Hellfire (The Bugging Out Series Book 7)

by Noah Mann

  “Dismounted?” Schiavo asked.

  “No,” Pell answered. “Another Stryker.”

  Schiavo’s expression changed right then. It hardened a bit, as I’d seen it do when a battle was upon her. Upon us.

  “You’re not going to miss seeing that,” she said.

  Pell shook his head in agreement and retook his position in the turret, scanning the landscape with the advanced optics available to him.

  “Martin,” Schiavo said, nudging her husband awake.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Did I fall asleep?”

  She nodded and reached to where he’d placed his AK, retrieving the weapon and handing it to him.

  “You might need this,” she said, looking to her new recruit next. “Private Laws.”

  Carter eased his arm away from Genesee and grabbed his M4.

  “Ready, ma’am.”

  I slipped forward, taking the position Matheson had left to haul me back inside the Stryker.

  “Did you have any protocol for why they would have to move?” I asked, looking up into the turret.

  “Only that they should hold this position,” Pell said. “Unless it became untena—”

  The sudden impact on the left side of the Stryker cut off what the lieutenant was saying, and answered my question at the same time, the vehicle’s reactive armor exploding to protect it from an incoming round. The vehicle rocked a full foot to the right, absorbing the impact as the engine revved, accelerating it forward.

  “Contact left!” Hammer shouted from the driver’s position.

  “Scan right!”

  Pell shouted the order, and Matheson popped a hatch on that side of the vehicle nearest the rear door, rising through it with his weapon. Schiavo did the same with a hatch just above her as the lieutenant swung the turret to the left, firing quick bursts from the 30mm cannon.

  “Small arms to the west!” Pell informed us. “I need shooters on the left!”

  I moved to the hatch that backed up to Schiavo, and Carter did the same with the opening nearest Sergeant Matheson, the both of us popping through the openings to a fusillade of wild fire coming at us from distant woods.

  “Two hundred yards!” I called out, and quickly removed the suppressor from my AR, bringing it to bear again and firing. “I see three positions!”

  Pell, though, was focused on another area of the dead woods, his 30mm cannon fire following the trail of smoke that marked where a rocket had been fired at us. Some sort of man portable anti-armor weapon, equivalent to an RPG.

  “Keep it up!” Matheson directed, swinging his attention to the Stryker’s rear and opening up on the firing positions as we left them behind.

  “Hammer, what do you see?”

  Pell’s question to his driver was a simple act of trying to know what was ahead of them as they raced away from the apparent ambush. He couldn’t see everything, in every direction, so he had to rely on his men to be his eyes, his ears, and sometimes, his brain, taking evasive action before he could give such a lifesaving order.

  That was exactly what Sergeant Tommy Hammer did without answering his commander, swinging the Stryker severely left, almost off the road as another anti-armor rocket sailed past, having been fired from directly ahead amongst the mix of wrecked vehicles where Pell had expected to find his fellow soldiers.

  For an instant, as I stayed in the fight, squeezing off bursts at positions sending fire our way, I thought that the rocket which had just missed us sounded familiar. It wasn’t just some weapon like an RPG—it was an RPG. I’d experienced that sound on Mary Island, as the lighthouse protecting us was battered by repeated hits from the venerable Russian weapons. It was possible that some RPGs, which had become common in armies and insurgencies around the globe prior to the blight, could have made their way here, to the States. Possible.

  There was another explanation, I knew, one that I had a hard time considering, much less accepting—the Russians were back. On our flank, and right in front of us.

  Before Pell could slew the turret to take on the new threat dead ahead, Schiavo leaned from the hatch, over the edge of the vehicle, and began firing with her M4, directing controlled bursts into the tangle of abandoned vehicles ahead.

  “Get us off this highline!” Pell ordered his driver.

  Without hesitation, Hammer veered sharply right, steering the Stryker off the roadway and across the shoulder, the vehicle nosing hard over, wheels bouncing across rocks and broken guardrails as we moved into a low spot alongside the highway.

