Civilian Slaughter (15 page)

Revell experienced quiet amazement. It was the first time, ever, that he had heard Ol’ Foul Mouth get through a sentence without injecting an obscenity.

“And what damned good did he think that would do?” Grabbing a handful of the reports and photographs, the general waved them. “Have you seen these?”

“I have examined them, General. I can understand how Major Revell ...”

“You understand, horseshit.”
Lippincott expanded visibly as he changed colour. “Would the general like to elaborate.”

Now pacing the floor behind his desk, the general appeared to have already forgotten what he'd said in anger. He was so worked up that his breath was coming in snorts. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly. He stopped behind his chair, put his hands on the back of it and looked hard at them.

“When I finish here I've got to go to a meeting to discuss this whole damned messy business. Among other things they'll want to know how a lowly major could be able to put together an intelligence file inches thick inside of twelve hours. And they're especially going to want to find out how he commandeered those resources, after he'd been told to keep his damned nose out of the matter.”

Picking up a battered briefcase, the general began to cram the assorted documents into it. “To keep the lid on this we've had to round up all your fellow conspirators. If we hadn't moved fast when we found what was going on, by now every cook and bottle washer in the Zone would be in on it. You can't begin to imagine how much time and effort it has taken.” With an effort the general brought his temper under control.

“You think you've been smart, Major. I'll bet you've a duplicate set tucked away somewhere. Well, I'm not about to be blackmailed. I swear to you that the best you can hope for from now on is to remain a major until you're the oldest one in any army in the Zone. Get out.”

Revell saluted, and went to reach for the door. He was pulled up by another outburst.

“If the games you've been playing make half the trouble for me that I'm expecting, then I'll make sure you go in the shit with me. And you know what? When we're both buried in it, I'll be standing on your head.”

The outer room was spartanly furnished, with a selection of odd chairs. It looked like a doctor's waiting room belonging to a poor practice in a poorer area. Once it must have been the principal bedroom of the big old house that was the HQ. Fancy plasterwork decorated the ceiling, and the threadbare carpet had once been a good one.

There was one other person in there, a captain who looked much too old for his rank, and ill at ease in his crumpled uniform. Revell didn't recognize the insignia he wore.

“Seems to be a lot of shouting in there. But then I've found there's a lot of that in the army. My name's Porter. I suppose I should say 'captain' first, but I can't get used to it.”

At first glance Revell had summed the officer up as a civilian in uniform. He didn't feel much like making small talk, but anything was better than having to listen to the muted, unintelligible bellowing coming from next door.

“Revell. Not sure what rank I should say. Not sure what it'll be tomorrow.” “Oh, I see. All that racket is aimed directly, or presently indirectly, at you. What have you done, anything absolutely outrageous?”

“What branch are you with? I don't recognize the badge.” “Hardly surprising. I shouldn't think there are many of us. I'm with the historical section of the War Department. We are supposed to trot about the battlefields recording events for posterity. Only I shouldn't be doing it. That's why I was hoping to see the general.”

“What should you be doing?” The scruffy officer amused Revell, and he could do with light relief. Never before had he ever seen a soldier so obviously lacking any shadow of a martial spirit.

“Actually, until I was drafted,” Porter winced as another indistinct blast of noise came through the wall, “I was a school teacher.”

“History?”
“Among everything else, certainly, but I'm no historian. And I can't go trekking across battlefields interviewing marines and soldiers. I don't know where to start. Apart from anything else, I'm too old. It's a task that needs a younger, fitter man. Now if I had been sent out here as a reporter...”

A look of dreamy bliss came over the captain's placid features. “That's what I always wanted to be. I could see myself, my own desk at the Tribune or the Post, getting all the scoops. Actually I do manage a little in that way. I send in local stories to our county paper. Some get into print. Rewritten usually of course, but now and again I get a by-line.”

In the adjoining room the shouting appeared to have reached and then passed the crisis point. The door burst open and the general, red in the face, stamped past Revell and the captain without giving either a glance. Half rising from his seat, Porter couldn't summon the courage to call after him, and slumped back down.

