“They might take another shot,” said Luke.
“No, I don’t think so. Killing Jamal was meant to shock us into submission. I have the feeling they would rather take us without a fight.”
He stood up before Luke could protest further.
The men across the way twitched into life, and Isaac found himself facing at least a hundred guns. He put up his hands quickly.
“Keep those hands up,” drawled the leader into the bullhorn. “And have the guy with you stand up.”
Luke rose and stuck the middle finger of his good hand up. There was a ripple of laughter from the New Americans at his petty defiance. They’d seen it all before.
“You put your hands up too, big guy.”
“Screw you!” said Luke, his finger still up.
“Luke,” hissed Isaac. “Just do it. We need to get back into the tower in one piece.”
Luke gritted his teeth and nodded before complying.
“Good. Now, who are you?”
“I’m Isaac Race. This is Luke.”
“Where is your leader?”
“We don’t have one leader. A council governs here. I’m on it.”
“A council? Well, how very democratic. So, what do you say Councilman? Surrender or die?”
“Well, that’s the thing about councils. They have to vote on any decision as important as the one you’re offering.”
The words were no sooner out of Isaac’s mouth than distant gunfire and explosions sounded south, towards where Randall’s men were stationed at the bridge.
“Well, it sounds like your army friends didn’t take the deal. Maybe we should just shoot you down now and storm the building.”
Isaac’s heart sank. He’d assumed this was all of them. With Randall’s contingent engaged, they were on their own.
“No, please. Allow us to take a vote. It will literally take five minutes.”
The big man lowered his bullhorn and talked to the man next to him briefly before raising it again.
“I’m a big believer in democracy myself. So, I’ll give you ten minutes. If you’re not back out here when that ten minutes is up though, we’re turning that tower of yours into swiss cheese.”
“Okay, thank you. Ten minutes it is!” called Isaac. “Come on Luke; we don’t have much time.”
“We should take Jamal.”
Isaac nodded. They didn’t really have the time, but it was the least they could do for their friend. Isaac took Jamal’s shoulders, and Luke picked up his leg’s, pinning them under his arms. It was a struggle, Jamal was a solid guy and quite tall. They were both puffing with exertion by the time they got up to the doors. Tears sprang to Isaac’s eyes as he heard the wails of grief behind the glass.
“Bastards,” hissed Ben, as he helped them through the doors.
“Oh, poor Jamal!” cried Indigo, as she comforted Allie and Ava, who was wracked with grief. “What do they want?”
The three boys lowered Jamal’s onto a bench seat, and Ben took his jacket off and put it over his face.
“They want us to submit or die. I told them we’d vote.”
“We’re going to vote?” she asked.
“Hell no, we’re going to fight.”
24
Bowman and his team were fully prepped one hour after sunrise. He walked along the dugouts and hides where they nervously waited on the arrival of the enemy. He was by far the most senior person there and had to keep reminding himself that these ‘soldiers’ had just been kids when the shit had hit the fan.
The three men with the RPG-29 rocket launchers were spaced ten yards apart and about twenty feet behind the first line of trees. As soon as Bowman gave the word, they would step forward and position themselves at pre-designated trees ready to fire on his signal.
They were all confident kids, and he was hopeful they could pull off accurate strikes before the return fire began. He gave each of them quick pep talks as he walked along. The tanks would be travelling one after the other because the road wasn't wide enough to accommodate two across. Each of the three would target a different tank.
“If you strike your designated tank, fire your next grenade at the car or at a different tank if your buddy has missed their shot. If you miss your designated tank - and I’m sure you won’t - fire at it again.”
The rest of the men were fanned out either side of the rocket launchers; they would begin firing at will once the first salvo from the rocket launchers had been fired.
Once he’d done all the talking he wished to do, Bowman sat down with his back against a tree and rested. His night’s sleep on the rough ground had been sporadic at best, and he soon dozed off.
He was awoken by a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Lachlan’s back, they’re coming!”
The rumbling sound and faint vibration under his body reiterated the warning.
He grabbed his Kalashnikov and shot to his feet.
“Ready everyone?” he yelled.
“Yes sir!” came the excited responses.
“Remember, wait until all three are in view.”
They didn't have long to wait, just three minutes after Bowman was awoken, the first tank growled around the last bend and into view. He saw the men around him tense in anticipation. The black painted tank with leaves and dust swirling in its wake was quite a sight on that overgrown New England road.
“Hold!” Bowman called, as the second came into view. Then the third. “Wait!” The vibration from the three tanks was enough to make his guts quiver now. Finally, they were all directly in front. “Fire!”
Like clockwork, the three men fired. The first man scored a direct hit on the turret of the first tank. It exploded and caught fire. Bowman saw from the twisted metal and odd angle of the turret that it had been damaged badly. It slowed and began to veer off the road towards the trees on the other side – clearly, its operator was out of action.
The second rocket propelled grenade whizzed right past its target, the middle tank, and exploded in the same trees about to be bulldozed by the disabled tank. The third hit the last tank on its road wheels, damaging its track but not enough to stop it.
