Ernie P. began screaming at them from across the street. “Move! Move! We’re gonna be flanked!”
The approaching army was a disorganized mess, but there were hundreds of them pouring through the narrow dirty streets. Bodies were dropping all around, mostly civilians. Moose yelled at Theresa and Ripper. “Go! I’ve got you covered! Move!”
He stood up and aimed his SAW at the approaching invaders, firing short accurate bursts. Theresa and Ripper ran across the street to where the rest of the team was reorganizing. When they reached the other side, they opened fire so Moose could run and join them. A three round burst hit him square in the back when he was half way across the street, dropping him flat on his face. The Kevlar vest saved his life, but he was winded and fully prone out in the open. Ripper and Theresa raced forward with the team opening up in every direction to cover their friends. Ripper rolled Moose onto his back, bent over grabbing his arm and leg, and then did a dive roll over Moose which used his body momentum to pick up the giant man onto his back. Theresa watched in amazement as Ripper ended up with Moose on his back, running across the street. She fired until her rifle was empty, then sprinted across the street to cover.
By the time they got behind cover in a small store, Moose had coughed himself back to consciousness. Ripper checked Moose’s back, saw he wasn’t wounded, and poured some water from his canteen on Moose’s face. “Welcome back. We need to haul ass.”
Cascaes and Mackey raced into the small store they were hiding in and took cover. “We have everyone?” asked Cascaes.
“Everyone except Smitty and Ernie,” reported Ripper.
“Where the hell are they?” snapped Cascaes, in between returning gunfire.
“We’re out of explosives and getting low on ammo. Smitty had an idea for some IEDs to slow down the PAC. He and Ernie said they were going shopping.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes. They’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
“We need to fall back now. Let’s get out the back of this building and drop back a couple of blocks.” Cascaes thumbed his mic and called out to Smitty.
“Smitty! Sitrep?”
It took a few seconds, then Smitty’s mic opened with heavy gunfire in the background. “Hey Skipper, we’re two streets behind you. If you can hold that intersection for another three minutes, we’ll have a surprise ready for the PAC. Almost done.”
“Three minutes! That’s the best we can do, it’s getting hot over here! Out!”
An incoming RPG rocket exploded against the wall of their building, dropping part of the wall and roof inside the small space.
Moose was back up and took a knee to go through his pockets and small field pack. He pulled his two remaining magazines and threw them to Theresa, who snapped one into her M-16. His SAW was empty and lying out in the street. Ripper handed Moose his .45 and popped a new mag into his M-4.
“Two mags, that’s it,” he said to whoever was paying attention.
Cascaes ripped open his pack and pulled out his last two grenades, which he tossed to Moose. “You’re the pitcher. Make them count!”
Jon, Hodges, Jones, and McCoy checked weapons and slipped out the back door, taking firing positions on each side of the small shack. The PAC rebels were opposite them on the other corner, firing assault rifles and RPGs in their general direction. Their rifle fire made up with volume what it lacked in accuracy. The hut was slowly coming apart.
“Another minute and half and we’re out,” said Mackey.
Two exploding RPG rounds knocked the wall open next to Julia, and she went down hard next to Cascaes. Smoke and debris filled the room, and the team members helped each other up, returned fire, and began exiting through the rear door.
Cascaes screamed into his mic over the incoming fire. “Smitty! We’re coming! So is the PAC army!”
The fourteen of them regrouped quickly behind the building and began running, stopping only briefly to take a few shots to slow down their attackers. Most of the civilian population was either dead or had already fled the area. The team ran down the dirt road, taking cover along the poorly constructed buildings.
Smitty’s head popped up from behind a small brick wall, which was about waist high. “Hey! Almost done! Hold them off for another few seconds!”
The team fanned out in defensive positions and braced for the assault as the PAC forces moved closer.
Ernie yelled from across an alley that he was “done,” whatever that meant.
“Okay! That’s it! You need to take off!” yelled Smitty.
Cascaes and Mackey started grabbing their people and yelling at them to move. Smitty hunkered down behind the small wall and started shooting at the incoming army.
“You, too! Let’s get moving!” yelled Cascaes to Smitty.
“No can do, Skipper. I don’t have detonators. This needs to be a manual job. When they get close, I’ll set it off and catch up.”
“Then I’ll stay with you,” said Cascaes. He ducked as impacting rounds started whizzing around their heads.
“I got this, boss,” shouted Ernie. “You go. Me and Smitty got a special present for these fuckers. We’ll catch up.”
The PAC was getting more daring, sensing their enemy was a small force that seemed to be retreating. They advanced faster as their rear guard caught up and bolstered their numbers.
“Shit. Don’t stick around too long!” Cascaes moved out quickly with the others, racing from building to building to avoid incoming machine gun fire. The team ran and stumbled along the dirt road, occasionally glancing back at their two teammates and urging them silently to hurry up.
58.
Dex hung up the phone and exhaled a soft, “Thank God.”
President Kuwali had ordered his presidential guard units and army to defend the city. Alarms began sounding around Kinshasa, rousing the population from their sleep. Although they were a small, poorly-equipped army, there were a couple of thousand of them, and that was better than the small platoon now trying to hold off an entire rebel army.
