by J. B. Craig
“No sir, you’ve got a job to do back there. You protect our people! Give me that M-4. I will hold them off – it beats dying of Diabetes. You guys run!” Chet snatched the M-4 from Greg, and Angel snatched Greg from the wall.
“Run Jefe – don’t make me carry you! You’re prettier than when I met you, but still have me by 25 kilos!”
Greg took one last glance at Chet, who nodded back sagely. He knew he could hold them for a while, but he was not likely leaving this alive. Greg and Angel ran down the middle of the road towards the circle. The ditch would take too long. A few bikers got shots off that pinged off of the asphalt around them, and then there were a few more explosions from Chet’s pipe bombs. After that, Chet sprayed the M-4 in bursts, as the retreat continued. Greg heard a silence as Chet switched magazines – to his last one. He looked back, and saw bikers creeping around the edge of the berm. He fired his pistol at them until it emptied, and Angel did the same with the Browning 12 Ga. They ducked back around, buying Chet a little more time.
Greg and Angel put their heads down and ran, getting back to the circle just as others were. The rest of the soggy defenders had climbed out of the ditch as soon as they felt far enough out of range. Greg yelled “You know what to do, everyone”, and the groups dispersed to the various houses on the fringe of the circle, where supplies, ammunition, and civilians with guns were waiting. Greg yelled “Good luck” to Angel and grabbed his Mauser on the way up to the Osprey nest.
There was no more noise coming from the berm. After about a minute, Greg heard motorcycles start. He guessed they had successfully removed the power line obstacle, and he made a note to create more of this type of obstacle – if he lived through the next few minutes. Then about a dozen motorcycles roared down main street, and into Seahawk Circle. The angry bikers started circling the block looking for victims. They hollered and shot their guns into the air, a waste of ammunition. Greg looked through his scope and aimed at the person who looked to be in charge. This bald, tattoo-headed guy was leading the group, and had Tripp, the traitor, on the back of his bike shouting into the leader’s ear and pointing at Greg’s house. Greg aimed for the leader, squeezed the trigger, and missed – hitting Tripp and knocking him off the bike. He had failed to lead his shot enough to account for the motorcycle’s motion, but it was certainly not a missed opportunity.
At Greg’s first shot, various shotguns, pistols and hunting rifles around the circle started pouring fire into the bikers. In the first 30 seconds, half of the bikers were down, and the leader was shot in the shoulder. He managed to keep from wrecking his bike, but he was obviously in pain, as he cursed and looked around for an outlet to his anger. He and his men could not find a target to concentrate on and were being ripped apart from all angles. The leader revved his bike up, continued around the circle to where it started, and headed back out of the Alamo at top speed.
Greg breathed a sigh of relief, as it seemed like today would not be his last day on earth. While the bikers were leaving, Greg heard a few scattered booms from someone, presumably his toe poppers, or the remaining guards by the trucks. Finally, their sound died down as the Motorcycles roared off, leaving their wounded bikers and broken motorcycles behind. The first battle of Rock Harbor was a victory for the residents, if you could call the loss of even one citizen a victory. The ringing from the improvised claymore, and all the shooting without ear protection was starting to die down, and thing started to slow down for Greg, as he just took deep breaths, and tried to get the Adrenaline from the last few minutes out of his bloodstream and willed his hands to stop shaking. To him, it felt like every pore on his body had opened up. He was covered with a cold sweat, almost as if he’d been pushed into the cold water of the harbor. Then he realized how thirsty he was.
Greg looked out as Doc, followed by Kim, exited their designated house on the circle. Doc ran hunched over towards the nearest victim of the violence. It happened to be Tripp. Greg saw Doc stop at Tripp, and frantically open his med kit. At the realization that Tripp was alive, Greg stood up and ran back to the ladder, which he almost slid down like he was in a movie, but he twisted his ankle when he hit the ground faster than he thought he would. So much for being an action hero, he thought.