  “Dismount!” Pell commanded, slipping his own body out of the turret. “Hammer, take the firing position. Everyone out!”

  Pell slammed a control, and the back door folded down. With weapons in hand and geared up, we poured down the ramp, seven shooters looking for the fight.

  “I’ll take Martin, Fletch, and Commander Genesee,” Schiavo said. “We’ll push back along this side of the road and set up a strongpoint to cover the flanks and draw them out.”

  For an instant, Carter thought, as new guy, he’d been forgotten. He hadn’t.

  “Private Laws, you go with Lieutenant Pell’s fire team,” she ordered, and Carter gave a certain, if nervous, nod to her.

  “We’ll push north and clear those cars with the Stryker providing cover against any secondary assault from the east,” Pell said. “Or any who breach our defense and get onto the road.”

  Already Hammer was slewing the turret, the height it rested just high enough that its cannon could bring fire directly onto the length of the road. Behind, across five hundred yards of open dirt, a distant patch of falling woods were the only cover that could conceal a potential rear attack. Fire and movement over that distance seemed unlikely. Our enemy, whoever they were, was to the west and north. That was where our fight was.

  “Let’s move,” Pell said.

  Matheson and Carter followed the lieutenant, staying low beyond the nearest shoulder of the road, weapons directed forward toward the collection of old wrecks that spilled off the highway two hundred yards to the north. The young private, untested in battle, was about to face death, not to mention his assigned task to kill his fellow man.

  “Let’s get in position,” Schiavo said.

  I led off, Martin behind me, struggling. He would have insisted on taking part in any action despite his wounds, and ordering him to remain at the Stryker would only waste time.

  “Doc, you stay close to me,” I said, and Genesee nodded, under no illusions that he was ready for this fight.

  We pressed south, a hundred yards, staying just beneath the rise of the road to our right, until Schiavo signaled to stop and take our positions.

  “Ten yards apart,” she said.

  We spread out and went to our stomachs, Martin crawling up the berm like the rest of us, pain plain on his face. Soon we were peeking over the rise, the road before us, and the woods further in the distance. Sporadic fire flashed from three points along the line of dead trees, but the volume had decreased. That might have had something to do with the bursts cracking from the Stryker’s cannon, expertly aimed, rounds chewing into the enemy.

  “They’re not advancing,” Martin commented.

  I glanced and saw Schiavo nod slightly at her husband’s very correct assessment of the puzzling tactics. Or no tactics at all. The enemy had us blocked from moving forward, and pinned down, but, from all we could see, they were not maneuvering for any advantage.

  “Fletch, check our other section,” Schiavo said.

  Without acknowledging her directive, I slid down the berm, fully shielded from fire west of the highway, and looked to the north. Even without binoculars I could make out the shapes of Pell, Matheson, and Carter, reaching the area of the roadblock and disappearing into the tangle of vehicles. They were taking no fire.

  What’s going on?

  I tried to process that very question as I turned and looked to the grey woods to the east. No threat had materialized there, meaning no ambush had been set up to hit us from three si
des.

  “Fletch!”

  It was Schiavo, calling down to me from the top of the berm.

  “No fire up there,” I reported, checking one more time to verify what I’d just seen. “They’re beyond the junked cars now and—wait.”

  I stopped, taking immediate note of the lone figure sprinting back from the element that had moved north. Without a doubt I could tell it was Carter Laws, running fast, his weapon low and ready. He reached the Stryker and continued past it, heading in our direction.

  “Carter is coming,” I told Schiavo.

  “You two maintain cover,” she instructed Martin and Genesee, before sliding down the berm to join me just as Carter reached us and dropped to his knees, winded.

  “Ma’am,” he gasped.

  “Catch your breath, private,” Schiavo said.

  Carter drew a few deep gulps of air then looked to Schiavo.

  “The other Stryker is up past the roadblock,” he told us, steeling himself against the memory he was about to relay. “The crew is dead.”

  Schiavo glanced briefly to me before focusing on her new recruit again.

