Читать книгу Taken by Berlin - Nicolas Scheerbarth - Страница 2

Prologue – 2139

For a long time, there has been silence over the mountain ranges of the Spessart... blue-grey, wave after wave under boiling air. There are still crickets, and sometimes a stick cracks.

Between the peaks, there is a white-grey lane with a quadruple brink of rusty railings, a string that emerges and descends from the distance and the heat. In the silence, the binoculars buzzes... almost piercing... and immediately, the view of the old federal interstate with white lines and red symbols changes. The enlarged picture shows cracks, fractures, weeds optimistically growing green-grey in the fractures, next to them the spots repaired a long time ago, eaten by decades. Buzzing again, the binoculars dangle on the belt and...

"Any observations, Rotter Klin?"

"None, Rott-Leader. Everything's the same, no traffic."

"Good, Rotter. Carry on!"

Rotter Klin's gaze follows the broad back muscles of the Rott-Leader for a moment, visible as though he were naked under the tight-fitting, thin camouflage material, disappearing between gray-green, dry scraping scrubs. Klin lifts the electronic binoculars to his eyes again, turns them to the West, where the Spessart declines over lower ridges to Rinemain. Klin also wears the tightly fitting, grey-brown speckled camouflage-suit of his forces... some muscles, a big genital and a certain leanness around legs and ribs... on his feet, high, firm boots with a bulbous sole and protective cap, around the hip the wide instrument belt with mechanical revolver, pockets, snap hook, multi knife and a worn com-set including battery holder. The hood hangs down over a sinewy neck, a fleshy face reddened in the heat under two millimeters of short hair. On the round, red field on the left upper arm the swastika... the only visible sign.

Chirping in the midday heat. The terminal. The face of another crew cut on the palm-sized LCD screen...

"Nest to post 3! We've received word that the first control flight has been soared. Watch the sky, prepare to take cover. Report as soon as you see anything. And be careful! You’re dealing with a Renault nine one. They're faster than you think."

"Post 3 to nest. Watch the sky, prepare for camouflage. Message visual contact. The heli is a Renault nine one."

With a soft sigh, Klin pulls the hood over his sweaty skull and a pair of grey gloves over his rough hands. He steps down a stone ledge, sliding down the crumbly, steep slope, trudging to the left and taking a post next to a group of scrubby, dense shrubs. With broad legs spread, searching for support, he raises the binoculars to his eyes again and directs them to the road below.

A silver reflection in the picture... red numbers dancing in the field of vision, Klin pulls the terminal out of the holster with his left hand, a beeping sound...

"Post 3 to nest. Post 3 to nest."

"Nest here to three. What's up?"

"Movement on the highway. As far as I can tell, a little solar. But something pretty fast. A Lada, maybe. It's got this funny tail section. Light color. Wait, now I've got it on this road bend... 60 kilometers per hour. It's a Lada."

"Roger, post 3. Message received... and passed on. Any more incidents?"

"Nothing... that..."

Klin drops forward abruptly...

"They're coming" - he whispers hoarsely into the microphone. And dips to the ground, into the dust. "Fast heli from the west, right over the highway."

He switches off, pulls the device under his neck and chest... cramped breaths, flattened to the ground... not a muscle moves... he lies flat, pressed to the ground where he fell. And... a rising drone, double rotors, jet engines... in mad speed like a silver flash from horizon to horizon.

The terminal chirrups.

"This is nest. Well done, three. No incidents with us. But he'll be back. They fly only to Würzburg. That's about 10 to 12 minutes. After that, we shall have at least one hour rest."

"Roger, Nest, from 3. I remain in camouflage until the Renault is back."

"And... nest again to three. The Lada..."

"Yes? What?"

"Just as we thought. Radio communication. We registered the sound. But no danger, a simple radio connection. He wasn't equipped, no sensors, just two people, trying to look like dirty city trash. They don't know anything."

Klin says thanks, turns the terminal off. He lifts himself up out of the grey dirt, lost in thought, fingers playing over the thick bump between his legs, his gaze directed as if dreaming over the western mountains.

Then the Renault flashes back. And all clear again. Klin climbs back up towards the more comfortable lookout on the steep slope, still in the shade and with a better view of the valley.

