A New World: Reckoning (5 page)

Previously, on entering or approaching any town, they exhibited a tremendous amount of caution. Now, with the danger on their back trail, they can’t afford that luxury. Driving through the city, Greg looks down streets shadowed in the early morning light. Observing one such street, he sees a flash of yellow sticking out from the edge of a building.

“Driver, take the next right,” Greg orders.

A block past a major intersection, the Stryker turns into a dusty lot, entering a back street on the other side. Greg knows their tracks through the lot may be found but hopes that the group behind will turn down the highway rather than drive onward.

A few turns later, just as he hoped, Greg sees a school. The buildings surround a central courtyard with entrances to the middle at each corner. The Stryker, barely fitting between two of the buildings, enters the enclosure. Near one of the encircling wooden buildings sit four school buses. Classroom windows look out over the square which is filled with swirls of dirt mixed with debris. Grime covers the panes of the classrooms and buses alike, rendering them opaque.

Greg has the Stryker pulled up next to the main building, effectively hiding the armored vehicle from view. It’s really the perfect setup and he can’t think of anything he would improve, other than the diesel instantaneously moving itself from the bus tanks to his own.

Chill air rushes in as the ramp lowers, the metallic clang echoing off the buildings enclosing the courtyard. Through the dust swirls, there are faint lines showing where small feet once played hopscotch and others where mighty games of four square reigned. To the side, a lone metal pole stands with an ochre ball still attached to a thin cord.

The inside empties quickly as everyone rushes out, their warm exhalations producing small clouds of vapor in the motionless, cold air. The exhaust from the idling Stryker emits the same, dissipating quickly as the fumes reach the same temperature as the surrounding atmosphere.

Soldiers scramble to remove a couple of fuel canisters that survived the near misses. With the exception of a tattered tarp and a few tools, the rest of the top has been swept clear of their supplies. Luckily, they still have a few cartons of MREs and bottled water inside.

Greg stations two soldiers at either end of the main building looking out toward the road. He warns everyone to stay out of sight of the highway. While the refueling operation begins, he walks around the Stryker looking for damage. Bright metal shows where shrapnel impacted and dented the sides. The large tires have some of the rubber missing but they are, for the most part, intact. The damage that worries Greg the most is that the antennas have been severed. Should Jack fly into the area, there is no way they will be able to communicate. Jack could fly mere miles away and not even know Greg’s team is in the area. If he sees the 130, he’ll try using a signal mirror to contact them.

Noting the exhaust plumes of the Stryker, he looks to make sure that their heat signature is kept within the confines of the square and doesn’t rise above the single-story school. Satisfied that they are in as good of a position as they possibly can be, Greg helps carry full fuel canisters from the buses.

As the seconds tick by, Greg keeps expecting to hear from the scouts that they’ve been spotted and that armored units are closing in. Each minute means more fuel. Tension fills him knowing their vulnerability, mixed with the hope that the others will pass them by. He notes the same anxiety with the others. They are carrying out their tasks quickly and quietly. Plumes of breath follow each person as they lug the heavy canisters to the Stryker. The only sound is the idling engine and occasional ringing as the metal cans contact the ground or vehicle.

Ten minutes…fifteen minutes. The first rays of sunlight begin penetrating the valley floor. Greg begins to relax in the hope that they might have given the other units the slip. If that’s the case, they’ll wait a while and slip back out to the main road and strike north, retracing their route and continuing toward the northwest, hoping to eventually arrive back at Cabela’s. Any thought of continuing their mission is long gone.

“Sir, two Humvees are heading in our direction. Four Strykers and a lot of other Humvees just passed on the main highway heading south,” the northernmost lookout calls.

“Fuck. Everyone inside, now!” Greg calls.

As he runs for the ramp, Greg again wonders how they were found. They didn’t travel down the road on which the two Humvees are approaching so there’s no way the others saw their tracks, yet they are making a beeline right at them. The only way that could be is if they have some form of airborne surveillance. And that makes anything they do a straight out fight for survival. In a way, it makes decisions about what they have to do easier. There’s no second-guessing about how to lose their tail, they won’t. They just have to finish this race in first place. First though, they have to extricate themselves.

Two soldiers are lugging a heavy canister laden with fuel across the lot. Knowing the importance of the fuel, they aren’t giving up their load. They make it up the ramp and it closes as the first Humvee barrels into the north opening opposite the one Greg’s Stryker entered. With a squeal of breaks, it partially slides to a halt. Another fills the second opening on the north side seconds later.

Greg opens up with the .50 cal before the gunner of the first vehicle can fire. Sparks strike off the roof as the heavy rounds pound into the Humvee. Torn metal flies around the gunner as the rounds find their mark. Blood and metal fill the turbulent air.

“Go, now! Into the corner of the building,” Greg shouts as he shifts his aim point.

A flurry of .50 cal rounds punch into the windshield of the Humvee, tearing holes in the thick glass and sending splintered shards into the vehicle. Blood splatters on the inside of the glass remaining within the frame, coating it red.

The Stryker launches forward as the gunner from the other Humvee opens up point blank. Heavy thuds pound against the armor, sparks flying as the rounds ricochet off. One of the heavy caliber rounds finds its way through the thick armor. It careens through a piece of equipment on the wall sending sparks into the interior. Slowed, but still packing a punch, it collides with the shoulder of the boy they rescued from the crosses the other night, severing his arm from his shoulder. His arm falls limply into the lap of the soldier next to him and splatters those across from him with blood. Several screams punctuate the interior.

The soldier stares mutely at the arm in his lap, not knowing exactly what it means. An arm just landed in his lap and the shock of not understanding the implications causes him to just gaze at it for split-seconds. He lifts it and looks to the boy next to him. The realization hits with full force as he sees the mutilated remnants of the boy’s shoulder. Splinters of bone are all that remain of the arm with blood streaming from the wound. The soldier only heard the boy give a compressed sigh and slump to the side.

