“Very good,” Hunnicutt said. “Get our people out ASAP. Delay for nothing. Take only our people, our weapons, and vehicles. If anyone else objects, don’t waste time arguing. Bring them out by force if necessary.”
Wright nodded, then hesitated. “Confirm rules of engagement, sir?”
Luke saw Hunnicutt’s jaw tighten. When he replied, it was slow and deliberate. “Scatter them with warning shots if possible. But you are weapons free at shooters’ discretion. Don’t take chances. All of our people are coming home alive.”
Fort Box
Wilmington Container Terminal
Wilmington, North Carolina
Same Day, 3:10 p.m.
“Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance,” Hunnicutt said with a satisfied nod as he stood on the wall an hour later and watched the little convoy roll through the gates of Fort Box. “SITREP, Wright?”
“No casualties, sir. Unless you count Dr. Jennings’ pleasant disposition,” Wright said. “She’s madder than a wet hen and demanding to speak to you.”
Hunnicutt sighed. “Which I’ll do, sooner or later. But please hold her at bay until we get this mess sorted out.”
Wright nodded. “Then I best go meet the convoy and give her a target. Though I’d rather trade fire with the bangers.”
Hunnicutt chuckled and nodded his thanks, and Wright headed for the ladder down. Hunnicutt turned east and raised his binoculars. Smoke rose in towering columns from around the refugee camp. He shook his head.
He lowered the glasses. “What’s it look like, Major?”
Luke shook his head. “Not good, sir. Washington and his team have eyes on the camp, or what’s left of it. I sent them out with the relief column with orders to set up an overwatch. The rioting is general and aimless for now. They’re burning everything in sight in and around the camp, but I think we can count on them heading this way. There’s a lot of anger there, seeking a target.”
Hunnicutt nodded and turned to Butler. “What was the camp census, Lieutenant Butler?”
“We stopped trying to estimate several days ago, sir,” Butler said. “Given all the squatters in the surrounding neighborhoods, it was a near impossible task, but our best guess four days ago was at least thirty thousand.”
Hunnicutt raised the binoculars again. “And they’ll all be heading this way,” he said softly as sporadic gunfire sounded in the distance.
Wilmington Refugee Camp
(Formerly Pine Valley Country Club)
Pine Valley Drive
Wilmington, North Carolina
Same Day, 5:40 p.m.
Kwintell Banks stood with Reaper by their technical, watching the mob on the golf course. All around the perimeter of the former country club, homes and businesses joined the club structures burning in the afternoon sun. Towering columns of smoke rolled skyward in the still air, and the acrid smell wafted across the now unkempt green expanse of the golf course.
Banks watched Darren Mosley at work. For all his shortcomings, Banks thought, nobody worked a crowd quite like Mosley. With Banks’ permission, Mosley had dipped into the UBN provisions and handed out food and drink liberally, including cases of beer and whiskey. He was well on his way to convincing the mob he had all the answers.
It was a mixed crowd he addressed, black, white, and Hispanic refugees of all ages, some formerly middle class and others impoverished. They were all the same now: desperate people clinging to a miserable existence in squalor, surviving on inadequate rations of horrible food, all looking for someone to blame. Mosley was serving them up a target on a platter.
“… and that ain’t all,” Banks heard Mosley yell. “I was a soldier in there. North Carolina National Guard. Yes, I was. But I couldn’t take it no more, couldn’t live with myself. It’s disgusting what they got inside, hidin’ it away, not sharing with folks. Man, they got whole containers full of canned hams and shrimp and salmon. All kinds of shit. And what they feeding you? Crappy-ass boiled corn come off one of them skanky old foreign ships, probably full a rat turds, and not even American rat turds. Foreign rat turds. Chinese rat turds.”
There were cries of agreement and outrage, scattered at first, then general as Mosley fired up the crowd.
“But you know what they ain’t got? And what they want you to think they got a lot of? Ammunition. Oh, they got enough to make a show, but if we decide to go in there and take what we got coming, they can’t stop us. They probably just gonna load up their boats and run away, just like they did here today.”
