Scooting downhill first, she moved behind the knocked-out LAV and dug into hard-packed soil on its left side, lying prone at the crest. She leveled the gun on its bipod. To her left, three Marines lay groaning from wounds. Two gave her a thumbs-up and went back to giving themselves first aid. All she could do to help was keep the Sevens at bay, so she laid the magazines out for fast reload and took aim. There were targets everywhere.
Between her and Piccaldi, they had no more than two hundred rounds. The math was easy. Even if every shot they fired struck home and was fatal, they were still going to die. They needed more firepower.
1604 hours
It was all happening exactly as Sully had known it would. His Marines were slaughtering the onrushing enemy, but there weren’t enough of them. Soon it would be hand to hand, and that would be the end. Emptying his magazine into a knot of burps only thirty yards away, he reached over Meyer’s prone form and grabbed the radio. He spoke in open language on the common frequency.
“Overtime Prime, this is Kicker Real. Pressure all along my line. I have heavy casualties and at least four LAVs out of action. My extreme left flank is held by two Marine snipers. I repeat, two Marines are holding my left flank. If they’re overrun, this line is lost. Mortars are out of ammo; crews are on the line. If you’re coming, for God’s sake, hurry.”
1605 hours
They all heard Sully’s mayday.
“John, can you get us there?” Tompkins said.
“I can if ya tell me the way,” John Thibodeaux answered. “An’ a road might be nice, too.”
Behind them followed the rest of the headquarters company vehicles, crammed with clerks, computer technicians, supply specialists, and every surplus man or woman who could carry a rifle. Tompkins studied the map as they bounced down the broken pavement of what had once been I-17, tracing the route with his finger. Finally he stabbed at the map. “On your left, John. There should be a turnoff coming up soon.”
A few seconds later, Thibodeaux nodded. “I see it.”
“Take that road for about three miles, then we’ve gotta go cross country. And for Christ’s sake, floor it.”
The danger was not only on the left flank, where Piccaldi and Snowtiger fought all alone on their hill. Interstate 17 ran almost due north through a flat valley more than a mile wide. The ruins of gas stations and strip malls dotted the landscape. There were a few low hills, but it was ideal country for fast-moving vehicles.
The two Marine companies, Dog and Echo, had done what they could to fortify the area in a short time. They blew holes in the roadbed and rolled boulders onto the pavement. Placement of the LAVs concentrated on the highway instead of the desert. Their chain guns could chew up anything that came their way, including Abrams tanks if they found a sensitive spot. Three teams using FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missiles fortified their positions overlooking the interstate. And then they waited.
Map Copyright © 2017 Google
1617 hours
When Tank Girl first lifted out of the hangar, Joe Randall had felt nauseous at the memory of his wife bleeding in his arms. The metallic smell of her blood on his flight suit dragged him back to that horrible moment he’d looked into her slack face, white from blood loss. But then, forcing the memories from his mind, he re-focused on his mission. He firewalled the throttle and Tank Girl thundered south at a height of one hundred feet.
His fatigue vanished in a wash of adrenaline. News of the fight along I-17 made navigation easy; he just followed the road. Smoke on the horizon pinpointed the exact location of the fighting as wildfires added to the palls from burning vehicles. He glanced at the air speed indicator, which registered more than 200 knots. The giant helicopter vibrated as the turboshaft engines strained for every last ounce of horsepower.
Shapes grew in the forward targeting sight. Vehicles of every size, color, and purpose filled the display. He saw everything from huge delivery trucks and tractor trailers to… Randall could not believe what he saw. Tanks! After a morning spent hunting Chinese Type 98s, here were yet more tanks, and Abrams, no less. Tank Girl was again hunting her natural prey.
As the range decreased, Randall made his musical selection. The distinctive opening guitar riff filled the cockpit.
Carlos nodded; even he knew that one. “Good choice. I like this song.”
“We’re comin’ in low and hot,” Randall said, aiming at an Abrams. “If that’s not flirtin’ with disaster, I don’t know what is.”
