When he left the vehicle Dooley moved to its front plate, took ten paces forward and then settled down on one knee. He used his infrared sight to make the first sweep and then when that showed nothing more than patches of background heat from closed down machinery, resorted to plain eyesight. A long way off there was a small square of white light that had to be the exit. There were no obstructions between it and their location. He hoped it stayed that way. Anything blocking the distant opening was almost certainly going to be a Soviet foot patrol or reconnaissance vehicle.
To his left, using a concrete pillar for partial cover, Andrea was snacking off a chocolate bar. To his right Clarence was methodically scanning the segment of the perimeter that was his responsibility. He would do it with dedication and mathematical precision until the order to re-board came.
There were so many pressures on a man in this war. From its fifth day Dooley had been involved in the bitterest of the fighting. There had been the long and hard fought retreats with every day seeming it would be his last. Then the first wound, and a day after his return to combat, the second. Six weeks in all when he could surely have wrangled some way out of the front line, but it just wasn’t his way. Seven years of peace time soldiering had prepared him for action and now he was addicted to it. The Zone, as the newspapers called the ugly no-mans-land that was forming across Europe was, if not a home to him, where he wanted to be. No more Saturday night aggravation in garrison towns from hoodies, no more having to take their crap or in the event of his resorting to retaliation facing charges. Now if scum like that got in his way he took them out, and it felt good to be able to do it, to not have the weight of politically correct legislation bearing down on him.
Only a week back, in London, two Peace Campaign people had been beaten severely when they tried to noisily disrupt a memorial service for British dead in the war. Sometimes it seemed like things were moving in the right way.
People, civilian and military, were starting to do things their own way. Like the weapon he carried. The troops had been barred from using non-standard issue arms but he kept his Israeli-made machine pistol. Hard to believe that other units were still being issued with reworked versions of the British SA80 assault rifle. From its instant ignition tracer that marked the precise spot from which you were firing to its inability to take out an enemy behind the flimsiest of cover it was a multi-million pound disaster. So he hung on to the Uzi that had cost him two months wages and thought every penny of it well spent. Hidden during any inspection by senior officers, he had no intention of parting with it.
From the depths of the subterranean labyrinth emerged a group of civilians. Ten in all, they looked mostly frightened and utterly bewildered. Their clothes, doubtless recently smart and respectable were now crumpled, slept in, dirt stained. When they approached the open rear door of the APC it was Clarence who raised the long barrelled Barrett sniper rifle and motioned for them to advance no further.
“No.” His voice sounded echoingly loud in the bare concrete cavern. He repeated it in German, with a warning to come no closer. How it sounded though was not how he felt. There were so many groups like this, desperate for help, getting used to rejection and with the constant fear it would be a Russian patrol or vehicle crew they would encounter.
“We have no food to give you. Keep heading west.” Oh crap, how pathetic. Dooley knew these civilians had never in the lives had to think about heading east, or south or west. Everything had been ordered, neatly controlled. There had been no roads that lead to danger or to safety. It was a choice that would never have occurred to them. All had been safe. Now they were frightened, hungry, likely lost.
“Major!” Calling for the officer, there was nothing else he could do.
Revell saw the situation as soon as he emerged from the APC. He reached back to an interior locker. “Give them this. Show them the compass.”
Ripping open the small package Clarence handed most of the contents to the female leader of the group. It occurred to him how strange it was that so often the one in charge of such groups was a mature female. Separately he handed her the small and toy-like compass. It would not have looked out of place spilling from a cheap box of Christmas crackers.
With many millions of civilians trapped by the Soviet advance it would have been impossible for the swiftly moving NATO troops to have carried and distributed relevant maps. And so this sad package had been devised. Blocks of high nutrition chocolate, a toy-like compass and a five page Russian /German phrase book.
She accepted the package, handing most of its contents to an elderly man, turning the plastic device over in dirt-engrained hands that still displayed the remnants of expensive nail art. Gesturing past Revell, to the APC’s interior she reached behind her and pulled one of the children forward. She spoke in German first and then in near perfect English.
“If you cannot take all of us, please take the children. We were on a bus…a Russian helicopter fired at us and our driver was killed. He was the only one who knew the city. We have had to walk slowly because of the children…” she hesitated, dropping her voice so as no to be heard by the three pensioners in her group who appeared to be taking no interest in the discussion. They just stood, apathetically awaiting what ever the outcome should be. “Please, at least take them, take the children…”
Her face, though dirt streaked was attractive. The tracks of tears showed but they were smudged, as though from some one she had held, giving comfort, rather than her own. She had at least managed to comb her jet-black shoulder length hair and brushed dirt and dust from her clothes.
Revell couldn’t determine her age, her soft round face was full enough to let no lines impinge on it but it didn’t betray any suggestion of overweight. The figure beneath her oversize and obviously looted ski-jacket was full and very feminine. He marvelled at the impression of strength and determination she exuded. At any time, striking out on her own, she could likely have made it to safety but she had settled for trying to help this sad collection of refugees. The city must be full of groups like this, larger, smaller…all trying desperately to get to the NATO side of the battlefield. And one by one they would be minced by the Soviet war machine.
The firm shake of the head that was all the Major made by way of reply was accepted without further argument.
“Can you at least tell us the direction to take.” From a pocket in the bulky coat she produced a good map of the city. Obviously she had been sensible in raiding a stationers.
Placing the compass on the map Revell showed her how to use it and gave her the general direction that should be safest. He could do no more.
Gathering a child with her free hand she led the pathetic group away, towards the ramp by which the hovercraft had entered.
“They won’t last five minutes out there.” Clarence didn’t turn to see them go. Experience told him what a sad picture they would make, framed by the opening.