Mosley paused and drank from the long-neck beer bottle in his hand. Refreshed, he redoubled his efforts, striding back and forth in the pickup bed, gesturing wildly to the crowd around him.
“You done this here today,” he yelled, taking in the entire crowd with a sweeping gesture. “It was YOU who made them fool soldiers run. It’s YOU they afraid of. I say we march right down to that dumb-ass little fort they built and DEMAND they give us the food they STOLE so we can share it out equal for everybody.”
Mosley shot a look to Banks, who nodded, and Mosley turned back to the mob.
“WHAT DO YOU SAY? ARE YOU WITH ME?” Mosley screamed.
“YES!” the mob screamed in unison.
“ARE YOU READY TO GET SOME GOOD FOOD?”
“YES!” the mob screamed again.
“THEN GET YOUR ASSES IN GEAR, AND LET’S GO GET WHAT’S RIGHTFULLY OURS!”
With that, Mosley beat his fist on the top of the pickup, and the driver set out across the golf course, driving slowly as the crowd parted and fell in behind Mosley’s truck like he was the Pied Piper, headed for Shipyard Boulevard and Fort Box beyond.
Banks looked over at Reaper. “What you think of my boys now?”
Reaper shrugged. “Any fool can talk big. We’ll see how they do when bullets start flying, but this is a good diversion. We need to keep the guys with M4s and the technicals well back out of sight until we’re ready to use ’em.”
Fort Box
Wilmington Container Terminal
Wilmington, North Carolina
Same Day, 6:10 p.m.
Luke raced up the ladder. Hunnicutt stood on the wall with Wright and Butler.
“Lieutenant Washington says they’re on the move, sir. Pretty much the entire mob as far as he can tell, with a few gangbangers mixed in,” Luke said. “Things are about to get real, so I ordered Washington and his men to RTB.”
Hunnicutt nodded. “Agreed. Please tell Lieutenant Washington I said well done.”
He turned to Butler. “How many M2s do we still have along the river?”
“Two each on both the larger boats and one on the smaller boat. Plus a couple set up on the outboard side of the ships, placed to sweep the river in both directions.” Butler hesitated. “Why, sir? You want to reposition them?”
“Some of them, yes,” Hunnicutt said. “An attack from the river looks less likely, at least in the immediate future. What can you spare?”
Butler rubbed his chin. “We can take all four off the larger boats. The smaller boat is more mobile anyway, and between that gun and the two on the ship sides, we should be able to handle any threats from the river. At least long enough to reposition guns if necessary.”
“Do it,” Hunnicutt said. “Work with Lieutenant Wright here to reposition them. Space them evenly along the top of the wall to supplement the guns at each corner.”
Wright spoke up. “We’ll have to improvise, sir. We won’t have time to armor them like the corner gun emplacements or the other firing positions.”
Hunnicutt nodded. “I understand; use sand bags or whatever you can find. I doubt they’ll be taking fire anyway. My hope is seeing them stretched along the wall will serve as an intimidation factor. The best battle is one you don’t have to fight, gentlemen.”
“Amen to that, sir,” Butler said, moving toward the ladder to carry out his orders, with Wright close behind.
“You really think they’ll attack, sir?” Luke asked.
“Hunger and
desperation make people do extreme things,” Hunnicutt said. “But I hope staring up at the wrong end of a row of M2s, with maybe a burst or two fired above their heads, will bring them to their senses. But if it doesn’t … well, we’ll just have to be prepared to deal with that.”
Luke shook his head. “Even the dumbest of them should understand they’re no match for armed soldiers in prepared positions with crew-served weapons.”
Hunnicutt turned and looked to the east. “You would think so,” he said. “But there are thousands of them, and as Stalin once said, quantity has a quality all its own.”
***
The leading edge of the mob came into view twenty minutes later, surging up Shipyard Boulevard. Hunnicutt ordered the gate in the outer perimeter fence closed and locked, and reinforced it by having two of the container transporters block the gate completely with several containers pre-staged nearby for that purpose. The big machines completed the task and moved back inside the stout defensive walls of Fort Box itself, where they duplicated their efforts and barricaded the more substantial gate there as well. The defenders were as ready as they could be.