"Nest to all posts!" whispers the terminal. "We now send you comrades from the Woodspeople with food and water. But hurry up. The canisters must be undercover when they come back."

A silent presence suddenly appears, a hot body from nowhere... Klin shrugs... the Woodsgerman woman stands in front of him as though she had emerged from the ground. Germanic forest magic. The young runner... at most eighteen, with tousled, brown hair around her face, small sagging breasts and a bushy nest between the legs... naked as all Woodspeople. She does not even wear her combat quiver on this errand... effortlessly holds the clunky water canister away from her body as if it were an empty bag.

The cheese bread is greasy, and the shredded sliced cheese is of blue-green color... a by-product of the cheaper methods of making milk edible.

"What's your name?" Klin asks through a full mouth.

"Herta, runner Herta, Rotter," quiet, but a pleasantly firm voice. "From Eckart's tribe."

"No, no, no, no. Stay seated. It's all right."

He drinks the fresh water from the canister... greedy, they don't have to spare it.

"Been there long?"

"Forever. My father did it. I'm. Yes, always."

"Good?"

"Yeae true! Always on the move. The people... our people... here, everywhere. Yeae true!"

"You guys get around, don't you?"

"Well, sure. We're alright here. Not Rinemain or anything. Not in the desert. Always in the woods. Up to the Dead Land."

"That far?"

"Yes. Dead Land is quiet. No wrong people. Is nothing. Even grows again. Pair of trees. Green!"

"Say! And the border guards? You have no trouble with them?"

"Nah. Don't do nothing. Lazy. Or scared. Not from the forest, but from us Woodsgermans."

"You're still young, huh?"

"17. Soon. I believe. Yeae! I'll be laik a hunter soon. Runner's stupid. You're always around, have to do everything and keep mouth shut."

"Hunter... hmm."

Klin pushes his chin forward. They sit next to each other on the stone step. Klin slightly embraces the upper arm of the girl.

"Strong enough. I'm sure you'll make a good hunter!"

The girl's eyes light up. Klin’s hand glides over the landscape of the sinewy back... his fingers grab, check...

"Strong, true!"

"Me?"

"Well, sure! Ha, now... I tell you!"

Klin laughs a short, dry, insecure laugh and finally puts his arm around her back... a brief touch, pulls her towards him like old buddies. She looks up, returns Klin’s view from the corner of her eye with twitching cheek muscles. She lowers her gaze, turns to Klin to admire the visible result of the flirting...

"Yeae true!" - Klin whispers.

Calloused and rough, the forest girl's hands grab, begin to play, stroke and rub the bulge under the wafer-thin camouflage cover. Klin grabs the naked elf between the legs, pushes one, two fingers into something damp, up and down... he himself is massaged in his camouflage material... no sound, no moaning... just up and down, back and forth. And done. They both look down at themselves for a moment... sticky drops on her pubic hair, a wet spot on his trousers. He tries to meet Herta's gaze with a crooked grin. She turns away, reaches for the water, rinses off. Klin wipes the grin off his face, raises the binoculars to the eyes...

"That was nothing though..." Herta, still hoarse from the excitement.

"Ha, no... uh... fighters need this... pressure on the pipe, just getting rid of it. What are we comrades for?"

"Yes, comrades! Yeae!" Herta, radiant, proud, straightens up again, strokes once more fleetingly over the dent under Klin's belt. He pulls her awkwardly into his arms, patting her on the back.

"Nest to 3. Nest to 3. Nest to 3. The second control flight has ascended. Send the girl back to us and camouflage yourself."

"Post 3 to nest. I got it. I got it. The second control flight has ascended. Hey... the runner’s coming back."

"Gee, Rotter! Maintain radio discipline! By the Führer, no titles!"

"Yes, sir. Excuse me. I beg your pardon!"

"It's all right. Not getting anywhere out there. Tell her to hurry. This Renault will be here sooner than you think."

Klin crouches behind the bushes, squints at the interstate intently... watches moving reflection in the heat down there...

"Three to nest. Watch out! Reflections on the highway... far away. Trying observation. Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Now..."

"Three, pull yourself together!"

