Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1400 UTC -2, 22nd November 1987

The Dietrich, North Atlantic

IT HAD BEEN six days since the end of the world.

The sky burned red. Vadim wasn’t sure if it was the result of all the crap the nuclear detonations had thrown up into the atmosphere, the ionisation, something to do with radiation, or another atmospheric effect, but it wasn’t the red of sunset. It looked deeply unnatural. The first time Vadim saw it, he’d wondered if he was just looking at everything through a filter of blood. Was he seeing the sky as the meat he craved so much?

It was still snowing black. It fell from the sky like ash, covering the ship. Vadim was heading aft past the containers, Mongol behind him. Two members of the squad were always on patrol, though it was busy work and they knew it. They also always made sure that someone was in the container to look after the weapons. The patrols were meant to keep the refugees cowed, but their greatest ally had been the rough crossing: most of the living had spent the previous five days hanging on to the ship for dear life and trying not to vomit on each other. It was difficult to stage a revolt when you were struggling to keep your meat and tinned fruit down.

Everyone was sick of meat and tinned fruit.

He had hoped that teaching them how to boil the impurities off the ice they had chipped out of the refrigerator containers would go some way towards improving relations; in retrospect, that had been naïve. He’d been instrumental in murdering their city and had helped kill their entire continent. It was difficult to make amends for that, even with clean water. His approach still silenced whispered conversations when he walked around the castle bridge.

They’d lost around twenty people. Some may have slipped on the icy decks and gone overboard, though he suspected most of them had been suicide. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He despised suicide as weakness and cowardice except in the most extreme circumstances, but suspected this brave new world qualified. He quietly investigated where Gulag had been whenever people went missing. On the other hand, he’d overheard a number of the refugees talking of Britain as some sort of Promised Land.

He suspected that they were going to be disappointed as well.

For the most part, the refugees had come together and cooperated with each other and the crew of the ship, but some had behaved with surprising entitlement and selfishness. He had largely left it to the refugees to police themselves, only allowing his people to get involved if it was going to turn nasty. What surprised him most was how little their behaviour seemed to take in the actual circumstances. He smiled grimly as they kicked their way through the icy slush. He suspected that in the USSR, the most selfish ones would have ended up as senior party members. Arseholes were arseholes the world over.

Most of the refugees had been dressed warmly enough for a cold November in Manhattan. They were going to struggle if the temperature kept dropping the way it had, however. That’s not your problem, he told himself. They’re on their own once you make Britain.

Gulag had surprised Vadim and the Fräulein by not doing anything particularly unpleasant beyond goading some of the refugees; assuming he wasn’t responsible for any of the disappearances. Of more worry was Skull. They had seen little of him over the past few days. He turned up for patrol, but he rarely spent time in the container, preferring the cab of the forward crane, where he’d made a sniper’s nest. Vadim had been putting off speaking to him about that. Part of the point of them all staying in the container was so they could keep an eye on each other, make sure they didn’t lose control of their appetites.

Vadim turned the wheel on the starboard hatch to the bridge castle. Mongol watched on, his peeled and stitched mouth giving him a permanent, obscene smile, but it seemed more and more like the big medic was sinking into despondency. This was understandable; there was little keeping Vadim going beyond loyalty, and fantasies about wrapping his corpse hands around Premier Varishnikov’s fleshy neck. Though deep down, he knew it was just that: a fantasy. The best he could hope for was that Varishnikov had died in a radioactive flash. If not, he would be buried deep in some luxurious bunker.

Vadim pulled the hatch open and stepped over the lip into a stinking miasma that even his dead nostrils couldn’t ignore. The worsening stench of unwashed humanity, constant vomit and overused head facilities almost blunted his appetite.

Almost.

Part of the corridor had been cleared and the Carlsson girl – Vadim was pretty sure she was called Serafina – was trying to play marbles with Maria’s daughter, Gloria, using ball bearings. Their mothers were standing a little further down the corridor, talking to each other. The girls looked up as Vadim and Mongol stepped in, closing the hatch behind them: Serafina blanched, but Gloria just watched them, expressionless. There was something about the child, Vadim decided. She had an old soul.

