African Dragon

by David M. Salkin

  “We gotta move!” yelled Chris.

  Hodges moved up to Jones and hoisted his body over his back.

  “He’s gone, man. We gotta leave him!”

  “No way, Skipper! Let’s go!”

  Hodges began running down the alleyway with Jones over his back, and Chris ran backwards, shooting at the enemy in the smoke behind them. Incoming rounds were singing past their ears, dangerously close.

  “Chris! Sitrep?” yelled Mackey into Chris’s earpiece.

  “Jones down. We’re trying to make it back. We need help, Mack!” yelled Chris as they stumbled along the narrow smoke-filed alley. An RPG round exploded above their heads, but sent the wall down all over them. They fell in the torrent of bricks. Hodges was under Jones’s dead body and a hundred pounds of rubble and couldn’t move. Cascaes had been hammered by bricks all over his body and was trying to summon all of his strength just to uncover himself. The PAC soldiers moved closer.

  63.

  “Shit!” yelled Mackey as the radio went dead.

  “Where are they?” asked Moose.

  “Close—half a click, max. That explosion must have been them,” he said, pointing at a billowing white smoke not too far off.

  Moose and Ripper exchanged a quick glance and began running towards the smoke.

  “Wait!” yelled Mackey. “Let’s stay together!” None of them had more than a few rounds left, but no one hesitated. They were within sight of the compound and safety, but there was no way they would leave their friends behind. Moose was out in front, racing down the street with Ripper and the rest of them close behind. By the time they got to where the smoke was coming from, the PAC forces had descended on the area and had Cascaes in a wicked crossfire. Hodges was pinned under the bricks and Jones’ body, and couldn’t free himself.

  Ripper and Moose were still on point and began shooting down the alley at the PAC troops that were assaulting their friends. Bullets ricocheted off of the walls keeping Chris on the ground in the pile of bricks. Hodges was still pushing bricks off of himself, one at a time.

  Julia, Theresa, and Jon ran down a parallel alley on the left and tried to move around behind the PAC force. Instead, they found themselves facing another dozen troops and engaged in a heavy exchange of fire within a hundred yards. Woods and Koches heard the gunfire and reinforced the three of them, being extremely careful to conserve ammunition.

  The rest of the team crawled up the alley and tried to free Cascaes and Hodges from the bricks and debris. The incoming fire was steady and heavy, and they didn’t have enough ammunition to return heavy fire themselves. It was slow and perilous as they moved down the alleyway.

  Mackey, seeing the alley was too dangerous to move ahead, slipped out the back and moved around to the right slipping through shanty-type houses in a flanking maneuver. He kept creeping along forward on a parallel alleyway until he could hear troops speaking in Kikongo. He slowed to a crawl and pulled his knife and .45, slinging his empty assault rifle over his back.

  Mackey leaned against the wall and waited, listening to the two voices argue, most likely over who was going to have to move down the alley towards the Americans. When Mackey heard them moving, he slipped behind them and fired two rounds into the head of the man in front of him, then two more into the other soldier. He grabbed the man’s rifle and started rummaging for ammunition when several more soldiers popped up from behind another short wall in the crammed alleyway. They started spraying automatic weapon fire at Mack, who dove for cover and fired a few rounds from his .45 before scrambling away. He had dropped the rifle and ammo, cursed himself, and kept moving.

  There was more screaming in Kikongo, and then something else—Chinese? Mack rolled over several times to get out of the incoming stream of bullets and ended up kicking his way through the wall of a shanty. He pushed through the wall and found himself in a one room house, with several dead civilians on the dirt floor.

  Mack tried to listen for sounds to help reorient himself. He was separated from his team and most likely surrounded by PAC guerrillas. He crawled on his belly out the front of the small house, through pools of blood, and watched and listened as he moved inch by inch.

