“Yeah, I think we can. I just don’t want to have to bury anyone when this op is over, so please keep your head down, Kevin,” John said genuinely.
Kevin just nodded his head, thinking to himself, I don’t want to bury anyone either, not myself, not you. Kevin and John had begun this odd relationship on very rocky ground. John’s brand of violent and blatant aggression was unsettling to Kevin, a rational man not given to using force against his fellow man, but the more time he spent watching John’s campaign, the more radio chatter he listened to, the more drone footage he watched, he saw the simple truth John had shown him. There are three sorts of people in this world: sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves. Sheep are preyed upon by wolves; sheepdogs protect the sheep. Kevin had come to realize that this man, though his ways were brutal, was not a wolf, not an animal, not a heartless beast. He was a sheepdog, driving away the wolves using the only language they understood. In that revelation, Kevin gave himself to becoming a sheepdog like John, not because he yearned for the blood and violence that would follow, but to protect the sheep who could not and would not protect themselves. He would do what he felt was right.
“While I’m thinking about it, pull that hard case over and let me show you how to assemble and load this monster. Andy and I fished a Barrett M107 out of the agency’s supply depot that might come in handy,” John explained.
A Long Row to Hoe
John sat next to the van with Randall, Andy, and his assault team, having a cigar. They were a mile away from the camp, giving Kevin and his sniper team a half-hour head start to get into position before they approached closer with the van they would use to breach the wall. John figured they were easily far enough away to be hidden from view, and with all of their gear in the van or Andy’s Jeep, they were not likely to alarm anyone if they were seen. John had pulled out enough cigars for the team, several of whom happily accepted the luxury. Some of the assembled men made small talk or discussed tactics. John let his mind wander to his wife and daughter, whom he had left at the compound hours earlier…
He had spent his last hour with the two of them, as he struggled mightily with his emotions. He hated to leave them, and the fear he would never see them again gnawed on him. His wife and daughter simply held him in silence. Kay had cried when he said he had to leave tonight. John hadn’t completely related to her he might not be coming home, but Kay was an insightful enough child at her age to understand the severity of her daddy’s situation. Rachel likewise fought the tears mightily, not wanting to push doubt or questions into her husband’s mind. She wrestled with herself hard, knowing that John’s own mind was already conflicted, not wanting to leave his family but knowing the task ahead of him had to be seen through.
“We’ll be okay, John. Just come home to us,” she had whispered in his ear before kissing his cheek.
John could only nod his head. He was so choked up his voice would be little more than a hoarse whisper. When his watch beeped, he gave them one final squeeze and a kiss and left them in their room. As he shut the door, he stole one more glance at his wife and daughter, their red-ringed eyes and worried faces burning their way into his mind. He swore, to God and anything else that existed, he would come home. No matter what, he would come back to his family.
He met his team at the TOC and started getting his gear together. He laced up his Salomon hiking boots, tightly and with heel locks to make sure they stayed put on his feet. He cinched his Cobra belt tightly around him, then wrapped his web belt around his waist. Once buckled, he dropped his CZ into his duty holster and made sure the retention hood was locked down, then donned his armor. Unlike the repurposed agency armor his men wore, his was OD green and showed heavy use from years of ownership. Across the front he wore a three-cell magazine pouch; on his back was a full IFAK where he could still reach it if he had to use it for self-aid. His battle belt held spare magazines for his CZ, a taco pouch for another AR magazine, and a tourniquet immediately behind his sidearm. John’s gear had been put together years prior to repel a home attack or a mob of looters, as he had seen after Hurricane Katrina. Now he was wearing it to go fight his own government. His mood was heavy. Not angry, but deadly serious.
“Thought you were ditching the hipster pistol,” Andy poked, trying to lighten his friend’s mood.
“If I need a Glock, there’ll be plenty lying around on the ground five minutes after we start. Besides, if we end up having to burn through all our rifle ammo and we’re down to handguns, we’re in deep shit anyway,” John said. “What’s the matter, afraid I’ll outshoot you with my hipster pistol?” he added, poking back.
Andy just grinned. He was falling back into old habits from working as a first responder, using humor to ease the mood when danger or death was afoot.
“Alright, everyone, listen up. We’re on the road at 1730 sharp. Everyone has maps of the compound. None of them have been marked with our planned positions or routes in case anyone is captured, so pay attention to the briefing and don’t make any notes. Keep it in your heads. Likewise, whatever else you do, don’t allow your radios to be captured. Agency catches one, they can penetrate our secure comms, so smash them or swallow them if you’re about to get caught.
“When we get close, the assault team and breaching van will pull off the road and give the snipers a half-hour head start getting in position. Kevin, you’re on your own to get your people where they need to be. You know where we’ll approach from, so you signal us with a penlight, short tap, when you’re ready. If you don’t see a response, tap again every ten minutes till you get one. Once you get a confirmation we’re ready, knock out their exterior lights and hit any targets of opportunity. If your guys can’t make head shots at their range with their equipment, aim for the top of the plate carrier. Even a hit on top of the carrier will spray spall into their faces and take them out of the fight,” John lectured.
