In places a circle of bodies surrounded a crater like petals around a flower, mown down by devices that on being triggered had bounced from the ground to waist or head height and unleashed a storm of ball bearings.
Gradually the mass of people had tended southwards, crossing an autobahn that made a wide sweep around the built up area. Bridge they crossed or passed under showed no evidence of having been prepared for destruction. Such West German and American soldiers as they saw in the distance melted away even before they were attacked, retreating rather than open fire on woman and children.
Once through the NATO front line, within a short distance the landscape miraculously returned to normal with industrial areas and sprawling breweries alternating with modern housing. There were some areas of traditional half-timbered buildings, where outlying villages had been swallowed by the expanded suburban development.
The Russian commanders had anticipated a problem and a steady stream of missiles fell on and around the breweries. Most were already well alight and huge vats of copper and stainless steel were exposed by the collapse of the walls around them. Giant fountains of casks and bottles flew in to the air and the air was saturated with the heady smell of hops and malt.
The civilians were being pulled down off the APCs and replaced by Soviet troops. Infantry swarmed through side streets and industrial areas seeking out vehicles to confiscate and piling aboard them in numbers far exceeding anything the manufacturers had intended. A whole battalion found space aboard several luxurious six wheeled buses. NCOs punched out Perspex roof panels to mount anti-aircraft machine guns and grenade launchers.
Where they thought they were no longer being watched, refugees made a break for it. Few had the strength or endurance to go far and most did no more than duck out of sight and hide. For some who chose to hide in stores it was a terrible mistake. There were few establishments still open this close to the front and the Russian officers threw grenades in to most, suspecting them of stocking beers and spirits. Even so there was sufficient alcohol found for many of the marauding troops to get blind drunk in next to no time. Some were amongst those who died in the stores, having got their ahead of the officers and hidden when they heard them approaching. They found themselves concealed behind the same stacks of cartons and display-topped counters as refugees. Phosphorus bombs turned the interiors in to blazing pyres, the conflagrations fed by the bursting bottles of spirits. Chances to escape were rare.
Among the swarming four wheeled armoured vehicles were some tracked carriers. Behind their armoured cabs their flat load decks sported multi-barrelled anti-aircraft cannons. A single NATO helicopter gunship that approached was greeted with streams of tracer and rocket-propelled grenades from among the mass of infantry.
Standing off at a distance beyond the slant range of the Russians weapons the chopper launched stubby bodied missiles. None failed to find targets among the close packed enemy armour. Massive warheads reduced any vehicle they struck to a blazing hulk. Pillars of black smoke rose straight up in to the morning sky.
Zucharnin had not been allowed to talk to anyone. He sat in a bare office with a three-man military police guard outside the door. The men of the Commandants Service were strict in their enforcement of the instructions Lieutenant General Grigori had given them. It never occurred to them to question what he ordered. All that concerned them was that they obeyed orders to the letter. There was risk enough just by this nebulous association. They were nervous, not wanting to take risks by appearing to show any concessions or favours to the prisoner. Each kept as close a watch upon the others as their high ranking captive.
Gregori had risked another signal, requesting further instructions. Just that and nothing more. If only the Kremlin would give him some task, anything, he could start to use it as a lever in to his ex-commanding officers position. All work in the Head Quarters had come to a stop. Nobody dared to move as much as a single sheet of paper. Any thing could be construed as aiding and abetting the traitor.
Apart from aiming a fierce glare at Grigori, Zucharnin had shown no reaction at the sudden turn of events. His arrest he had greeted by calmly lifting his arms so that his burnished holster could be removed. He had stayed still as his pockets were searched, displayed no emotion.
Gregori had watched the Generals arrest. Some how things were not going as he expected. Not that he had anticipated any great storm of wrath, display of histrionics. Zucharnin might bellow a lot but he never did it without cause. The shouting was always aimed at slow moving staff, at any incompetence. But still, something, some reaction was to be expected. And yet, nothing.
Gregori closed out his thoughts on the subject. That next communications from Moscow was all that mattered now. There were routine message coming in, but nothing from the phantom assault waves that Zucharnin had launched. He had discovered the white phone was exclusively for contact with them, but since the arrest there had been nothing. An attempt to use it to call out had been ineffective and now Gregori felt entirely cut off. He dare do nothing, show no initiative for fear of being stuck with the same label as Zucharnin. And so again he waited. All he could do was have the signallers check the links to Army HQ regularly. He did not dare test the line to Moscow Head Quarters, in case it should result in an accidental connection. He was not ready to talk to them yet. Indeed he hoped he would not have to, at any time.
The end of the jamming had been like having a blindfold renewed. The local commanders seemed to be at a loss to handle the situation but they were at least passing back an accurate assessment of what was going on. There appeared to be an obsession with casualty figures and it was impossible to give those with any degree of accuracy. The best estimates put the civilian casualties in the hundreds and those of the NATO defenders at not more than fifty.
Revell knew that both had to be woefully inaccurate. The refugees had left a trail of bodies that stretched back ten kilometres and many more were still being forced forward into the dangers of minefields and artillery fire from NATO units not yet appraised of the situation. The Russian breakout appeared to have commenced already but masses of refugees still milled about, being employed to protect the flanks of the Soviet thrust. Thousands, several thousands was a much more likely figure. As to the NATO dead and wounded. Revell was aware that it was very likely to be even less than the given figure. Most had fallen back before the first waves of the assault, not firing a shot when they knew what they were faced with.
The crew of the few emplaced armoured vehicles had surrendered quickly, unable to drive out of the hides that had been rapidly surrounded by the mix of enemy infantry and terrified civilians.
From the bell tower of an ornate Gothic style church Revell watched events through high-powered binoculars. Many of the civilians had managed to break away from the Russians and were now making their way in to the city. No relief organisation could have coped with such numbers in such a short space of time and Revell saw them breaking in to houses and stores, coming out with nothing more than blankets and bottled water. That found they wrapped themselves and sat in the road and drank and drank.
The light Soviet armour was fanning out, frequently visible at intersections, when two or three vehicles would be seen stopped and their officers visible, consulting over a map, obviously lost. Once he glimpsed a short column of heavy armour, self-propelled guns of enormous size. Trailing them closely had been tankers and ammunition trucks.