Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (53 page)

“It's a father's duty to give his sons a fine chance.”

George Eliot

Colonel Skryabin looked on at the smoking ruins of the VNIIEF medical facility, one of the few parts of the secret complex that was above ground.

Whatever had caused the fire, and first indications were some sort of ignited gas leak, the damage was catastrophic, both to the clinic and to the staff that ran it.

All the senior medical staff were confirmed dead, either by dint of their corpses being recognisable, or, as was more the case, by items on the destroyed and charred corpses being known to those few medical workers who were not on duty at the time of the explosion.

Whilst the fire did not burn for long, the lack of an organised firefighting response meant that it consumed everything of note, even though his NKVD troopers turned their hands to the task and performed valiantly.

Three of them had excruciating burns, sustained during forlorn rescue attempts.

His deputy’s suggestion held merit.

“Very well, Comrade Durets. But have each man guarded… and each of the prisoner staff… there must be no conversation, am I clear?”

“Perfectly, Comrade Polkovnik.”

Major Durets saluted and set to the task of organising the transfer of the wounded medical staff and NKVD soldiers to the POW medical facility which, although not up to the standard of the VNIIEF clinic, would suffice in the interim.

The door flew open without warning, causing
Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Dryden to leap and spill his tea.

The protestations died on his lips as he saw what the NKVD guards were carrying.

“Over here… put him here…”

The words almost stopped in his throat, as if they were avoiding being exposed to the sight that fell before his eyes.

‘Oh my God… how is this poor man still alive…’

Of course, everyone in the camp had heard the explosion but, with the apathy of those without hope, had thought little of it.

Now the after effects of it lay on the couch under Dryden’s gaze.

“Major Durets… I’ll need analgesia…”

The Russian looked blankly at him.

“Pain killers…”

The blank look remained.

Thinking quickly, Dryden fished in the medical bin, retrieving a small empty phial of some substance that he had used during an operation the night before.

The Russian language was as much a mystery to him as English was to Durets, but the label was clear.

The NKVD Major called an NCO to him and issued his orders.

As the soldier left, more casualties arrived.

Hamouda accompanied the second stretcher, and worked away at the throat of whatever it was that the rescuers had pulled from the fire.

The Egyptian tapped an item on the belt of one soldier, whose first thought was to strike the prisoner down.

Further taps made Hamouda’s needs clear, and the NKVD trooper reluctantly gave up his bayonet.

The blade opened up the casualty’s neck, and the rush of air was loud enough to be heard by all.

Hamouda grabbed a note pad and ripped the card backing from it, fashioning a large V-shape, which he inserted into the wound to keep the airway open.

As he did so, the man died, the combination of fluid loss and shock too much for life to continue.

The room was filled with guards, casualties, and the POW staff, something which was making effective work very difficult.

“Hany… triage… those with a good chance stay here… others… mess hall.”

The Egyptian Lieutenant nodded and set to work, suddenly appointed arbiter of life and death.

For every casualty retained in the main room, two were sent to the dining room.

Dryden’s eyes nearly came out of his head when the NKVD NCO returned with more pain-killing drugs than he had seen since being taken captive all those months ago.

He grabbed a handful of what were very clearly opiates of US manufacture.

“Collins! Collins!”

The big NCO moved to his side quickly.

“Get those into the dining room… tell Lieutenant Hamouda to do what is necessary, understood.”

“I’m on it, Sir.”

Julius Collins took most of the remaining opiates to the dining room, where Hamouda quickly set to work easing pain and suffering and, with extra administrations, moved the casualties quickly to the next life.

Dryden and Hamouda were exhausted, as were everyone concerned with the care of the injured.

Skryabin had visited twice during the hectic times and, unusually for the NKVD commander, had left them alone, resorting to observation alone.

Durets remained throughout, even assisting on two occasions when hands were needed and rank was not in question.

Only one casualty had returned from the dining room to the main room, whereas three had made the reverse journey.

The dining room was now a temporary morgue, housing seventeen badly burned bodies.

Five others lay under observation, most with some chance of clinging to life.

The medicines that had suddenly become available to Dryden and his team staggered them and, as they fought to preserve the lives of their enemy, old habits died hard, and many items simply vanished, squirreled away for a time when the Soviets were not so beneficent.

Skryabin returned, this time with four guards and a man in a white coat, a man clearly in pain.

One of the NKVD commander’s men was there to translate.

“Doctor, this man is from our farm facility, where he tends the experimental livestock. He fell off a ladder and broke his arm. Polkovnik Skryabin demands that you fix him so he can return to work.”

That wasn’t quite what the man said, his English letting him down in places, but Dryden filled in the gaps and changed a word or two.

Gesturing towards a chair, the naval officer rummaged for a pair of scissors and started to cut away the coat and shirt surrounding the open fracture.

The man remained silent, despite what must have been excruciating pain.

Exposing the wound site, Dryden, flush with pain relief, elected to administer a modest amount of morphine.

It brought immediate relief to the silent man.

As Dryden sized up the wound, he became aware that he was under intense scrutiny from the NKVD Colonel, more so than usual… and that, in fact, the scrutiny was equally split between him and his charge.

