“Raider One Lead, this is Raider One-One. I’m seeing a ton of shit up ahead. Looks like some kind of tent city in the area between the runway and western taxiway.”
“This is Raider One Lead. Is this before or after the turn?”
“Pretty sure it’s after the turn. Jesus, I have a dozen, possibly more helicopters on the tarmac. Are you sure we’re just looking at a company of soldiers? This looks a lot bigger.”
“Intelligence reported a company-sized infantry unit housed in our target hangar, along with elements of the National Guard in Raider One’s target area. How far until the turn?”
“Coming up in a few seconds. This is not a company-sized unit. Shit, I have troop movement around the tents and vehicles. Holy fu—”
The radio transmission abruptly ceased, and a stream of red tracers raced from left to right across the black horizon, ricocheting skyward when it reached a point a few hundred feet in front of the bus. Some of the tracers continued uninterrupted on their slightly parabolic trajectory across the airfield.
“Raider One-One, this is Raider Lead!” he yelled.
No response.
Damn it!
One-One carried the explosives, and he didn’t have communications with the rest of the vehicles. Eli wanted to keep command and control simple. The rest of the cars were supposed to follow One-One to the hangar and provide covering fire while they triggered the car bomb. Lines of tracers erupted from both directions, stitching the darkness ahead of them and deflecting in wild, high arcs. He lurched forward as the bus decelerated.
“What are you doing?” said Gibbs.
“It’s a fucking ambush, man!”
He stared through the windshield at the intensifying maelstrom of crimson streaks crisscrossing their intended path. He knew each tracer represented four projectiles, which meant the space ahead of them was filled with hundreds of 7.62mm bullets.
“Keep your speed until I get clarification.”
“Clarification? They’re getting the shit pounded out of them!” screamed the driver.
“Just give me a few seconds!” Gibbs yelled, grabbing his handheld radio.
“Raider Lead, this is Raider One. Taking heavy fire from both sides of the airfield. Lost contact with Raider One-One. Request permission to abort mission.”
“Negative, Raider One. Your lead vehicle has made the turn. Proceed to target and provide covering fire for extract. Do not abandon your men!” said McCulver.
“Roger. Proceeding to target.”
“He’s full of shit,” said the driver, slowing the bus. “We’re driving into a kill zone.”
Gibbs drew his pistol and jammed it into the inmate’s shoulder. “You keep this fucking bus moving forward.”
Before either of them could process the situation, tracers skipped wildly across the runway thirty feet in front of the bus, engulfing the last Raider Two vehicle in a brilliant storm of high-velocity streaks. The SUV abruptly swerved when tracers penetrated the vehicle and ricocheted through the interior, briefly illuminating the blood-splattered rear windshield.
“Stop the bus!” screamed Gibbs, unaware that he’d just killed himself.
The driver slammed on the hydraulic brakes, propelling Gibbs through the windshield.
***
McCulver watched the battle unfold through night-vision binoculars with a tinge of disappointment. Soldiers from the tents and hangars had responded faster that he’d expected, with lethal results. Few of Raider’s vehicles made it off the runway or taxiway, striking deeper into the airfield as he’d hoped. Eli told him it didn’t matter. As long as they got close to the business end of the runway, Eli was satisfied—mission accomplished. McCulver wanted more. He’d put most of the explosives into the airport phase of the operation and hated to see it wasted. He inwardly cheered them on, urging them to break through the hail of machine-gun fire to deliver one of his creations.
The buses had been his biggest hope, but one of them had faltered, the driver a victim of “cold feet,” according to the most recent radio transmission. He focused on the stalled bus, watching bright green streaks pour into the metal coffin from both sides of the airfield. Two figures piled out of the front door, stumbling several steps before a stream of tracers swept through their bodies and dropped them to the asphalt. Through the horizontal security bars affixed to the outside of the corrections vehicle, he witnessed a bizarre light show inside the bus as tracers bounced around inside, exiting at dozens of different angles like a Fourth of July sparkler.
