by W. J. Lundy
John leaned out and looked left and right then back to Bobby. “How do we get down? That’s a sheer wall.”
Bobby reached down to his feet and pushed away leaves and debris. Two steel rings were pressed into the rocks. Below that was a rubber sack. He opened it and pulled out a pair of ropes. “Hope you remember how to rappel.”
“You prepared for this too?” John asked.
Bobby shook his head while fishing ropes from the bags. “Nah, this is a training area. We come up here and do rock climbing and stuff. After a few years and realizing nobody but us knew about the place, we just started leaving our gear in these bags. Saves the weight on our backs when hiking up.”
John accepted the answer and took a bundle of ropes from Bobby. He began unwinding them and clipping rings to the eye in the rock. He clipped his rifle to his vest and clipped a rope and carabiner to a ring on his riggers belt. Then he dropped back into a squat and looked out over the ledge. Directly below, even with the night vison goggles, all he could see was darkness. Offset in the high grass were the slight lines of a trail. Further out, less than three hundred yards away, were the low lights of the Homeland camp near the trailhead.
Finishing the prep of his own gear, Bobby whispered, “How do you want to do this?”
John looked down over the ledge again then stepped over it, slowly putting his weight on the ropes. He gripped the line tightly in his glove and let it out as he descended the rock face. To his left, Bobby moved down alongside him. In seconds, they were both on the ground, standing in the crushed rock at the bottom. They removed the rings from their gear and pulled the ropes free from the top, letting them fall. John grabbed the lines and concealed them in brush at the base of the ledge.
He pulled his night vision back down and slid in close to Bobby. “Follow my lead, let’s get as close to the center of the camp as we can.”
Bobby nodded and slowed to fall in beside him.
“Jackal, we see you. Happy hunting,” came a call from the perimeter above.
John stepped onto the trail and took a knee. Looking back uphill, he couldn’t spot the missing Steel Corp team, but he knew they were there. If they had moved, it would have been reported. He looked down. Far in the distance were the lights of the camp. They had no idea what was coming for them, and he was okay with that.
He stepped across the trail and into high grass that dropped at steep angle. From examining the terrain earlier, John knew that the slope would end at a dry creek bed and then cut right and circle down to the gravel trailhead lot. If anyone in the lot was on alert, they would most likely be watching the road and the dirt trail they had just stepped over, not the tree line behind them. He didn’t want to kill civilians, and he hoped at this late hour, they wouldn’t be there. Still, he took that risk, hitting their base of operations.
They moved quickly down the hill, the wet grass swishing against them and soaking their pants and boots. The coolness felt good in the humid air. John reached the dry creek and dropped to a knee, scanning the front and listening for contacts. Bobby moved up beside him. “Out of range for the radio. We can talk to each other, but they won’t hear us. We can switch to high power if we need it.”
John shook his head. “They won’t be able to support us, anyway. We’re good.” He felt the chill in his legs and thought of Bobby’s wound. “How is the hip?” he whispered.
“It’s tight and itches like hell, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Are you taking the pain pills?” John asked.
“I’ve had a few,” Bobby grunted.
Frowning, John looked more closely at the creek. It was gravel and sand, with scattered tree limbs that had probably been washed in by a storm. John stood and slowly crossed it, again kneeling on the far side. He turned toward the base camp. He could see lights and picked up noises of people—voices, vehicles, and equipment being moved.
John knelt low again and looked back. “If they are expecting trouble, it’ll be from the road or that trail,” he whispered. “I want to circle around to the back and hit them there. We will attack all the way through the base camp. Move quick—don’t stop—then run up the trail.”
“That other team is still on the trail,” Bobby said.
John nodded. “And hopefully once the shooting starts, they’ll come running right into our guns.”
“Then what?”
Shrugging, John said, “I don’t know yet.”
Bobby looked up at the hill then back at John. He slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s do it.”
John checked the action of the CAR-15, turned on the laser, and verified that he could spot the dot in his night vision. He stepped off, walking in the grass, with the vegetation to his left. With every step, the sounds of activity in the base camp grew louder. He could hear the crackle of radios and car doors opening and closing. He squeezed the grip of his rifle as he spotted shadows moving beyond a split-rail fence to his front. Men moved through his vision, men with rifles slung over their shoulders. They were chatting in groups; he could see the glows of cigarettes. These men were comfy and cozy in the false security of their camp.
“You sure the state police aren’t here?” John asked.
Bobby shook his head no. “State cops are a mile up the road. This operation is all Homeland. There is a DNR roadblock with a couple national forest rangers on the pass road, but that’s it,” he whispered. “Our forest guy on the inside knows to get flat if things go down. He’ll take care of the DNR boys.”
John grimaced again, looking into the base camp. He pointed and continued moving through the clearing then around to the fence, staying in the shadows. He was close now. He could smell their cigarette smoke, the exhaust from vehicles, and the food from their cook stoves. He felt his body surging with adrenaline. He’d been through several gunfights in the last forty-eight hours, but this one felt different. His muscle memory was clicking switches and pushing buttons, steeling his body, resetting his senses back to the warrior he had been for a career.
