First Strike (51 page)

His finger clenched on the trigger, some kind of instinct aiming his rifle for him. The gun kicked in his hands and the demon fell backwards, collapsing into a slit-trench.

Mullins jumped the trench and another figure, this one
 
not
 
burning, was charging at him from the right – a scrawny man with a rattily long blond ponytail, missing teeth and a
 
nasty
 
look in his eye. He held an automatic rifle and Mullins whirled, brought his rifle up and shot the fucker with a long automatic burst through the chest.

Then he broke clear of the flames, although they were spreading anyway amongst the higher branches. Downhill; running downhill alongside Lieutenant Croft and Sergeant Williams and the others.

The creek was about two hundred yards away, and other guys – looked like maybe two dozen from Fourth Platoon, and perhaps ten in CG uniform – were already there, pointing their weapons uphill in the direction they’d come from. The creek was about ten feet wide and five deep, although the water level itself was only about half that.

He jumped into the water a moment after Lieutenant Croft, was followed a second later by Sergeant Williams.

A sergeant from Fourth recognized the lieutenant and waded over. Third Platoon guys were splashing water all over their faces and arms, wherever they’d been burned by momentary exposure to the flames. Seven wounded men were sitting against the far bank, and Jorgenson was getting his medical kit out.

Mullins placed the radio on the bank, lay down in the water for a second, thoroughly dousing all but his face. It felt
 
good.
 
There was a brief smoldering sound that made him wonder if a part of his uniform had caught fire. He cupped a hand and splashed a healthy dose of the water onto his face, licking hard.

The lieutenant had his map out, was talking with Williams and the sergeant from Fourth.

Boom!
 
came from uphill. Followed by three more heavy explosions, and – a few seconds after the last of those – another one.

Mullins got to his feet.

“We bug out,” the sergeant from Fourth was agreeing. “Under cover of that artillery.”

“No hurry,” Williams said. “Those fuckers won’t stick around. Once the big guns come in, they know it’s over. They want our machine-guns, but they’re not gonna die for `em.”

The sergeant from Fourth glanced at his watch.

“We need to wait at least another couple minutes anyway. In case some more of ours made it.”

“You’re – Mullins, right?” asked Lieutenant Croft.

Mullins nodded.

“Yessir. Paul Mullins.”

“Get 292 on the line. No point correcting their fire – we can’t see where they’re hitting to begin with, through those flames – but we need choppers.”

“Yessir.”

“Hey!” shouted someone from Fourth. Coming up the creek bed towards them were two men – then a third, who carried a wounded man on his shoulder. A very
 
big
 
third guy – looked like Dashratha.

There were a few cheers from the other guys in Fourth.

“Well, guys,” said the lieutenant. “We might or might not be able to get flown out of here, but let’s move north towards 292 anyway. Maybe we’ll find somewhere the choppers can land.”

“Champion's writing has you tasting the cordite, feeling the mud and blood-spatter on every page - he knows infantry and he knows combat. Vivid, exciting military SF that rings true.”

-Captain Jacob 'Kal' Spriggs, two-tour US Army veteran author of
 
The Renegades
.

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