Glancing at the taxiway, the second bus lumbered forward, somehow miraculously continuing its doomed journey toward the end of the airfield. If it survived the next fifteen seconds of concentrated gunfire, McCulver might get secondary explosions from the fuel-laden helicopters crowding the tarmac.
He zoomed in on the cluster of protected hangars closest to the taxiway, searching for evidence of the pickup truck assigned to ram through the fence and shoot up the mini-compound. Based on the extra layer of security surrounding the buildings, they guessed this had to be some type of headquarters. He spotted the pickup truck buried halfway through the chain-link fence next to a long hangar. Figures scurried across the inner perimeter firing into the wrecked vehicle, presenting an opportunity he couldn’t resist.
A quick check on the second bus confirmed that it wasn’t going to reach the helicopters, so he tuned the handheld radio to the first of three preset frequencies and pressed the transmit button. The view through his binoculars flashed bright green, followed by a sharp explosion that rattled the police cruiser. Temporarily blinded, he panicked and jabbed at what he hoped was the button that advanced the preset. He hit the transmit button. Nothing.
“Pratt, I can’t see. Dial this to preset channel two and press transmit. Repeat for preset channel three,” he said, holding the radio out.
“What do you mean, you can’t see?”
“Night-vision flare. I need you to do this fast,” said McCulver.
Really fast.
Their car was two thousand feet away from the nearest hangar, still within range of the heavy-caliber machine guns reported by Tim Barrett.
“Jesus, you’re a regular clusterfuck,” said Pratt, snatching it out of his hand.
A few seconds later, with his vision slowly returning, he still hadn’t heard the explosions.
“I can’t figure this cheap piece of shit out. Where the fuck did you buy these?” said Pratt.
“It’s a basic handheld radio! How hard can it be?”
Several blurred flashes passed the windshield, followed by loud cracks.
“They’re ranging us!” McCulver shrieked. “Hurry the fuck up! It’s a radio not a Rubik’s Cube!”
“I can’t make any sense out of these buttons. Who the fuck buys a radio with only three buttons?” said Pratt.
“Someone who’s working with a bunch of dipshits. Give me the radio and get us out of here!”
“I’m done taking orders from you,” said Pratt, pressing something metallic against his left temple.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said McCulver, gripping the binoculars tightly.
“What I was ordered to do—by Eli.”
McCulver jammed his left hand upward, pinning the pistol to the roof of the car, while he slammed the binoculars into Pratt’s head. He repeatedly pummeled Pratt until the pistol clattered against the center console. Opening the door, he jumped onto the runway and slammed the door, feeling his way to the back of the car. Risking a glance over the trunk, he registered movement and ducked, barely avoiding two suppressed bullets. The sound of scuffling along the asphalt on the other side of the trunk forced him to scramble to the front of the car. A line of red tracers arced over the car, illuminating Pratt’s figure kneeling by the trunk.
Shit!
He rolled in front of the car as bullets snapped by his head.
Peering under the front bumper, he spotted feet shuffling down the side of the car. Before he could react,
a bright red flash tore through one of Pratt’s feet, followed by a torrent of bullets striking the cruiser. Lying flat, he watched Pratt’s body crumple to the runway in a hissing pile of battered flesh and clothing. McCulver scrambled behind the engine block and crouched on shaky legs, listening to the distant crackling of small-arms fire over his thumping heart. He waited for another burst of machine-gun fire to rake the cruiser, but several tense seconds passed with no incoming fusillade.
McCulver weighed his options. Driving the car would attract bullets. If the cruiser had been pointed at the fence, it might work, but they had parked facing the other direction so he would have a clear view of the attack through the passenger-side window. The time required to turn the vehicle spelled the difference between life and death, eliminating that choice. The only hope of escape lay in the trees due east of the car. He didn’t know the distance to the tree line, but he knew it was far enough away to present a serious challenge. Crossing several hundred feet of open terrain with night-vision-equipped M240 machine guns at his back sounded like a bad bet. Unless he could distract them.
