Into the Guns (8 page)

Mac was standing in one-one's forward hatch as she spoke into her mike. “Archer-Six to One-Ten. Do you read me? Over.”

“This is Ten,” Kho whispered. “I read you five by five. Over.”

“We're ready to roll . . . Give me a sitrep. Over.”

“You were correct,” Kho replied. “It looks like the trucks are preparing to depart. About twenty police officers are present, along with roughly thirty civilians, all of whom are armed. Hold one . . . Some of the cops are climbing up onto the roof canopies. They have bipod-mounted machine guns. Over.”

“Roger that. Is there any sign of Wylie? Over.”

“There's a guy who's walking around shouting at people,” Kho answered. “Over.”

“That sounds like him,” Mac said. “Tell Bravo-Two-Two to take the shot if he gets one. Then run like hell. Over.”

“This is Two,” Hadley replied. “Roger that. Out.”

“All right,” Mac said. “Withdraw toward the overpass if you can . . . We're on the way. Out.” Then, speaking to the truck commander, she said “Let's roll.”

Strangely, given their size, the Strykers were extremely quiet. So much so that when first deployed to Iraq in 2003, people referred to them as Ghost Riders. Mac heard a high-pitched whine as one-one began to pick up speed and felt the cold air press against her face.

Rather than barrel straight down Firing Center Road, the three-vehicle column took a less direct route that zigzagged through back roads and went cross-country at times. Mac would have preferred to divide the platoon in two, with each team following a different route, but she had to leave a truck at the base just in case. And since the engineering vehicle was the most ungainly of the four—it made sense to leave that truck behind with a squad of soldiers and her orphans.

“This is Bravo-Two-Two,” Hadley said in her ear. Mac could hear heavy breathing and knew the sniper was running. “The guy with the big mouth is down—and five or six civilians are chasing us. The cops have dogs, and they're closing fast. We're looking for a place to make a stand. Out.”

Mac swore under her breath.
Dogs.
She hadn't anticipated that. What else had she failed to think of? “This is Archer-Six actual. Roger that, Two . . . We'll be there soon. Over.”

The Stryker produced a noise reminiscent of a city bus changing gears as it slowed, rounded a corner, and began to pick up speed. The overpass was directly ahead, and Mac could hear the steady bang, bang, bang of Hadley's rifle interspersed with three-round bursts from Kho's M4. They were making their stand. “This is Archer-One actual,” Mac said. “Bring one-two up alongside one-one, so we can put the maximum amount of firepower downrange. Three will guard our six. Over.”

Mac heard a series of double clicks as two pulled up next to one and three started to slow. As they passed a burned-out car, Mac saw Kho wave. From that point, it was possible to follow a line of dead bodies west. Mac didn't feel so much as a bump when 16 tons of truck rolled over a dog and two dead humans. The bodies were evidence of the skill with which Kho and Hadley had handled themselves, and Mac felt proud of them.

That was when a pair of bright lights came on. They were
unusually high off the ground and at least twenty feet apart. With a sense of shock Mac realized that one of the monster trucks was coming straight at her! An impression that was confirmed when a cop lying on top of the dump truck's metal canopy opened fire. And being up high, he had an advantage. “Button it up!” Mac ordered, as she dropped into the vic. “Archer-One actual to One-Two. Put the AT4 team on the ground and kill that truck. Over.”

Meanwhile, one-one's gunner was using the Stryker's remote-weapons system to fire the truck's fifty. Mac could hear the thump, thump, thump of outgoing rounds and wished she could put eyes on the target. “This is One-Two,” Sergeant Ralston said. “We're in position. Stand by. Over.”

Even though Mac was inside a Stryker, she could hear the explosion as the AT4's high-explosive projectile hit the truck. A combination of curiosity and claustrophobia drove her up through the hatch to stand on the seat. A glance was enough to confirm that the rocket launcher had done its job. The front of the gigantic hauler was wrapped in flames, and civilians were bailing out of it. “Kill the runners,” she ordered, and watched as tracers found the fugitives.

The slaughter wasn't something that Mac enjoyed. But it had to be done in order to protect her people and the base. Then it was over, and Mac felt a brief moment of satisfaction in knowing that the other haulers were too large to pass the burning wreck.

