Doctor Who_ War Games - Malcolm Hulke [43]
He heard a sound the other side of his tent and walked around it to see who was there. He found himself facing a German private of 1917 and an American from a New York regiment of 1862. The American, a sergeant, was holding a British service revolver.
‘Hi! ‘ said the American, seemingly affable.
It was the last word the fake Roman officer ever heard.
The bullet from the revolver killed him outright.
The German and the American pulled aside the flap of the tent. Inside was an ornate wooden chest. The German took the dead officer’s knife and prised open the lid.
‘There it is,’ said the American. They were looking down at a telecommunication unit.
The American emptied the revolver into the video screen.
Petrov Ilavich stood where his commander had told him to stand guarding the little hut. He had no idea what was inside the hut; only the commander ever went in there, and he did not talk with the ordinary soldiers.
Petrov wished the war was over so that he could be back with his father and mother on their little farm. He could no longer remember how long ago he had had to join the Tsar’s army to fight the wicked British in the Crimea.
Secretly he was thankful that no one had shot at him yet.
Not once had he been in any fighting. His only duty had been to guard the commander’s little hut. Yet this meant disgrace. For what could he boast of to his mother and his father when finally he went back home?
While these thoughts went through the mind of Petrov Ilavich, two other men from different wars were quietly placing dynamite sticks under the back of the hut. A Chinese soldier from the Boxer Rising of 1900 and one of Arturo Villar’s Mexican bandits worked together, silently connecting the dynamite to wire on a drum. Once finished they ran with the drum to a boulder behind which they had placed the plunger. With deft movements, the Chinese made the final connection. He nodded to his Mexican companion. The Mexican grinned broadly and put his whole weight on top of the plunger.
The little hut disintegrated in a flash of flame and smoke. Whereas Petrov Ilavich had been standing upright at one moment, the next he was flat on his face with sections of wooden wall on top of him. Slowly he extricated himself, glad to find that none of his limbs was broken, and, even more important, he had not lost the Tsar’s rifle.
He stood up, brushing dust from his long grey coat. The hut had vanished. The commander would be furious. But it did not matter. At last Petrov Ilavich could claim to be a hero.
Another ‘malfunction’ light flashed up on the console in the war room.
‘The Crimean War Zone,’ said a technician, pointing excitedly.
‘Two communication failures,’ said the Security Chief.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence for these to be technical faults. Send a squad of guards to each.’
The technician was about to pass on the order when another ‘malfunction’ light flashed. ‘Look, sir. First World War Zone, German front line.’
‘Then to each point,’ screamed the Security Chief, ‘send a sidrat with a dozen guards. No, make it twenty guards to each. We must crush this insurrection!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the technician. He passed on the order.
An officer of the 3rd South Carolina Regiment came rushing into the barn. He made straight for the stall containing the hidden communications unit. Arturo Villar, hot in pursuit, held his fire until the officer had revealed the video screen. Realising he was trapped, the panting officer wheeled round to face the men who had been chasing him.
‘I am your commanding officer,’ he gasped, doing his best to keep the steady monotone that would summon up loyalty from a processed human mind. ‘You are not to shoot me because you are under my command. You are my faithful soldiers.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Villar guffawed. ‘We are all very faithful, señor.’ His two revolvers blazed at point blank range.
One of Villar’s fellow bandits leapt forward to get at the fallen officer’s pockets. Villar knocked the man to one side.
‘You have no respect for the dead?’ He laughed again.
‘Then at least have respect for me. I