Target Rich Environment

by Larry Correia

  “Technical!” Carl shouted as he lumbered past me, grabbing me by the straps of my LBV and pulling me up. This particular technical was a red Toyota pickup with a massive 12.7 DhSK machinegun mounted on the back. I hadn’t heard it roll up behind us in the intersection.

  The huge gun tracked over us, spitting bullets past, and into the soldiers on their own side. Carl shoved me through an open doorway and into the cool darkness.

  I lay on the floor, breath coming in ragged gasps. It was actually quiet. Or I think it was quiet. It was hard to tell over the ringing in my ears.

  “Are you hit?” Carl shouted as he quickly poked his head through the door.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered.

  “Good.” Carl pulled back, just as the doorway exploded into mud fragments. The DhSK was seeking us again, probing for us with bullets bigger than my pinky finger. “Fodas!”

  Now it was brighter as sunshine streamed through the fresh new holes in the wall. This home was a simple, one-room dwelling. There was a back door. I crawled toward it, rolled over, yanked Cuzak’s 12-gauge, and kicked the simple plywood door open. Leaning out, I could see that the door led into an alley. I scanned the other direction and—

  CRACK!

  “Damn it!” I screamed as the bullet flew through the plywood and past my face. I fell into the dirt alley, right at the feet of a rebel. He looked down at me in surprise as he tried to work the bolt on his Mosin Nagant. I smashed the Ithaca’s steel buttplate into his groin. He stumbled back as I rose and smashed his skull with another butt stroke. I brought it down twice more in rapid succession, each impact a meaty thud. He slid slowly down the wall.

  Someone else appeared around the corner, and I raised the shotgun without thinking, front bead centering on his head. I froze, as the unarmed old man raised his open hands and begged for his life. My trembling finger had almost pulled the trigger.

  “Get down!” I shouted at the old man as the DhSK raked through the house again, with the bullets passing through multiple walls and into the alley. The old man vanished back around the corner.

  I had to take out that machinegun. Now. I sprinted down the alley in the direction of the noise. I could hear Carl breathing hard as he tore after me. The alley was long, and twisty, with each mud house having a back door. “Watch our back!” I shouted as I thought about all those openings behind us.

  The Aug barked twice. “On it!” Carl answered.

  There was movement ahead, one of the plywood doors flew open, and the muzzle of an SKS snaked through. The rebel stepped through the doorway and I blasted him in the face with a round of double aught, pumped it, and swung around the door. The little house was packed with soldiers. Packed.

  They looked at me. I looked at them. That one second stretched into eternity.

  Then everybody moved.

  Cuzak’s gun was the old style with no disconnector, so you just held down the trigger and pumped and it kept shooting. It also had an extended magazine, but I didn’t stop to think about those facts at the time.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM click.

  “Meu Deus,” Carl gasped as he viewed over my shoulder.

  I reached one shaking hand into my pocket, pulled out some more buckshot, and started feeding them into the loading port.

  “We’ve got to keep moving.”

  2:22 p.m.

  Sweothi City, Central African Republic.

  December 15th, 1993.

  2:35 p.m.

  “WE NEED TO KILL that technical!” Carl shouted into my ear as the walls exploded around us from heavy machinegun fire. Whoever was manning that DhSK was just working it back and forth across the houses. They didn’t know which house we were hiding in, or we would already be dead.

  “Ya think?” I screamed back.

  This was the third home we had leapfrogged into after the shotgun massacre. The area was covered in rebels now, shooting at anybody who didn’t look like they were from around these parts. Carl and I sure didn’t look like locals.

  “You gonna use that thing” —he gestured at the end of the RPG launcher sticking above my shoulder like a psychotic blunderbuss— “or just carry it around all day?”

  I flipped him the bird and pulled the heavy tube around in front of me. “Head for the alley so the backblast don’t kill you.”

  He nodded once, rolled over, and low-crawled for the back door. I knew once I opened that front door, I would have a clean shot at the intersection, but every scumbag in a three-block radius was going to zero right in on us. I wouldn’t have much time.

