“Enemy in sight,” the tank crewman shouted. The first Russian tank had appeared… with the sun in their eyes. The Germans had worked hard to camouflage their tanks, but the half-blinded Russians would have more problems seeing them. “At least seven tanks and escorts!”
Mühlenkampf nodded. The Russians had launched a light probe, hunting for resistance; they had helicopters closing in as well, hunting for any resistance on the part of the Germans. They had to be nervous; the Russians, too, respected the German Army. They were probably told tales of how a single SS tank had held up an entire Allied attacking column in the last war with the Germans. Perhaps they had nightmares about Germany; they had certainly worked tooth and nail to keep Germany divided for nearly fifty years.
“Fire,” he ordered calmly.
The Leopold tanks fired as one; seven Russian tanks exploded under their fire. The smaller Russian vehicles scattered, returning fire towards his position; he silently thanked God that he had had the foresight to place his infantry out of sight. Their bullets glanced off the tanks, which returned fire with machine guns, saving their limited stock of shells for worthier targets. Another Russian tank appeared and three of his tanks fired, shattering it under the combined impact of their shells; Mühlenkampf laughed aloud as Russians scattered under his fire. For a moment, he could believe that he was in control…
The Russian helicopters swooped down… only to run into the fire of the CADS. They exploded in midair, their pilots blown away in the second of the missile strike; flaming wreckage fell on the remains of the autobahn. He saw a Russian officer barking orders into a radio and knew what was happening; he barked a quick order of his own and laughed as the Russian staggered and fell, half his head missing. The sniper had hit the target perfectly. His tanks were moving backwards, trying to break contact before the Russians managed to react…
He was still laughing when the first missiles from a Russian MLRS truck landed on his position and blew him to bits.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Stockholm Syndrome
[Stockholm Syndrome] is named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg, Stockholm, Sweden, in which the bank robbers held bank employees hostage from August 23 to August 28 in 1973. In this case, the victims became emotionally attached to their victimizers, and even defended their captors after they were freed from their six-day ordeal.
Edinburgh, United Kingdom
Hazel carefully tested the bonds that bound her and smiled.
She was still terrified, but as her two… lodgers, the two Russians who had shot down an aircraft and killed thousands… had checked out the basement, she had realised that she had a chance. They’d left her tied up on the sofa, listening to the buzzing of the emergency channel, as the Russians searched the house from top to bottom, looking for a place they could imprison her. She had been shaking like a leaf as they left her alone, but no amount of straining had loosened the tape that bound her hands; it wasn’t like it was in the movies. She hadn’t been able to understand them either, but she was sure that the younger one — Sergey Ossetia, if that was his real name — had wanted to rape her; the older one had prevented him.
She had listened, fruitlessly trying to search for meaning in what might as well have been nonsense babble to her, as the Russians argued, and then started to search the house. She had wondered about the weapons, and what they would do if they found her husband’s small — and technically illegal — collection. They hadn’t seemed too worried about it when they found them, but they had been careful to lock them somewhere in their rooms, before searching her and removing her keys, phone — which was useless anyway — and even her small make-up case.
“I think that the basement would be best,” Rashid Ustinov had said, after they had completed their search. Hazel had almost flinched before the first burst of hope crossed her mind; it was just possible that they would make a mistake. “Hazel; remember, we will let you go once we are finished here, but if you give away our presence, we will have to kill you.”
Hazel had nodded; Ustinov had pulled out a small kitchen knife and carefully sawed the tape from her legs, releasing her and helping her to sit up on the sofa. She gasped in pain as the cramp stuck her; Ustinov massaged her legs gently until the worst of the pain faded, and then helped her to her feet. Her hands were still bound, but she had felt oddly safe with him, now that the first and worst moments were over. Ossetia eyed her as if he thought she was trouble; she concentrated on looking harmless while thinking about what she could do.
Stuart had taken her, once, to a course on hostage situations. There had been several officers’ wives kidnapped by one terrorist group or another, before British troops had largely been withdrawn from the Middle East. It had been worst for the Muslim soldiers, who were pressured by their co-religionists to abandon the armed forces or lose their families, but others had been at risk as well; Stuart had insisted on her learning about the dangers… and the first moments were always the worst. She could not fight, she couldn’t try to escape; the kidnappers might not be experts, but panicky amateurs. Once the dangerous moments were over, she could try to get the kidnappers to see her as a person, rather than a thing; she seemed to have succeeded at that already. Ustinov, for whatever reason, was treating her almost kindly.
He held her arm to steady her as he took her down into the basement. It was hardly the spider-filled dudgeon of slave girl movies, but a warm room that they had considered turning into another bedroom before the war had begun; Ustinov seemed fairly pleased with the arrangement as he searched the room again, just in case there was anything useful in the boxes they had dumped in the basement. There was nothing, Hazel knew; the junk they had dumped down in the basement was useless. He carefully sat her down on the floor and made his mistake.
“This should hold you fairly safely,” he had said, as he attached handcuffs to the pipe in the wall. It was a useless pipe, as they had found out when they had moved in; it literally did nothing, not even carrying water or gas or anything else useful. It was fairly simple to attach a handcuff to the pipe, release her hands, and attach the other end of the handcuff to her right wrist. She would have to sit on the ground, but it was better than being left permanently tied up with tape. “We will take care of you.”
“Thank you,” Hazel had said. He had been as good as his word, even though the bathroom facilities had left something to be desired; the four days she had spent in the basement hadn’t been completely bad. The two men had provided her with several piles of food, from sweets to more healthy options; they had even provided her with some books from her collection while they waited. They had been determined to keep their heads down for several days while the chaos faded off the streets, just so that they could start it up again at some moment that suited them.
“Food,” a voice said, glumly. She glanced up the stairs as Ossetia descended, carrying a small plate of canned beans and sausages. She was rapidly growing tired of the fare; unlike almost everyone else in Edinburgh, the two Russians had known to stockpile food to avoid shortages. His gaze flickered over the handcuffs, paused long enough to worry her on her breasts, and then fell to the tray in his hand. “There should be enough here for a while.”