After pulling himself out of the crumpled Greg-puddle that he had become, he limped on a hurt ankle to where Doc was administering first-aid to Tripp. When Greg got there, he saw what damage from an 8mm Mauser looks like, and it wasn’t pretty. Tripp was breathing in ragged breaths, with his eyes wide and panicked. He locked gazes with Greg, as Greg moved closer.
“Doc, go see if any of our troops at the barrier survived.” Ordered Greg, who was sick to his stomach with the carnage he passed on the circle. “I’ve seen wounds like this, and can take care of it.” Greg looked to Kim, and nodded, as she gathered Doc up from the ground.
Kim said “Look, Doc! That bike there is almost like your old one. Let’s grab it and get to the front area quicker!”
Doc looked at the bike, then at Greg. “Keep pressure on this, Greg.” He got up, and, with Kim, managed to get a bike from a fallen biker up and started. They roared off up Main Street towards the main battle zone, with their first aid backpacks bouncing on their backs.
Cleaning Up.
Greg was holding down the field dressing on Tripp long enough to see Doc and Kim get out of view. Then, he lifted it up, as Tripp panicked and tried to pull it back to his chest wound.
“You won’t be needing that, Ass Hat.” Greg then took out his Bench Made switchblade and flicked it open. I’m going to do you one favor, and make it quick, instead of watching you bleed out – which is my first choice, traitor! He thrust the knife into Tripp’s quickly widening eye and gave it a twist as Tripp convulsed and was still. Greg stood up, and walked to the other bikers on the ground, in various states of dead – or soon to be. He repeated the same end for the second one when Mike ran up to him and threw him backwards.
“Stop! You’re killing these men in cold blood! They might have valuable information!” he yelled, as he stood over Greg’s next victim.
Just as Greg was about to reply, a pistol shot rang out nearby. Both men instinctively ducked and looked for the source of the danger. 30 feet away, Jennifer was holstering her .357, and below her was a biker doing the last-dance twitch, with a puddle where his forehead used to be. “That’s the last here, Greg. Let’s go clean up the field out front.” Like Jennifer, Gunny had clearly done the same as Greg did with her knife, as she was kneeling next to Jennifer, wiping her blade on the biker’s jeans, with a dead man at her knees.
“Mike,” said Gunny, “You haven’t seen what these animals did to the communities they’ve come through. None of these Fucks live through the afternoon. But you have a good idea about interrogating them. I don’t want to end them in front of Doc. If we need intel on where they’re staying, or what they’re thinking, maybe one will spill the beans in the fruitless hope for survival. If they don’t tell, we can still listen for the motorcycles, and look for the Turkey Buzzards circling.”
“Why do you think they hit us during daylight?” asked Jennifer. The shock of her last kill was starting to get to her, as the color drained from her face. She took 2 more steps, then threw up into the grass. Greg got to her first and held her shoulders as she sobbed at the realization that she just killed a man in relatively cold blood. Mike was approaching quickly.
Greg replied with “It’s OK, Jen. Tripp clearly told them about our defenses, and that night-time was not going to be an advantage. I saw him pointing as the first bike emerged from land mine alley. A lot more got through because of that ass-hat. Then Greg looked at Mike. “I’d kill him slower this time, now that I realize how he betrayed us. Let’s go take care of OUR living and find out what happened out front.”
Nellie walked up to the group and asked, “What does a dislocated shoulder feel like?”, then dropped to her knees and cried. While she served in some pretty ugly situations overseas, this was her first time in shooti
ng combat. Jen dropped to her knees next to Nellie, and they both cried, and held each other now that the killing was done. They spoke quietly to each other, and Greg left them to their consolation, headed to the barrier.
3 more soldiers, and the attack.
As the Rock Harbor Sheep Dog’s got back to the berm, Greg’s eyes were drawn to Chet’s body. He had a semi-circle of dead bikers around him, with his cigar still clenched between his teeth. He went down swinging. “Reverend Greg” walked over to Chet and closed his eyes. He then recited Psalm 23:4 over Chet, as he knew that Chet was a Christian. “Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Then Greg took the cigar, re-lit it, and thanked his friend for his sacrifice by doing him the honor of not wasting a fabulous Opus X cigar. He cried as he surveyed the field of battle, and all of the wasted life.