"Container train from Rinemain. Two, no, three double units... speed... they're fast! Post 3 to nest! Warning! Container train three times two units at high speed. Forty kilometers an hour. They're too fast for normal load transporters. Could be a ground patrol, the... it... the Renault is here!"

Klin in the Nest, his replacement on the slope. Picturesque field camp and gruesome, plain seriousness... the tents and panels made of camouflage material everywhere, folded or stretched out, over pits and equipment... the material that deceives the sniffers of the Union troops, distracts infrared, magnetoscopy and biometry... all ready to hand for the small units... no fireplaces... fighters and technicians from SA and SP in camouflage suits with the swastika on a red or blue field, and the strong, long-haired and bearded Woodspeople huddled together, with nothing but their combat quivers around their hips... all in all, almost a hundred men and women.

Idly, Klin stands with his food bowl watching... examines the groups of Woodsgermans...

"Rotter Klin!"

Klin stands to attention, almost spills his porridge.

"Rott-Leader!"

"Rotter Klin, you're back from the post?"

"Yes, chief. Replaced half an hour ago. Grabbing food, Rottleader."

"Good, Rotter! Keep eating. But when you're done, report to the Leader."

Klin’s hand and bowl suddenly sink.

"W...w... with The Führer?"

"Geez, Klin, you rat brain! With the Banner-Leader, of course!"

"Yes, sir, I understand. At the Banner-Leader's. Right away."

"All right, Rotter, calm down. Eat, and just make sure you get there in five minutes. It won't be that bad."

The boiling sun shines diagonally through the bare wood, which offers hardly any shade. Over there, on the left and a bit higher up the slope, is a real oasis... full, green bushes, a few trees with real foliage, moss and weeds on the ground... in between a large igloo made of double camouflage material, shelters and two bulky, heavy off-road vehicles, impressive remnants of past weapons technology.

Klin trudges over the crumbly ground mulch, then over moss and trampled weed to the igloo... reports, is called in...

"Rotter Klin, my Führer! I'm supposed to report."

"Ah yes, Rotter Klin. Good. Come closer! And now, Rotter Klin, report to me!"

"How... uh... ah... whether I'm on post..."

"Rotter! What's with the stammering? I can expect a bit more from a SA fighter!"

"Yes, Führer, just... I beg your pardon, but... I don't know... am I supposed to report my observations? There were only the overflights, the Lada and a container train, nothing else suspicious. Five private, unsuspicious jets, a group of peasants on bicycles, two small e-transporters... that was all from my side."

"How was the lookout?"

"Excellent, Banner-Leader, ideally chosen."

"And you didn't get too bored up there?"

"No, my Führer! It was a good post... important. I don't understand your question, Führer."

"All right, Rotter Klin, let's make it short because I have other things to do than to deal with some undisciplined wankers! I was forced to accept a complaint from Eckart's tribe. You know what this is about, Rotter! Damn, you're a trained man. You know these Woodspeople see things differently than we do. Next time you have pressure on your pipe, take a cook girl but keep your hands off young Woodsgermans. We depend on these people here, crazy as they are. I know... a man takes what he needs, but with these Woodspeople some caution is appropriate... "

"A... I... ohm... Bann-Lea..."

"No long speeches please, Rotter! I told that shaggy bear his girl must have volunteered. The matter is settled. And I want it to stay that way. No! Not another word! It's alright. Now get out of here and fucking watch yourself in future!"

Heat rises from the old interstate... slanting light, dappled by narrow shadows without coolness under grey-brown tree skeletons. In front of Klin's new position, sprawling crippled bushes have moved around the guardrail and onto the verge, torn a web in the pavement, even some... few... green leaves.

Nothing moves between the bushes... people everywhere, flat on the ground in grey-brown camouflage suits or naked, the Woodspeople huddle together, squatting down like a pack of boars for the biometry... Klin listens to the whispering of the terminal.

"Post A to nest. Still nothing... "

"Pack 2 to nest. We're going a few more yards down. There's a better view."

"Nest to pack 2. Roger that. Observe backstop. Two men in position."

"Pack 2 to nest. I got it. Two men stay upstairs."

"Post 4 to nest."

"Nest to post 4. Report!"