“Major Revell!”
Anticipating the colonel's summons, Revell had already started for the office. He turned back to Porter. The man seemed entirely crushed, drained. “Keep trying. Today is just a bad day. Perhaps you'll get in the press corps yet.”

“I shan't hold my breath. I would like to think it could happen, but do you know, I truly believe that if a scoop... if a scoop sat in the same room, I wouldn't recognize it.”

“Perhaps you're right.” Walking into the office, Revell pulled the door shut behind him, and faced the colonel.

TWENTY
“Did you keep a duplicate set?”
Lippincott had plunked himself in the general's swivel chair. Now he helped himself to a substantial pinch of the general's pipe tobacco. He sniffed the mixture, grunted disparagingly and put it back in its stained leather pouch.

He idly opened each desk drawer in turn as he spoke. “Or is there more than one lot of copies?”

“There is another complete record, including an expertly shot three hour video.” “Clever bastard, aren't you. I suppose if we send the MPs back they won't find anything.”

“Can't be sure, I would think it highly unlikely.” In a sliding tray immediately below the rear of the desk top, Lippincott found a tray of assorted pencil stubs.

“Look at this. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he looks after his pencils. Not a decent point on any of them. Very sloppy.”

Rummaging at the back of the tray Lippincott finally found a fresh pencil. “Good, 2H. I find HB's have no flavour.”

“So what happens now. Do I go back to my combat company?” “Not so fast, Major. At this precise moment you are getting a severe reprimand.” Looking around, Lippincott finally spat a sliver of gold letter embossed green paint into a waste-paper basket. “Consider yourself fucking lucky. Only one thing preventing them from putting you under close arrest, prior to a full court martial and the inevitable kicking of your ass all the way to the stockade.”

“The copies?”
“No, not your shitty copies. Having those is what nearly sank you for good. That was too tricky for the general to stomach. Too damned clever by half. What saved your miserable bacon was a memo from the eggheads in public relations.”

“They've never done anything helpful or useful before. Who woke them up, somebody offering free drinks?”

“Don't despise them, Major. It's those drunken lard asses who pulled you out of the fire. Almost out, that is. They have to think ahead, anticipate, you might say. Their thinking is that, despite all our efforts, this business might just, eventually, make the papers. We're fighting tooth and nail to put a block on that, but... Well, how's it going to look if the hero who uncovered the story has been busted and is doing ten.”

Sick of the whole business, with its double talk and the double standards that went with it, Revell simply wanted to get back to his company. After all this, the Zone appeared almost an attractive alternative.

“So everything goes back to normal. Like nothing has happened.”

“That's it, business as usual.” Pulling a face, Lippincott threw the half-eaten pencil into the basket. “Tastes like chipboard. Can't even requisition himself decent pencils. Yeah, as long as we can keep the lid on the story, there's no harm done.”

“Except to a couple of thousand West German civvies and their kids. The lid was put on them all right.”

“Major, you can be a real tit. You think you're the only one with feelings. I feel for them, even me, Ol’ Foul Mouth. In private the general does as well. He's as mad about it as you and me. Maybe more, because he never gets out on the ground, knows he'll never be able to throttle the fuckers with his bare hands as he'd like to. He has to be part of the cover-up operation, so he takes it out on us. Tough for us, but perfectly natural, you have to agree.”

“So the KGB get away with another one. Only this time we help them get away with it.”

“Hand me my attaché case will you?” Lippincott accepted it, and delved inside. From it he extracted a large thermos flask, a couple of Mars bars and a large bundle of pencils. He piled them all on the desk top. “Here it is.”

Pulling out a thick file, he tossed it to Revell. “It's not what you would call light reading. Not in any sense of the word.”

Opening it, Revell read the title page to himself. “This a complete intelligence summary on the 717th. Why give me it, rubbing salt in the wounds?”

