by Nathan Jones
In retrospect Pete probably should've just shot him, heedless of drawing attention from dozens of pursuers. Or maybe tried to take the guy out some other way instead of going for his weapon.
In his defense he'd never been a fan of getting close to enemies. Guns were reliable and consistent, and there was a delicate art to the entire firefight: setting up ambushes, finding good cover, giving covering fire to your squad mates so they had a chance to fire from a better angle or escape a bad situation, maneuvering around to get to a location where you could shoot past the enemy's cover, etc.
Someone with a cunning mind, good aim, keen situational awareness, and disciplined fellow soldiers he'd fought dozens of battles alongside could take a significant amount of risk out of a firefight. Sure there was always freak bad luck to worry about, and even the best laid plans could go wrong, but for the most part Pete had gone through dozens of raids and ambushes with his skin intact.
Up close fights, whether with fists, crude bludgeons like whatever heavy object happened to be handy, or with knives or even machetes or other blades, were dirty and brutal. They took their own kind of skill, their own kind of luck, and things had a lot of opportunities to go wrong seriously fast. And when you got jumped by multiple people, like he had with Vernon's goons, chances of holding your own were a lot less likely.
Not that they were any more likely if you were on your own against four enemies shooting at you, either, especially if those enemies were surrounding you from cover. Still, you always had more options with a gun in your hand.
Although some rules still applied. Speed, strength, and reach would always give you the edge in hand-to-hand combat, and having any sort of real weapon against an unarmed enemy gave you a major advantage. The best boxer in the world might lose to a half competent enemy with a baseball bat and the strength to swing it right.
Pete was bigger and stronger than his Chinese enemy, with better reach. Unfortunately the man seemed to know how to apply leverage and throw his weight around better, so for all Pete's physical advantage he found himself losing his grip on the AK-47.
Nobody to blame but himself there. Since he preferred guns and they offered such an advantage he never had seen the point in learning hand-to-hand combat. He'd mostly learned just enough to know that at his current skill level he'd be at a severe disadvantage against any slightly competent enemy and he should avoid that sort of fight wherever possible. What little training he had gotten came in the form of tips from his more experienced squad mates.
Unfortunately none of them seemed particularly useful while grappling with a slaver holding a rifle, just looking for a chance to break free and use it to kill him.
Pete's lack of experience showed before too long, when he tried to get fancy and shoved the enemy soldier off-balance, keeping the rifle away with one hand while he used the other to reach for the 1911 holstered at his waist. He should've gone for the combat knife next to it, or better yet kept both hands on the AK-47.
But in a way his blunder helped him. The slaver managed to wrench his rifle free, but although he could've easily slammed the butt into Pete's face the man judged his pistol the bigger threat and clubbed at it instead. Who knew, maybe he was also inexperienced at this sort of thing.
The 1911 went flying away, and from the blinding flash of pain Pete was afraid the guy had broken some of the bones in his hand.
Only one way to test it. He shoved the slaver away with his grip on the rifle and formed his injured hand into a fist, relieved to find he was able to do so. He further tested it by punching his enemy in the face as the man drew back his rifle to swing at him again.
From the solid impact it felt like the slaver's face got the worst of the blow, not Pete's hand, and while it hurt it could've been worse. Bruised, but probably not broken.
Unfortunately then the slaver showed his own ability in hand-to-hand combat, specifically the ability to shrug off being punched in the face. Pete was pulling his hand back and preparing a punch with his other hand when he abruptly realized the rifle butt was still swinging at his face, too late to do anything about it.
Stars flashed in front of Pete's eyes, and the next thing he knew he was on his back, a stick or small plant digging painfully into his side through his vest. He stared up at the slaver, vision swimming, and was too stunned to even consider trying to roll out of the way or get back to his feet.