A dozen streams of bright blobs floated toward Tank Girl. Tracers from a dozen different machine guns crisscrossed the sky, all firing at them. The M1A1 dead ahead poured out fire with its main battery, smashing Marine positions as it drove north. Carlos armed four Dragonfire anti-tank missiles and the 30mm Gatling gun armed with EXACTO AP rounds. From the right came an explosive flash and Carlos saw it immediately. From the corner of his eye, Randall saw him launch a pod of flares to lure the Stinger away from the helicopter. A glance in the rear view camera showed the missile explode in their wake.
The hardest part for Randall was waiting to press the trigger. The Comanche screamed over the bleached asphalt of Interstate I-17, with dozens of people trying to shoot them out of the sky, but he knew firing too soon would be pointless. Hitting the tank wasn’t enough; the Dragonfire missiles also had to penetrate its armor.
Finally came the exact right instant to start the killing. In his mind’s eye Randall could see the devastation he was about to unleash. Then he motioned to Carlos, who pressed the trigger.
Chapter 42
And when he gets to heaven,
To Saint Peter he will tell;
“One more Marine reporting, sir.
I’ve served my time in Hell!”
PFC James A. Donahue, USMC, 1st Marine Division, H Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Regiment
1618 hours, July 29
The Sevens were less than fifty yards away, so close Snowtiger couldn’t miss if she tried. The 7.62mm rounds ripped through flesh and vital organs. She was killing dozens, but they numbered in the hundreds.
She paused, wiped sweat from her right eye, and glanced between the tires of the damaged LAV on her right. Piccaldi had been matching her shot for shot. To her horror he was on his back, rolling from side to side and slapping the ground with his left hand. Blood soaked his right shoulder.
Without a thought, she scrambled around the LAV and fell to her knees beside Piccaldi. Bullets whined past her ears and smacked the ground.
“Shit,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt to inspect the wound.
“Lara, stop!” Piccaldi said.
“Shut up, Zo. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“No.” Piccaldi reached across his body and grabbed her arm with his left hand. “Listen to me, Lara! Don’t pet a burning dog!”
“I’m not going anywhere, so hold still.”
Piccaldi pulled her close until his mouth was inches from hers. “If you don’t leave, we’re both dead. Go!”
She cut a strip away from his pants leg with her knife, wrapped it around his shoulder, and pulled it tight, knotting it. Her chiseled features had taken on a determined look. “Orders are orders, Zo. Stand or die, go tell the Spartans, and all that shit.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said in a weaker voice.
“I’m not leaving you.”
She stared at him for two seconds and looked up. Four men, less than ten yards away, raised their rifles. In one smooth motion, she hefted the M110 and put bullets through all four of them, one after the other in the space of three seconds.
But hundreds more followed those.
What to do? Her mind processed the situation in nanoseconds. Piccaldi would be dead in minutes, but if she tried to stop his bleeding, they would all be overrun.
The choice was clear. She had to stop the Sevens, but how? The M110 was a precision weapon and she needed something with mass killing power. The fifty-caliber machine gun was upside down at the bottom of the hill. What else was there?
The LAV.
The missing front right tire left it leaning, but the machine gun and chain gun looked undamaged. Snowtiger scrambed up the side. Bullets ricocheted off the metal around her. One round creased her left wrist, leaving a streak of burned flesh.
LAVs had two hatches in the turret, one for the gunner and the other for the commander. In the right hatch, she found the vehicle commander, dead from a jagged neck wound. Sticky blood puddled in his seat and dripped to the floor. Flies swarmed over the warm feast. Using every bit of her strength, Snowtiger manhandled the body out of the seat.
Then, as she was about to climb in, something slammed into her left shoulder and knocked her to her knees. Searing pain shot through her body, like somebody had shoved a white-hot knife into her flesh. Panting at the pain, she saw her shirt turn dark with blood. But with a huge effort, she pulled herself through the hatch.
After sliding into the seat, she called out. A faint voice answered; someone was still alive below.