But the feeling was short-lived as Evans spoke over the radio. He was in charge of the base, and his voice was calm. Mac heard an explosion in the background. “This is Archer-One-Seven. We're taking mortar and small-arms fire from the south. I have two KIAs and a WIA. Over.”

Mac felt surprise mixed with anger.
Mortars? Maybe they got them from a National Guard unit,
Mac thought to herself. Not that it mattered. She had to stay focused. The force protecting the base
consisted of the ESV, a squad of infantry, and the five-person air crew. That was a small contingent of defenders. What orders had been given to the attackers? Were they trying to pin the soldiers down while they waited for the ore haulers to arrive? Or were they prepping the base for an infantry assault? There was no way to be sure.

Mac faced a choice. She could send one or more vics back to reinforce the base, thereby weakening the force located on the overpass, or she could order Evans to counterattack, using the ESV. That would involve sending an unsupported Stryker out to fight by itself. A definite no-no under normal circumstances.

Still . . . It seemed safe to assume that the locals weren't trained or equipped to tackle armor—and that meant that the vic would have a good chance against them.
Assumptions get people killed,
the voice told her, but Mac chose to overrule it. “This is Six . . . Send the ESV after the bastards. And tell Tillis to keep moving, so they can't put mortar fire on him. Over.”

“Roger that,” Evans replied. “Over.”

Having made what might be a fateful decision, Mac had to let go and turned back to the situation in front of her. There were three additional monster trucks to disable or kill. “This is Archer-One . . . Let's put the rest of our boots on the ground. Once everybody is clear, one-one will lead the way, followed by one-two and one-three. Watch those intervals. Over.”

The first squad was riding on one-one, and Mac followed them out into the cold night air. By the time the second and third squads had deassed their trucks, one-one had entered the narrow gap that lay between the burning truck and the bridge. Truck Commander Lamm was forced to put a set of four tires on the sidewalk to get through. The rest of the Strykers followed with squads one, two, and three bringing up the rear.

Mac had to jog in order to keep up with one-three, and the rest
of the platoon followed her example. She positioned herself to the left of the vic in order to see past it and ensure that the way was clear. A couple of minutes later, one-one cleared the bridge and began to close on the parking lot that Mac had seen earlier. Then she realized that the surviving ore haulers were spread out. As one-one passed between two of the behemoths, Mac felt a sudden sense of alarm. Something was wrong . . . But
what
?

The answer came in the form of a massive explosion as the truck on the far right was transformed into an orange-red ball of flame. It rose like an obscene balloon, which popped a hundred feet off the ground. Mac came to a halt and ordered her troops to do likewise. The smoke made it impossible to see. Sparks gave her the mike. “One-one? One-two? This is Archer-Six . . . Report. Over.”

“This is one-one,” came the halting reply. “One-two was caught in the blast. It's gone.”

Mac felt her heart sink. It wasn't the truck . . . Fuck that. Evitt was dead, plus his gunner, and Evans's people. All to defend a base that nobody cared about. Mac felt nauseous but couldn't throw up because people were counting on her. She forced herself to speak. “One-one and one-three will destroy the remaining ore trucks. As soon as that's accomplished, the rest of the platoon will move in and mop up.”

The remaining vics were taking machine-gun fire but nothing big enough to matter. One of the ore haulers took off, or tried to, but didn't get far as one-one's vengeful gunner poured fire into the truck. It didn't take long for a tracer to find a fuel line and spark a fire. Mac heard a thump as flames appeared, and the behemoth ground to a halt.

Meanwhile, one-three's gunner was firing his 40mm grenade launcher at the remaining truck. It seemed to wilt as blast after blast hit the cab, engine compartment, and gigantic tires. Then it, too,
was gone as the fuel tank blew—and one-three's commander uttered a whoop of joy. Sergeant Ralston ordered him to “Cut the crap.”

Mac grinned. “Come on!” she shouted. “Follow me . . . Let's get the rest of them!”

