Holly swung his right arm away from the grip of the man next to him and raised it like a banner. He looked to the north-east tower and saw a sharp flash of light. He looked to the south-east tower and saw a bottle climb slowly, somersaul-ting, towards the open window and dark-uniformed guards.
A sheet of flame in the north-west tower. The crash of an explosion in the south-west tower. A terror scream in the north-east tower. A man beating at fire that was running across his great coat shoulders in the south-east tower.
Black smoke spilled from the towers, and orange light sucked through the interiors.
He saw a man who was ablaze jump from the top of a watch-tower ladder and dive for the salvation of the snow beneath.
He did not look behind him. Byrkin, who they said was mad, would know his job, Byrkin would be on the wire and climbing. There was the first clatter of exploding ammunition.
He hooked his right arm inside the elbow of the man next to him. He locked his hands, closed his fingers tight. The first step forward. Along the length of the line there was a shimmer of movement, a stutter. The line lurched, rolled, bent. The line straightened, the line advanced. He wondered if their nerve would hold. And why should it? If the line broke, if it broke just once, they would be massacred. God, help the line to hold. He saw Kypov, spinning like a top in a child's game. Kypov looking right, left, front, behind. He should have opened fire, Holly thought soberly. Stupid Kypov. The line was level with the rear of Hut 2 and Hut 3.
Here it could break, only here. Holly led, he was half a stride in front of the men on either side of him. Tracers streaked in brilliant lines, dividing a grey sky. Some of Kypov's detachment were on their knees as if they mistook the danger of the wild bullets. The perimeter of the line was closing in. In one place the line had not moved. The pathway to the gate was clear. The road of retreat was empty.
They came slowly now, the zeks with their arms linked, slowly and with purpose. They edged over the snow, and the sound of their boots was a perpetual, menacing shuffle.
Vasily Kypov could not utter the necessary command for his men to shoot. His pistol hung limp in his hand, its barrel rotating over the caps of his boots.
He heard Rudakov's voice behind him. What was Rudakov shouting? Why was Rudakov pulling at the arm of his coat?
Should it be gas, should it be rapid fire? What would rapid fire manage against this creeping ramshackle crowd? There were no weapons in their hands. They carried nothing in their hands. Rapid fire… too late to use gas. He had to find the words before the stinking rabble broke over him. Rapid fire… where was his bastard voice? Rudakov still pulling at the arm of his coat, still shouting.
'What is it?'
'Don't shoot – whatever you fucking do, don't shoot.'
'Rapid fire, that's for them.'
'Don't fucking shoot.'
He could see their eyes, he could read the names on their tunics, he could see the cotton darning round the knee cap patches and the boots sliding towards him across the snow.
'But they're going to kill us.'
'Only if you shoot. Remember the dog, Kypov, don't forget the fucking dog…'
Kypov could smell them. He could not remember when last he had smelt the zeks. A hideous smell of waste, of dirt, of old death. They could not beat him. A rabble in a camp could not be permitted to gain victory over a Major of paratroops. He knew he was raising the pistol in his hand.
His arm was rising and there was the hard hold of the pistol's butt in his hand. He felt Rudakov's first clamp on his forearm, and his arm slid back, relaxed.
'We'll be killed, Major. If one shot is fired, every last one of us…' Rudakov's voice was kindly.
He led Kypov past his troops. Out of step, out of mind, they returned to the gate. Kypov was weeping. If Rudakov had not supported him he would have fallen to the ground.
The line followed them.
The linked arms broke only when the gates had closed.
'What did you get?'