“Can you fight?” she called down.
“No,” the man said. “I don’t think so.”
Like many Marines, Snowtiger had been cross-trained and had actually operated a LAV turret before. She knew how to shoot both the chain gun and the coaxial 7.62mm machine gun. The computer display verified the gun was already set to shoot HEI-T rounds, high explosive incindiary, at a low rate of fire. Her breath came in gulps, yet somehow she aimed the gun.
A group of three Sevens had stopped ten yards from the LAV, wearing loose white pants and long-sleeved tunics. They sprayed the hill with bullets. She laid the aiming reticle on the center of mass of the one on the left and fired.
At point-blank range, the 25mm rounds blew them apart. The first shell struck its target above the groin and did not explode until it had penetrated his spine, blowing him in two. His head and shoulders landed twenty feet away while his hips and legs vanished. The second man had his left shoulder shot away, and the third flew backward minus his head.
When the chain gun opened fire again, most of the Sevens dove to the ground. The horror of seeing their friends blown to bits stunned them. A few stayed on their feet and were cut down by the next burst. But they did not stay down long. Bullets tore up the dirt as machine guns fired behind them. In knots they sprinted from one hill to another, going to ground as the turret rotated their way, jumping up when it moved on.
Snowtiger kept up a continuous fire, slowing the attack to a crawl, but not stopping it. She didn’t think about her situation, or her pain, or even saving Piccaldi. Her mission was to hold the hill long enough for help to come, and every minute she bought was a minute more for the brigade to react and strike back.
More Sevens went down. One lost an arm and wandered backward, screaming for his mother. Snowtiger felt faint as pain, fatigue, and blood loss sapped her strength. She blinked at the shimmering stars clouding her vision and focused on the display. For several long minutes, the threat of decapitation by a 25mm shell held back the swarm of Sevens, even as their own comrades shot at them to make them move.
Two things happened at once. First was the dreaded click of an empty magazine. She hadn’t noticed the low ammunition warning on her computer display, but before she could look for more, a second RPG round slammed into the LAV. There was a flash as the rocket-propelled grenade penetrated the hull low on the left side. Snowtiger’s right shoulder slammed into the hard metal of the hatch.
She screamed as agony overwhelmed her. Her right arm went limp as pain shot through her neck, shoulders, and torso. Her brain told her to tilt her head back and keep screaming.
But the most basic of animal instincts, survival, cut through the haze in her mind, warning of a new and deadly danger: smoke. A spark of consciousness begged her to wake up and get out, but she was too groggy and injured to respond. When she tried to move, her head lolled from side to side.
Get out!
The warning came in the voice of her lost twin sister, Sara. It screamed through the murk in her mind, connecting at some primal level with her physical brain. It felt like someone shook her, trying to wake her up.
Get up and get out, now!
Her body’s last reserves of energy poured through her. For a moment her mind cleared and the pain subsided enough to think. She had to get out of the smoldering LAV before the stored ammo cooked off. Her left arm hung useless and though her right arm was numb, she lifted it far enough to hook on the hatch rim. Before she stood, she called down to the man she’d spoken to earlier. He didn’t respond and she was in no shape to try and drag him out.
Using her right elbow, and then her arm as sensation returned, she push-clawed her way onto the turret top. When the Sevens realized the LAV wasn’t firing any more, they filled the air around her with bullets. Lying behind the turret for several seconds, she saw Piccaldi lying motionless in the dirt, his M110 beside him. Twenty yards away, a skirmish line of Sevens rose and moved forward, squeezing off shots as they came. In a minute, they would find Piccaldi helpless at their feet and she was not going to let that happen.
“Zo,” she said, slurring the word. Pulling with her right hand, leaving a smear of blood, she swung her legs around and slid off head first. She hit the hull, bounced off, and slammed into the dust.
The powdery topsoil matted her face and hands. Her eyes teared up and made the world appear as if she were underwater. Piccaldi lay ten feet away and she crawled toward him. Once beside him, she checked the pulse at his neck — shallow, but steady. Then a bullet struck the hillcrest two feet from his head and, without thinking, she lay on top of him.