  Wong Fu-jia was screaming at his soldiers. He had finally seen Americans. He wanted them dead. His troops outnumbered what were most likely Special Forces forward observers or attack controllers. General Wong grabbed the PAC soldiers around him and pushed them towards the alley where had seen the American run away. He pointed his own rifle down the alleyway and moved up behind his mercenaries. A few more PAC guerrillas arrived behind them, and Wong Fu-jia used hand gestures to get them to spread out and move through the decrepit houses. A serious firefight was raging one alley over, but he had an American cut off from the rest, and smelled blood. He whispered harshly in Chinese, but the PAC forces had no idea what he was saying without the interpreters there to help. Forward. Kill. That seemed to be the general idea.

  Mackey crawled faster, moving away from the sounds of the firefight. He knew he needed to start circling back around to reach his team, but the alleyway didn’t go that way, and there were PAC forces everywhere. He needed help, but there was no way he was going to jeopardize any of his people to try and get to him.

  Back in the other alley, Moose and Ripper were inching their way up towards Cascaes and Hodges, firing only single shots when they could see a target. In contract, the PAC forces were pouring a heavy rain of lead down the alley, keeping Cascaes and Hodges pinned to the floor, still tangled in bricks and debris.

  Julia, Theresa, and Jon had flanked around the side alley and came to a connecting path. They got low and peered around to see the guerrillas firing down the street from behind knee walls and piles of bricks. Jon raised his rifle and pointed to the men on the right. Theresa and Julia aimed at the targets on the left.

  “Now!” whispered Jon, and he opened up on them.

  Julia and Theresa fired until they both clicked empty. They dropped the empty magazines with the sick realization that they were completely out of ammunition. Jon had one grenade, which he pulled and tossed down the alleyway. The three of them covered up and allowed the blast to roll over them. Jon moved forward with Theresa and Julia behind him, each brandishing knives.

  Jon used his throat mic to call to his team. “Moose! Where are you?”

  “End of an alley. Was that your grenade?”

  “Roger.”

  “Good kill. We’re clear right now. Move up.”

  The three of them raced up the alley and hung a right, then ran down the tight alley to where Moose and Ripper were pulling bricks off of Cascaes, Jones, and Hodges.

  “Where’s Woods and Koches?” asked Ripper as they reassembled their people.

  “No idea,” said Jon, looking puzzled.

  “They were behind you! Shit!” Ripper keyed his mic. “Woods? Koches? Sitrep?”

  No reply. He tried again. Nothing.

  “Mack? You copy?”

  Nothing, and then a very quiet keying of the mic in double short bursts. He was alive and could receive but couldn’t talk. “This is a clusterfuck,” said Ripper as he continued to pull bricks with Moose. “I don’t know where Mack, Jake, or Lance are. Skipper? You okay?”

  He pulled Cascaes out of the pile of bricks. Cascaes’s face was white from dust, except where blood was leaking through from multiple small cuts.

  “Get Hodges,” was all he managed to say. Julia moved to him quickly and pulled her canteen, pouring it on his face. “Hey. You okay?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Help Moose.”

  Theresa had managed to pull Jones out of the rubble and saw his condition. She checked for a pulse for several seconds but knew he was gone. She looked up at Moose. “He’s dead, Al.”

  Hodges was conscious, but badly beaten up and bleeding from dozens of welts. “Jonesy?” he croaked when he saw Theresa
place his limp hand down on his chest. She shook her head at Hodges, whose tears cut through the dry dust on his face.

  An explosion nearby ended the conversation. Moose stood up, pulling Cascaes and Hodges to their feet on at a time. “We need to boogey, Skipper. We gotta find Mack, Lance and Jake and they’re not together.”

  Cascaes looked around for a weapon, and ultimately jogged over to a dead PAC guerilla to strip him of his assault rifle and ammunition. Hodges followed him and did the same, followed by Theresa and Julia. The team was foraging for weapons and ammunition when all hell broke loose again. They grabbed what they could and hustled down the alleyway where Julia, Theresa and Jon had come from.

  “Lance! You copy? Koches?” asked Cascaes into his mic. A mic opened and at first it was just automatic weapons fire. Finally, Lance responded. “It’s too hot, Skipper. You need to get back to the palace.”

  “Give me a sitrep and location!”

  “Skipper, they’re all over us. Pull back. It’s no good, boss. Sorry. Out.”

