Defender: Intrepid 1

by Chris Allen

  There, kneeling over his feet and grinning broadly, were Morgan and Fredericks. They had returned just in time to see the young rookie making his valiant attempt to locate the enemy.

  “Martinez, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Morgan asked.

  “I can see we’re going to have to spend a lot more time on you, junior,” Fredericks chastised paternally. He treated Martinez like his apprentice. Fredericks knew that the kid had great potential, he just needed more guidance and from the look of things, a lot more training. But he’d get there. He had the right attitude and at least he was prepared to try something, even if it meant risking his neck in the process. “So, what’s going on then, Zeke? Bring us up to speed.”

  Martinez nervously gathered himself and, not wanting to look like a fool, particularly in front of Fredericks and Morgan, decided it was best to just get on with it.

  “There’s no way we can move,” he said, shakily at first. “We nearly lost two evacuees when we started heading across to the car. The rounds came so close that Lynn Stanley copped some shrapnel in her arm.” He pointed over to Lynnie, who was being treated by big John. Morgan could see the concern on the tough old man’s face as he carefully tended her. Morgan remembered the fantastic beef stroganoff that Lynnie had made the night before. She looked OK, the injury was superficial, he thought, giving her a reassuring smile.

  “I had to pull them all back.” Martinez couldn’t help but feel responsible for allowing them to become pinned down. “There’s no way of getting over there.”

  “What are you saying? We can’t get this last group out because we can’t cross the street?” Morgan was not happy. He didn’t need another setback.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Martinez replied nervously. “Any attempt we make to get to the Land Rovers, all hell comes falling straight down on top of us from up the road there, somewhere. I can’t even see where these guys are, man!”

  “Right.” Morgan had to get things moving. They had ten people left to get out and he wasn’t about to fail them. “Zeke, you’ve done well, mate, really well. You’ve kept them all alive, and that’s what we’re here to do. Now, stay here and keep everybody down behind cover. No one is to move until we get back.”

  Morgan and Fredericks ran back upstairs to the rooftop. Finding a position from which they could observe the street without being seen, they crawled to the edge of the roof, close to the precariously balanced wreckage of the helicopter’s tail. The wreckage was still burning and the smoke masked their movement. Sharing a set of binoculars, they searched for the source of the trouble.

  “Got ’em, Alex! Take a look.” Fredericks handed over the binos. “Two hundred yards; reference the intersection; left, eleven o’clock; green-painted shop front. They’re in there, a machine gun team. Three men.”

  “Seen.” Morgan followed Fredericks’s target indication to the precise location of the rebel gun team. “Damn, you’ve got good eyes, Mike. Bastards!”

  A small group of rebels had pushed through the Malfajirian Army’s ragged lines and had established a strongpoint up the road from the hotel. They appeared to have set up a Russian-made 7.62mm PKS general purpose machine gun, covering the main road running along the western side of the hotel. The PKS was mounted on a tripod, giving the machine-gunner the ability to fire with precision out to a range of 1000 yards, at 250 rounds per minute.

  It was standard operating procedure; establishing a fire support base allowed a force to engage with heavy, accurate and sustained fire, suppressing freedom of movement, and holding an enemy in place. Morgan knew that next the rebels would surreptitiously maneuver into a concealed position of advantage from which to launch a direct strike.

  “We don’t have much time,” Morgan said casually.

  “But we’ll play ’em at their own game,” replied Fredericks.

  “Exactly,” agreed Morgan. “If we can take out that machine gun, we can establish a position of our own, get these people the hell out of here, and buy the army a bit of time to regroup and reload.”

  “I’m with you,” Fredericks said, “we’re going to need the Jeep with the heavy machine gun. It’s down at the evacuation point on the beach.”

  “Great idea,” replied Morgan.

  They ran for the stairs. On the move, Morgan unclipped his hand-held radio from his belt.

  “Alpha Three, this is Alpha One. Over.”

  Nothing.

  “Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Over.”

  Again, there was no reply.