As the mob reached the fence, Hunnicutt got his first inkling of trouble. Rather than massing at the gate as anticipated, the mob spread down the fence line in both directions at the exhortations of a man in the back of a pickup and his minions. Fighting a rising unease, Hunnicutt adapted and ordered defenders spread more evenly along the threatened walls, in between the newly repositioned machine guns.
Beside Hunnicutt, Luke watched the mob flow down the fence line. “I’m not liking this. This looks way too coordinated for a rioting mob.”
“Agreed, but we’ll handle whatever they throw at us. Hopefully without a wholesale slaughter,” Hunnicutt said.
Luke looked due west at the sun nearing the horizon. “I’m not sure the intimidation factor is going to work, sir. The sun’s directly in their eyes now. They probably can’t see the machine guns that well. Should we fire a burst over their heads to give them a clue?”
Hunnicutt looked west then glanced at his watch. “Let’s not waste the show. We’ll wait till they all have a ringside seat and light ’em up. How many are loaded with tracer?”
“Every other gun,” Luke said, and Hunnicutt nodded.
They stood in silence and watched the mass of humanity flow against the chain-link fence, screaming and shaking fists and improvised weapons.
Louisiana Street
2 Blocks from the Perimeter Fence
Same Day, 6:50 p.m.
Banks stood in the street next to the technical, listening to the radio squawk and reduced to observer status as Reaper directed the operation. The technicals were spread evenly along the perimeter fence, one to two blocks back and out of sight from the fort walls. His own men, weapons concealed, were spread evenly at the back of the mob along the fence. They were anonymous faces in the crowd, with the bulk of the milling mass of screaming refugees between them and the guns of Fort Box.
All except for the baby gangstas. Fifty preteens were spread across the front of the mob near the fence, all volunteers eager to prove their worth to the UBN. The single qualification for their current task was sufficient strength to operate the bolt cutters they kept concealed in plastic garbage bags. They would strike at the first gunfire either from Fort Box, or if that was not forthcoming, from their brothers at the back of the mob. Their task was simple: cut the fence to ribbons along its entire length.
Banks glanced over at Reaper. “I don’t like this. We shoulda made the signal something else. Them soldiers can shoot any time; what if we ain’t ready?”
“What’s important is that the fence gets cut. Exactly when makes no difference. If we made the signal something else, half those little morons would miss it. This way, all they have to remember is ‘hear guns, cut the fence.’ Even they can remember that,” Reaper said. He narrowed his eyes. “And you let me worry about things like that. You’re starting to get on my nerves again.”
Banks fell silent, and Reaper looked down the street and grinned. A pickup approached, and Banks saw people in the bed. They were all women and children, refugees in ragged clothes with haggard faces. Their wrists were zip-tied, and terrified eyes showed over duct-taped mouths.
“Put them in the bed of the technical,” Reaper yelled to the driver of the arriving pickup. “Zip-tie ’em to the rack, standing up, and make sure they can be seen.”
Banks stared. “What the hell you doin’, Reaper?”
Reaper grinned. “That’s an unauthorized question, fool. But I’ll give you a pass, seein’ as how I’m in a good mood. That’s ‘enhanced armor.’ When it hits the fan, the technicals are gonna be priority targets, so I’m givin’ our heroes over there in Fort Box a little extra to think about before they pull the trigger.”
Reaper’s smile faded. “Now you ridin’ with me. So get your ass up in the bed of that truck before I put you in a dress and mount you as a hood ornament.”
Fort Box
Wilmington Container Terminal
“GIVE US OUR FOOD! GIVE US OUR FOOD!” the mob chanted in unison, those nearest the fence shaking the chain link in time to the chant. Luke looked on with growing concern as Hunnicutt swept the fence with his binoculars, then dropped them to hang on his chest by the strap.
Hunnicutt sighed. “I guess it’s time to offer a bit of discouragement, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” Luke said, raising the radio mic. “All tracer-loaded guns, repeat, all tracer-loaded guns, fire a short burst over the heads of the hostiles on my signal. Confirm. Over.”