A warrior he had never wanted to return to. The apprehension of fighting was gone, and he cursed himself for it. He stopped at the fence and knelt near a post, pressing his shoulder against it.
They were at the lot now. A line of four vehicles was parked with the rear bumpers to the fence. John moved so he could see between them. Another fifty feet away, a pair of bright-white canopies had been erected. From his position, it looked like one was for meeting and the other a mess tent. He could see people moving in and out of them. In the near canopy, there was an easel with a large map hung over it. A tall, slender woman was using a pen to identify locations. Men in tactical gear were gathered around her.
John pointed at the canopy with the easel. “That’s our primary target.”
Bobby acknowledged the comment with a nod. John slowly rolled over the log fence and dropped into the center of the row of vehicles, two cars to each side of him. He looked up and saw the windows were down on both cars. He looked at Bobby and pointed to the window, then smiled, grabbing one of gas grenades. The canisters spewed gas, but they also burnt hot, hot enough to set a car on fire. The big man next to him caught on and removed a gas grenade of his own.
In time with each other, they pulled the pins and dropped one into each car. The grenades popped, and there was a bright flash then strobing light as they burned and spilled out the riot gas. John stood, with Bobby beside him. The men under the canopy turned to look. They were seated under a bright LED light. Blinded, they saw the silhouettes of two men as grenades burned in their cars.
A man stood and pointed. “What the hell is going on over there?” he shouted.
John answered with a short burst from his suppressed rifle. The man fell back into the laps of those beside him. Bobby opened next to him. They marched forward, staying just yards apart, judiciously picking targets as they moved up on the canopy. John hit several, others ran. Return fire erupted from somewhere in the back, near another area of parked cars.
John turned
and walked backward, keeping pace with Bobby. He fired, putting rounds into muzzle flashes as Bobby cleared the way forward. A man in black popped up from the shadows, firing a pistol, and rounds hit the ground at John’s feet. John swung his barrel around, firing twice, and knocked the man back.
The canopy was now empty, the light swinging, the easel knocked over, the slender woman gone. John took shots and put out the light. He pulled his last gas grenade and tossed it to the canopy, letting its smoke conceal them from anyone with night vision. He turned back to the front, getting online with Bobby as a group from the second canopy, converted to a mess tent, attempted to make a stand. John fired and watched metal pots flip into the air with a ping! He knew from experience the men couldn’t see them; they were firing blind into the darkness. It was stupid to hang bright lights under the white canopies. Thinking of their arrogance, John cursed them as his bolt locked back.
He dropped the magazine, slapping another home. Men in the mess tent were on the ground, clawing for cover. John fired a burst over their heads. Bobby fired low and hit a propane tank. The bottle sprayed gas and rolled across the ground then ignited in a bright jet of flames.
John looked at Bobby. “Gas it.”
Grunting, the big man pulled his last grenade and tossed it. The canister hit short then rolled right into the mess tent. John steered them back to the trailhead. No human targets were left, so they put rounds into the tires and radiators of vehicles as they moved back to the trail. John saw the fence again and put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder, directing him toward it. He looked back. The camp was a cloud of smoke. He could hear men screaming and coughing from the gas. Bright fires burned from the row of engulfed cars. “Time to go,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
Bill lay back in the wet grass, his eyes heavy, the rain pelting his face. He thought again about crawling away, making his way back to Sherman. He would burst into Nohrs’s office, show him the video, then resign. Maybe say he sent it to a news source as an insurance policy. Then Nohrs would have to take it. He couldn’t act on it then. There had to be a way. Sure, he would lose it all, but he’d still be alive. He looked at the ground around him, the wet grass filled with the team of hired killers.
It started with screams—screams and shouting, then the rhythmic pop-pop of handguns from somewhere far away. This was followed by explosions and bright lights of fires. Rock crawled forward on his hands and knees, looking down the trail. He looked at Bill. “The base camp is under attack.”
Bill pointed up the hill. “How is that possible? They are up there.”
“No.” Rock shook his head. “They are down there, attacking the camp. We have to get down there.”
Bill went up to his knees and looked at the path to Sherman again, but he didn’t run. The men around him were up and back on the trail, moving quickly down it. If he tried to run now, they would shoot him in the back. The sheriff stepped out with the others then felt himself pulled back as Rock settled into the center of the column. He looked at Bill. “Stay in the back. We are going to sneak up and kill the attackers,” he said just as the high ground to their right erupted in gunfire.
The sheriff dove hard to the left, rolling across the ground, rounds impacting the earth all around him. The Steel Crop men quickly rebounded and returned fire up at the elevated positions, adding to the roars of gunfire and strobing lights of muzzles. Rock screamed, and Bill turned to see the man clutching his bloodied face. The sheriff went back to hugging the ground and crawling down the slope. Other Steel Corp men fell in beside him, leopard crawling to get away from the ridgeline that was raining fire down on them.
“They have an army up there!” a man shouted. “They have an army in the hills!”
