For the first time in the city, they, had seen tracer employed. A long stream of it had poured from a window in a department store and into a drugstore opposite. Some had missed the mark. Striking the stone wall, they had flown off at wild angles to cause more random damage.
“It’s like something out of a fucking western.” From a safe distance, Scully watched the exchanges of fire. “Pity there isn’t a sheriff who can come galloping into town and clean it all up.”
“No sheriff. Just us, with you as Deputy Dog.” Sgt. Hyde fingered a long tear across the shoulder of his flak jacket. His ribs still ached where another stray bullet — most of its energy spent — had thumped into him.
They had learnt little from their reconnaissance, except that both buildings were well defended and impossible to approach. He and the major had seen no sign of the men holding out. Attempts to establish contact from a distance had been hopeless, only bringing fire down on them.
Now, with Scully and Andrea, Hyde waited to give covering fire while the drugstore was rushed. The seconds ticked away on his watch. The butt and barrel of the grenade launcher had warmed in his hands. The unit had worked their way as close as possible to the rear of the building. Sheltering in the angle of a wall close behind them was the assault party, led by the major.
Andrea would fire first. Her high-explosive round would blast down the back door, then the three of them would put batton rounds into the opening as fast as they could. Right until the instant the squad reached it.
The 40mm grenade soared the fifty meters to the target and scored a direct hit. There was a roar of noise from the detonation that blended with the crash of falling brickwork and splintering wood. Loading and firing as fast as they could, the three concentrated their aim on the smoke-wreathed opening.
A burst of light machinegun fire from an upper floor made spurts of dust beside the running group, then ceased as blunt-nosed plastic slugs shattered the remaining glass and tore into the room.
Revell leapt the fallen remains of the scorched and splintered door. At the far end of the passageway beyond a figure knelt on its knees, clutching its face.
“What unit?” There was not the time for gentle methods. Revell jabbed the barrel of his submachine gun into the side of the man’s neck. “Who are you with?”
“You’re fucking NATO.”
“Too bloody true.” Revell didn’t remove the submachine gun. “Who are you, what unit?”
“Two hundred ninety first Infantry. Our captain heard there was a flap on and sent us in to have a scout round, see the position before he brought the rest of the company. Only we got ambushed, and had our radio knocked out. We dived in here and have been trading shots for the last hour.”
“How many of you are there?” Revell handed the man a field dressing to apply to a wound on his cheek.
“We lost a couple, including our sergeant, when we got hit. Only five of us left, I think.”
“Okay, you go on up ahead of us.” Revell helped the soldier to his feet. “Make sure they know who’s coming. From what I have seen and can hear, there’s a lot of trigger-happy people about.”
Every inch of floor was smothered in spilt pills and broken medicine bottles. They crunched underfoot. Cases of ointment and syrups had been punctured. Their pungent, sticky contents oozed through the rows of holes in their cartons and dripped from shelf to shelf, then to the floor. The same mess was on the stairs, Tablets beneath their tread, acting like ball bearings, made every step difficult.
When they reached the upper floor, they found only two men still on their feet. Or rather, on their hands and knees. They were searching through scattered magazines for ammunition. A third soldier lay unconscious with a bad head wound. The fourth was dead. He had taken several bullets in the throat.
As if at a signal, the firing from across the road had ceased. Using a fragment of broken mirror like a periscope, Revell examined the department store.
“Whoever they are, I think they’ve skipped.” Using the view in the reflection, he made another survey before radioing in his findings. He stayed low, waiting until they were away from the front of the building before standing. “Well have to check it out though.”
“What about us?” His face swathed in bandages, the infantryman found it hard to speak.
“You can’t move that head wound case, and you’re not in any state for fighting. Better if the four of you hang on here, until an ambulance can get through. There’s a police team following us, they’ll take care of things. Sit tight, you’ve done all you can.”
“Yeah, but who have we been fighting?” His face becoming swollen, the infantryman was hardly able to articulate.
“If you don’t know, then sure as hell I don’t.” As they left the building, Revell waved on a squad of police who were cautiously approaching. From a slow, painstaking pace, hugging a wall in single file, bent almost double, they immediately straightened up and began to bunch as they walked at a normal speed.
A spent bullet cracking a window nearby restored them quickly to their former caution.
Revell led the squad a good way up the road before they broke in through the rear of a building and, with extreme caution, out through its front.
Crossing the road drew no fire, and they began to edge towards the department store. At the far end of the street, safely out of any likely line of fire, several more police stood anxiously waiting for the moment when they could dash to the entrance of the shelter.
As they passed its dark opening, Revell could hear crying and swearing from below, and what he thought might be a sharp smack. That was followed by violent shouting, and the sounds of what could be a fight. Two bodies lay just outside the entrance. That of an elderly man bore no trace of a wound. Beside his was that of a young woman. Her wrists had been slashed and her flesh had a pallid hue. Both looked as if they had been pushed out.
“Suicide and heart attack case most likely.” Hyde had also heard the noises. “Can’t blame them for chucking these two out. Bad enough down there without sharing the accommodations with the dead.”
The smell of oil and gasoline was strong in the street. Most of the vehicles’ fuel tanks had been punctured, and the gutters ran with the mixture.
“One tracer in this lot and the whole road would have gone up.” Dooley had come forward at the major’s beckoning.
“The front door is still in one piece.” Revell had had a quick look at the store’s entrance. Set slightly back from the sidewalk, it had survived the blitz of bullets. “If we use a grenade, we might ignite this mess. Reckon you can take it out with a shoulder charge?”
“I’ll give it a try. Need a bit of a run up though, Major.” With slow deliberation, Dooley paced out his run, turned, and charged.
His collision with the stout teak frames made all the plate glass windows vibrate. The glass in the doors didn’t break, but the double lock couldn’t survive the impact, and the doors burst open inwards.
Dooley tumbled headlong into the store, rolling into painful contact with a counter. A shower of lipsticks and other cosmetics came down on top of him. By the time he’d brushed them aside, the others had already dived in past him.
It was too huge a place for them to search really thoroughly, but by the time they returned to the ground floor, they could be fairly certain that none of the mysterious machine gunners remained.
On the third floor they found heaps of empty cartridge cases and evidence of blood. There was more on a stairway, and by an open fire exit out onto a loading bay.
“So what do we do, Sarge.” Dooley nursed his sore shoulder. “Track them down?”