Rising slightly, he shuffled past the open door and kneeled next to the driver’s seat to search for the radio detonator. The car held a sharp, coppery smell mixed with a faint ammonia odor. Feeling around the wet, sticky interior, a flush of anger warmed his face. Fucking Eli. He should have known better than to trust that self-serving snake. His hand hit the radio in the driver’s foot well. Lying prone several feet away from the cruiser, he examined the radio, which appeared to be dead. He pressed the power button next to the antenna, and the radio buttons and channel LED display glowed muted orange. The dumb fuck had turned the radio off. Without hesitation, he pressed the button labeled “Preset” until the LED displayed “Preset 2.”
***
Specialist Martinez dropped to the ground as a stream of tracers raced past to his left.
“Rogue Dispatch, this is Rogue Three. Cease fire on the police cruiser at the end of the runway. Friendlies in contact. I say again, cease fire on the target at the eastern end of the runway. Friendlies in contact.”
“What the hell are these two doing?” whispered Staff Sergeant Jensen lying several feet to his right.
“Trying to kill each other,” said Martinez, staring at the grayscale image through his thermal scope.
The heat signature kneeling behind the trunk of the car fired two shots before moving down the right side of the car. A burst of white streaks ripped through the figure, passing through the car. Martinez ripped his head away from the scope in time to see another line of red tracers shoot by less than twenty feet away.
“Goddamn it!” yelled Martinez, grabbing his radio microphone.
“Rogue Dispatch! This is Rogue Three. Cease fire on target at eastern end of runway. Friendlies in contact! Acknowledge. Over!”
“This is Rogue Dispatch. Cease fire acknowledged by airfield units. Out.”
“Stay low,” said Jensen. “No way every shooter out there got that order.”
One hundred feet from the cruiser, at the edge of the runway, the two rangers watched the surviving heat signature crawl around the front of the vehicle and pause. A few snaps passed overhead and to the side.
“Told you,” said Jensen. “We stay right here until the snap, crackle, pop is over.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Martinez. “Should we drop him?”
“Negative. This looks like a command and control target. He isn’t going anywhere.”
When the figure started frantically digging around the driver’s seat, Martinez zoomed in, interested to see what the man needed so badly.
A handheld radio? Shit!
“Possible detonator,” he hissed.
“Got it,” said Jensen. “Stand by to take him out.”
Martinez concentrated on the gray image, which crawled away from the vehicle and stopped. He kept the scope’s crosshairs on the figure’s head.
“Take the shot,” said Jensen when the figure raised the handheld radio.
Martinez steadied the sight picture and pressed the trigger, exploding their relatively calm corner of the airfield.
“You missed,” said Jensen.
“Uh-huh,” replied Martinez, watching the man writhe in pain holding his mangled fingers.
Chapter 34
EVENT +21 Days
Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”
Regional Recovery Zone 1
Alex leaned over the map stretched across the folding table in the DRASH tent, matching satellite image features on his digital tablet to paper. He drew small circles on the map, each representing a field or some kind of clearing in the woods that held a structure. When he finished, his vehicle leaders would use the tactical tablets assigned to each Matvee to snap digital pictures of assigned search sectors. They’d keep the quick reference images of the paper map minimized on their tablet screens, “checking off” each location after it had been cleared.
The Marine seated at the communications table next to him suddenly sat up, adjusting his headphones and grabbing a pen. He scribbled furiously on a pad of paper before responding.
“Copy all. Passing to Guardian Actual now,” he said, turning to Alex. “Sir, MOB Sanford is under coordinated attack by car bombs and small-arms fire. Patriot wants our vehicles on the road ASAP, heading south to intercept retreating hostile forces.”
“Acknowledged. Will contact Patriot en route. Send it.”