“Hardly, and you take good care of that, soon as you've finished reading it in fact.” Pushing the items back into the case, Lippincott kept the pencils until last, popping two into his pocket.

“That was put together for me by a friendly, if rather matronly type, in records. She has the hots for me. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but it's not just you glamorous types who can get your end away. You'll be grateful for the likes of her if you get turned into a one-armed wonder like me.” Lippincott had seen Revell's quiet smile. “Just don't you go getting sloppy when you dispose of that. It wouldn't be so difficult to trace. The old photocopier in the filing room produces blemishes as distinctive as any fingerprint.”

“So why are you taking the risk.” While he listened Revell couldn't resist flicking over the pages in his lap. From that brief survey it appeared a mine of information.

“Because I get this gut feeling when you're up to something. I reckon, regardless of the consequences, you and your crazy outfit are going to hit the 717th. For you to stand half a chance of pulling it off, cleanly, you need all the assistance you can get. This is the best I can do, toward avoiding being pulled down with you if it all goes wrong. Can you use it?”

“There's certainly good stuff in here. Strengths, equipment scales; even profiles on their CO and his officers.”

“You are going to raid them, aren't you?” Until that precise moment, Revell had not made up his mind. He looked directly at the colonel. “Yes.” There was nothing to be gained by a denial.

“Shit, you haven't even got the decency to be evasive, have you. No wonder those politicians hated you. I just hope to God you know what you're doing. Screw up this truce and you'll be responsible for so many deaths that the best efforts by the KGB are going to look like chicken shit. That'll make you no better than one of them. You want that label, that sort of responsibility?”

“I have to accept it. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to do something.”

“You try, and screw up, and you won't want to live with yourself.” “I know that.” Just saying the words made Revell feel cold and hollow inside. Even now he was still trying hard to justify, to himself, what he was about to do. “Once the truce breaks though, that bunch of Warpac child killers could end up anywhere. Or the unit might be broken up to make reinforcements. This will be the only chance.”

Starting on a fresh pencil, Lippincott stayed quiet and sunk in thought for a while. “I can't back you on this, you know that. The strings that would need pulling to protect you, if you survive, are way out of my reach. Shit, I wish I were going with you. How many... no, don't tell me. What I don't know I can't damned well worry over. Go on, get out before I pull back that file, come back to my senses and blow the whistle on you.”

Revell hadn't expected it, but the colonel replied to his salute. He was almost out the door when Lippincott called after him.

“That body bag in my chopper. I thought my pilot was doing a spot of smuggling, had a look inside. Was that the guy who showed up on the aerial shot?”

Revell turned and nodded.
“Figures. You were bringing a body home. Nice touch. Maybe your outfit ain't all bad.”

“They're what the Zone has made them.” Closing the door, Revell went out through the waiting room. Captain Porter was still there, but didn't notice the major. He was leaned back on his chair, a faint smile on his face, in a trance.

He was a few thousand miles away, at a features desk, handling one great scoop after another. His imagination was filled with front pages, headlines and by-lines, but most of all with scoops. Not that he would have recognized one if it had been in the same room.

TWENTY ONE
In precisely four hours they would commence phase two. Twenty minutes after that, they would be irretrievably committed. Until that moment they could still abort. They could hope to hook back the advance elements without being detected, and prevent an incident.

For the hundredth time Revell compared the sand-table model with the photographs supplied by the Royal Artillery's RPV. The remotely piloted miniature helicopter's cameras had done a beautiful job. The low-high-low flight profile appeared to have got it over the enemy position without being noticed. From a thousand feet, the ten frames it had taken had encompassed the whole area.

On the table, held in place by impaling twigs, scraps of paper marked the positions of buildings. The farm was an old one, with a mix of half timbered and metal clad structures. Work already begun indicated that it would eventually become a formidable defensive position. And that work was proceeding at a rapid pace.

If the work of fortifying it had only begun a few days previously, and evidence such as the obviously freshly turned earth indicated that was the case, then in a week or less it would have become virtually impregnable to all but a full-scale assault.