She focused on them; knowledge was power, as her boss had once said to her. They were both young and very strong; she could practically see the muscles rippling under their black uniforms. She knew what happened to American servicewomen who were captured by insurgents in the Middle East; was that about to happen to her? The insurgents tended to leave newspaper men and women alone, particularly European journalists, who tended to support them, but who knew what the Russians would do? Her mind kept chasing its own tail; she had thought about rape, every woman did at some point in their lives, but she had never really believed that it could happen to her. Her sexual favours were hers, as far as she was concerned; the choice about whether or not to bestow them was hers… except, perhaps, it was no longer hers. They were both young and strong; they could take her with ease.
One Russian made a comment to the other and they both stood up. Almost before she could react, they were holding her and hustling her out the door, through the corridors and past several bodies lying in the dirt, weapons dropped where they had fallen. The stench was appalling as they passed what had once been — she thought — a man; was it even possible to have that much blood in a human body? Surely the chunks of gore belonged to several people; that couldn’t all be one person, could it? She was panting as she tried to force her legs to work; she was certain that the Russians would hurt her if they had to force her to move, or perhaps just carry her. She was completely at their mercy.
She tried an experiment. “Where are you taking me?” She asked in English, and then in mangled French and German. “Là où êtes vous me prenant? Wo Sie mich nehmend sind?”
There was no answer, not even a hint they understood her. She couldn’t understand them at all; they only spoke quickly, almost as if they suspected that she could understand them and were trying to confuse her. They reached four more armed men, guarding what had once been the entrance to the camp, and she winced; the Russians had definitely won the fight. Leaning against the corner, a massive wound in its chest, lay the body of Major-General John McLachlan. The Russians were collecting ID cards from the bodies and comparing them to a list; one of the guards examined her ID card with interest, and then compared it carefully to her face. Caroline almost laughed; she had been made up perfectly when the photograph had been taken, with a nice dress showing just the right hint of cleavage. Now… she shuddered to think what she looked like; her hands tied, her clothes disorganised, sweat and the smell of fear rising from her body.
The Russian Commander looked up at her. “You are Caroline Morgan, Press Reporter?”
She was so relieved to hear a voice speaking English that she almost wilted. “Yes,” she said, and forced her mouth to speak further. “Sir, I am a non-combatant in a war zone and…”
“At the moment, you are a prisoner of the Russian Army,” the Russian snapped, cutting her off. He barked a series of commands to her captors. “You will be held until we decide what to do with you. Failure to obey promptly any orders given to you, of any nature, will result in sentence being passed against you and you will be shot. Do you understand?”
She nodded fearfully, her face smarting from imaginary blows. “Answer me,” the Russian barked, his voice digging right into her soul. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she stammered. She stood in front of him, helpless, broken; unable to do anything, but obey. “I understand.”
The Russian nodded at her two commanders, who marched her outside into the camp. It was no longer what it had once been; half of the buildings had been destroyed, or were burning merrily away. EUROFOR had been caught by surprise, but the French, German and British defenders of the camp had sold their lives dearly; she could see the dead bodies of Russian soldiers being prepared for return to their homeland. There were other dead bodies being gathered as well; European soldiers and commanding officers, all being checked by the Russians for their identity. She realised, dimly, that the Russians knew everything about the camp; they even had a list of the soldiers, right down to the lowliest infantryman. How had they done that?
A dead body caught her attention; for a moment, she stared at it without being able to understand why it had caught her, and then her eyes traced the curves of her body and the swell of the breasts. Half of her head was missing, but there was no mistaking her; Captain Hannah Loomis had gone down fighting with her men. Her escorts made what sounded like crude comments, directed at the Russians who were gathering the bodies; they made rude gestures back at them. Caroline would have given anything to know what they were saying; were they accusing the gravediggers of necrophilia-type practices, or were they commenting that they had a live woman?
The training field had impressed her when she had seen it for the first time; a large field where games and exercises could be conducted at the same time, larger than two football fields. Now… now armed Russians stood guard around a handful of prisoners, all sitting on the ground and securely tied. Her own hands were aching as the plastic tie dug into her wrists, but she didn’t dare try to draw attention to it. The prisoners all looked downcast; their ID cards prominently displayed around their necks. The Russians had not only caught them, they knew who they had caught.
“Caroline,” a voice shouted. Caroline looked up to see Marya’s face in the small group; her clothes had been torn in a number of places that she was sure weren't accidental. The Russians who were holding her pointed and made more rude comments; Marya’s nipples could be seen poking out of the holes in her blouse. “Oh Caroline, thank God!”
One of the Russian guards inspected her ID again. “You will remain here until ordered to move elsewhere,” he said. “Do not attempt to move, whatever the reason; you will be moved to a proper detention facility soon enough. If you disobey any orders, or attempt to leave, you will be shot. Do you understand?”
Caroline nodded. She had learned her lesson. “I understand,” she said. A worrying thought struck her. “What if we have to go to the toilet?”
“We will arrange toilet facilities as quickly as we can,” the Russian said, with a bored tone. Caroline guessed that he had been asked the same question by each of the prisoners. “Sit down, talk quietly if you must talk, and wait.”
Her escorts pushed her down next to Marya, winked at her, and left. Caroline almost missed them; they, at least, hadn’t taken advantage of her. Closer now, Marya’s face was streaked with tears; the Russians who had caught her had taken advantage of her before she was brought to the makeshift pen. She nodded towards a group of Russians wearing green uniforms and looking very grim; they almost seemed to be prisoners themselves.
“That one there tried to… take me,” Marya whispered, her voice breaking. “Caroline, what are they going to do to us?”
Caroline remembered a vague report about Russian punishment battalions. Instead of court-martialling soldiers who were brought up on charges, the Russians gave them a month in the penal units, where they would do all the dangerous tasks, such as mine-clearing without detection gear or charging into a heavily-defended bunker with explosive satchels. If they survived the experience and the dangers, from both the enemy and their own former friends, they were returned to their units. Most of them would never dare to re-offend.
“I don’t know,” Caroline said. She glanced briefly at their fellow prisoners, mainly injured soldiers, their eyes showing that they were trapped in their own purgatory. They had suffered the shame of being taken prisoner in what might very well be the first battle of World War Three; what would happen to them in the future. The Russians would not mistreat media reporters, she hoped — and tried to ignore the fact that Marya had been abused — but they would be merciless to the soldiers. The Geneva Convention was a joke to everyone these days; everyone, but the European Military Commission and the European Parliament. Had they not charged some soldiers in Sudan with breaching the Conventions?