Alex grabbed his rifle and burst out of the tent, nearly colliding with Staff Sergeant Taylor.
“You’re up earl—”
“MOB Sanford is under attack. Car bombs and small arms. I need four vehicles, four Marines each, including gunners. Full tactical load outs. We roll in two minutes. Staff Sergeant Evans!” he said, sprinting toward the house.
He met Evans on the gravel driveway in front of the porch. “I just heard!”
“I’m taking four Matvees and fifteen Marines to Sanford. Pull the forest LP/OP’s back to the house immediately and set up 360-degree coverage. Send one Matvee with four Marines and a two-forty to reinforce the Old Mill Road LP/OP. The other Matvee sits right here on the driveway.”
“Copy. What about the LP/OP at the entrance to the compound?”
“Keep them in place in case something slips through,” said Alex, holding up a finger to Kate, who had just arrived. “One second, hon.”
“ROE?” said Evans.
“Weapons free. Assume all unidentified vehicles or ground personnel are hostile. They’re using car bombs. Don’t let any vehicles near the OPs,” he said, slapping Taylor on the shoulder. “Get your men situated.”
“I’m on it, sir,” said Evans, disappearing for the command tent.
The Matvees parked in front of the DRASH tent rumbled to life in the darkness, followed immediately by the vehicle east of the house.
“Where are you going?” said Kate, turning her head to Matvees. “Where are they going?”
“South to cut off Eli’s retreat. He’ll be long gone before the Marines deploy the quick-reaction force. If we’re lucky, we might catch him heading north.”
“He’s up to something,” she said.
“I’m leaving two vehicles and more than half of the Marines. You’ll be fine,” said Alex, quickly kissing her.
“I’m not worried about us—I’m worried about you.”
“He can’t take on four armored tactical vehicles.”
“Then why would he attack the airport?”
“Because he’s crazy,” said Alex.
“Crazy doesn’t mean stupid,” she said. “Be careful.”
***
Houses peeked through the trees along the road, marking the outskirts of Limerick’s downtown area. Alex searched the green image for anything out of place. A church steeple rose above the trees. First Baptist stood at the intersection of Routes 160 and 5. He’d split the convoy in less than a mile.
“Slow us down until we get to Route 11,” said Alex.
�
��Copy,” said Corporal Lianez, and Alex felt the Matvee downshift.
His ROTAC chirped. “Alex, what’s your plan?” Grady asked.
“I’m sending one vehicle down Route 11 in case he heads west. We’ll hit the Route 4 junction in eight minutes, where I’ll send another Matvee east to intersect with 35. I’ll proceed down Route 4 with the rest. What makes you certain he didn’t die in the attack?”
“A solid hunch. Half of the cars involved in the attack exploded simultaneously. 4th Brigade had a car rigged with explosives pile right through their tents surrounding their TOC. Miraculously, it didn’t detonate. Either it malfunctioned or the triggerman was killed. Rangers think they nabbed the guy setting off the explosives, but it wasn’t Eli. My guess is he watched from a safe distance and bolted when it became clear that the attack had failed. That was five minutes ago.”
“Do you have units in pursuit?”
“I’m waiting for clearance. The Authority compound got hit pretty hard, and they’re not keen on sending heavily armored vehicles away from the MOB. Work up a search plan for ten vehicles.”
“That’s it? They should have every vehicle at their disposal looking for this lunatic,” said Alex.
“Ten is all I could convince them to consider. They think this is a diversion to draw everyone away.”
“How big of a militia do they think he has?”
“It just got a lot bigger in their minds. Contact me when you have a plan. I have to go,” said Grady, disconnecting the call.
“Punch it, Lianez. We need to make up lost time.”
***
Eli peered through one of the First Baptist Church’s steeple windows and counted the tactical vehicles speeding past Duvall’s Market. Four oversized armored baddies headed south through town. He steadied his handheld night-vision scope on the hood of the lead vehicle, studying the infrared markings.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 123