Using her right arm, she pulled over his M110, got the butt into her armpit, and hefted the rifle onto its bipod. Immediately she saw the Sevens moving forward ten yards away, rifles swiveling as they looked for her. She dropped three of them before the rest could shoot. She ducked and buried her face in Piccaldi’s back, where she could smell his sweat and his blood. Clods of dirt spattered her as bullets chewed up the terrain.
A bullet grazed her left temple and felt like somebody’d hit her with a hammer. She heard something to her right. Her head wobbled and everything was a blur, but she saw someone standing there. He seemed translucent, as if she could see through him to the desert beyond. He was holding something, a weapon, in both hands and near his waist. As she watched, stupefied, he lifted the weapon. Was it a sword? A hatchet, an axe? Her mind couldn’t process the images any more. Whatever it was, he stepped forward and lifted it over his head, preparing for the killing stroke. Snowtiger knew she was about to die, but she was too weak to move.
1633 hours
Four hundred yards behind Last Stand Hill, they heard the sounds of gunfire dead ahead. John Thibodeaux drove like a wild man, bouncing and skidding cross country at max speed. Dennis Tompkins had his binoculars focused on the LAV ahead when something struck it and exploded. Smoke began curling skyward. Seconds later, someone crawled from the top hatch and jumped to the ground, but there were no signs of anyone still fighting. Were they too late?
“Head’s up, Dugout,” he said into his helmet mike, using the code name for his little force. “On my command we advance to that hill on the extreme left and hold it come hell or high water. Mortars stay here and support; put your rounds fifty yards east of our position. We will correct fire once we’re there. No retreat, folks; that’s where we stand or die! Move out!”
“Target identified,” Schiller said from behind the chain gun. “Permission to fire?”
“Hell, yes,” Tompkins said. He saw what Schiller saw.
A man in a long white robe had crested the hill and aimed his rifle at two Marines prone on the reverse slope. Tompkins couldn’t tell if they were still alive, but something must have gone wrong, because the burp raised the rifle over his head as if to club them to death. Then, just as he was swinging down, the chain gun over Tompkins’ shoulder fired a three-round burst that blew the burp out of sight.
“Damn, son!” Tompkins said. “Nice shootin’.”<
br />
“Target destroyed,” Schiller said, every bit as surprised — and pleased — as Tompkins.
The other LAVs took off when he told them to and were only seconds away from reaching Last Stand Hill.
“Let’s go, John!” Tompkins said. “We’re holding up the rear.”
1633 hours
General Ahmednur Muhdin valued nothing more than his Leica binoculars. The post-Collapse world no longer made such precise instruments. But rank had its privileges, and as the top-ranking general in New Khorasan, it was his prerogative to keep such rare treasures for himself.
With the Leica mounted on a tripod, Muhdin could see the entire battlefield from his position five hundred yards east of the Marine lines. He watched his men advance through heavy fire, and had to admit the infidels could fight. He hadn’t realized Patton commanded such a strong force. It didn’t look like more than a handful of enemies held the little hill on his right.
But every time he thought the enemy were all killed, they started shooting again. Hundreds of his men lay dead and dying all over the desert. When the armored vehicle started firing its chain gun again, he regretted sending all his own combat vehicles to break through at the highway. Fortunately, somebody hit it with another RPG round, which seemed to kill it once and for all.
Stepping back from the binoculars, he allowed a servant to wipe the dirty sweat from his face. He motioned to another man, who handed him a wooden cup filled with water. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, Muhdin bent and looked through the Leica again.
His men were like waves in a stormy sea, washing ashore and sweeping all before them. Dozens of them had finally reached the little hill on the shore of the lake. They charged up its side and disappeared over the crest. The battle was over and won. Now they could wheel left and attack the enemy on the next hill from the flank and rear, roll over them, and continue to the next hill, and the next, until the road to Prescott was open. It was time for him to move forward and direct the next attack.
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