‘What the fuck are they doing?’ Again Burke attempted to push past. ‘All I want to do is get in there and sort them out…’
‘Stay calm. Lose your temper and you’ll make mistakes.’ It was taking an effort for Revell to keep himself under control, and was harder still when another scream, of shorter duration this time, came from someone in the last extreme of agony.
From that he knew they had to be facing the elite Russian Spetsnaz troops. Coming in with no knowledge of the underground layout, and-quickly disoriented by the blinding smoke and dust, they must have blundered into this dead end, to be trapped by his and Burke’s fast arrival on the scene.
Like the hate-indoctrinated automatons they were, even at the moment when they should have been scheming to survive, the Spetsnaz had turned on helpless victims, perhaps seeking confidence by falling back on the skills in which they were most practiced.
Another random burst from an AK flashed past the door. Revell knew the Russians were carrying on a reconnaissance by fire, probing to see what the opposition would be like when they broke out. The moment they decided to do that, they would slaughter their hostages, except perhaps for one or two they might utilize as human shields, a standard Spetsnaz tactic.
At present, while they were sorting themselves out, they had most likely only one man on guard. He would probably be crouched low by the door, taking full advantage of any cover. Likely he’d built himself a rough barricade of boxes that were within his reach. He’d present a small enough target in perfect visibility; the chances of putting him down with a first-round disabling shot in these conditions was nil.
Carefully lobbed, a grenade might catch him, but fragments tearing through the open door would be indiscriminate killers. The enemy held all the cards. They daren’t delay any longer.
Another screeching howl of suffering made up Revell’s mind for him. For the sheath at his belt he withdrew his heavy-bladed fighting knife. In all the war so far it had done nothing more bloody than hack horsemeat steaks. Setting aside his shotgun, he replaced it with his Browning pistol. Weighing both, he settled for the knife in his right hand.
‘Put that grenade, near as you can, just short of the next doorway. When it goes off we go in, fast.’
Burke moved to the door. Sweat poured from him, but the dust-covered grenade stayed dry in his tight grasp. Just what the fuck was he doing here? He’d never pushed himself forward like this before. Shit, he was a combat driver; this wasn’t his sort of work. But there hadn’t been anyone special in his life before, not until a few hours ago.
There was the faint sound of a girl crying, and a harsh command in Russian was followed by the report of a stinging slap.
Without another thought he swung ‘round the doorpost, tossed the grenade and ducked back into cover.
A shout of alarm was smothered, and his ears punished, by the explosion in the confines of the tunnel. Grabbing his bayonet from his side he charged blindly into the unknown.
TWENTY TWO
The Russian in the doorway was sagging against the tumbled cases of his barricade. As Burke kicked out at his face he saw the bottom jaw was gone, but still didn’t pull the blow.
A clatter of fire from the entrance gave him the direction he wanted and he fired three fast soft-nosed bullets toward the muzzle flash.
Searing pain in his side told him he’d been hit, but he ran on and thrust the bayonet to the hilt in a figure that was lunging at him.
The blade stuck, caught between the bottom ribs, and he fired with the pistol barrel touching his victim’s stomach. His wrist jarred at the recoil, but the impact did the trick, throwing the impaled man back. The blade came free with a sucking sound.
Shouts, screams and the ear-splitting reports of gunfire blared through the dimly lit cellar. Revell snapped a single shot into the face of a Russian who swung a rifle butt at him, side-stepped the falling body and bumped into a blood-covered form lashed to a chair. Its head lolled, and then the whole body bucked as bullets intended for Revell struck it instead.
He fired twice at a slab-faced Slav wrestling to clear a blockage in his wire-stocked AK, and missed. There was a snarl of triumph from the Russian as he succeeded and brought the weapon up, and then a look of blank incomprehension as a scalpel was skewered into the side of his neck.
On tiptoe to inflict the wound, Karen was thrown aside as the man lashed out, caught off balance. His rifle swivelled in her direction and then a blood-smeared bayonet sliced across his throat.
Reeling, bewildered, he turned to counter the new danger. The bayonet struck a second time, thrust at a sharp upward angle just below his ear.
Following the body down, Burke straddled it, took the hilt of the weapon in both hands and plunged it repeatedly into the Russian chest, each time lifting his hands as high as he could. He stopped only when he was exhausted, long after the man was dead.
Karen helped Burke to his feet and fussed over the blood that seeped through a tear in his jacket, making it cling to him as the material became soaked. He gently held her hands away and went to the figure in the chair.
Using a wad of dressing, he applied pressure to the hideous wound across the side of Boris’s face. Accepting a roll of broad bandage from Karen, he wrapped it around their radioman’s head, feeling the bulk of the dressing subside as it filled the empty eye socket.
Hauling himself to his feet, Sampson tentatively felt the large contusion at the base of the back of his neck. He knuckled his eyes to clear them of double vision. Gathering himself to take over from Burke, opening Boris’s jacket and cutting away his undershirt to examine the tight cluster of exit wounds below his left shoulder. ‘They grabbed him on the way in. The stupid little guy was so scared he called out in his own language. Those animals started on him without warning. I tried to stop them and they must have swiped me a hard one from behind. They weren’t even questioning him. It was like it was normal practice, just started cutting him.’
There was a rattle of M60 fire from the corridor. Revell looked around the room. The smoke and dust were clearing. It looked like a charnel house. One of the attackers was still moving, and he crushed his boot down hard on a hand that was too near a discarded automatic for comfort. Looking up at him, the Russian tried to spit, but succeeded only in dribbling. It was an effort that proved fatal. Somewhere inside him a blood vessel ruptured and filled his throat to drown him.
The scene in the room was overwhelming. Several of the wounded had been trampled or hit by fragments or ricochets.
‘I’ll send you some help.’ Revell got no reply. ‘Old William and some other wounded are in the passageway.’
‘Okay.’ Sampson set upright a drip that had been knocked over, and hauled the corpse of a Spetsnaz off the girl with the head wound. ‘I’ll be there in a moment. Hell and shit! I thought I’d seen everything in the Zone, but this is just plain horrible. Why the hell do we go on doing this?’
‘To stay alive.’ Revell had seen enough; he started to leave.
‘You call this living?’ Sampson picked up the body of a girl. The side of her head had been blown away and white brain matter dripped from her shattered skull. ‘This is fucking butchery.’
Revell had no reply. On his way out he checked Dooley. Old William sat beside him, cradling an M16 and grinning a toothless grin. He made his customary nod at the major.
‘Added a few more to the collection.’ Dooley patted the M60. ‘Three more and I can send them off and get a set of storage jars.’
There were at least eight bodies lying half inside the postern doorway. Wisps of smoke rose from tracer lodged in them.
Mounting the cellar steps, Revell crossed the ground floor, past the row of dead whose numbers would shortly be swollen. Already those killed by the blast were being hauled aside to join them. Andrea was helping, using one hand.