“Hello,” Mongol said, leaning forward. Gloria still didn’t move, but Serafina screamed, making her mother jump. The child scrambled away and wrapped herself around her mother’s legs.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Mrs Carlsson demanded. She was a handsome woman, Vadim thought, but the enforced voyage was not doing her any favours. Her features looked slack, there were bags under bloodshot eyes, and her clothes, which looked more suitable for a coffee morning than an ocean voyage, weren’t holding up too well either.

“I’m sorry, we were just—” Vadim started. She spat in his face.

“Anna!” Maria gasped. She had scooped Gloria up. Vadim stared at Mrs Carlsson, more surprised than angry.

Maria tried to hustle the other woman away, but she continued glaring at Vadim. “Anna, this is no good, you have to come away.” She succeeded in pushing Mrs Carlsson to the stairs on the port side of the bridge castle. When Mrs Carlsson had gone from view, Maria came back, making sure that she was between them and Gloria at all times.

“Thank you,” Vadim said, wiping the spit off his face.

“Don’t thank me, I’m not your friend. You killed everyone I ever knew, but you’re not going to take my daughter—”

“I wouldn’t—” Vadim started.

“You go near her and I will kill you. I don’t care who or what you are, understand me?”

“We weren’t—” Vadim started again, but she was walking away from him.

“I’m not a monster,” Mongol said. He sounded unsure, pathetic. And he was wrong. Of course they were monsters.

Laughter from the starboard stairwell; it sounded like wet gravel shifting. Vadim turned to look at Gulag, sitting halfway up the stairs.

“That was beautiful,” he said.

“What are you doing in here?” Vadim demanded. He was trying to keep the dead away from the living as much as possible. Gulag stood up and raised his hands in surrender, before coming down the stairs and leaving the bridge castle. Mongol was still staring after Mrs Carlsson.

VADIM HAD CLEANED the spit off his face in the bathroom and spent some time looking at his pale reflection in the mirror. There was little doubt he was a corpse now, just from the colouration. Some rigor seemed to be setting in; it wasn’t affecting his movement, but he was sure his face was becoming more rigid.

After the patrol with a very quiet Mongol, he had left Gulag annoying the Fräulein in the container. He’d put off talking to Skull for too long.

Despite the gloves he’d taken from the camping store, and his own cold flesh, he still felt the cold of the ladder’s icy rungs as he climbed up to the operator’s cab on the forward crane. The higher he got, the more he felt the rocking of the ship. The still slightly choppy sea reflected the blood red sky, far above.

Skull didn’t even look at him as he climbed into the cab. It was a bit cramped, but there was just about room for both of them. The sniper sat in the seat, the stock of his .303 resting on his thigh, pointing up, nearly touching the roof of the cab. He was scanning the horizon.

“A latter day crow’s nest?” Vadim asked, resting his back against the windscreen. Skull chuckled. “It’s like another planet. I keep on expecting to see some kind of exotic beast poke its head out of the water.”

Skull didn’t say anything. The silence stretched out enough to become uncomfortable.

“Skull, are you okay?”

Skull turned to look down at him. He looked different; beyond the obvious. Vadim was sure his eyes were darker, almost a black mass now. He didn’t like the hint of a smile on the sniper’s lips either.

“Should I be?” he asked.

“It’s a stupid question, I know. I guess I mean something specific; something – I don’t know – personal. You’re spending a lot of time up here.”

“Because I can’t trust myself,” Skull told him, his eyes back on the horizon. Somehow the red light seemed warm in here, despite the temperature.

“None of us can. That’s why we’re in the container. We can keep an eye on each other.”

“I wonder,” he said. “It didn’t help us in Eugene’s apartment. And I can’t help but think that the mindless dead operate in packs. Perhaps we reinforce that kind of behaviour in each other.”

