The day after: An apocalyptic morning (150 page)

              "Almost there," he yelled encouragingly as they continued their run. "Keep it up!"

              No one answered him but they kept running, more out of fear for their lives than his command magnetism. Just as they began to think that they were going to make it to the relative safety of the gully between the two hills, bullets began to hit them with frightening accuracy.

              Three men dropped within two seconds, two from body shots, one from a leg shot. Two more quickly followed, thumping to the mud and sliding on their faces. Stinson just had time to wonder how the troops firing from the objective were getting so lucky all of a sudden when the automatic weapons fire began to rake across them. Three men were cut down in two seconds, one of them screaming as he fell. It was then that he saw the flashes coming from the hill to the right of them. They had been tricked!

              "Get down!" he screamed, throwing himself into the mud and trying to scramble behind a tree. All around him other men were doing the same, more because they had come to the same realization as he had - that they were caught in a crossfire - than because of his order.

              He made it behind the tree and managed to successfully place it between himself and the direction that the most accurate concentration of fire was coming from. The problem was that there was no way to protect yourself from both angles at once. Though he was not hit it was only through providence - he was horribly exposed. Others around him were not so lucky. Private Jennison, who was lying on his belly preparing to return fire, was hit right in the face, blowing his head apart. Corporal Preston, who was less than six feet away from him, took a four round burst in the chest. From behind him he heard the screams of several others as bullets plowed into them.

              "Stinson!" Stu's voice yelled from his radio. "What the hell is going on? What's your situation?"

              "Return fire," Stinson yelled at his men, terrified, sure that he was going to feel a bullet thudding into him at any moment. "Return fire at the closer ones!" He pulled the radio out of his belt and keyed it up. "Stinson here," he said into it, his voice broken with fear. "We're taking heavy fire from the hill west of the objective. We're also getting hit from the objective itself. We're taking heavy casualties."

              There was a long pause and then Stu's voice replied something but Stinson didn't hear what it was because the booms of return gunfire from the men around him drowned it out.

              "What was that?" Stinson asked. "Repeat?" He turned up the volume on the radio.

              "I said retreat!" Stu's voice yelled back, obviously disgusted by the failure. "Get the hell out of there and back to the main formation!"

              A bullet drilled into the tree right above Stinson's head, dropping a large piece of bark onto his helmet. He jumped a little, his heart hammering even faster. "You got that shit right," he said and then rolled onto his back. "Retreat!" he yelled. "Everyone, get back to the formation! Retreat!"

              Circling high above in the helicopter, Skip and Jack had a bird's eye view of everything. They saw the two flanking attacks by the militia surge forward and then watched the hidden positions on the hill pummel them. From up above it was a strangely surreal scene. They saw tiny figures rushing in and out of trees and over brown ground, they saw flashes coming from the trenches, and they saw some of those figures fall. They saw no blood, not even Jack who was watching through the FLIR, and they heard no gunfire, no screams.

              "They're retreating," Skip told the platoon commanders below. "Both of the attacking platoons are withdrawing in disarray. Estimate at least fifty percent casualties in both. We held them!"

              First Mick then Christine then Paula acknowledged his observation.

              "Are they forming up for another run?" Mick asked. "We have two wounded that we need to get out of here."

              The mention of friendly casualties served to take a little of Skip's enthusiasm away. "You have a clear corridor to the rear," he replied. "And it doesn't look like they're going to be attacking again at least until they get their troops back and have a chance to regroup. Evacuate your wounded now. Contact Paul's team on the VHF for a meeting place."

              "Got it," Mick answered. "We also have one dead. Should we pull her body out while we have a break?"

              "Negative," Skip answered regretfully but immediately. "We can't spare the manpower to move a body. Sorry."

              "Understood," Mick said, a little regretful sounding himself.

              A moment later, while the Auburn troops were still rushing back the way they had come, Skip saw two figures being taken from the trenches. One of them, from Christine's platoon, was walking and being escorted by only one person. The other - Skip didn't know who it was or how bad the injury - was from Mick's position and was being carried on a litter by two people.

              "Assholes," Skip said, shaking his head a little. "I think we need to make another nape run while they're regrouping. Keep them from getting too comfortable in our territory and maybe break up their rhythm a little more."

              "Fuckin aye," Jack said. He turned to Sherrie, who was holding tight to the bungee cord of the rope coil again. "We all wound up?"

              "Ready for action," she agreed.

              "Cool." He turned back to Skip. "Want me to get Steve on the VHF?"

              "Do it," Skip said. "If we need to airlift those casualties to El Dorado we'll have just enough time to make one run."

              Jack called Steve and used the code phrases to tell him to get another "egg" ready to drop. By the time they landed four minutes later the canister was on the handcart and waiting to be mounted. Skip touched down and let the engine idle but he didn't shut it down. He stepped out onto the wet parking lot and waved Steve's team over.

              "We're gonna hot load it," he told them as they rushed over. "I want to be back in the air in three minutes."

              "Right," Steve said. He turned to his team. "Let's get it on!"

              They quickly shoved the tank under the belly of the chopper and then crawled under there after it. Two of them lifted up on the sides on a count of three and, with grunts of exertion, maneuvered the bulky tank until the hook caught on the cargo hook.

              "Give me the rope," Steve yelled up at Sherrie, holding out his gloved hand for it. She passed the end of it down and he pulled it through, tying the end onto the weld strip. No sooner had he fastened the knot in place than he was scrambling out from underneath. "You're in business," he told Skip.