  “They’re all outside the vehicle,” Carter continued. “It’s all shot up. Wheels blasted away.”

  “Where are Lieutenant Pell and Sergeant Matheson?” Schiavo asked.

  “They’re pushing to the woods to the west,” Carter answered. “There was no enemy near the roadblock. They sent me to tell you to watch for friendlies coming out of the woods.”

  “They’re going to try to drive them toward us into the open,” I said.

  Schiavo nodded, then shook her head.

  “What is it?” I asked her.

  “It’s not a bad tactical move,” she said. “But if they’re letting vengeance drive them...”

  I knew what she meant. That very desire for retribution, to avenge Neil’s murder, had pushed me into a conflict with Olin that could have ended badly. Very badly. For me. Pell and Matheson, I hoped, were only letting that blood lust fuel a decision made of sound mind.

  “Private, go to our Stryker and tell Sergeant Hammer what you just told us,” Schiavo ordered. “Then cover our north flank from that position.”

  “You think they may pop up at the roadblock again?” I asked.

  “Sounds like they did once before,” Schiavo said. “And people died.”

  She was right. We had a plan, but the enemy might have their own which would turn ours into a disaster. It was more than prudent to prepare for any eventuality.

  “Get moving, private,” Schiavo ordered.

  Carter took off, racing back to our Stryker. Schiavo and I returned to the top of the berm.

  “Eyes on that tree line,” she told Martin and Genesee. “Shooters may be bolting from it. And watch your background—friendlies will be in the woods.”

  Martin looked to me, seeking some explanation.

  “The Stryker they left here was taken out,” I told him, then shared the rest of the plan.

  “I haven’t done any serious shooting since basic,” Genesee said.

  “Only shoot at what you can hit,” Schiavo said, the directive mostly for Genesee’s benefit. “Get ready.”

  We made sure we were spread out where the berm crested and the highway’s shoulder began. I focused my attention on the northern part of the woods, where Pell and Matheson would have entered, trying to gauge the progress they would have made. Two hundred yards south, I thought, and shifted my aim to that point.

  Almost immediately a fusillade of fire erupted, just glimpses of muzzle flashes visible through the distant trees. The sounds of battle rose, and it was odd to be able to tell which pieces of the firefight belonged to our side, and to theirs. Quick, short bursts signaled Pell and Matheson zeroing in on our enemy. More wild, full automatic spraying indicated that enemy returning fire, their resistance desperate. Undisciplined.

  “Movement,” Martin said.

  I saw his weapon shift to the south as he began to fire, taking single shots at a figure in dark camouflage bolting from cover. Within seconds another fighter followed, and another, each clutching weapons that they would swing toward the woods they’d fled and loose wild rounds. Schiavo began firing bursts from her M4, and I followed with my AR. Genesee might have been firing, but I could not tell. My concern was fully on the enemy fleeing across the open. One fell, then another, but to replace them a half dozen more spilled from the woods.

  “Keep it up!” Schiavo ordered.

  To my right I could hear the Stryker’s cannon begin to open up, its retort both sound and sensation, like a jackhammer on steroids. One of the enemy soldiers dropped to a knee and seemed to fix his attention in our direction.

  “RPG!” Genesee shouted.

  The warning was spot on, as the soldier I’d noticed fired off the rocket before a burst from the Stryker ripped his body to shreds, pieces tossed into the air like wet red rags as the RPG sailed harmlessly high over the armored vehicle. Two more of his brethren dropped, then three, and, in less than two minutes, the last movement across the open ceased. Our weapons quieted quickly.

  “Reloading,” I said.

  As I dropped my empty and inserted a fresh magazine, I caught a glimpse of Genesee, his bare hands holding his M4 in a death grip, knuckles white and skin red. He breathed fast, air rushing in and out of his lungs, and his attention was fixed on the scene past the smoking muzzle of his rifle.

  “Clay...”

  His head angled slowly toward me, eyes almost slack, as if he was inhabiting some dream state.

  “It’s over,” I told him.