  I made sure the rocket was fully seated, the hammer cocked on the launcher, and push button safety deactivated. This was it. I stood, risked a quick peek through one of the approximately fifty-caliber holes through the wall, and spotted that damn little Toyota, parked in the middle of the road about ninety meters away. The tube settled heavy on my shoulder.

  The plywood door flew open with a bang, powered by my boot and a whole lot of adrenaline. I centered the front sight through the lowest aperture and focused on it, with the Toyota a blur behind.

  But then something caught my attention. I don’t know if it was the rumble of the heavy engines, or the crunching of debris under its tires. The RPG dipped slightly as I turned toward the lumbering thing coming from the direction that, sure enough, Carl had predicted the Cubans would use.

  “BTR!” I screamed, as I pivoted toward the massive Soviet armored personnel carrier. It was all angles and armor, ugly, and swarming with Cubans. I aimed the RPG at the new, deadlier threat, and yanked the trigger. The tube boomed against my face and years of dust billowed from every surface inside the tiny African home. The rocket streaked to its target. It was deafening and awe-inspiring.

  The front of the BTR seemed to shiver for a brief instant before the grey steel tub belched flames in every direction. Several quick, massive blasts shuddered through the hulk, and I could see figures tossed, windmilling and spinning through the air.

  I had not seen the second BTR enter the intersection. But it had seen me. Its cannon swiveled toward me. I turned and dove back into the house.

  Suddenly the world was white. Brilliant flashing white. Up was down, and the ground was somehow now far below. It came up to meet me, very quickly.

  Then nothing.

  2:37 p.m.

  Bob looked grim when he walked out of the hospital room and into the hallway. His eyes were red, puffy from crying, and at that moment he looked aged far beyond his seventeen years. My heart broke when I saw him, because Bob was our rock.

  “Mom’s on her way,” I said quickly. She had been hysterical on the phone.

  My older brother put one massive hand on my shoulder, using me to steady himself on wobbly legs. He towered over me, intimidating in his size and mass, though he never meant to be. “Dad wants to talk to you,” he croaked. Bob then let go of me and seemed to melt, as he slid down into one of the waiting-room chairs. “You better hurry.” He put his head down and started to sob.

  Several members of the hospital staff were clustered nearby, watching us. It was a small town and everybody knew my foster father. They were all stunned by the senseless act of violence that had ripped our little community. I gathered up my courage and headed for the door.

  There was only one bed in the room. A bank of archaic instruments were beeping and clicking behind it. Doctor Smith nodded at me, placed his clipboard down on a small table, and silently left the room. The doctors had done everything they could, but the thugs that had attacked my father had been thorough. If Gideon Lorenzo lived, it would be a miracle. Tubes and mysterious bags descended from the ceiling. Through the tangle, I could make out my father.

  “Dad?”

  “Hector . . .” he wheezed. His bandaged head tilted slightly in acknowledgement.

  I moved to his side. He looked bad, with great dark circles around eyes so laced with blood that I couldn’t help but blink in sympathy. Always an amazingly strong man, it was shocking to see him in
this state. I felt like someone had punched me in the throat. He was a good man, an honorable man. The idea of him being mortal had never entered my mind.

  “I’ve got to tell you something . . .”

  I waited, hot tears streaming down my face. This was the man that had taken me off the streets. This was the judge that sent the miserable wretch that had been my real father to prison. The Lorenzos had taken me in, welcomed me into their happy home, let me know what real family and loyalty was like. And now he was dying.

  “What, Dad?”

  “I’m worried about you . . .” His voice was barely a whisper. “I see things . . . in your future. Bad things.” I wiped my running nose on the back of my hand, and leaned in close. His red eyes were open wide, staring right through me. “You have a streak in you. You’re good, but you have . . . an evil inside. Don’t let it out. Please, whatever you do, don’t let it out.”

  “I won’t.”

  I flinched involuntarily as his hand clamped onto my arm, suddenly strong.