  Moose pointed towards the sounds of gunfire. “Got to be them, Skipper.”

  The team began moving towards the gunfire. Hodges was last, having hung back to give Jones a kiss on the forehead before leaving. Theresa stayed back waiting for him, concerned about his condition. Concussion for sure, multiple bruises and abrasions, maybe a few broken ribs. Hodges coughed and spit, but kept moving.

  Cascaes motioned for his men to follow the sound of the firefight, but took a knee and broke out the sat-phone. “Northstar, this is Voodoo Three actual. Are you still on station?”

  “Negative Voodoo Three. You have a Super Cobra, call sign Jersey fifty-six in your AO. Returning to base. Out.”

  Cascaes considered that a second. The marines must have brought a bird in with them for overwatch. “Jersey fifty-six, this is Voodoo Three actual. Danger Close Polar.”

  “Voodoo Three actual, this is Jersey fifty-six. We are not authorized for support at this time, over.”

  “Jersey fifty-six is Lawrence Taylor and you better be a Giants fan. Broken Arrow. I say Again. Broken Arrow. Over.”

  The pilot of the Super Cobra was, in fact, a Giants fan. Jersey fifty-six was Lawrence Taylor—perhaps the greatest defensive football player in NFL history. Chief Warrant Officer Jeff Cantor had taken his call sign for his favorite player. He shook his head. His orders had been to circle the compound and provide security over-watch to the Marine Rifle Platoon. He wasn’t supposed to leave the palace airspace, but an emergency brevity code from an overrun unit trumped his orders.

  “Voodoo Three actual, this is Jersey fifty-six. Broken Arrow. Good copy.”

  “I’m popping smoke.” Cascaes pulled two yellow smoke canisters and pulled the pins. He threw them up on the roof of the small shanty next to him.

  Less than half a kilometer away, CWO Cantor could see the yellow smoke.

  “I have yellow smoke,” said the pilot.

  “Roger, Jersey fifty-six, that’s me.”

  “Affirmative. Inbound.” The Super Cobra raced across the city straight for the yellow smoke.

  Cascaes barked into his mic. “Team! We have an inbound bird. Get to the yellow smoke before he hoses this whole area.”

  The team had been trying to work towards rescuing Lance and Jake and stopped short where they were. Ripper looked at Moose. “Shit! Now what?”

  “Lance! You and Jake find a hole! Incoming!” yelled Moose. He grabbed Ripper by the arm and shoved him back in the direction they had just come from. “Let’s go! To the smoke!”

  It had been a confusing mess, but the team understood their best option. Get back to the yellow smoke where the pilot wouldn’t be dropping ordnance and let him do his job. Lance and Jake would have to find cover and tough it out. The roar of the Super Cobra overhead made everyone sprint harder towards the smoke. They could see Cascaes on his knee, still on his radio.

  “Mack! Can you see yellow smoke?” asked Cascaes

  There was no response.

  “Mack, come in!”

  Nothing.

  “Voodoo Three actual, this is Jersey fifty-six, inbound on your position.”

  Overhead, the Cobra slowed and CWO Cantor found multiple targets running through the maze of alleyways and narrow streets below. Cantor watched a small group of soldiers moving through an alleyway towards the yellow smoke. He could see muzzle flashes. The 20mm three-barrel nose-gun opened up and began chewing up everything n its path.

  The team huddled close together, taking cover as best they could as they watched the alley way in both directions. They could hear the sound of the gun overhead. It didn’t sound like a machine gun, more like a very loud chain saw. Shell casings rained down on the shanty town.

  The bird moved very slowly, pouring fire in every direction around the yellow smoke. A few times, Cantor spotted larger forces moving around further out and used his Hellfire missiles to destroy them. For the first time in what seemed like hours, Cascaes and his immediate team weren’t under attack. The same couldn’t be said for Lance and Jake, and on the other side of the team, Mackey.

  64.

  Jake and Lance had tried to find cover, but there was no place to hide from the mini-gun. The incoming rounds were destroying everything around them and the shells were impacting way too close.