Machine-gun fire was coming from in and around the convenience store. Bullets dug divots out of the parking lot as Mac zigzagged forward. She was using cars and pickups for cover, and that wasn't the brightest plan, since it was safe to assume that some of the vehicles had fuel in their tanks. And there was the possibility of another IED. But Mac was hating rather than thinking, so none of that occurred to her.

When a smoke grenade landed in front of the store, she charged through the fog, firing bursts from the M4. Then she was through the front door and inside. Mac saw shadowy forms turning her way and fired at the one off to her right. She saw the man stagger as the .223 rounds hit him but knew better than to watch because the other targets were still in motion. Each person was part of a race to see who would live and who would die.

Mac switched to full auto and held the trigger back as she sprayed the woman in front of her with bullets. The bitch fell, but it wasn't going to be enough. A
third
defender had Mac dead to rights and was about to fire. That was when Mac heard a loud boom to her left, and saw half of the man's face vanish. The force of the blast turned him around, and he collapsed. Mac couldn't believe her good fortune, and turned to see Sparks work the action on his twelve-gauge pump gun. The RTO spit on the floor. “Asshole.”

Mac laughed and took note of how shrill it sounded. After thanking the RTO for saving her ass, Mac turned her attention to the things that had to get done. First, she ordered the remaining Strykers to provide security. Then she sent the first squad out to
retrieve intelligence. That included electronic devices, documents, IDs, and pocket litter.

While they took care of that, Mac made the rounds with the second squad. Their job was to collect all of the weapons and ammunition that were lying around. Later, once the unit returned to base, the pile would be divided into two categories: keep and destroy.

Finally, after confirming that Hadley's dead man was none other than Fred Wylie, Mac ordered the unit to pull out. She rode in one-three on the way back and understood why the mood was so somber. A battle had been won, but the price of victory had been high. Two men had been killed, and not only killed, but obliterated. Not so much as a dog tag had been found in the blast zone. It was depressing as hell, and all of them were silent as the vic rolled onto the base.

The good news was that one-four had been able to find and eliminate both of the insurgent mortar teams. One-four's gunner had taken one group out while Tillis ran the other team down. They were holding the tube between them and running south when the vic caught up and crushed them. Some riflemen were killed subsequent to that—but Evans figured that a dozen of the bastards had survived.

Unfortunately, none of this could make up for the two people who'd been killed during the initial mortar attack. And as an orange disk rose in the east, and the bodies were lowered into what Private Wessel callously referred to as “a double wide,” it was Mac's duty to say a few words. Her throat felt tight, and she wished there had been time to prepare something.

“We're gathered here to say good-bye to our comrades. Men who stood by their country in its darkest hour, who fought to keep it alive, and died protecting their fellow soldiers. We're going to miss them . . . And keep them alive with the stories that we tell. May God take and keep them.”

Once the service was over, and the grave was filled in, half of the soldiers were sent to grab some sleep while the rest stood guard. And that included Mac, who flipped a coin with Evans and won. After a hot shower, she crawled into her bag and fell asleep. And when her alarm went off two hours later, it seemed as if only seconds had passed.

The generator was off, so the best Mac could do was to wash her face and brush her teeth prior to shuffling over to the Flight Center, where Evans was waiting to be relieved. After two cups of coffee and an MRE, Mac went to visit the dispensary. Dr. Hoskins was there to introduce Staff Sergeant Nick Esco. The noncom had sandy-brown hair, green eyes, and a ready smile. Mac saw him wince as he got up off a pillow. “Good morning, ma'am . . . The doctor tells me that you helped to pull me out of the Mescalero. Thank you.”

“Warrant Officer Omata got to you first,” Mac told him, “so it was a team effort. You're lucky to be alive. We saw lots of bullet holes. Some of which were in you.”

“Yeah,” Esco said wryly. “A whole lot of bad guys were shooting at me as I took off from JBLM, and believe me, there's nothing worse than getting shot in the ass. It's embarrassing.”

Mac chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. But what you did took a lot of guts. Were you a pilot before you joined?”

Esco shook his head. “No, ma'am. Even though I'm a drone pilot, I had never flown a
real
plane until I took off from JBLM.”

Mac allowed her eyebrows to rise. “That's amazing . . . And you flew over the mountains?”