Dryden, a lover of who-dun-its, especially the likes of Sherlock Holmes, had his senses aroused by something that was clearly not as it was suggested.

As he gently moved the broken limb, he realised that the hand he held was clean and soft, and not the hand of a farm worker, even one responsible for experimental livestock…

‘… whatever they may bloody be!’

His mind started to check off a few things that he started to understand were a little out of place.

The casualty smelt of soap.

He was reasonably well fed.

Hair was groomed.

Clothes were of reasonably good quality.

Dryden’s mind started to deal with all that information and then found something that puzzled him. He realised that the injured man was not looking at the wound and what the doctor was doing, but was instead watching Skryabin like a hawk, whilst trying hard not to look like he was watching Skryabin like a hawk.

‘The plot thickens.’

Dryden bought himself some more time by examining the breathing and pulse of the casualty. He noticed something else about the man, something that grew from a query into a certainty.

He was Jewish.

‘Well kempt… clean… Jewish… obviously someone important enough to warrant the attention of Skryabin… what the bloody hell?’

A soldier had walked in and reported to Skryabin, momentarily distracting him.

At lightning speed, the casualty’s other hand had shot out and back, unseen by anyone save Dryden.

The wound required traction and the two doctors worked together to prepare to pull the broken bones back into place.

Topping up the morphine with a further dose, Dryden lapsed into English to tell the casualty what was happening.

“We’re just going to straighten your arm now, old chap. Shouldn’t hurt too much.”

The man looked at him and then at the place his hand had briefly touched in that unguarded moment.

The injured man whispered with a mix of fear and urgency.

“Just get it out, Vrach, whatever you do, just get it out.”

A Nagant nuzzled the side of Dryden’s head before he could even think of whispering a questioning reply.

“No more talking, Dryden. Just mend him.”

Skryabin’s words were repeated by the soldier with the English language skills, but it was the lunatic colonel’s finger on the trigger.

Hany and he pulled on the limb and despite the morphine, the man gave a shrill cry and passed out.

With the arm purged of dead material, wound stitched, and partially in plaster, the ‘livestock handler’ was taken away, leaving Dryden and Hamouda time to sit down for the first time since the whole invasion of their hospital had started, or in Dryden’s case, second time, counting the visit he had just made to the lavatory, where he found the cigarette butt in his tunic pocket.

Three guards remained in the main room, but they seemed only alert and concerned when the POWs interacted with the injured, paying little or no attention at other times.

A simple ploy had determined that none spoke English, so the two men spoke in whispers over their second cup of tea of the day.

Dryden put forward his theory.

Hamouda could only shrug and admit that he missed it.

“I didn’t notice, to be honest. He seemed just like everyone else here.”

Dryden laughed, drawing a gaze from one of the NKVD soldiers.

The gaze moved one and the naval officer leant forward and lowered his voice.

“You should read more Conan-Doyle, Hany.”

“Find me one and I’ll read it.”

‘Fair point.’

“Anyway… listen in… the bugger passed me something, but I’m damned if I know what. But when we were about to set his arm, he looked at me and said ‘get it out, get it out’.”

He sat back and swigged the last of his tea, feigning relaxation when he was anything but.

“Whatever it is, it’s bloody important to him… but it’s gobbledygook, makes no damned sense at all.”

Julius Collins and Murdo Robertson walked in, having just organised the cleaning and layout of the dining room, now that the cadavers had been removed by a POW work detail.

“Ah, RSM. Will you and Collins please be so kind as to watch over our charges for a little while? Lieutenant Hamouda and I are going to get some air. We won’t be long… just round the building, so we’ll be at hand if needed.”

Robertson swung up his trademark immaculate salute.

“No problem, Sah. We’ll look after ‘em for ye.”

Out in the warm evening sun, the day took on a new complexion, and the two settled down to bask in the rays, or that was what they intended to look like.

Dryden produced the cigarette butt, which clearly had been unravelled previously, despite his best efforts to make it look like a normal discard being recycled.

Hamouda examined the message which, as far as he was concerned, might as well have been in Urdu.

‘AKNEPSU-65AB141/63RK29-29U532…’

“A map reference… library filing code… shipment information?”

“No idea, Hany, but it was important enough for him to give it to me, and for him to break his arm deliberately to do it.”

“What?”

Dryden accepted the message back and rewound the cigarette butt as he spoke.

“On the wound, there were the marks of a patterned sole. He never fell off a ladder, Hany. His arm was stamped on, deliberately… and he’s no farm hand either. He was brought to us through choice… I could see it in his eyes. He’s Jewish, well kempt, clean and well-fed… as out of place here as a pork sausage in a synagogue… sorry, no offence.”

The Muslim officer smiled, used to such unintended slips.

“Then we must get his message out.”

“How… and to whom.”

Dryden laughed.

“The latter is easiest, as there is an address further on… you missed it, didn’t you.”

They paused as two NKVD guards strolled round in a relaxed fashion.

“The former is the hard part.”

Actually, it wasn’t.