"Report movement... engine noise... combustion engine... heavy equipment... attention, visual contact... it's the trailer truck!"

"Roger, post 4. Nest to all. Here we go. The truck's coming. Pack 2, are you in position?"

"Yes."

"Nest to all. Absolute radio silence. The order is vulture’s nest. Repeat: order vulture’s nest."

Silence... Klin now lies under the bush with one other guy... his head half raised. Of course, nothing to see, no SA Banner, no pioneers, not the two Woodspeople fighting packs... and they all are lurking.

A humming sound around the bend. The grind of the concrete crumbs. His comrade pushes himself forward. Klin’s face reddens with exertion, his muscles tense under the wafer-thin fabric. For a moment the sound still floats in the distance, almost a natural sound... vibrations penetrate from the endless foundation, behind the last bend... then louder humming, moves towards him, shakes the old interstate... really close now. The grinding and roaring reaches Klin... an ancient giant. A Volga 40 ton tank truck with methanol turbine and armored driver's cab, grey brown-green, dirty, scarred by a thousand deadly liquids, which it was supposed to bring safely through a collapsing world, and which were spilled too often during filling... rolls and grinds deafeningly on mine-proof metal wire tires, molds deep into soft tar stains, too slowly to whirl up any dust... up, to the next turn and around and... a hissing groan. And stops.

Klin lets his head sink forward, forehead, nose, lips, and chin onto a piece of dusty concrete. Quiet shouts, short steps... slowly, noises peel from the stupefaction again... the flat breathing of the man next to him... the sounds of an arduously living nature, rustling, cracking... branches still break often just by themselves... chirping and buzzing of insects, sounds that slowly fuse to peaceful atmosphere, rustling... and humming... becoming ever clearer. Klin shrugs, the comrade's hand is on his arm, grabs and squeezes him. A humming stands out, rises up from the forest, the valley, the plain. From Rinemain, a message from far away hums up with unexpected speed... gently and quickly three shadows pass and...

... howling of brakes. Crunching. Strikes and breaking. The people there are good, very good. The last of the three cars isn't yet standing, when they start shooting from the first one, above, behind the bend, already, although it must be badly damaged. Short, dry single shots, they're not even flustered. Ricochets hit the tank train. From staccato to a symphony. From the third car, clearly in front of Klin, two men dive out and die in flight, chopped up by grenades. The barrels of submachine guns protrude from portholes, shooting randomly into the bushes.

Command calls reach Klin. The radio silence must not be broken. A dull impact, harmless as the falling of a heavy book. A bubbling rolling roar. A black cloud rises over the bend. The gunfire lessens. The three cars have stopped for less than ten seconds now. They don’t stand a chance. From the corner of his eye, Klin spots a trace of flame, a hiss, the impact of the bazooka... the second heavy book falling, superimposed with the drone of the explosion immediately in front of him, which rattles as it shatters all around it... exploding ammunition in the car, followed by the roaring outburst of its fuel aflame. Black smoke rolls over the flames, a burning person staggers monstrously out of the inferno and is torn apart by the explosion of his magazine just before Klin. No more shots fired. Attack pioneers in protective clothing spray foam from large cartridges onto the fires, which move as if deliberately onto the parched forest.

"Pack 2! Catch up carefully!"

That's for Klin. Securing his leeside, he slowly sneaks uphill, observing his regiment coming up from the curve below, ducking along the bushes, guns at the ready.

Behind the curve, the same sight... an armored Lada of the Union police cracked open like a crushed can, three charred corpses and men of the SP with a heavy fire extinguisher. The tank truck is parked across the road above. And in the middle, the second car. Slipped to the left side, its weight crushed the brittle middle plank. As if it wasn't part of all this at all. A few dents in the armor, the paint singed by the heat, no movement behind the black windows. Klin is close enough, looks again and again at the monstrous vehicle, a haunted dinosaur. An astonishing relic of a bygone era, from the fleet of the Council of the Union. Benz 900 SLL 16-cylinder, built in 2037.