              "Good job," Skip replied, giving him a thumbs up. He climbed back into his seat and strapped in. As soon as Steve and his team cleared the rotors he was putting on the power and lifting back into the sky.

              By this time, Paul and his team were with the two casualties and dragging them back to the truck. Since they were in possession of one of the scarce VHF radios, Skip contacted them as he pulled up to bombing altitude over the canyon. Paul himself answered the hail.

              "What's the word on the wounded?" Skip asked him. "Do I need to make a run to El Dorado Hills?"

              "That's negative," Paul responded, sounding somewhat dejected. "I have Susan Michaels with a shoulder wound. It's painful but she can wait for evac to the doctor's office for a while. The other is Helen Johnson. She's... well... she took one in the chest. I don't think that she'll be needing evac either."

              "I see," Skip said slowly, clearly reading the message that Paul was sending about Helen. A chest wound that wouldn't require evac to the doctor could only mean one thing. Helen would not live long enough to make the trip. "Keep us updated on Susan's condition. Bring us in if it gets worse. Remember, priority for the aircraft goes to the wounded."

              "I'll keep you updated," Paul promised. "And she will have to go there eventually."

              "Understood," Skip replied. He looked over at his altimeter, which was coming up on 6000 feet. He then looked over at Jack and Sherrie. "Are we ready to rock?"

              They agreed they were ready to rock and Skip, putting thoughts of Helen Johnson out of his mind, turned to the north and the battle area once again.

              The militia's ranks were once again gathered in force behind the hills and trees of their embarkation line. Isolated pops of gunfire came from both sides as they sniped at each other, neither side suffering any casualties. The troops themselves were in a semi-chaotic state, stinging from being repulsed in their first attack so soundly (by bitches no less) and at the cost of nearly forty soldiers. Some of the wounded were being tended to by those with medical training just behind the main groups. Though some of them would have qualified to be put out of their misery on the march, they were now being spared on the theory that soon the Garden Hill community center would be in their hands and they could now be cared for.

              Stu and Colby stood near the wounded area, Stu talking hastily to his platoon leaders, Colby still trailing behind him like a pet dog, contributing nothing to the discussion.

              "Stinson," Stu barked, "we're going to combine the remnants of your platoon and fifth platoon. You'll be in charge of it. You'll still be designated as third platoon. Get your men together and reorganize your squads as quick as you can. I want to be able to attack those positions again in twenty minutes."

              "Yes, sir," Stinson said, not bothering to salute or even sound enthusiastic about his orders. He had nearly died out there, was still alive only by virtue of random chance after the disastrous first charge. He wished Colby, who was really supposed to be in charge of this abortion, would step in and put a stop to this madness before they lost everyone. But as a simple sergeant he did not question. He trudged off and began gathering his new men into one group so he could pick new squad leaders.

              With that taken care of, Stu called over the platoon leaders of the other platoons. "All right, guys," he said, "this is what we're going to do next. We need to..."

              "Incoming napalm run!" someone screamed, pointing into the air at the approaching helicopter. Fear rippled through the ranks as everyone saw that it did indeed have one of the gas tanks slung beneath it and that it was indeed heading right towards them.

              "Shit," Stu muttered, trying to gauge the speed and distance of the aircraft. He guessed it would be over the top of them in less than a minute. "Take cover!" he yelled to the troops. "Don't bunch up!"

              Those that were standing or kneeling or lying near each other quickly began to scramble around, trying to put as much distance between themselves and anyone near them. For the most part this accomplished nothing since many of them, in their panic, ran into each other instead. Several of the front soldiers that had been trading shots with the enemy were hit with gunfire as they exposed themselves in their efforts.

              "Goddammit," Stu screamed in frustration, "if you're in the front, keep your asses down, you morons!"

              The troops were still in a state of flux when the helicopter banked and began to move slowly right over the top of them. Faintly a face could be seen leaning out one of the doors, obviously to guide the drop. Stu screamed again for everyone to move faster but there simply wasn't enough time. The tank dropped while the helicopter was still moving forward, falling down at an angle behind the aircraft. Because of the motion it was very difficult to see just where the tank was going to hit. Again, just before it reached the end of the rope, solid streams of tracers blasted out from the enemy positions, four of them this time. The tank jerked roughly and ripped in half, spraying a wide pattern of the napalm out over the top of them. The tracers hit it, there was another one of those whoomph sounds, and the burning concoction landed, spraying over a thirty-foot area and igniting everything within it.

              This attack was not as devastating as the first had been, but it was still a horrible thing to witness. One man was completely engulfed and two more were liberally doused on the head and torso. They, like those before them, ran screaming in circles as their clothing and flesh burned away. Gunshots rang out from the soldiers nearby, mercifully putting them down, but still they burned, as did the ground around them and the two halves of the tank, which fell just to the sides of the main impact. The smell of gasoline and roasting flesh filled the air.

              "You're gonna pay for that, motherfuckers!" Stu yelled up at them. "Do you hear me? You're gonna pay for that shit! I'm gonna stick a motherfuckin flare up your ass when I catch you!"

              The helicopter moved off indifferently to the south once more, pulling into a hover over the town, unimpressed with his threats. Stu continued to look at it murderously.

              "Stu," Colby said, tapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe we should think about..."

              "Not now, Colby," Stu responded in irritation, shaking off the hand. "We need to get this next attack organized. The first thing we're gonna have to do is spread out to flank those outside positions. I'll use..."