His enemy grinned in triumph and said something gloating in Chinese. Helpless, Pete could only watch as the man flipped his AK-47 to hold in a firing position again, bringing the muzzle in line with Pete's head. The muzzle looked huge, but Pete's eyes were focused past it on the soldier's index finger. Time seemed to slow as it found the rifle's trigger and casually pulled it.
Nothing happened.
Pete wasn't sure which of them was more surprised. But since his alternatives had been certain death or a miracle and a miracle had, well, miraculously fallen in his lap, he was the first to recover.
He lashed out a booted foot at the slaver's knee with all his strength, hearing an audible snap as it gave way. Certainly a crippling injury if the man survived, which didn't seem likely.
The slaver fell sideways with a shriek of pain. Pete yanked his boot back, this time aiming a kick for his enemy's head as he fell. The kick didn't connect solidly, but it gave Pete enough time to scramble on his hands and knees over to where he'd lost his 1911. His fumbling fingers found it in the debris littering the forest floor and he hastily yanked it up, shifted it in his grip to the correct hold, and went still on one knee with the weapon aimed at his enemy's chest.
The slaver had frozen, clutching his leg with an agonized snarl but with wide eyes locked on the gun pointed at him.
Pete wasn't usually one to gloat; it just seemed pointless. But in this case the guy had done it first. And heck, he felt like it. “See, that's the problem with using your sophisticated firearm as a club like this is some kind of action movie,” he said through panting breaths. “They try to make those things sturdy, but use some common sense, man. That rifle is the only thing standing between you and death out here. If you use it as a club, eventually you're going to end up with just a club. And there are a dozen of those sitting within ten feet of us in the form of branches and big rocks.”
While Pete was talking the slaver decided to make a move, fumbling to pull out the pistol holstered at his own hip. Pete shot him, the familiar double tap to the chest and a final shot to the head in quick succession that he'd practiced during countless hours of training, and had used dozens of times in combat.
Then he wearily straightened to a low crouch and stilled his breathing, searching through the woods around him for signs that anyone had heard the shot as he slowly rotated to look in all directions.
Where were his squad mates? Had they done a better job of staying together through this fustercluck than he had?
Worry about that later. Pete quickly holstered his 1911 and retrieved his M16, then cautiously hurried forward through the trees again. Behind him he heard the staccato roar of automatic weapon fire, but there was no sign it was aimed at him and he didn't end up shot.
Even so he tried to make his movements more erratic, tried even harder to put trees between himself and the source of the shooting, and kept going.
* * * * *
The forest turned out to only be a few hundred yards across. When Pete reached the far side of it he found his half of Epsilon squad waiting there, hiding behind a low rise about twenty feet from the treeline: Jack, Nelson, Monty, and the others from the back of their truck.
“Everyone else?” Pete gasped as he dropped down beside them, rifle aimed back at the trees.
Jack shook his head. “No sign of them yet. A lot of shooting from that direction, though.”
“And the enemy?”
“No sign of them, either.” His friend grimaced. “Hopefully we got here before them.”
Hopefully, considering they were on foot. “Have you tried radioing for help?”
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Monty raised a hand. “There's another patrol twenty minutes out. We've warned them about the roadblock and they're calling for reinforcements. We just have to hold out until they get here.”
Pete grit his teeth. This rise wasn't the place to hold out. They needed to keep running, preferably deeper into the wild growth rather than following any roads. The raiders wouldn't be able to track them, hopefully, or even if they could they might decide not to risk sticking around.
Either way they couldn't afford to wait for the rest of the squad for long. Pete toggled his mic. “Torm? Martin? What's your situation?”
“Coming out now,” Torm replied.
True to his word the interrogator appeared almost immediately afterwards. Only the slightest rustle heralded his arrival, straight out of a thicket that looked completely impassible. The man was limping and covered with gore, carrying a bloody combat knife in either hand.
Figured the guy would be right at home prowling through the underbrush taking down targets in close quarters combat. Looked like his talk about gutting anyone who accidentally shot him hadn't been an idle threat.