  He nodded slightly. His grip on his weapon eased and his breathing slowed as he stared at me.

  “I’ve never...”

  He couldn’t say it, but I know what the completed statement would have been. He’d never shot at anyone. Never used his weapon in anger. He was a doctor, a healer, sworn to treat patients, not create them. If he’d hesitated, or expressed any overt doubt about what role he could play in a firefight, I would have reminded him that medics and corpsman in the military carried weapons, and would use them to defend themselves and their patients. With Martin just a few yards away, Genesee might not have realized it, but he’d just done both of those things.

  To our right, Carter approached, running from his position near the Stryker. He hurried to a spot on the berm near Schiavo.

  “Ma’am, Sergeant Hammer wants to know what we should do?”

  Carter had come through this first test of his combat skills well. As a young man, a teenager, actually, he’d participated in the defense of Bandon against the Unified Government forces. This, though, was his baptism by fire while in service to his country, not his town. It seemed, though, that the two were synonymous with each other. None of us knew exactly how far beyond Bandon any semblance of the United States even existed.

  “Hold your position and your fire,” Schiavo told her new recruit, raising a clenched fist above her where Hammer would see it, the signal telling him to sit tight. “Pell and Matheson are out there somewhere.”

  We heard no more shooting as we waited, scanning the woods beyond the killing field we’d created.

  “That wasn’t much of a fight,” Martin commented.

  I looked to him, knowing he was right. We hadn’t come up against troops of any quality. Nothing to compare to what we’d faced on Mary Island, or in the pit in Skagway, or those fighters aligned with the Unified Government. The people we’d taken out were running away, fleeing the maneuver Pell had initiated to drive the enemy from the woods.

  “Movement,” Schiavo said.

  We focused in on the tree line and saw what she did, a figure between the dead pines, holding a rifle above his head one handed, creating a T.

  “It’s Pell,” Schiavo said.

  He was giving us the signal that all was clear. We rose from the berm and crossed the highway to the field, Pell and Matheson emerging from the woods to meet us near the scene of the carnage we’d created. To the north, the S
tryker began to move, positioning itself on the road to better cover us in all directions.

  “That was worse than a turkey shoot,” Martin said.

  “There are six more we took out in the woods,” Pell said, crouching next to one of the dead men and gripping his uniform coat in his gloved hand. “Russian.”

  It was a uniform like we’d seen before. But others who were strewn across the field wore different clothing and gear, from various units and branches of the Russian military.

  “An ad hoc unit,” Schiavo said.

  Pell stood, nodding.

  “This was thrown together,” the lieutenant said, scanning the landscape and shaking his head. “Why? And why here?”

  “I don’t know,” Schiavo said, unable to comprehend the almost futile attempt at blocking the highway.

  Almost...

  “How did they get your other troops?” Schiavo asked.

  Pell glanced back toward the roadblock, imagining what he’d seen beyond it, then faced the captain again.

  “It looks like they caught our guys outside their vehicle,” he explained, shaking his head once again. “That’s just bad tactics in an area that hasn’t been cleared.”

  The three troopers, equivalents to Pell, Matheson, and Hammer, had likely been taking a break from the confines of their Stryker. Maybe gazing at the blackened southern sky in awe. Even an untrained small unit could do damage to seasoned troops when their guard was down.

  “A waste,” Pell said. “A damn waste.”

  A hand rested suddenly on my shoulder. Not a gentle touch to announce one’s presence or offer of comfort, but with the weight of one seeking support. I looked to see Martin struggling, the distress plain in his eyes.

  “There’s nothing more to do here,” I said, slipping an arm under Martin’s. “Let’s load up.”

  Genesee stepped close and added his help in assisting our friend. Pell raised a hand and signaled the Stryker. Thirty seconds later the beefy vehicle was next to our position, the back ramp down. We filled its interior again and drove to a point past the road block and stopped there, watching and waiting as the lieutenant and his men left the Stryker and buried their fellow soldiers in a patch of barren earth next to the highway.