The Steel Corp men rose to their feet and began sprinting down the slope, running for the cover of trees at the bottom. Bill, caught up in it all, joined them and ran forward. His foot found a hole, and he tripped, landing hard and rolling into ditch filled with water. He climbed out and clawed at the grass, keeping the sounds of gunfire behind him. A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him up. It was Rock, his mask partially ripped away, his check gashed open to the bone. Bill moved up and fell back in with the man, joining the others at the bottom of the hill. They were at the base of a dry creek, where thick, acrid smoke blanketed the ground. Looking toward the basecamp, he could see the glow of fires.
Rock fell to his back and pulled a bandage from him his kit, pressing it against his face. Others circled around and took up a perimeter, facing out in all directions. Bill counted four men, plus Rock. The gunfire at the top of the hill faded to single shots. Someone was screaming in agony in a language Bill didn’t understand. His mouth was dry. He coughed then rolled to his side and vomited.
A man moved close and looked at him. “Are you hit?”
Bill shook his head no, wiping his face with his sleeve. He pointed to Rock lying on his back with his eyes clenched shut, holding the bandage to his face.
The man looked at Rock. “Samir, are you okay?” he said, leaning over him.
Rock unclenched his eyes. “I will be fine. Who is that up there screaming?”
The man shook his head. “I think it is Ibrahim. I saw him go down.”
Another volley of gunfire and the screams stopped. Rock closed his eyes again and lay back on the sand. “How many did we lose?”
“Three,” the man answered. “Our team is gone; there are only five of us now.”
“What happened up there, David?”
David shook his head and held up the radio transmitter in his hand. “I don’t know. They just started firing. We were ambushed. They had to have known we were there the entire time. They let us patrol up to our deaths and then refused to let us leave. The basecamp was hit. They are reporting many dead.”
“How? How can this be?” Samir clenched his teeth then rolled to an elbow and looked at Bill. “They told us you knew these people. Who are they?”
Bill bit at his lip and looked down. “We were only looking for two men. I don’t know who they are.”
David glared at him. “Two men? No, my friend, that is an army. That is not two men.”
“We can’t stay here; we never should have come here,” Bill said. “I told Dawson that we should have stayed away.”
David touched his earpiece, appearing to listen, then he turned to Samir. “The attack on the base camp has ended. We are to stand by then come in when they have been reinforced.” He reached out and pulled Samir to a sitting position before placing his rifle in his hands.
Samir sat uneasy, the bandage at his face dripping blood. David grabbed him by the shoulders and looked at the wound, scowling. He removed a bandage from his own belt and added it to the wound, wrapping it tightly. Samir sat silently, not speaking, as the other man worked on him. “We will be leaving this place soon, Samir. We will check in with the camp, but we are done fighting here.” The man’s voice was low.
Bill saw the other three on the perimeter, looking out with their rifles up, the smoke drifting around them. David let out a small whistle, and the men were quickly back on their feet. They grouped up around David, who whispered commands to them before they dispersed back into the terrain. David walked off and found a spot in the grass where he could watch the way they had run from.
Bill moved closer to the wounded man. He looked at him and said, “You’re a soldier, aren’t you, Samir?”
The man turned to him. “Do not call me by my name, it is forbidden.”
Bill nodded. “Rock, then. Are you a soldier, or not?”
The man turned his head slightly. “I was a policeman in Syria. Not anymore. Now I am a policeman here, same as you. I came here with my father for a job in Florida three years ago. Our papers were wrong—counterfeit. We did not know. He was deported, but I was offered this job by the corporations. For eight years of service, I can be a citizen. With citizenship comes privileges. I could bring my entire family here legally.”
Bill frowned. “Sami
r, you’re not a policeman.”
The man turned to look at him. Bill could see him attempt a smile and then wince with pain. “You’re correct. I am not a policeman; I am an enforcer. We are enforcing the laws that you refuse to. In the security school, they told us we bring peace where the local police do not have the courage to do it themselves. You have it good here. It’s good in your city. Your man Nohrs showed us around. It’s good.”
“You met Nohrs?” Bill said. “I apologize in advance.”
Samir shook his head. “Manager Nohrs is a good man. He understands the complexities required to lead. He requested my team; he is the one that sent for us. He knows corporate people, people that can get things done.”
“Then it’s his fault your teammates are dead,” Bill said.
“No,” Samir said. “He predicted there would be trouble. It’s you and that woman that underestimated the threat.”
“There was no threat until Nohrs got involved,” Bill spat back.
“When was the last time you went to a big city, Sheriff,” the man asked. “Chicago, Detroit, D.C.”
Bill shook his head. “Never found big cities appealing.”
Samir’s jaw hardened. “Your cities have already been lost, patrolled by thousands of Homeland soldiers in blue hats. They are nothing but slaves. There are checkpoints keeping the people out of select neighborhoods, fences around your government buildings and institutions, making them inaccessible to the people. Why? Because when the time came, there was no one there to enforce your laws. The policemen, not unlike yourself, allowed chaos and insurrection. They allowed lines to be crossed, and now the city is ruled by the Homeland.”
Bill shook his head. “I think you have that all backwards.”