Torm turned and waved, and one of his Team 3 soldiers and Martin followed him out. Together they sprinted for the rise, dropping down behind it.
Still no enemy fire.
“The others?” Pete asked as Torm elbow-crawled over to him.
The interrogator scowled. “I confirmed Chavez and Danny were down before I abandoned the truck, and the civilian too. Hitchens got mowed down going through a clearing halfway through.” He hefted his knives, then casually wiped them on his already bloody pants and sheathed them. “I got the guys that killed him, and a few others.”
Again, small surprise. Pete lifted his head and scanned the trees again, then slid down the rise and got up into a crouch. “All right, let's get out of here.”
* * * * *
By the time reinforcements arrived the slavers were long gone.
The lead truck had been totaled by the same barrage of gunfire that had killed the cab's occupants, but the raiders had taken the delivery van and other patrol truck. They'd moved the big tree they'd dropped across the road and fled back to the Mississippi, torching the stolen vehicles and crossing back to their side.
It was a dispirited Epsilon that hitched a ride back to Lafayette, mourning their sergeant and other slain squad mates. They'd been able to retrieve the bodies, the one in the woods as well as those in the lead truck, since the slavers had ignored the disabled vehicle after stripping it of anything useful. Now Pete's three squad mates and Mr. Randall rode in the foot space, zipped into sleeping bags and already starting to stink.
Pete wasn't unfamiliar with the smell, but it was one you could never get used to. He couldn't have thought of anything besides the ambush he'd just escaped during the drive back to base anyway, but that constant reminder didn't make the trip any easier.
After they were dropped off in the motor pool Pete made arrangements for the bodies to be tended to, then ordered Epsilon back to their barrack to wait until Renault called him in with new orders. He imagined that wouldn't take long, and guessed he was probably in for a chewing out as well.
After the way the day had gone Pete almost wasn't surprised when Vernon and some of his goons blocked their path at the entrance to the motor pool. He tensed, but the former sheriff raised a hand as if signaling he came in peace.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” Vernon said solemnly.
Considering the man was trying to hide a smirk, and he certainly didn't sound sorry, Pete didn't buy it for a moment. But he wasn't in the mood for this petty BS; he just wanted to get his people back to the privacy of their barrack where they could grieve in peace, probably while going through the ambush in their heads thinking of all the things they could've done better.
That was usually how Pete handled situations like this, at least.
“They were good men, good soldiers,” he agreed tersely. “Sergeant Chavez was one of the most skilled squad leaders I've served under.”
Vernon's smirk grew. “No, I meant I'm sorry that the self-proclaimed best squad in the infamous Chainbreakers finally lost a fight. Must be a blow for you.”
The soldiers of Epsilon Squad muttered angrily behind Pete, and frayed as they were after the day's events he was worried they were a powder keg on the verge of violence. Which was probably what the former sheriff wanted so he could dumpster all their careers, same as he'd done to Pete five years ago.
Pete held up a hand to quiet them. “I'm not sure how you got the idea this was a loss. We took out ten enemy soldiers and freed a dozen settlers before they could be taken as slaves. We managed to escape an ambush with minimal losses while taking out another ten or so slavers, and while we had to abandon our vehicles I value the lives of my men much higher.” He saw Vernon's eyes tighten angrily. “So no, I don't consider it a loss.”
“Yeah?” the Lancer officer snapped. “You'll be the only one, after I spread my version of what happened around Lafayette.”
Jack swore at Vernon and leapt for him, and Pete barely managed to catch his friend in time to pull him back, shouting for Epsilon Squad to show a little discipline.
Once his people calmed down a bit Pete glared at the former sheriff. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you know what your problem is? Having you here is worse than having no one at all. An empty bunk wouldn't corrode a unit from within, destroying cohesion and morale just for the fun of it. You're a cancer.”