“Once we back the van up to the corner of the compound and blow the wall, Randall, you stay in the wood line and keep that lane clear. If we find any prisoners, they are coming back through that hole and you are their rally point. If you have critically wounded, throw them in the Jeep and haul ass back here to the compound. We have enough seats in the two vans for my eight plus Kevin’s guys, but it’ll be tight. And if shit goes south, you are our rally point. If you see agents trying to barricade or secure that hole, put them down hard. Kevin, same for your guys around that corner, keep them from slamming the door shut on us.
“Now, assault team, once we get in, our first order of business is to hook hard right, stay close to the wall so we only have to pull 180-degree security, and move to the prisoner barracks. If we find anyone inside, I’ll have some party favors to give them if they are in the fight. If not, we escort them out of the camp. From there, each of you are on search and destroy orders, every agent goes to see Jesus tonight. I don’t care if he’s the janitor with eight kids, all of them. We are not just here to destroy this camp, we are here to send a message, and it has to be bloody to get the point across. Anyone not ready to follow through, drop your gear and stay here with Mark’s team for reassignment. Everyone who comes with me, get your shit together ’cause we have a long row to hoe tonight.”
A long row to hoe, that was the old country saying he had used, and it was amazingly accurate. What lay ahead of these men was going to be a night of violence, blood, and death. If everything went better than John dared to hope, he would bring his entire team home in one piece. They would have struck a devastating blow to the agency in this area and an embarrassing one to the agency as a whole. Other cells, even other citizens acting on their own, would see what happened here and realize they had the power to fight back against this tyranny. John, Mark, Andy, Kevin, Rachel, Vicky—they all would have begun something bigger than themselves. Their fledgling insurgency would be the start of something much more. This would be louder than the first shots at Lexington and Concord. This would be the day the People, not just a random lone wolf or two, put their collective foot down an
d said NO.
And if tonight did not go as planned, they would die. Some would escape, only to be hunted down later. The agency would shrug off their assault and, further enraged by their attack, would call in all the assets they needed to finish the job they had started. Any man not killed in action would be tried as a terrorist and summarily executed, if history had taught them anything. John would never see his wife’s smile or hear his daughter’s laugh again. His jaw tightened and his brow furrowed as he pushed these thoughts from his mind. He said he would come home, and he would, no matter what it cost him.
He glanced at his watch, impatience filling him. Five minutes remaining. He took another long draw on his cigar, feeling the smoke fill his mouth and swirl around his tongue before letting it tumble out of his mouth. He mentally reviewed his men’s equipment, went over the map he was picturing in his head, everyone’s positions, the routes to their objectives, the guard towers, tried to figure out where they would have decent cover to reload or repack their magazine pouches from their packs—all these things his mind worked over.
Andy caught his eye with a nod. “Stop, you’ll just drive yourself nuts thinking about whatever you’re thinking about,” he warned.
“Just trying to think things through, Andy, and make sure I haven’t overlooked anything. A mistake at this point could kill everyone,” John replied.
John checked his watch again. Three minutes left.
Patience, John. John heard his father’s voice in his head. Got to learn some patience.
I suck at patience, Pops. I’m better at working hard, he thought back.
Patience is hard work. Why do you think it’s so hard to learn, the voice said back. John smiled. He wondered what his father would think of his oldest son at a moment like this. Would he understand why John had killed so many? Would he rationalize it like John was at war again? Or would he see his son as a crazy person, shooting government agents for no reason. Maybe when this was over, he could ask him himself. He hadn’t spoken to his parents since the day the agents came to his home, both to protect his family and to keep the agency off his parents’ doorstep. He had a fair idea his father had done exactly what he always said he would, and hidden his firearms to prevent their seizure. He hoped the agency had not gotten as far as his mother and father’s home by now, knowing they would likely have been carted off to this very detention camp if not shipped to Angola. When this was over, he would have to go find them.
His watch beeped. “Alright, guys, get armored up, and keep your chambers empty and safeties on till we dismount closer to the compound. Randall, I’ll ride with you in the van, everyone else in the Jeep. When we get close, headlights off. Once you guys are in position, wait for Kevin’s signal and answer it so they can get this party started,” John instructed. With everyone loaded up, the two vehicles made their way down the road towards the detention camp.
“You ready?” Randall asked.
“No. You?” John replied.
Randall just smiled. “At least you’re honest about it. Son, you’ll do just fine. Your heart’s in the right place, and you keep your head when things get hectic. Just work on bringing your boys home and let the pieces fall where they may.”
John leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He let it out through gritted teeth as his eyes opened, working to get himself focused. He had to do this job right, or everything would be for nothing. Tonight, he had to summon that part of him he had put away years prior. He had to become the soldier once again, the man willing to kill other men without remorse. He and his men had a long row to hoe tonight.