“Take a second shot!” called Bowman as he began firing his Kalashnikov at the Mercedes. The driver had slammed on its brakes and as its side windows exploded inward, immediately threw it into reverse and planted his foot. A horse rider behind the vehicle was quick enough to evade the car, another, not so quick. His horse was struck in the legs and fell to the side, its rider screaming in agony as it rolled onto him. The rest of the horsemen were able to scatter aside, some of the riders even beginning to return fire as the Mercedes disappeared around the bend.
“Fire at will!” screamed Bowman.
Gunfire erupted around him. Horses and men shrieked. A second rocket propelled grenade struck the third tank. This one hit the turret near the front and blew off its cannon. Amidst the chaos, Bowman saw the undamaged tank come to a jerking halt and the gun turret begin to turn their way.
“Mendelson take another shot at that tank!” he yelled, between bursts of fire from his Russian made weapon.
“Mendelson’s down!” answered someone. Bowman cursed and risked a look.
Mendelson was indeed down, half his head missing. A bullet whizzed by his ear as he saw Johnson, the first RPG guy, just completing a reload of his weapon, and readying to turn it on the remaining tank.
It would be a near thing.
Bowman didn’t bother ducking; he just kept firing at the horsemen and infantry that were now raining hot lead on his team, hoping against hope that Johnson was quicker on the draw than the guy in the tank.
***
Nine miles away, Colonel John William Randall heard the faint sound of explosions on the wind. He was overseeing his men as they put the finishing touches on the last section of the barricade. He looked west, and it wasn’t long before he saw black smoke low on the horizon.
“Okay! Look, alive people! Bowman’s team have engaged the enemy. Let’s
finish this barricade!”
On the Concord side of the bridge, half of his men had already been set in position in the thick brush on either side of the highway. Four hundred yards past the bridge the rest were camped on the tarmac of the highway protected by sandbagged barriers and machine gun nests.
If the New Americans made it past the barrier, they would face a gauntlet of fire from either side of the highway and then be peppered from the men further down the highway where he also had some other surprises up his sleeve.
Randall went back to his command tent and poured himself a coffee before coming back out and looking westward again.
One of his young lieutenants walked back from the bridge just as he was draining the last of the bitter liquid from his battered tin mug.
“They’re done sir,” said Tim Byfield.
“Excellent Tim. Have them down tools and give them some grub.”
“Yes, sir… how long do you think before they come through?”
“If everything goes according to plan, it’ll be a few hours. We’ll have a more accurate idea when those forests go up.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Randall stood a long time after Byfield left, looking at the smoke from the battle at the Fox State Forest. He’d planned so that casualties would be minimized but was heavy with the knowledge that there were men dying over there right now in a battle he had no control over.
A battle he’d sent them to. No matter how old one got, some things never got less painful.
25
With four minutes of the ten-minute count left, Isaac, Luke, Ben, Diana and four other volunteers were headed to the fifth floor in the Tower’s one operational lift. Everyone else was being evacuated to the basement with Indigo in charge.
Ben carried the only rocket launcher they had in their possession and the others, except for Isaac, carried an assortment of automatic weapons.
When they had moved in, the fifth floor was where they had determined they had the best scope and vantage defending the tower. The roof of the 20-story tower was too high for anything but sniping with a high-powered rifle, but from the fifth, where they had removed windows and welded in steel plates for protection north, south and east, they would have the best range for automatic fire without being physically overwhelmed by an enemy force.
The fifth floor was also where they had located their ‘secret weapon’. Luke had spotted it a week before in a storeroom at the military building where Randall’s team was stationed. He’d insisted they bring it back and install it for the defense of the Tower.
So, they had, even though Isaac had opposed it. At the time it had seemed overkill to have a heavy rotary machine gun.
“Dude, we have to have this. It’s an M134 Minigun. Remember the old Predator movie with Arnie? This is the gun they went after the predator with, although there’s no way in real life you could carry it around like they were and operate it effectively.”
“There’s nothing mini about it.”
“No, but this baby shoots thousands of rounds per minute.”
Isaac had still looked doubtful.
“Dude, I’m not shitting you, if there is even a remote possibility we’ll be attacked, this thing might be the difference between winning and losing.”
“This is not because you want to go all Arnie on me?” Isaac asked.
Luke laughed.
“I wish,” he said, he held up his hook and gestured at the handles at the rear of the gun. “It needs two hands to operate. So that’ll be your job. I don’t want it for a toy.”
“Well it looks kinda like the leaf blower my dad used to have me clean the yard with, so I guess it can’t be that hard to use.”
“Yes dude,” Luke had laughed. “It shouldn’t be any harder than that.”
When they got it back, Jamal had secured the pedestal of the heavy gun to the bare concrete floor with bolts. Luke had given Isaac some lessons, both dry firing and a quick burst of live rounds over the top of the buildings on the other side of Elm Street. It was easy to operate once he got used to keeping it level. Handles to maneuver, a switch to arm it, and two trigger buttons for his thumbs, ‘lo’ rate trigger on the left and ‘hi’ rate trigger on the right.