Dex called Mackey, but Mackey didn’t answer. There was no way to know that Mackey was fighting for his life at that moment.
Mackey and his team had retreated to a cluster of small open buildings that served as “open air restaurants” of a sort. There were a few small knee walls of cinder blocks that provided cover, and the team fanned out to try and hold the street, waiting for Smitty and Ernie to join them.
Two blocks ahead, Smitty was opening the valves on all of the propane and fuel tanks they had found and piled up next to the road. Ernie had filled a few buckets with whatever metal objects he could find in an attempt to make a makeshift shaped-charge, pointed down the street at the attacking PAC forces.
Bullets were ricocheting all over their position, and it was getting untenable.
“You figure out how to set this shit off yet?” asked Ernie.
“Gas. We’ll leave a trail of gas as we exit and hit it with a lighter. It should set off the pile and blow the shit out of this place.”
“We need to go now, man!” screamed Ernie as an RPG round exploded nearby. “This shit’s gonna’ blow up with us sitting in it!”
“Go! I’m almost done!” screamed Smitty, as he opened the last couple of tanks. He grabbed a gas can and opened the top as Ernie backed away. Smitty started pouring fuel as Ernie fired a few rounds at a group of guerrillas that had moved up on the flank. He killed two of them before a bullet hit him in the head, sending up a mist of blood and bone right in front of Smitty.
“Ernie!” he screamed, as he dove on top of him. One look and it was clear he was dead. The enemy was overrunning their position. Smitty rolled off of Ernie and began firing his assault rifle at the soldiers, who now seemed to stream in from everywhere. A bullet struck his shoulder, breaking his clavicle and spinning him around before he fell. A P
AC soldier jumped over the small pile of rubble and cinderblocks and aimed at Smitty who raised his weapon with one arm. They fired simultaneously, knocked each other flat. Smitty cried out in pain, reached into his pant pocket and pulled his lighter.
“Fuck you!” he screamed, as he threw it into the pool of gasoline.
The fireball leveled the entire intersection, taking out three small buildings and several dozen soldiers. Smitty disappeared into the fireball alongside his friend Ernie P.
The team saw the explosions and giant fireball, and Ripper looked over the wall towards their friends. Black smoke billowed, and fire shot to the sky, but there was no sign of Smitty or Ernie.
“Skipper, I better move forward and take a peek,” said Ripper. Moose groaned, his back aching, and moved alongside his partner. Ripper looked at Moose just for a second, and then the two of them raced forward along the buildings towards the inferno. They hadn’t gone ten yards when PAC soldiers started emerging through the smoke.
“Shit!” yelled Ripper as he saw the men pouring through the smoke. He fired his weapon, joined by Moose, who yelled at him to fall back. The two of them radioed that they were about to be overrun, and kept moving back towards the rest of their team. By the time they got back, the PAC was less than a hundred yards away.
“Where’s Smitty and Ernie?” yelled Mack.
“No idea, boss. There’s a million skinnies heading this way. We need to go now!”
Moose fired a few rounds and yelled to Cascaes. “Skipper, they’re either dead or had to run for it. We’ll be next if we don’t go now!”
An RPG round added emphasis by exploding behind them. Two yards lower and they’d have eaten it.
“Move! Move!” Yelled Cascaes.
The team ran down the street, no longer returning fire. They were simply trying to put some distance between themselves and the attacking army. They zig-zagged through smaller side streets, still heading for the city, but trying to avoid being seen. Their training kept them running, despite the pain.
“I need to get a sit-rep from Langley,” said Mackey to Cascaes as they ran down a quieter side street. The background noises had gotten slightly quieter. The team crashed through a door and moved through several buildings and courtyards until they were in a crammed group of tiny houses.
They broke out the satellite phone and called in to Dex, who answered right away.
“I’ve been trying to reach you!” exclaimed Dex when he picked up.
“We’re on the run. I only have a second. We’re still trying to get back to Kinshasa. Team is taking casualties and we’re low on ammo. What’s the situation?”
“Were are you?”
“Near the city. Fighting is house-to-house. We had a change of plans. Are we getting help?”
“Mack! Damnit! I told you to get out of there!”
“Are we getting help?”
“The president ordered his army assembled. They’re moving out to defend the city. We have a dozen birds inbound, but they’re still an hour out, minimum. Can you get to the presidential palace?”
“Not sure. We’ll try. Exfil?”
“At the palace if you can get there. Marines will help secure the area. Stop trying to fight and just get the hell out of there, Mack!”
“Roger. Out”
Mackey turned to Cascaes. “Army is on the way. Marines heading to the Palace for our ride home. We need to hustle before we end up in the middle of these two armies.”
“Smitty and Ernie?”
“If they’re alive, we’ll figure something out.”
Cascaes knew in his heart they were dead, but leaving Santos in the jungle on their last mission still haunted him. “Okay, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Cascaes relayed the info to his battered team. They were no longer a fighting force, they were simply trying to escape and evade back to the palace.
59.