  “Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Come in, Adam. Over.”

  “Alpha One, this is Alpha Three. Sorry, couldn’t hear you, a couple of choppers just took off. Go ahead. Over.”

  “Ad, we’ve got a problem up here at the hotel, which is holding us up a bit. Do you need the 12.7 any more? Over.”

  “Negative, we’re secure here. The marines have everything stitched up pretty tight. You got problems? Over.”

  “Sort of,” replied Morgan. “We’re going to need it, ASAP. Like, five minutes ago.”

  “Alex, the marines have loaded all that’s left of our people here onto the CH-53s and they’re already headed back to the ship. I’m just sitting here getting my picture taken by the paparazzi, waiting for you guys to get back with the last bunch.”

  “Paparazzi?” Morgan asked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s every variety of media down here,” Garrett answered, “from just about every country you can name, and then some. It’s hilarious. They’ve been clambering all over each other to get on the choppers and get the hell out of here. No aspiring Pulitzer Prize winners among them.”

  Great, thought Morgan. That’s the last thing he needed. “How about the gun. Can you get it back to us?”

  “I’ll bring it myself.”

  “Even better, Ad. Fantastic.” Morgan was relieved. “Head to the intersection on the southwest corner of the hotel, but don’t cross to the hotel itself. The rebels have set up a fire-lane and they’re blasting anything that gets in the middle of it. Stay on the western side of the main road and I’ll talk you in from there.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Garrett eased the stripped down Series 3 Land Rover up to the corner of the abandoned market square, directly opposite the Francis Hotel.

  Careful to avoid the street targeted by the rebel machine gun, he slipped in beside the other two Land Rovers Martinez had been using for the evacuation, and shut off the engine. The kid was doing OK, he thought. Parking the escape vehicles across the street from the hotel meant they remained hidden from enemy gunfire. When it was time to move, the evacuees could race across one at a time, minimizing their vulnerability as a group.

  With his back to the west, Garrett looked across the street into the remains of the hotel’s ground floor. He could make out Martinez with the final handful of evacuees and a couple of the local security guards, spread-eagled on the floor, tucked in behind whatever cover they could find.

  Garrett pulled his binoculars from the dashboard and panned north in a careful arc, searching the assortment of derelict buildings for the enemy machine gun position that Morgan had described. Crouching low, he moved closer to the edge of the wall for a better look. There it was, the green-painted shopfront, right on the corner of the intersection, a couple of hundred yards away. He could just make out the shadowy figures of three men huddled around their machine gun, deep inside the shop. Panning back, he knew Morgan and Fredericks were moving out, into the thick of it, sneaking through the refuse of the devastated city toward the unsuspecting rebels.

  The plan was that Garrett would provide fire support, paving the way for Morgan and Fredericks to take out the rebel gun that had brought their evacuation to a standstill. Garrett was itching for action. He was ready to start blasting now, but knew he had to be patient. Nothing would happen until Morgan and Fredericks were in position.

  Checking his watch, he turned back t
o the Land Rover.

  Sitting ominously on the back of the Rover, mounted directly behind the front seats, was the 12.7mm Dooshka heavy machine gun. The 12.7 was a belt-fed HMG that at close range could penetrate most conventional armour, and with sustained and well-aimed fire it would smash through concrete and brickwork in seconds. It was a lethal piece of kit that had been the mainstay of the Chiltonford team’s mobile security operations with the army. Garrett had also brought along an M203 – an M-16 assault rifle with a modified foregrip designed to accommodate a 40mm grenade launcher underslung from the barrel.

  Again, Garrett checked his watch – it was almost 1500. Morgan had expected to be in position by now, and with not much daylight left they needed to get a move on or they wouldn’t make the last chopper out to the ship. That would be a disaster. Any chance of surviving until sunrise in the shattered hotel while trying to protect the remaining evacuees from the rebels – with rapidly depleting stocks of ammo, water and food – was zero.