Dropping the arm to the floor, the soldier rips off his shirt and stuffs it into the wound, holding it tightly against the injury as others scramble to help.

Greg turns the turret to the second Humvee but, with their surge ahead, its gunner is lost from view. Instead, he sends high-speed, heavy projectiles into the front of the vehicle. Steam billows upward from the punctured radiator. Rounds punch into the hood sending a spray of oil upward as a line is severed. The windscreen shatters as the rounds continue arcing across the Humvee.

The rest is lost from view as the Stryker collides with the wooden sides of the school building. A clamor of boards and glass breaking covers all other sounds as the heavy vehicle punches through the wall. The Stryker tilts as it barrels its way through what once was a classroom filled with the town’s youth.

Portions of the roof collapse as the heavily armored vehicle thunders through the side walls. The Stryker emerges from the other side, leaving a trail of timbers, siding, insulation, and pipes. As it exits, the entire part of the damaged building falls in on itself with a crash.

Turning down the street toward the main highway, with broken boards sliding off the sides, the Stryker accelerates past the disabled Humvee. The shredded remains of the Humvee’s gunner lies half out of the open gunner’s position, draped across the roof. Streams of blood flow down what is left of the windshield and side window.

Passing the road in front of the main school building, Greg sees the core of the opposing armored column about to enter into the courtyard he just exited. Led by one of the other Strykers, he sees the turret swing in his direction.

“Punch it,” Greg bellows.

Making it past the street opening, Greg hears a thunderous roar. A house on the corner erupts in a billowing column of smoke and flame. The snapshot made by the opposing Stryker narrowly missed. Boards and siding are thrown high into the air and tossed outward, fanning across the dead lawn and the road.

They must have had a high explosive round loaded rather than an anti-armor Sabot round,
Greg thinks.

The rounds may not penetrate the armored side of the Stryker, but it could tip it on its side. That’s something Greg would very much like to avoid. The column disappears from view as the Stryker continues down the street, picking up speed. Greg has the driver turn down several streets in order to keep them from a direct line-of-sight.

Reaching the intersection of highways, Greg discharges another smoke cloud. The Stryker soon crosses over a bridge spanning a river that divides the connecting townships. Again, Greg wishes for more firepower. Not for holding out against their antagonists, as he knows they wouldn’t last long in a slugging match, but more so that they could damage the bridge enough to slow down the pursuit. Highly suspecting that they are now fighting against an enemy that has airborne surveillance capabilities, he knows that they won’t lose their tail for long. All he can hope for is to create some separation.

While not getting the fuel load he wanted, Greg is at least satisfied that they have enough to make Albuquerque and to maneuver should the need arise. The road connects with another highway and, after motoring through an industrial area on the outskirts of San Pedro, it swings southeast and then south toward Santa Fe.

As the sun continues its upward trek, the shadows from the mountains slowly edge their way across the valley floor. Standing in one of the open hatches, Greg focuses his binoculars behind. Not able to see far because of intervening buildings, he does make out occasional glimpses of armor crossing the bridges. Not knowing how or why they were able to gain any separation, he is thankful. They aren’t out of the fire by a long shot, and picking up fuel down the road will be perilous if the last two instances are any indication.

Back inside, Greg notes a group of soldiers crowding around one of the passengers. With shock, he sees the splatter of blood on the equipment across from them. Blood drips off the bench seat to a gathering pool on the metal floor. So intent was he on the escape, he had no idea they had sustained an injury. One of the soldiers has an IV bag held high. Positions shift as they are administering first aid and, through a gap of bodies, Greg sees the head of the boy they rescued leaning to the side, his eyes closed. Gathering the attention of one of the soldiers, Greg raises an eyebrow asking after the boy’s well-being. The soldier shakes his head and continues with his treatment.

Rolling toward Santa Fe, the valley narrows as the mountain chains on either side close in. Hundreds of thin ridgelines reach out into the valley looking like fingers trying to take root or pull the valley in toward the mighty peaks. Ravines cut deeply into the ridges, created during the massive runoff from the spring thaws.

More worried about keeping the distance from the armored forces behind than about fuel consumption, Greg has the Stryker racing as fast as the road will allow. In some areas, only a slight rise of the ground denotes where the road is. The dirt of the plains, covered only with scant scrub brush and the occasional stunted tree, has swept over large portions of the pavement. As they speed toward Santa Fe, Greg wonders just how long it will be until the highway completely vanishes.

It won’t be much longer
, he thinks as the northern approaches to the city become visible.

Just before entering the massive residential district that covers the northern part of the metropolis, Greg orders the Stryker onto a highway that fully skirts the town to the west. Passing the airport serving the town, the team connects with the interstate leading toward Albuquerque. The vast chain of mountains they were following ends as they enter the flatter terrain.

To the rear, Greg sees a dust cloud from their pursuers rising into the thin air. With them so close, he ponders how they are going to refuel the Stryker as they approach Albuquerque. They’ll be running short by the time they arrive.

Maybe it’s time we abandon the Stryker and find vehicles that will give us more speed
, he thinks, knowing the firepower they are carrying is useless and the distance they can keep is their only defense.
We’ll save on gas and have to refuel less often
.

Several miles down the road, as he is going through a plan to quickly transfer to working vehicles, a glimmer catches his attention. He increases the zoom level on the camera for a better look.

Ahead, stretched across the road and out to the sides, armored vehicles are spread in a line. Greg instantly recognizes the distinct outlines of several Strykers and Humvees. He’s found the second group, and the distance between him and this second group is closing quickly.