Wong Fu-jia stood over the two mangled bodies staring at their uniforms. One was Caucasian, the other perhaps Hispanic, but both were Americans, no doubt. He knelt down and looked closer at their uniforms. No markings of any kind. Both bodies were badly torn up, but these two had been professionals judging by their uniforms. American Special Forces. He made a sour face.
General Wong looked around at the carnage. Improvised bombs had leveled the area killing many of his soldiers. He wondered how many more Americans they were facing. One of his Chinese officers ran to him, out of breath and snapped a salute.
“General! I can’t find any of our officers. Only you and I are left, with the PAC soldiers.”
Wong Fu-jia stared at the man, a captain, and contemplated that. With General Shen’s army out of contact and perhaps destroyed, and his officers dead or wounded, there was very little chance left for success. Without even thinking, Wong Fu-jia pulled his sidearm and emptied it into what was left of Smitty’s dead body. He kicked it and cursed at the top of his lungs. When he got control over himself, he snapped at his last remaining officer.
“Can we get this army reorganized?”
The captain looked terrified to answer, but quietly responded. “They are spread throughout the city, moving towards the palace. Without our officers, there’s no way to communicate with them. I’m sorry, general.”
General Wong pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He stared at the captain and offered a cigarette to him. The man looked terrified. “Go on,” he said. He watched the man accept it with a shaking hand, and light it. Wong Fu-jia thought, “These may be our last.”
The two of them walked quietly after the sounds of weapons, following the fire and smoke as the out-of-control army burned its way towards the presidential palace.
President Kuwali had made a speech over the radio and television, advising his country that they were under attack from rebels, but that his army would defend the city to the last man. He hoped his fire and brimstone speech would help motivate an army that might drop their weapons and start running if things looked bad.
He now stood in front of the presidential palace on the wide avenue where his troops had assembled and begun to move out towards the approaching army. President Kuwali waved and smiled at his troops, although deep down, he was extremely worried. The Americans were sending marines by helicopter and promised to defend his capital, but what if the PAC arrived before they did?
As the army headed out down the highway heading towards the fight, tens of thousands of refugees walked back in the other direction. Kuwali’s wife and children were inside the palace with his own bodyguards. He scanned the skies, praying for the marines.
The team shared ammo and reloaded, drank some water, and began the perilous run to the palace. Jones and Hodges took point, Lance and Cascaes covered the rear. They moved at a slow run, listening and stopping to look around every fifty yards or so. The PAC wasn’t doing anything to hide their movements, and the team knew where they were just from the gunfire and burning buildings. Still, they could have scouts out, so they were cautious.
They fourteen of them moved silently through countless small streets and courtyards. The houses and business were crammed together, and there were still some civilians trying to save personal belongings before fleeing east towards the presidential palace. A couple of hundred yards east of the palace was “Martyr’s Stadium,” an appropriate name for an assembly point for stricken masses. It was there that the president had instructed his people to seek shelter. A decent plan, unless the city fell to the PAC, in which case it would become a very large mass grave.
Mackey checked his watch every few minutes. Like President Kuwali, he silently urged the marines to fly faster.
Jones jogged back from his forward position and found Cascaes. “Hey, Skipper. Highway One is at the end of the block. The good news is, it’ll take us right to the presidential palace. The bad news is, it’s a real road. It’s wide open highway. If the PAC’s around, th
ey’ll spot us in two seconds. We need to get across the highway, and follow a parallel route.”
“Okay, so let’s do it…”
“Yeah, well, the other side of the highway is a mess. All residential, and real tight. No line of sight. No straight parallel route that we could find yet. Your call. Run up the highway and hope we don’t get spotted, or take the long way.”
“Easy call. We’re not equipped to fight. We take the long way and keep trying to evade. Let’s haul ass across the highway.”
60.
The long convoy of vehicles left the palace area and moved down Highway One like a giant military parade. Dozens of trucks, ranging from old military trucks to pickup trucks with machine guns mounted in the back drove southwest towards the approaching army. The plan was simple: drive towards the burning part of the city, find the enemy, and kill them.
The army had one functioning tank in the capital, which was bringing up the rear. The commander of the tank, President Kuwali’s nephew, stood up out of the top of the cold war era M-60. He saluted the president as they drove by and tried to look regal in his invincible armor.
They headed straight for the billowing black smoke, less than a mile and a half away. On both sides of the convoy, tens of thousands of men, women and children headed in the opposite direction on foot, many carrying whatever they owned on their heads or shoulders.
In direct contrast to the orderly column of government troops headed down the highway, the PAC invaders had fanned out across the outskirts of the city in a wide mass. Even having taken casualties at the hands of the team, there were still over twenty-three hundred troops murdering, raping, and burning their way through the city. Without their Chinese officers to keep them focused on their mission of taking the presidential palace, the mercenaries had gotten distracted and turned into a barbaric horde. While most of the civilians had fled, there were still plenty of targets left behind—the elderly who were too slow to escape, the shopkeepers who tried to protect their livelihood, not understanding what they would be facing, and families with smaller children who made the mistake of trying to save too many possessions. The savagery shown to these people was medieval.
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