“Over here, Stat!” Yelled Doc. Greg Looked over to see him standing among the logs where Este went down. I need 4 strong bodies to move Este, Now! Greg could see him applying a field dressing on what he hoped was Este’s lower shoulder, and not his lung area. A shoulder wound isn’t always simply through-and-through, as large arteries and veins move through there. That said, it usually beats a collapsed lung. Given that Este was shot early in the battle, Greg was encouraged that Doc was still working on him and wanted to move him.
Greg directed a few of the survivors over to help Doc. He grabbed Kim and her medical bag and said “From what I heard after the bikers left, there were survivors out front. They might need medical attention. Gunny! Interrogate the prisoners away from Doc!” Gunny gave a thumbs-up, and Greg knew that was covered.
Kim, in all her tattooed glory smiled at Greg, pointed at her Harley, and said “Get on, you get to ride bitch, Jefe! I’ll get you there quick, I know the way around the mines.” She fired up the bike, Greg got on, and held on for dear life as Kim not only navigated around the mines, but also around a few crashed bikes with flat tires. The toe poppers didn’t kill any bikers on the path, so Greg assumed they either were killed in the battle of the berm, or ran back the way they came.
To keep himself distracted from the mad dash through the minefield, he yelled to Kim, “If you can both ride, I assume you had bikes here. Why not ride them around?”
Kim yelled back over her shoulder, “Doc used his military retirement bonus to buy us NEW bikes. I told him I was happy with my old Harley Softail, but he said I deserved a new bike. Both of ours were full of all kinds of electronics, and we had no spare parts. I’m glad to have the bikes the assholes left! The Sheepdogs will have a cavalry once we get a bunch of them fixed up. There will be no shortage of spare parts.” she indicated with her chin, as they passed the last crashed bike on the trail.
Greg did not think, until now, about the fact that bikers were coming out of the path, into the kill-zone of the trucks. “STOP!” he yelled, and Kim did. Quickly. They both almost went over the handlebars, but she was strong, and evidently a good biker.
“I thought about what you just did, at just about the same time!” Friendly fire would suck, especially if it was me!
Greg laughed. Kim dropped the kickstand while Greg yelled out “Sheep Dogs coming out! Hold your fire! Greg and Kim ran out towards the trucks, followed closely by the barrel of an M-2 .50 caliber machine gun on a truck that was otherwise trashed and an M-240 on an un-harmed, if slightly scorched Deuce and a half truck.
“Any casualties?” Kim yelled as she un-strapped her pack.
“No, Hefe. Tres Muerte, Dios mio!” said Jaime, the Honduran with the least English.
Bill clarified, because a death is a casualty, “Nope no wounded, but 3 Killed in Action, sadly. They are all the soldiers that came with Mike.”
Kim quickly checked vital signs. 2 of the soldiers in the deuce were clearly dead. One of the soldiers from the other truck said “They had an RPG in the wood line. He popped out as the bikers were coming and killed my men. One got a lucky shot on my 240 gunner, so early on we just had side arms, but I jumped up on the 240, and we were able to turn them. Your Sheep dogs, as they call themselves, fought well, even though their weapons are crap. I’ve given them the M-4’s from my dead guys, along with the LBE’s.”
Greg knew from his time in the Army that LBE’s were Load Bearing Equipment. Shoulder straps attached to a belt, like suspenders, with various things attached to them. He looked over at Luis, Bill and Jaime, who all had LBE’s bulging with magazines, a flashlight, and a pistol, probably the Beretta P92, from the look of it. Parts of the equipment were bloody but functioning.
Kim verified that all of the presumed dead had no vital signs and said “You don’t need me here. I’m going back to help Doc. See you later! She trotted back to the bike, and Greg heard her roar back through the woods.
