‘Hey Sarge, I can’t do that, I ain’t fit for duty.’ Ripper illustrated his argument by flexing his shoulder, ceasing abruptly when he realized he wasn’t creating the impression he’d wanted to.
Her temperature still soaring, Sherry Kane was unable even to react to the terrible sight of the sergeant’s ghastly appearance. The fever that racked and shook her deprived her even of the strength to exhibit fear. She tried to talk to the other soldier, the young American, but couldn’t. On his face was a curious expression as he stared at her half naked body, it was something she’d not seen any friend or client of hers display in a long time, it was embarrassment.
‘Here, Dooley, can you give me a hand, I got to move her.’
‘So move her.’
‘I can’t, not like this. It just ain’t decent.’
‘Then pull her fucking knickers up.’
Like the others, Dooley had taken a good look at her, but he’d noticed her fever brightened dark rimmed eyes and perspiration smeared make-up as much as her semi-nakedness. ‘All that gabbing you do about the goings-on in those backwoods of yours, I wouldn’t have thought this would have bothered you, or are you going to tell me you only know how to pull them down.’ He kept his thick gloves on and it made the task of making her decent that much more difficult. The tight fit of the fabric to her body didn’t help and he had to keep turning her in order to inch the jeans over her wide thighs a fraction at a time.
‘Shit, it weren’t ’til I were going on for eighteen, when I met some city girls, that I even knew there were such things as underclothes. Back home I shoved my fingers and my tool up a load of skirts, but the only thing I’d ever found in my way was an occasional hand. It’s just that it don’t seem right touching her ‘til we been introduced. Anyhow, I can see you ain’t no gentlemen, keeping your gloves on.’
‘You show me a book of etiquette where it says I should take them off to do this and I’ll think about it, until then I’m keeping them on.’
‘Very sensible.’ Burke had found an excuse to come and oversee the operation. ‘I can feel the heat coming off her from here. Gloves might not stop you catching something, but every little precaution helps. You know, cleaned up, with some of that muck off her face and with about twenty pounds shed off her arse and hips, she’d be quite nice, not special but nice.’
Sherry heard, and the tears that ran down her streaked face mingled with beads of perspiration and went unnoticed.
The sweep down the centre aisle was led by Clarence, and as he came level with the lectern, he heard a noise from a dark corner beyond the choir stalls. Motioning the others to hold back he crept silently forward until he could see all but a small angle of the space.
High overhead there was a ragged bordered hole in the church roof. Bulks of timber and fragments of slate littered the floor below it and for some distance around. Taking another step it was impossible to avoid the shattered pieces and they grated beneath the sniper’s boot.
It was not just the appalling smell of excreta that made him want to be out of there. Every breath he took brought also the oppressive scent of decay that pervaded the whole place, filling it and him to overflowing. ‘Come out. I haven’t the patience to wait long.’
There was no response, but Clarence heard the noise again, like that of an animal shuffling to compress itself into the smallest possible space.
Without looking he double checked that a round was chambered in the Enfield, and took the pace that would bring the whole of the poorly lit area into his field of vision. As he did a shaft of light streamed through the gaping roof and illuminated it graphically.
Stubble darkened Webb’s chin and dust and cobwebs smothered the rest of his person. Concealment no longer possible, he stood and adopting a manner of haughty contempt, brushed himself. ‘I suppose it is your intention to kill me.’ He could not suppress the catch in his voice that betrayed his true emotional state. Fear showed also in his trembling hands, and he stuck them deep into his pockets to hide them.
‘A tempting idea, better not mention it too often, there’s others in the squad who might be unable to resist it.’
Revell came forward, and noticed close by the remains of a human skeleton. A print dress that lay in mouldy folds over the bones and a nearby bucket and mop marked it as that of a cleaner. The skull had been virtually destroyed by a smashing blow, and the weapon lay nearby.
The big metallic cylinder had burst apart on striking the unyielding surface of the floor. Revell pointed it out to the civilian. ‘Have you seen what you’ve been sharing your hidey-hole with?’
‘Of course. Another of your filthy American chemical weapons. You can’t frighten me with it, it has been there a long time, the contents will be inert by now.’
‘When you commie lovers get it wrong, you certainly do it in the biggest possible way.’ Taking up the mop, Revell ran it along the side of the crushed cylinder. ‘We must have some pretty smart armourers, seeing as how they’d have to load munitions where all the handling instructions are stencilled on in Russian.’
‘A trick, to put the blame elsewhere.’
‘Well if a fairy story like that gives you peace of mind, then you think that. I suppose there’s no way I can make you believe that’s not a US chemical weapon?’
‘That’s correct, none at all.’ Webb succeeded in injecting sneering condescension into his words, but even to him it was not entirely convincing.
‘Pity. I thought I might have been doing you a favour by telling you I’ve seen one of those before, not as big though. It’s a free fall munition the Russians developed for the Vietnamese to use in Cambodia, and used themselves in Afghanistan. They’re supposed to make a retarded fall and scatter their contents at a predetermined altitude as they come down. Looks like the ‘chute failed on this one and the dispersal mechanism was activated.’
‘So? Of what interest can this be to me.’ There was a tight dryness in Webb’s throat, and something of his affected composure was evaporating.
‘Like I said, it’s not a chemical weapon. It’s actually designed to deliver lots and lots of nasty little beasties called bacteria. From them you can get any one of a hundred very unpleasant diseases, most of which you haven’t even heard of, and certainly wouldn’t like to contract. We call them plague bombs.’
‘I demand that you treat me… for… for whatever I may have caught… immediately.’
‘Of course we will, soon as we get back. Have to wait and see what you develop before we can start pumping anything into you.’
There was no way that Revell was going to tell the terrified man that in all probability either dehydration or ultra-violet light from the sun had rendered the biological agent harmless, and that the cleaner had been its first and last victim. He couldn’t touch the civilian, but he could terrify him and let him inflict the torment of abject fear upon himself at least for a while.
Revell was a realist. He knew there would be no jail sentence for Webb or such of the others as should survive, when they finally got back to England or the States. Most likely Webb would be allowed to go quietly into early retirement, kept in comfort by an inflation proofed state pension. None of this would ever surface in the press. The many agents of influence the communists still had deeply implanted in the British civil service would see to that. Neat cover stories would be furnished to explain away the death of the others, under the guiding hand of KGB controllers the whole affair would be smoothed over and hidden away forever.
As a pale faced Webb was herded toward the entrance, Revell was tempted into serious consideration of Andrea’s solution to any unsatisfactory situation. For her life was much more simple. She saw everything as either good or bad, and what she thought of as bad she swept away in a hail of automatic fire. But he had his orders, and knew that the extent of the retribution he could inflict on the traitor was to let him hold for as long as possible the mistaken belief that he had been contaminated.