He listened as each gun confirmed promptly; then he gave the order. “All tracer-loaded guns, execute. Repeat, execute.”
All along the wall, the guns barked, and fiery tracers shot out hot and straight, well over the heads of the screaming refugees. The chanting stopped at once, silenced by the fifty-caliber snarl. When the guns stopped scant seconds later, a deathly quiet fell over the fort and mob alike.
Like a hysterical person slapped back to sanity, the mob was shocked, and on the wall, soldiers held their breath, hoping this would end it. Hunnicutt raised the glasses again, scanning the faces pressed up against the fence, encouraged by what he saw. Maybe it would be this easy after all.
And then he saw an African-American boy perhaps twelve years old, perhaps younger, resolutely cutting through the chain-link fence with a pair of bolt cutters almost as big as he was. The cut was already two feet from the bottom of the fence and growing. Oh God, please not this, he thought, a lump in his throat. It took three tries to get the next order past his lips.
“Corporal Miles,” he said to the rifleman kneeling to his right, “there is a perimeter breach directly in front of us. Take him out. Now.”
Miles raised his M4, searching, then looked up at the colonel. “Sir, it’s … it’s a kid. I … I can’t shoot a kid.”
Hunnicutt’s voice was shaking, “That’s an order, Miles.”
“But, sir—”
“PERIMETER BREACH!” came a scream from down the wall, followed by a second, then a third.
Things seem to go in slow motion for Hunnicutt, and he felt a steely calm run through him. He put a hand down on Miles’ shoulder. “Take the shot, son,” he said softly. “This is on me, not you.”
The young soldier looked up with glistening eyes, bobbed his head once, and raised his rifle. The sound of the shot seemed to tear through Hunnicutt’s own heart. He shook it off and turned to Luke.
“Pass the order, Major. Weapons free. Repeat, weapons free. Anyone inside the fence is a legitimate target.”
The fence was fully breached in two dozen places before they got the situation neutralized. The mob reacted like a living thing, recoiling from the fence in panic, none even attempting to enter the newly opened breaks now blocked by dead children’s bodies. Hunnicutt ordered a cease-fire and crossed his fingers.
But it was not to be. He heard sustained gunfire behind the mob, and like a blind and wounded
beast, the massed humanity surged back toward the fence and Fort Box beyond, charging without thought, reacting to the immediate pain. It crashed into the fence with a horrific scream, those refugees nearest the fence unable to prevent themselves from being pinned against it. Some, the lucky ones, were forced through the multiple breaches. Free from the crush of the mob, they looked fearfully towards the fort walls, raised their hands in surrender, and huddled near the groaning fence, unable to retreat and terrified of going forward. Hunnicutt ordered his men to hold their fire.
But it was only a matter of time. Gunfire continued to come from the back of the mob, though the exact source was impossible to ascertain. The fence was leaning along its entire length with the press of thirty thousand refugees. Blood dripped from the chain link as faces and hands and arms and legs were mashed into the wire, far beyond the limits mere flesh could endure.
And then it happened. At places the mesh separated from the poles, and in others the poles themselves toppled over, concrete foundations breaking free of the ground like uprooted trees in a windstorm. Whatever their pattern, the failures occurred in quick succession, and in seconds the perimeter fence ceased to exist. The mob flowed toward the defenders like a fast-rising tide.
And on the tide came sharks. The shooters drove the mob forward at gunpoint, more visible now, but always careful to stay close enough to use the mob as cover. As they cleared the battered remnants of the fence, the shooters ran forward, mixing in the terrified and milling crowd to turn their fire toward Fort Box.
What they lacked in accuracy, they made up in volume. Hunnicutt heard a grunt, and he looked down to see Miles down, blood flowing from a shoulder wound.
“IT’S BANGERS. THERE MUST BE A THOUSAND OF THEM!” Luke shouted.
“TARGET THE SHOOTERS,” Hunnicutt yelled.
Along the wall the defenders fired sporadically, coping with the near impossible task of differentiating between armed bangers and their human shields. The horrific roar of the battle increased, augmented by the sound of roaring engines and stuttering machine guns as the technicals burst from hiding and roared forward.
Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) Page 20