Greg introduced himself to the soldier that took over the M240 and seemed to be in charge. “Sergeant Greg Creighton, inactive. I served active duty 90-93, then 5 years in the Guard. I got out with the same E-6 stripes you wear.”
“Staff Sergeant Tony Long, they call me Tiger. You serve in the first Desert Storm?”
“Affirmative, 12 Bravo, Combat Engineer, although I heard the MOS changed since the I served. We can catch up later. My condolences for your troops. I’m also clergy. I’d be honored to give last rites and can check their dog tags if you think that’s appropriate. In days like these, I know you have body bags, and I can have my men help.”
Tony said, solemnly, “Thank you, Sergeant Creighton. You do the last rites as you feel appropriate. I don’t know much about that God stuff, and I didn’t know these men all that well. We have been throwing together mixed units of Law Enforcement and Military since the fall, and we’re always shorthanded. No troops in the back, just a driver, TC (Truck/Tank commander) in the passenger seat, and gunner in my “troop carriers’ here.” I think my men would want to do the body bag detail, but we’ll yell if we need help. Thanks again.”
Greg gave last rites as appropriate. One of the soldier was Jewish, and he struggled to remember the words. He placed the soldier’s hands over his own eyes and did his best to remember the English translation of the rites. He had no chance of remembering the original language. “Hear, Oh Israel, our lord is our God, and our God is one.”
After giving each soldier what he hoped they might want said over their bodies. Greg asked Jaime in his best Spanglish to stay behind, help them with bodies, then escort any who wanted through the minefield.
“Si Jefe, no problema.” Nodded Jaime. Greg gathered up the rest of his Sheepdogs and they went back to the area of the battle of the berm. As they walked back, they lifted and pushed the 3 motorcycles, on flat front tires, through the field, to eliminate any telltales of where the mines might be. Greg would have to remind one of his guys to re-load the toe-poppers for the next assault that he was sure would come eventually. The biker leader had more intel on the community and their defensive tricks and didn’t seem like the kind of guy to forgive being shot. He would have to recruit a bigger Army now, though, since his was almost wiped out. Greg remembered about a half-dozen leaving, but didn’t know how many left.
“Bill about how many bikes and personnel got away?”
“There’s no ‘about’ about it”, smiled Bill. “7 motorcycles, one that probably won’t get far, based on the oil that it was burning. They had 4 riding ‘bitch’, so 11 fuck-puddles, and 6.5 bikes. Do you think they’ll be back?”
“If not them, some other scumbags will come and try to take our stuff.
The FEMA Departure
Over the rest of the day, and early evening, body bags were loaded with soldiers, Chet and Carlos were buried on their homesteads, and the bikers were fed to the crabs, near the usual crab trap spots. Greg tied cinder blocks to their waists, and dumped them off the deepest docks, with a quick ‘prayer’ of “better you than us, puss bag.”
Gunny secured the location of their camp, and they got, through reliable
reports, amid shrieks, that there were 4 guards left behind to guard their prisoners. Gunny finished them all off, much to Mike’s chagrin. Kim had a better understanding of what these guys were up to, as she and Gunny had grown close in the past few days.
Esteban the Giant was secure in his bed, with a positive prognosis from both Doc and Kim. The motorcycles were pushed up to the parking lot of the community center, in various states of repair, with 3 that Doc got working in a few minutes. Kim claimed the Harley Softail, and Doc took the Panhead, with a Sportster, the smallest working motorcycle, reserved for “cavalry lessons”.
The survivors all got together for an impromptu dinner at the center. Ethyl and her team did a great job, and the Soldiers brought almost all the rations they had in both trucks. These MRE gifts were saved, because of their shelf life.
Tony brought Greg one of the best presents ever! He gave Greg the M-2 .50 caliber machine gun off the wrecked truck, along with 4 ammo cans worth of .50 caliber, or just under 400 rounds of Armor Piercing ammo total. He also gave the spare tripod mount from the back of the truck.