SA and Woodspeople are standing around it, some with tears in their eyes. They hate this monster, arrogant symbol of waste... well over 200 kilometers per hour it can go, so they've have heard, even though they really don't believe it. It burns gasoline... oil!... destroys the most precious resource humans know today in its lavish thirst... the tiny, priceless base for the remains of civilization.

Two bushes are pulled aside like stage flats. Four men haul some heavy equipment. They put it on the cracked road next to the limousine. A man wraps a camouflage material package, a bulky projector, thick cables are inserted between projector and box.

"Damn it, hurry up! – Banner-Leader, we're ready."

The Banner-Leader himself is standing at the generator box. He towers above most of the young fighters, a tall, lean man with a silver-grey crew cut, furrowed face, and hard, sinewy muscles. The laser beam is red-hot, it swings playfully along the right front fender of the armored car. Cuts through like butter. The cut it makes is a hair’s breadth wide. Mudguard, wheel, suspension and wheel arch rumble to the side, the car sinks deeper into the bottom of the center strip.

"Go ahead!" – the Banner-Leader restrained to his men.

Again, the laser beam digs into the car slowly... metallic grinding and rubbing... a smooth cut separates the front end and engine from the driver and passenger compartment.

"Pull back!"

Some men have their guns pointed at the windows. Storm pioneers pull the separated vehicle parts away from the front, spray foam onto the cut pipes and leaking oil and petrol.

"The driver!"

The beam eats into the driver's cab, is pulled back and forth... the yelling heard through the armored and insulated walls make some of the young fighters twitch. The driver's door opens at a glacial pace, the weapons of the guards click, a single nervous bullet slams into the gap... which widens as parts of the door are cut off and fall outwards, with bloody lumps of meat, limbs cut lengthwise and crosswise, half a head and a red mass of pulp. Young fighters turn away, cover their eyes in the face of their handiwork.

"The cabin! Come on, get going, you pussies! Time is running out." – a Rott-Leader is unmoved.

The laser gunner concentrates, cuts the car through the middle more slowly than before, behind the partition wall between the driver and passenger compartment.

"Gas ready?" – the Banner-Leader quietly.

"Yes, Führer, all ready. If that bastard complains, he's gonna get a load of it."

"Then hand me the megaphone and open the car now."

"Come on, open the can!" – the Rott-Leader.

They crack the door open. The fighter with the gas cartridge rifle aims at the opening gap.

"Silajev!" – the Banner-Leader through the megaphone. "We're getting you out now. Do not resist! As long as you do as told, nothing will happen to you."

In a hurry, the laser is dismantled. They push the car's rests apart with poles, no longer anticipating resistance. There are just a few men remaining around.

In the rearmost corner of the passenger cabin... a man, silver-grey, short hair, rumpled, a wrinkled, lean face without color... Joschi Silajev...

"Get him out of there! But be careful! Maybe the bastard's got a piece hidden somewhere."

Klin lowers the gun... relaxes and watches the prisoner, a helpless ruler. The opponent, the monster, the bastard, his fear as surreal as the abundance and amount of his power. Some laugh nervously, the sight appears ridiculous, a view into the machine of power brutally cracked open to reveal one of the small cogs, pants soiled with fear, the wet spots are easily recognizable on the light linen trousers. Those who are supposed to get him out walk towards the wreck, others fiddle with their weapons, more satisfied threatening gestures than justified caution. He pushes back in one last, frightened reflex... tips unconsciously into the upholstery.

The Rott-Leader curses, they’re running out of time. They drag Silajev out, five of them, grab him by his arms and legs, dragging him along...

"Damn it, watch his head!"

... drag him up the lane to the tank train. There are now two or three boxes or containers on the road, unfastened from the flanks of the tank, storm pioneers with tools next to them... a rusty frame is folded out from under the tank. Hoarse calls from the SP's Rott-Leader. They place Silajev in the frame, there is a platform, cladding parts, pushing and pulling... the pioneers rush onto the frame and the boxes with metallic scraping, squeaking, and hammering, everything is folded up and down, fastened, screwed and clad. They run around hurriedly, almost the last ones on site. Klin has undressed, gun belt and camouflage suit lie next to him, a flushed, sinewy, naked body in the midst of the bloodbath. He slips into a grey jumpsuit that his Rott-Leader holds out to him. A tank driver's jumpsuit.