  “Don’t avenge me. Leave it to the law, boy,” he hissed. “Don’t let the evil out . . .”

  Then he was gone.

  I stumbled back, crashing hard into the wall, instruments scattering across the floor, the strength gone from my legs. The machines began to scream and nurses rushed into the room. The wall was hard against my back, and the floor was cold beneath my legs. Bob was a hulking shadow in the doorway. A doctor began to pump his hands up and down on my father’s chest. I heard a wailing as Mom arrived, her hands pressed to her mouth, but the noise still coming through. I wanted to move to help her, but my body wouldn’t respond. Her scream was the word no, over and over.

  My ears were ringing.

  2:38 p.m.

  My ears were ringing.

  Where am I?

  “Lorenzo! Come on!” Someone slapped me in the face. Hard. “Move, damn it!”

  I woke up, and everything hurt. I was on my back, at an awkward angle, the Ithaca under me, stabbing me in the kidneys. It was hard to breathe and the air was choked with dust and smoke. I raised my shaking hands in front of my face and saw that they were covered in blood. I had no idea if it was mine.

  “What the hell was that?” I blurted, sitting up and feeling something grate unnaturally in my chest.

  “The Cubans are dropping mortar rounds right ahead of their advance.”

  “They can do that?” I quavered as Carl pulled me up.

  “Apparently. Good thing they missed. Can you move?”

  “I think so.” Pain was shooting through me, but everything seemed to be connected. The house that I had been hiding in was . . . gone. “That was a miss?”

  The area was now overlaid in swirling dust and smoke from the burning BTR. That mortar round had raised a mess. I could see flashes of movement through the fog, but I was lucky to see ten feet. This was our chance. We had accomplished our mission and gotten the Cubans to abandon their post. “Carl, head for where the technical was. Let’s hitch a ride.”

  “Good idea,” he coughed as he inhaled a lungful of particulate. He pulled a black bandana out of his pocket and quickly tied it around his face like some bandito. Nice. I started toward where I thought the intersection was. Carl grabbed me by the shoulder, turned me 180 degrees, and shoved. I had really gotten turned around.

  It hurt to move. It hurt more to breathe. I was confused and disoriented, but I would be damned if I was going to die in this forsaken hellhole. I hefted the shotgun and ran through the rubble and over the occasional body. This dust screen was going to settle fast.

  It was like something out of a nightmare. Shapes appeared only to fade away through the haze. I slashed my leg open on a protruding piece of jagged rebar, scattering red droplets that disappeared into the ground like it was covered in sawdust, but I couldn’t even think of slowing down. A rebel materialized in front of me, and I instantly shot him through the heart with the 12-gauge. More men were moving to the side, and I fired at them as I sprinted past until the firing pin landed on an empty chamber.

  Then we were out of the cloud, but we were in the open, running down the middle of a dirt street. My eyes gritted in their sockets, locking onto the technical, now only twenty meters away. A rebel was charging straight at me, a machete held high overhead, spittle flying from his lips. He was screaming something.

  I tossed him the Ithaca. He caught it, looked at it in surprise, and then I crashed into him with my shoulder, bowling both of us to the ground. My combat knife was already coming out of the sheath as we hit. He screamed as I drove it between his ribs, but he still struggled to bring the machete into play.

  Carl stepped past me, Aug shouldered, and opened fire on the Toyota. There were two men in the back, and both of them shook as the angry Portagee put bullets into them. The driver’s window shattered as Carl shifted targets.

  The rebel and I rolled across the ground, locked in a dance to the death. I blocked the machete with my forearm. It cut deep, but he didn’t have the room to swing it. I pulled the knife out, and slammed it in again, and again, and again. Finally, he quit moving.

  “Lorenzo, quit screwing around!” Carl shouted, as he scanned the wall of dust and flames. “We’ve got to go.”

  I rose, panting, and sheathed the still-bloody knife. Angry bullets whined past my head as more rebels saw us. “I’ll drive.”