  “Billy,” Garrett said to his partner, one of the local security guards – who climbed from the back of the Rover, where he’d been manning the HMG, into the driver’s seat – “Remember, as soon as I give you the word, I want the Rover right there,” he pointed to the exact point, “facing directly up the street at those bastards, OK?”

  “OK, boss. No problem.”

  “Don’t worry about what I’m doing; you just get the vehicle into position. Then I’ll jump on the gun, you take over the M203 and we’ll hammer them until I say stop. You got that?”

  “OK.” Garrett was aware that Billy, a veteran of the Angolan civil war, knew exactly what was expected.

  “OK, mate. Stand by.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “They’re dead ahead,” Fredericks whispered. “You can see ’em straight through the window, there.”

  Fredericks and Morgan had climbed into the vacant shell of a building that had been the local school. Cautiously they had edged around a small open courtyard, most probably used for assemblies and playtime, and past a number of small classrooms containing wooden desks and chalkboards. Inside the final room at the corner of the courtyard, they were just 20 yards southeast of the rebel machine gun position nestled deep within the empty shop across the street. It was as close as the two men could get without being seen.

  “This’ll have to do us,” Fredericks said.

  Morgan was relieved that the rebels hadn’t moved and, with the Chiltonford evacuation halted further down the street, the guns had fallen silent. It was obvious this team had been sent to cut off any fleeing government troops. Stumbling across a bunch of foreigners trying to get out of the place would have just been a bonus; sport, nothing more. There was no sign of any other rebel troops close by, but it was only a matter of time before their main force would finally break through the remnants of the army, and then the streets would be swarming with them. The not-too-distant noise of battle was constant.

  “Right, mate. Looks like this is it then,” Morgan whispered.

  “Let’s get on with it,” replied Fredericks dryly. “I want to get this thing sorted out quickly. I’m tired, my back’s aching, my knees are killing me and I need a Scotch.”

  “I could do with a beer,” said Morgan. “You think the Yanks will have some onboard?”

  “I reckon you’ll probably have to settle for a Budweiser.”

  “As long as it’s cold.” Morgan smiled briefly and readjusted his gear. “You ready to go?”

  “As ready as I’ve ever been.”

  “Alpha Three, this is Alpha One. Over,” Morgan whispered into his radio.

  “This is Alpha Three,” Garrett answered. With the volume control on their radios turned down, his voice was barely audible. “Go ahead. Over.”

  “This is Alpha One. Commence firing. I say again, commence firing, now. Out.”

  An unnerving silence fell upon the scene. Even the chaos from approaching battles seemed to fall into a chilling stillness in the distance. Morgan and Fredericks sat poised, weapons raised and level, ready to leap through the crumbling window frame, straight at the rebel machine gun position.

  Then the unmistakable hollow pop of the M203 being fired broke the short-lived silence. Seconds later, there was another pop, then another, and finally a fourth high explosive round was fired. Garrett had manipulated the awkward loading system deftly, suppressing the barrel release mechanism, and reefing the hollow black plastic tube forward and back to reload and fire each round so quickly that the last one was in the air as the first was detonating.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  All were direct hits. Landing dead on target, smack-bang in the middle of the rebel machine gun team, the high explosive rounds detonated in a rapid succession of ear-piercing cracks. The rebels didn’t know what had hit them. They’d heard the 203 being fired, but failed to locate it in time to return fire or even escape the barrage.

  “Now, Billy!” Garrett cried.

  Billy was there in a split second, screeching the Land Rover to a halt in the exact position Garrett had indicated. In a flash, Garrett leapt from his position by the wall, threw the smoking 203 into Billy’s ready hands, and jumped up behind the HMG. By the time the fourth round had exploded among the rebels, Garrett was firing, hammering the tiny shopfront with everything he had.

  Morgan and Fredericks were moving fast, sprinting from the cover of the classroom across the empty street, firing on the move, straight for the rebel gun team, the vicious crack of the Dooshka slicing through the air just feet in front. Garrett maintained a relentless storm of fire upon the rebel position, covering his comrades every step of the way.