He walks quietly between the busy SP men to the driver's cabin. The passenger door, almost one floor above him, swings open. The cabin is dark and cool, full of a cold glow in the green and blue of the scales and indicators.

"You're Klin?"

The driver looks a bit daintier than Klin, small and wiry in his Recytex overall. Klin straightens.

"Rotter Klin, Group-Leader, reporting for duty!"

"Don't do that, Rotter! Come on, climb up so we can finally get going. And I'm just Tom."

The Group-Leader has a rough, worn voice, older than his appearance. Klin takes a last look over his shoulder... his comrades stretch their arms for the German Salute, the vehicle parts have disappeared, their victim stowed away. Klin nods to them, pulls himself up and swings into the passenger seat.

"Let's be about it," – Tom, gravelly and cheerful.

Switches are activated, lights change color, scale pointers tremble. With a drawn-out machine groan, the huge truck starts moving, crunches concrete lumps resting at the edge of the roadway.

"Hold on," Tom creaks, "it will get a little rough now. I have to push it, because we're late, and they want to blow the remains."

Tom receives whispering messages from a tiny earpiece in his ear. The machine accelerates powerfully, the power of the motor is noticeable. They drive. Klin is the second. Young, proud, an elite fighter, a little youthful restlessness in his important role. And Tom, the Group-Leader, the driver.

Not much is said. Klin leans his head against the worn, cracked cushion of the headrest, his eyes half-closed. Scales glow, the machine sings evenly, a whisper from the terminal every now and then...

"How's it going?" he asks.

"Well," – the monosyllabic answer with a rasping sound. In the twilight of displays Tom's face shows a changing expression, angular and delicate, young and old, brutal and soft, with a confusing sparkle in the eyes, sometimes an almost aimless smile behind aimed at the blueish grey Spessart behind the darkened armored windows.

"Did they get away alright?"

"Until now. Yes."

"No pursuit?"

"No."

"And the Renault?"

"Right on schedule."

"How?"

"According to plan. You don't know the drill?"

"No."

"And they still put you with me?"

"Yeae! I know what I need to know. Here, I mean, all the way to Munich. Nothing else."

"Then stop asking." And, with a slightly friendlier growl: "Everything is calculated to the minute. The Renault is being refueled. And there's been a little interruption. Nothing conspicuous, just as long as we need, without them thinking of sending a replacement machine from Rinemain."

Outside... caustic desert hills, dotted with miserable plants, mutated and hardly inflammable, dusky behind the dark glass, brightness and heat only faintly cognizable by the deep, hard shadows. Some little solars come towards them. The truck overtakes a few peasants on old off-road bikes, who stare after them in disapproval. The repair service has set up a toll booth in front of a bridge. Tom pays the toll through a little cash lock next to his left knee. The guards don't know about the robbery yet.

On the elevation at the other end of the bridge grows a crippled forest, dense, waist-high weeds at the edge of the road... behind a curve, a small delivery van between the bushes, beside it a big, muscular figure with deep black, short hair like a cap... shakes his torso... pee break. The truck runs slower, then stops.

"What's the matter?" asks Klin.

The tractor stands right next to the rear of the small transporter. Klin looks out, to Tom, the big black-haired man, a true giant, comes quietly towards the passenger side.

"Mr. Group-Leader, do we have time for breaks? Do we know this man?"

Tom flips a switch.

"End of the line, kid!" – happily hoarse.

Heat flows in as the passenger door hisses open.

"A... but... Group-Leader, what…?" Klin looks back and forth irritated.

"Take care!" a cheerful parting growl.

Klin’s seatbelt is suddenly open. Tom shoves him, the guy at the door grabs him like a feather, casually... Klin uselessly reaching for the weapon under his overalls... hurls him into the open, to the ground, stunned. His opponent... the giant is a woman... grins at him, sets a chunky fighting boot on his neck. The cabin door closed again; the truck starts rumbling again.

"Ciao, little fascist bastard!"

Her voice is like melting gold. The boot lifts a few millimeters. Klin tries unsuccessfully to knock over the monster on his leg. Smiling, she kicks him in the throat. From his shattered larynx comes soft gargling.