It was the Lancers' turn to mutter angrily. Vernon's eyes were dark with promised vengeance. “And you know what your problem is, Kid?” he snarled in a low voice. “When Chavez was in charge of your squad I didn't care about Epsilon. But now that he's gone you'll be in charge, which is going to be a very, very bad thing for all of you.”
“What're you going to do, Lancer, snitch on us?” Torm asked mildly from near the back of the gathered Epsilon soldiers. His tone was completely neutral, and he was just standing there holding his gear, but even so he somehow made the question menacing.
A smart man, someone who knew the interrogator, might've been worried. Vernon just smirked again. “I'll leave it a surprise.” He stepped aside to let them pass. “Let me know if you have a wake for Chavez. I'd love to drop by and pay my respects.”
As the soldiers of Epsilon passed, most of them took the opportunity to tell the Lancer where he could shove his respects. Far from being insulted, Vernon acted as if he'd scored a victory with each response he provoked.
They were almost to the barrack when Lily caught up to them. The young woman had found about the attack through friends, and had been fretting the entire time waiting for them to get back, frantic from worrying that someone she cared about might not be among those returning.
She immediately enfolded Pete in a tight hug, then Monty and last of all Jack. She must've been really distraught, since she clung to Jack for a bit longer than the others since he was last. He awkwardly did his best to soothe her while shooting uncomfortable looks Pete's way.
“Let's go have dinner,” she urged. “You need to eat, and I know a quiet place where you can unwind without being disturbed.”
Jack shot a significant look Pete's way. “Let's go have a private conversation,” he told the young woman quietly. “Then I think Pete will join us this time.”
Lily brightened. “Really? You managed to convince him to . . .” she trailed off, giving Pete an embarrassed look. “I mean, I'm glad you changed your mind. We've all been missing you.”
Pete did his best to smile. “Yeah, same here.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Just not tonight, okay? I need to see to things.”
The young woman gave him a disappointed look, then shot Jack a pleading one. Jack shrugged in resignation. “I get it. But if you change your mind we can let you know the restaurant. In case you finish up and want some company.”
Monty spoke up. “And we'll be holding a wake for the guys we lost, right? You've got to come to that.”
“Yeah, I'll definitely see you there.” Pete left his friends behind and walked into the barrack. He spent a few minutes making sure his squad knew they were off duty until he figured out what their officers wanted them to do, and quietly assuring them they could come to him with any problems. He also learned that although Torm had immediately disappeared to go see to their squad mates' bodies, the man was organizing the wake for ten o'clock that night and had started a collection for drinking money and other expenses. Pete donated a generous amount.
Then he crashed on his cot and stared sightlessly at the ceiling for who knew how long, awake but for all intents and purposes dead to the world.
Chapter Seventeen
Blowback
After maybe a half hour of blanking his mind Pete dragged himself out of bed and cleaned himself up. Then he asked around the squad until he found out what Torm had planned for the wake. He was directed to The Swamp, a cheap bar the squad liked to frequent and a location that shouldn't have surprised him.
When he reached The Swamp he found it packed to overflowing with Chainbreakers and friends. Chavez had been well respected, if not generally well liked, and a lot of people had gathered for his sendoff.
Pete tracked down Jeremy, the proprietor, who directed him to the back room where crates and extra furniture had been pushed aside to accommodate three caskets.
Torm was there, standing over the sergeant's casket with his shoulders bowed in grief. Pete paused in the doorway. “I didn't mean to intrude.”
The private didn't turn to look at him. “Then don't!” he snarled.
The venom in the man's voice nearly made Pete step back. “I'll pay my respects later.” He started to back out of the room.
Before he could Torm whirled on him, eyes blazing. “Respect?” he demanded. “The entire squad knows you despised Chavez, thought he was scum. As if you have any right to judge him. As if you have any right to pretend you're still a Chainbreaker after five years prancing around up in Canada while we went through hell down here.” He took a threatening step forward. “You think a little over a month here makes you one of us again? You don't know us, Childress. You don't know what we've seen, what we've done.”