Vadim gave this some thought. He had to admit that Skull had a point. He noticed a copy of the Koran atop the crane’s controls. He picked it up.

“Does this help?” Vadim asked.

“It is providing me with guidance, much of which I choose to ignore” – he lifted his rifle – “but little comfort.”

“Why no comfort?” he asked. Skull seemed to sag a little in the operator’s seat.

“Because I think Gulag may be right. That Yawmuddin, the Day of Judgement, has come and gone and I was found unworthy because of my service to the infidels. Perhaps we are a part of this new world and we should do as Gulag suggests and embrace it, embrace our punishment.”

“Infidels? You think we are ‘infidels’?” Vadim asked. He was starting to get a little angry.

“No, I think you are like me: a tool, a weapon. But swords can cut their wielders as well.”

Marx’s teaching notwithstanding, Vadim’s opinion was that other people’s religious beliefs were none of his business. What he was uncomfortable with was how Skull’s beliefs seemed to be influencing his interpretation of their predicament.

“I don’t want you to turn fundamentalist on me,” he told Skull.

Skull looked at him again. Vadim could not make out his expression. The sniper’s now-pale skin caught the red light.

“Fundamentalist? I think part of the point of many religions is to be a better person in service to your god. It’s sad how quickly that part seems to be forgotten.”

Vadim wasn’t sure he was getting the answers he wanted, or indeed any real answers.

“So how are you doing, up here on your own?” he finally asked.

“I still want to kill,” Skull answered. He had gone back to looking out to sea. Suddenly Vadim had an image of Skull sighting his rifle on members of the crew, the refugees, even the squad.

“Us or them?” Vadim asked.

“Which would be better, do you think?”

“I think I may be getting sentimental in my old age,” Vadim told him, “but I can’t help but think that they might need us.”

Skull gave this some thought.

“That’s not sentimentality, my old friend. That’s a guilty conscience.”

ONLY THE FRÄULEIN was in the container when Vadim returned.

“Where’s Gulag?” he asked. It was becoming a common refrain, though he had been better since their confrontation five days earlier. This was the first time since then that he hadn’t shown up for duty. Vadim knew the Muscovite was bored – they all were – but it was no excuse.

“Last seen drinking with some of the refugees,” the Fräulein said. She sounded less than pleased. Gulag was like a child pushing boundaries.

“Drinking? Can we even do that?” Vadim asked. They had taken no food or drink since they had changed… other than ‘the’ meat. The very idea of anything else repelled him. The others seemed to feel the same way. If their biology was effectively frozen, he couldn’t see how alcohol would affect them. The Fräulein just shrugged.

“Where’d he get it from?” Vadim asked, and the Fräulein shrugged again. It was a stupid question. Never underestimate the ability of a soldier, particularly a Russian one, to find alcohol, he thought. “Who’s he drinking with?”

“Some of the workers from the dock. The loudmouth from the meeting.”

“Leary?” he asked, and the Fräulein nodded. Vadim shook his head. He couldn’t see how Gulag could be drunk but he didn’t relish the idea of dealing with him if he was. They would probably need to lock him up somewhere until he sobered up.

“Mongol?” Vadim asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re supposed to be my—” he started.

“I was looking after the weapons,” she said, testily.

“Okay,” Vadim said. It wasn’t, but she was right, the ordinance couldn’t just be left hanging around. “I’ll go and get Skull to look after the weapons, and we can go and find the others.” He turned towards the door just as someone knocked on it. Vadim and the Fräulein looked at each other. Nobody ever really bothered them at this end of the ship. Vadim’s hand was inching towards his Stechkin.

“I don’t think they’d knock,” the Fräulein said. She was right, though she’d still picked up one of the G3s. Vadim opened the container door, one hand on his sidearm. Harris stood out in the black snow, looking very cold.