  “Popping smoke!” yelled Jake. He pulled a yellow smoke grenade and tossed it a few feet away. “Skipper! Tell the pilot we’re popping smoke before he hoses us!” It would, of course, give away their position, but better to be shot at by automatic weapons fire than vaporized by the Super Cobra.

  Cascaes relayed the information to the pilot, who saw the smoke and redirected his fire a few seconds before he would have killed them both. He continued to fly in slow sweeps over the area, inflicting tremendous casualties on the PAC guerrillas. Further out on the other side of Cascaes, Mackey was crawling through the alleyways, taking fire from unseen soldiers.

  The noise was deafening as the Super Cobra fired missiles and rained total destruction with its nose gun.

  Cascaes radio came to life. “Voodoo Actual, this is Jackal Three Bravo, we are currently en route to your position. We have two rifle squads, reinforced with a machine gun section. Approaching from the north. What do you need us to do?”

  Cascaes almost cried with relief at the sound of the marine platoon sergeant from the presidential palace. The Marines. The Marines were coming.

  “Jackal Three Bravo, this is Voodoo Actual. The bird saved us, but we’re still in contact, with team members isolated. We’re on a narrow road parallel to the main avenue. You see our smoke?”

  “I have yellow smoke, roger.”

  “Just keep heading for the smoke before it disappears. PAC forces everywhere. Close quarters. Out.”

  Cascaes called over to his team. “We have marines inbound!”

  A wave of relief washed over the faces of his team. Moose screamed over the roar of missiles from the Cobra. “Skipper! We need to get to Lance and Jake now! They popped smoke. If we can see it, so can the PAC.”

  “Okay. Let’s work our way over slowly while the marines get to us. Mack is still out there somewhere, maybe in the other direction.”

  The team spread out and began moving methodically down the alley towards the sound of gunfire and drifting yellow smoke.

  Mackey’s corner of the world had gone quieter. Although he could still hear plenty of gunfire, and the gunship overhead unleashing hell somewhere nearby, his immediate area had gone quiet. The quiet scuffling of boots or doors opening and closing was the only clue that troops nearby were hunting for him.

  Mack popped the magazine on his .45 and looked quickly. Three rounds left, plus one more magazine. He needed to find a way out quickly. He could hear Kikongo being whispered on the other side of the corrugated steel wall. Mack froze. While he could easily shoot through the wal
l, he had no idea how many troops were on the other side. He controlled his breathing and watched the shadows around the base of the walls and doorway. They were everywhere.

  Moose and Ripper had taken point and were running down the narrow street towards the last of the yellow smoke. Cascaes had informed the Cobra pilot that they were moving towards the other marker and asked for cover fire. Cantor had swept the area repeatedly, keeping Lance and Jake from being overrun. Small arms fire was hitting the helicopter, but Cantor ignored it and continued to wreak havoc on the enemy below. By the time Ripper called over to Jake and Lance to tell them they were coming up behind them, the enemy had broken off and retreated.

  Ripper came to the corner and yelled. “Woods! Koches!”

  “Here! Come up!” came the reply.

  Ripper, Moose, and Theresa charged up the alley and found the two of them lying against the side of a building. They were both bleeding from gunshot wounds.

  “Shit!” yelled Theresa. “Why didn’t you tell us you were hit?”

  “’Cause you’d come running. We didn’t want you getting yourselves killed to get here. Thank God for that bird.”

  Theresa looked at Jake’s wounds first. He had been shot through the quadriceps, through and through, and had tied a pressure bandage on himself. The second round had snuck in under his body armor and hit him in the ribs under the armpit, where it broke two bones and lodged itself there. He was bleeding heavily.

  Theresa, acting corpsman, pulled another pressure bandage and took off his blood soaked Kevlar. She cut his shirt open and applied the pressure bandage. He was pale and looked like he was fighting the shock and losing.

  Ripper helped Lance wrap his left hand, where a round had gone through and broken a few bones. It wasn’t life threatening, but it hurt like hell. “I have morphine if you need it,” asked Ripper.

  “Fuck that, man. This ain’t no time to take a nap. We need to get out of here.”