Now, as they entered the stripped out fifth floor with its missing windows and heard the sounds of the battle further down Elm street, Isaac was more than glad he had let Luke talk him into it.
“How much longer?” he asked, as they headed to the windows.
Luke pulled out the stopwatch he’d been carrying in his pocket since his stay Old Orchard beach.
“One minute, thirty seconds.”
“Okay stay low, I don’t want them to know we’re up here till we start firing.”
“Are we waiting for the full count?” asked Luke, as Isaac grasped the handles of the M134.
“No,” said Isaac, as he maneuvered the gun, so it was aimed at the men on the other side of Elm street. He hit the arm switch.
The soldiers were spaced along the street front and appeared to be relaxed and talking amongst themselves, not even attempting to take cover. Clearly, they believed Isaac and his people would surrender.
Isaac saw their commander checked the watch on his wrist and then snap something at his men who came to attention. He stepped forward and raised the bullhorn to his mouth.
“Fire,” whispered Isaac harshly. He pushed the Lo rate trigger button.
***
It turns out that Johnson was quicker on the trigger than the operator in the remaining tank. Unfortunately, call it pressure or fate or whatever you please, his shot when wild and zoomed past the front of the tank. It stuck a horse that was trotting up the inside, its rider trying to sneak to the head of the column. The blast turned the animal and rider into a shower of ground meat that spattered a 20-yard-wide area.
“Oh, shit,” said Bowman. “Get down!”
He stayed where he was, peeking out from behind the big tree he had been resting against just minutes ago. The dark mouth of the cannon seemed to be aimed right at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, let alone run.
That was when the now weaponless, and apparently driverless, third tank crunched into the tank about to blast them, pushing it forward a good two yards. Its metal tracks chewed up the asphalt as it continued to motor forward against the resistance.
BOOOM!
The forest exploded ten yards to his left sending bodies, dirt, and debris flying in all directions. The rest of his men continued to fire at the column, but the return fire was coming back heavier as more of the New American’s infantry got into position.
“Leave none alive!” yelled someone he couldn’t see behind the New American’s line.
Bowman squeezed off another burst of fire in that direction and was rewarded with a curse but no scream of pain. When the turret of the live tank began to crank back in his direction, he knew it was time to withdraw.
“Retreat!” he yelled. “Fall back!”
***
Inside the Mercedes, William Orton had stayed down and out of sight until the driver gave the all clear. When Orton put his head up, crumbs of glass fell out of his hair. A pale-faced Riley was upright, a wild look in his eyes. Riley’s guard was slumped in his seat, blood seeping from a bullet hole in his right cheek. Next to him, Bull moaned, holding his bloody side.
“The assholes ambushed us!” said the president.
As if to punctuate his point, another explosion rocked the tank that had been in front of them. Horses and men fell. That explosion seemed to spur Riley into action, and he grabbed the snub-nosed machine gun from his dead guard’s hands and jumped out of the Mercedes.
“Come on you sons of bitches!” he screamed at the men around him. “They’re in the trees! Attack!”
Riley led by example, shooting maniacally as he stomped forward in his business suit. The infantry, who had fallen back at the shock of the explosions and the initial onslaught of automatic fire, began to rally around their leader.
O
rton climbed out of the Mercedes ignoring the dying Bull’s pleas for help and made his way to the back of the car, careful to keep it between him and the enemy. He ducked when he heard the whoosh of another rocket propelled grenade. This explosion was followed by thick, warm droplets of gore and blood raining down upon his head and shoulders.
The surviving tank’s gun boomed, and he heard the blast and screams of the enemy on the edges of the forest. Riley and around a hundred men were firing and slowly advancing. This wasn’t to be the end after all. He stalked across to a young infantry man whose eyes widened at his bloody hair and face.
“Give me your gun.”
The kid looked unsure.
“NOW!”
Orton snatched the gun and raced to join the New American troops who were now pressing home their advantage.
“Leave none alive!” he screamed.
A burst of fire answered his call, and the soldier beside him went down with a groan, another bullet zipped by his ear. Orton dropped to the ground, back in survival mode, as the men around him returned fire with renewed passion.
A few seconds later, he heard the call of ‘retreat’ in the distance and took his hands off his head, slowly climbing to his feet. He let off a few rounds for good measure but stayed low, always ensuring there was a man in front of him as they ran after the fleeing ambusher’s.
He didn’t see Riley come up beside him. The president’s tie was askew, and his suit scuffed with mud and blood.
“Sir, thank god you’re alright!”
“Never been better,” answered Riley. “There’s something about facing death that makes one feel so alive, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Orton.
“Maybe you could stay on your feet next time?” Riley said, with a knowing smile.
He turned on his general and began walking after his men at a leisurely pace. Orton raised his gun and pointed it at the president’s back. Men ran past him, with more joining the pursuit each second. Too many witnesses.
Not now… but soon, you asshole, soon.
Fight Like Hell [America Falls Series | Books 1-6] Page 97