“Officer Harris,” Vadim said in English.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked. Vadim nodded and stepped outside. He didn’t think that the policeman would want to be stuck inside the container with the hungry dead.

“I’ll go and get Skull,” the Fräulein told him in Russian. Vadim nodded and moved out of her way. Harris was silent until he was sure she was out of earshot.

“What can I do for you?” Vadim asked. Harris turned round to look at him. Unlike many of the refugees, he did a good job of hiding any feelings of disgust, anger or fear when speaking to the squad.

“I was getting some fresh air,” he said. “It’s getting a bit much in there at the moment. Though it’s not much better out here. It’s like a summer day in Manhattan, when the smog’s heavy. It catches in your throat. Doesn’t make much sense when the weather’s this cold.” The police officer sounded like he was talking for the sake of it.

“It’s ash and dust in the atmosphere,” Vadim told him. “Is this a social call, then?”

Harris didn’t answer him.

“Are you afraid of something I might do, or of your fellow countrymen seeing you as a collaborator?”

“They asked me to come out here and speak to you,” he said.

“I see,” Vadim said. He heard the sounds of boots on cold metal, and frowned when he saw the Fräulein coming down the crane’s ladder alone. Harris opened his mouth to say something, but Vadim held up a hand.

“Skull’s gone,” the Fräulein told him in Russian, glancing at the police officer. It was probably just poor timing, Vadim told himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on. He wondered if Harris had been sent here to distract him.

“Gulag, the one with the tattoos—” Vadim started.

“The criminal?” Harris asked.

“Any idea where he is?”

“The last I saw of him, he was in the mess with Leary and some of the other longshoremen, drinking and making everybody uncomfortable,” Harris told them. “Everything okay?” The young man sounded utterly guileless, but then, Eugene had taken them in as well.

“Find the others and bring them back here,” Vadim told the Fräulein, again in Russian. “Tell Princess and New Boy they have the patrol. I’m sick of this.”

“The black man?” the Fräulein asked, tilting her head at Harris.

“I’ll deal with him,” he said, “I think I’ll be pretty safe.”

“Discipline problems?” Harris asked, after the Fräulein had left them.

“What can I do for you, Officer Harris?”

“I understand there was something of a misunderstanding with Mrs Carlsson earlier today.”

“If by misunderstanding you mean she spat in my face, then yes.”

“Look, she didn’t—” he started, but Vadim held his hand up.

“I understand her feelings. I’ve been spat on before, and worse.”

“Her kids…?”

“I – we meant no harm, but I will order my people to stay away from them, even the living members of my squad.” And then more softly: “I understand her concerns.”

“Any children yourself?” he asked, and then winced as if he regretted it.

“No.” Vadim said. “No family at all. Well, except them.” He nodded towards the ship, meaning the squad. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it.

Harris was regarding him thoughtfully. “Somebody hurt your family, didn’t they?” he asked.

“How did you end up on board the Dietrich, officer?” Vadim asked, changing the subject. He had time until the Fräulein came back, after all, and he couldn’t leave the weapons unattended.

Harris hesitated, as if deciding what to say.

“My partner,” he finally said, his voice tight. “Gallagher, big Irish guy, so fat it took him about five minutes to get out of the patrol car. He drank all the time, even on duty, crooked as the day was long, racist as well. At least I thought he was; should’ve heard the things he called me.”

“You thought he was?” Vadim asked, intrigued.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s how those guys relate to each other. I’m not sure they always mean it how it sounds. Anyway, I thought he hated his ‘nigger partner’ but he started inviting me to the bars, to meet his family. He was respectful when he met my ex…” Something caught in his throat. “When it happened, he… I don’t know, somehow he knew what to do. I mean how do you know what to do, in a situation like that? Fucking nuclear bombs going off, Jersey’s burning, we’re hearing that you’ve invaded, fighting in Manhattan.

“Anyway, people have panicked, there’s a near-riot on the docks as they try to get onto ships. A lot of the crews have been given rifles, and things are going to turn bad any minute. Then there’s this big, fat, permanently-drunk Irish cop calming everyone down, getting them organised, nose-to-nose with armed sailors.”

