‘You know why this is necessary?’
Rachel nods, and I am glad. She doesn’t have to think it justice; she doesn’t have to think it right. She just has to understand why. If she doesn’t, the punishment is worthless. ‘Sir,’ she says. ‘May I say goodbye to Haze first?’
That is when I realize she thinks I’m following Colonel Vijay’s orders. He wants her shot. Too bad. I wanted a Silver Fist prisoner.
Neither of us is going to get what we wanted.
‘Rachel,’ I say, ‘it’s a whipping.’
Relief floods her eyes.
And that tells me she’s never been whipped, at least not properly. I have, and shooting is preferable. Five lashes shreds muscle from your back, and ten reveals glistening ribs. Fifteen can kill and, if it doesn’t, twenty will. As deaths go, the whipping post is a damn sight less clean than a bullet.
But we are not talking about a bull-hide whip here.
‘You have a knife?’
She nods, tears in her eyes.
It’s the relief, I realize. She’s up here expecting to be shot. That means the rest of them, waiting in a sullen little knot below, probably expect the same.
‘Show me your belt . . .’
Pulling it through the loops on her uniform trousers, she hands it to me. The leather is new and stiff in places, but I’ve seen worse. So I show her how to cut a cat’s tail and tell her I expect there to be at least ten more when I next see the belt.
She has an hour to cut the others and return.
I will be waiting up here on this slope. Three valleys up from the one where we fought the Silver Fist.
‘You going through with this?’ demands the SIG.
I nod, which it picks up.
‘They’re going to hate you.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘And you don’t care if they do?’
‘Not really.’
When the SIG realizes I’m refusing to rise to the bait, it lets me field-strip it with bad grace. There are thirty-seven separate pieces, but only one way to break the gun down and put it back together. My quickest is one minute ten, and I’m aiming for under a minute before Rachel returns.
We’re down to fifty-five seconds when I hear a scuffle of boots on the gravel. She’s taken fifteen minutes to do a job hardened troopers will take the best part of a day over, if allowed.
Mind you, they know the results of getting it wrong.
‘Show me.’
She hands me the cat.
Too heavy and the lashes will cut to the bone, too light and they will lift whole patches of skin. ‘Anyone help you?’
Rachel shakes her head.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
She doesn’t beg and she doesn’t hesitate. Just takes back her whip and follows me down the slope. Neen has the Aux lined up at the bottom. Their combat jackets are brushed down, their pockets fastened.
Colonel Vijay stands to one side, scowling.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Give the whip to Haze.’
‘Bastard,’ says my gun, but says it quietly.
We are dealing with half a dozen issues here and I don’t have time for each in turn. I’m going to get them all over at once. Leading her to a rock, Haze waits for Rachel to remove her jacket, then leans her face-down on the rock’s hot surface and lifts the back of her shirt to her shoulders.
‘Five,’ I tell him.
It’s less than he expects.
‘Lay them on properly. Or I will.’
He is looking inwards, wondering if he caused this. We both know the answer to that. Haze didn’t cause it but he didn’t help either.
‘Are you ready?’
Lifting her head, Rachel nods.
‘Hold her by the wrists,’ I tell Neen and Franc. Looking at Shil, I say, ‘And you count the lashes.’
Everyone has a part in this. That’s the point.
Slashing the belt into Rachel’s back, Haze winces. It is hard for a first stroke, but he’s afraid I will take over if he doesn’t do it properly.
‘One,’ says Shil.
The second draws blood, for all that it is softer.
A third breaks her silence, but I decide she will make five without screaming. I’m right: she gasps at the third, gasps louder at the fourth and sobs with the fifth, but we are done.
‘Bring her here.’
Neen and Franc are wondering whether to dress her.
‘Now,’ I order. Can’t believe anyone’s that stupid. Pull her shirt down over that and Rachel will be peeling cloth from half-healed flesh for the next week and that will make her scream.
Putting a hand under each elbow, Neen and Franc walk her across.
It takes Rachel a second to focus.
‘Now listen,’ I say.
She does.
‘I don’t give a fuck how things were done before. We’re the Aux. We never abandon our posts. We stand. And, if necessary, we die. Understand?’
Rachel nods.
‘Good,’ I say.
Undoing my jacket, I remove the Obsidian Cross I’ve been keeping inside my shirt. ‘For killing two snipers in near impossible conditions I award you the Obsidian Cross, second class. Wear it with pride.’ Kissing her on both cheeks, I hang the cross on its ribbon around Rachel’s neck and stand back.
A moment later, the others join me in saluting her.