Cry Havoc
Chief Shorts lay in his bed that evening. He hadn’t slept since the previous evening, wrestling with the revelation that two more agency personnel had been murdered, the prisoners he had worked so diligently to capture apparently released, and the insurgency obviously growing. His own personnel at the camp numbered less than thirty, himself included. He had insisted, almost to the point of a fistfight, that the guard towers be manned tonight for their own safety. He had also lobbied hard that his agency immediately send him any and all aid available before they were forced to suspend operations in the area and evacuate. He knew the career suicide he would be committing to follow through on that threat, but at this point his options were steadily dwindling to that or risk an all-out mutiny among his men.
He heard his radio, with its volume turned low, begin to whine loudly. He glanced at it, reached for it, and changed the channel to their designated backup, only to find the same whining noise. Every channel he tried, he was met with the same result. He got up, laced his shoes, and left the comfort of his room in the TOC, heading for their communications room. He found the night watch wrestling with the same problem.
“What’s the issue, Agent?” Shorts demanded.
“I don’t know, sir, some sort of interference. It isn’t our equipment. We’re getting bombarded with some sort of signal that’s screwing with our radios,” the agent answered, clearly puzzled by the source of the problem.
Shorts turned on his heel, heading for the barracks. The hair on his neck was standing on end. He was nearly to the barracks when he heard a muffled pop and one of the exterior searchlights shattered. His head involuntarily snapped towards the light as he stopped in his tracks. At that moment, another pop, another searchlight. Then another. Now all of the searchlights on the southern end of the compound were out. Then the boom of a high-power rifle sounded, followed by shouting.
“We’re taking fire!” one of his agents in the guard tower shouted. “One down. Can’t see where they’re shooting from!”
Shorts nearly lost control of his bladder. They had been the victims of sniper attacks and harassment every other night for weeks, but this felt different. He shouted to the men to take cover, and rushed towards the barracks. He found several bleary-eyed agents rushing to get dressed, roused from their slumber by the sound of the rifle and shouting.
“We’re under attack! They’re taking out our searchlights, and our agents are taking fire from the wood line. I need every agent up, armed, and reinforcing the wall right now!” Shorts barked. His voice was strained by the near panic he felt. Two more gunshots sounded, then more, and more. He stopped counting after more than two dozen rifle reports shattered the quiet of the camp.
He ran across the camp back towards the TOC when he heard the bellowing of a V-8 engine approaching the southeast corner of the wall…
John was waving Randall back while Andy pulled security. All the agents were in a scramble looking for cover while Kevin’s snipers rained down on them from the wood line. John was focused on getting Randall into position, up against the corner and oriented in line with the southern wall. His goal was to make as big a hole as possible. He also had the forethought to hook a tow cable from the van to Andy’s Jeep so the men there could pull the remnants of the detonated van out of the way of the hole in order to facilitate their egress and keep the lane clear. When the van thudded solidly against the wall, Randall threw it in park, and the three men raced back towards the rest of the team. The nine of them took cover as John motioned for the remote detonator.
“Well, here goes nothing. Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war,” John remarked to no one in particular. He mashed the button, ensuring his entire body and everyone else was shielded from the blast, and his ears were assaulted by a thunderous noise that threatened eardrums for hundreds of yards. When he returned his attention to the van, he saw little more than a chassis and part of a cab. The reinforcements they had added had done their job, and most of the blast was directed straight back into the wall, blowing an enormous hole along the southern edge.
“Randall, get that Jeep moving and clear that van. Give us some cover. Anyone comes out of there who isn’t us, put them down. Watch for red lights,” John instructed. He had given each of his men a pair of small red chemlights to use as markers for themselves, and had several in his extra pack for POW
s. This would act as a primitive but effective IFF, identify friend or foe, system, ensuring that Randall and Kevin’s snipers would not accidentally shoot at any of them in the chaos.
John jumped out from behind cover and charged towards the compound. Andy and the other six men trailed close behind, rifles all at low ready except for the two at the end, who were both angled up, watching the top of the wall and the guard towers. With Randall watching their back, they didn’t need rear security, but John had stressed that the men in the rear’s primary responsibility was to watch up high for threats the men in front would be less able to see.
Kevin stole a glance through his sniper rifle’s scope at the assault team rushing from the wood line towards the compound, with his finger resting solidly against the side of the trigger guard to preclude friendly fire. The sniper to his left fired another shot.
“Got another one. I think they’re hunkering down. I don’t see anyone in those towers anymore,” he remarked.
Kevin nodded his head. “Keep your eyes open, Donnie,” he said to the one to his immediate left who had shown the greatest immediate skill at longer shots. “Keep hitting the towers and the top of the walls if you see anyone. Everyone else, shift down to inside the camp. Looks like our guys blew a thirty-foot hole in the wall. You see any guys you can identify as agents, put them down. And watch carefully for our guys. They have red chemlights on the front and back of their armor. We don’t want to nail our own guys.”
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