  “No, I drive. Nobody can catch me,” Carl answered as he opened the Toyota’s door, grabbed the dead driver, and hurled him out. “Get on that gun!”

  I vaulted over the side of the pickup bed, landing on a pile of hot 12.7 brass. Carl revved the engine. Then the smoke wall opened and a great screaming beast roared through, muzzle flashes erupting from its machinegun.

  “BTR!” I screamed as the APC rolled over a knot of rebels. But Carl was fast. He slammed the Toyota into gear and put pedal to metal. I slipped on the brass, and bounced off the truck bed walls as Carl cranked the wheel and took us through the rubble. I looked up in time to see an unlucky rebel bounce off the front fender and fly through a scrap-wood shanty.

  Bullets puckered through our technical as we tore down the street and right through the militia. The remaining windows shattered. Carl bellowed in rage and pain as something struck him. I crawled up to the DhSK, but it was empty, with the feed tray cover locked open. I yanked the Browning 9mm from my holster and fired at the rebels one-handed, the other holding onto the rollbar to keep from being tossed out.

  We seemed to be going unbelievably fast.

  The BTR was right behind us. For being so big, damn that thing was quick.

  “Get on that gun or we’re gonna die!” Carl yelled, as he cranked the wheel and we took a corner far too fast.

  THOOM!

  The 37mm cannon round flew past and most of the marketplace disappeared. The shockwave rocked the little technical onto two wheels, and then back. I spotted a big, green, ammo can and opened it. There were the huge 12.7 rounds, linked in a rusty, metal belt. I hoisted it out, put the belt in place, slammed the cover down, and yanked back on the charging handle.

  I swiveled the DhSK around, but the BTR hadn’t followed us around the corner.

  But there were plenty of other targets.

  I opened fire on random MLC rebels as we drove by. The muzzle blast from the big Russian was like a mushroom cloud. The recoil shook the Toyota down to its suspension. Carl took another corner, trying to head south, out of the city, but the streets were a maze.

  Suddenly the brakes locked up, and we slid to a halt. I had the gun trained to the rear, and craned my neck around to see what the problem was.

  The road was on fire.

  For a good thirty feet, the road was nothing but a blazing oil slick, with flames taller than I was. This had been the source of the great pillar of smoke that we had homed in on to get to the marketplace. It must have been some sort of gas station before the rebels had blown it up. There was no other way past.

  I turned back. The way we came from was swarming with rebe
ls, looking like ants. A bullet sparked off the Toyota’s tailgate. Ants with AK-47s.

  The taillights lit up, signaling that we were in reverse. Another bullet smashed one of the lights. We started back toward the pile of rebels.

  “Carl? What are you doing?” The only remaining taillight shattered. Another round cut a chunk from my ear.

  “We need a running start.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me . . .” I laid on the DhSK like it was the hammer of Thor, sweeping it across the street. It ain’t pretty what one of these things does to a human being. I held the trigger down, the concussion so deep that I could feel it vibrating the jelly in my eyes.

  Carl stopped, ground the transmission, and floored it.

  I dropped down, threw my arms over my head, and tried to think happy thoughts.

  Fire. Everywhere. Holy shit.

  It was hard to explain. I opened me eyes and could see it, like it was a living thing, coming up over the edge of the truck, leering down at me, hungry and angry. The heat hit like a sledgehammer, evaporating all of the moisture from my skin. I held my breath, but could feel the poison crowding up my nostrils. It wanted to eat me.

  Then we were through.

  I jumped back up. The DhSK’s wooden spade grips were on fire. I smothered them with my shirt. The Toyota’s paint was burning; the wind quickly beat it out.

  Carl turned back around and looked at me through the shattered rear window, beady eyes gleaming through a layer of soot over his bandito mask, and said, “Hey, Lorenzo, your hair’s on fire.”

  Well fuck me. I rubbed it out.

  This road seemed to lead to the edge of town. I could see down it, a straight shot, and in the distance was open country and room to run or hide. Carl shifted gears and we continued to accelerate.