He stopped to wipe his eye. “And then the dead came. I mean, you could see them at the back of the crowd. They were pouncing on people. It was like one of those nature documentaries, or something. We saw some panic, but Gallagher’s getting people on the ship, and shooting the dead. Just buying us enough time. He told me to get on board, to look after them.” Harris sniffed and wiped his eyes again. He wasn’t talking to Vadim because he liked him. He just needed to talk to someone. “Big-ass ugly cracker.” He looked at Vadim. “’Course, I didn’t think I would be going to England.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me something, is there racism in the USSR?”

“You wish to become a good Soviet?”

“I was kinda happy being an American, most of the time,” Harris told him. “That all really gone?”

“For now. And yes, there is racism in the USSR.”

“So much for your communist utopia,” Harris said. “You think we deserve this world?” He was looking around at the black snow.

“I think the people that created this world deserve it. The rest of you? I think most people just want to look after themselves and their loved ones. Get on with life.”

“We’re supposed to be a democracy, you’re supposed to be about the people. Somewhere along the line we let this happen. We’ve got to take some responsibility, right?”

Vadim tried to think about the question, but it was too big. The forces at work that brought them to this point were too monolithic, somehow. To stand in their way would be like lying under the tracks of a tank. And yet at the end of the day it was all decisions made by humans, and just over forty years ago he had seen the difference individuals could make.

“I don’t know,” he finally told Harris. He could hear staggering footsteps moving along the deck through the snow towards them. Laboured breathing. “I’m just a soldier.”

“Fucking pinko collaborator!” a very drunk Leary spat as he staggered around the corner. Harris sighed. Vadim turned to look at the big longshoreman. There was something about the way that this was going down that was making Vadim very suspicious.

“Jesus, World War Three happens and I’m still having to deal with a drunk Leary,” Harris muttered. “All right, Leary, let’s go and find a place for you to sleep it off before you do something particularly dumb.”

“Fuck you, nigger!” he shouted before turning on Vadim. “You think I’m fucking frightened of you?”

“Only enough to get really drunk before confronting me,” Vadim suggested, but he suspected that Leary wasn’t really listening. Harris was watching, distaste on his face. Vadim wondered if, after the last bit of namecalling, the policeman would be happy for Vadim to handle Leary.

“I’m not afraid of you! I’m a fucking American!”

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Harris muttered.

“We might be down, but we’re not out.” Leary was in Vadim’s face. There was a lot of pointing going on as well. “We’re going to turn your country into a smoking fucking crater!” Every word came with a blast of rancid, alcohol-laced breath. “You fucking Satanic abomination!” But through the breath, Vadim was very much aware that even someone as repellent as Leary was made of meat. The longshoreman poked him in the chest. “Not so tough now, are you?” Vadim was trying very hard to control himself, to let Leary live.

“Leary…” Harris said. He sounded nervous now. He’d clearly seen something in Vadim’s face. Leary rounded on the police officer.

“See, that’s the problem with you people! No fucking gratitude, no fucking loyalty! I never liked you, Harris!” He was pointing at Vadim again. He thought about eating the finger. “Do you know what he did?” There were tears rolling down Leary’s face. “Do you?” he screamed. Now he was weeping. “He killed my family!” He staggered over to one of the forward crane’s support struts and sank down into the black snow.

“Why didn’t I go back for them?” he moaned, powerful sobs wracking his body, his head sinking down in shame. Harris knelt down next to him.

“You panicked, Fred; we all did.” Then he was holding the longshoreman as he cried. Vadim took a moment to reflect on just how confusing and complicated people were. Then he heard the shouting. Someone was making their way along the deck towards them, as quickly as possible. Maria appeared, gasping for breath. Shivering, not even wearing a coat, a stricken expression on her face.

“Serafina Carlsson has gone missing,” she said.