  There was no resistance.

  It took no more than ten seconds to cross the intersection to the smoking ruin of the shop. Garrett ceased fire as Morgan and Fredericks breached the shattered frontage and disappeared into the chaos of smoke and dust, firing on the move. Then he kicked the back of the driver’s seat and yelled to Billy, “Let’s go! Go, go, go!”

  Billy thrust the vehicle into gear and raced along the street to the intersection. There he skidded the Land Rover to a halt in behind cover, and tossing the 203 back to Garrett, jumped up behind the HMG to aim up the street toward the sounds of the rebel advance. Morgan and Fredericks were inside with Garrett in an instant.

  “Well, you don’t get much deader than that,” he said, looking down humorlessly upon the mangled remains of the three dead rebels.

  “You’re right there,” said Morgan, panting and rubbing his ribs. “Take at look at that one.” He pointed to the body near Fredericks’s feet. “There’s not enough left of the other two to tell how old they are, but this one’s just a kid. He can’t be any more than fifteen, if that.”

  Morgan felt drained. Fighting grown men was acceptable in his line of work; it was the way of things. Killing kids was different. He and Fredericks were glad to be alive, there was no doubt. But it was a very hollow victory.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” said Garrett. “But right now there are about a thousand more of those kids less than a block away. They’ve got massacre on their minds, and you, me, Mike and all those civilians back down there at the hotel are on the top of their guest list.”

  Morgan nodded slowly, knowing Garrett was right.

  The sounds of a ferocious gunfight close by ripped through the gloom.

  “Fuck me!” exclaimed Garrett. “I recommend we get a move on!”

  “I thought you said they were a block away?” chided Fredericks.

  “Bugger it!” Morgan exclaimed. “Kids or no kids, we’re not dying today, boys. Let’s get out of here!”

  Outside, Billy had opened up with the big gun, launching volley after volley at the swiftly approaching rebels, who were slashing through the army lines with ease less than 150 yards away.

  “Alpha Four, Alpha Two. Over,” Fredericks barked into his hand-held radio, running for cover beside Morgan and Garrett.

  “Alpha Four. Over.” Back at the hotel, Z
eke Martinez had had his ear pressed hard up to the radio throughout the attack, anxiously awaiting orders for the next move.

  “Zeke, this is Mike. Get those people loaded up right now and head straight for the RV at the beach. Don’t wait for us. We’ll be right behind you. Understood? Over.”

  “Roger that. We’ll head straight for the RV now. Over.” The relief in Martinez’s voice was obvious.

  “Right. Good luck. Out.”

  Morgan, Fredericks, Garrett and Billy were firing constantly, covering the movement of the splintered remnants of an army unit withdrawing toward them in the hope of finding somewhere new to hide. Hot on their heels, the rampaging rebel forces were firing willfully at the backs of retreating soldiers, cutting many of them down. The army troops were in a mess and it appeared that they had lost their commander. Scanning the area, Morgan spotted a young Malfajirian officer, pinned down behind an overturned truck that was burning fiercely. The lad was stranded in the open, exposed on three flanks and in serious danger of being overrun. He had no chance of moving without being cut down.

  “Mike, cover us!” Morgan yelled. “Ad, let’s go!”

  Morgan and Garrett sprang to their feet, racing up the street toward the trapped officer. In a well-practiced drill, the two men leapfrogged to each position, one stopping and firing in furious bursts at the enemy, while the other sprinted on to the next available strip of cover, alternating until they reached the man. Fredericks and Billy maintained a ceiling of overhead fire, covering not only their own men but the retreating soldiers.

  “Hello, mate,” said Morgan cheerfully, if somewhat breathlessly, as he slid to a sudden halt beside the young officer, a lieutenant, still cowering behind the burning truck. “I’m Alex and this is Adam, and we’re going to get you out of here. Just do exactly what we do, and move exactly when we move. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the young man said, wide-eyed and terrified. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Great, you speak English,” Morgan replied.