by John O'Brien
With Blue Team lined across the back, she bellows, “Everyone freeze! Don’t move an inch and, if you would be so kind, hang up your phones.”
Four technicians near the front bolt from their workstations toward a door situated near a corner on the far wall. The tiered room descends toward the front with each line of workstations a step lower than the ones behind. This layout is so a supervisor at the back can oversee the whole room, which gives Horace a commanding field of view. Before the four have taken two steps, Horace nods to her team members.
With Horace covering the rest of the room, the other three direct suppressed gunfire against the four attempting to make it to the door. Their clothing puffs from multiple bullet strikes, sending them headlong to the floor where they lie in a heap next to and over each other.
“Now, let’s try this again,” Horace states, as the three bring their weapons back into alignment, aimed at the rest of the technicians. “No…one…move!”
The last command wasn’t necessary as everyone in the room has frozen in their tracks.
“Okay, if everyone would be so kind to hang up their phones. No more words, just set them into their cradles. And then place your hands on the monitors in front of you.”
One of the technicians to the side continues talking with someone on the other end, his words unheard but, by his facial expressions, he is rushing to get his words spoken.
Horace lifts her carbine, centers her red dot, and pulls the trigger. A single round coughs out of the end of her barrel. The sub-sonic bullet streaks over terminals to crash into the side of the man’s head. A small spray of blood leaps into the air from the brute force of the impact. His head jerks to the side and he falls across his workstation looking as if he’s taking a nap, his hand still gripping the telephone handset. Several streams of blood, mixed with bone and tissue, run down the monitor screen in front of him.
Nodding to one of her teammates by the door, he strolls to the station. Removing the bloodied handset from the man’s grip, he places it on the cradle. There is the sound of multiple handsets being hurriedly placed in their respective cradles, and Horace notes everyone’s hands in sight on top of the monitors. She has control of this operations center but it’s a tentative one. What she does securely have is everyone’s attention.
Nodding to her other teammate by the door, she has him take out the overhead camera.
“Who’s in charge here?” Horace asks, bringing her carbine back to cover the entire room.
Several eyes dart to a man standing in the first row of workstations. The others in the room look from her, to her team standing watch, to the bodies on the floor in the front, their shirts darkened with blood, to the man lying in a widening red pool at his terminal.
“I…I am,” the man answers.
“Okay, you are now responsible for what happens to your people. You do what I say, when I say, and don’t cause any trouble, you all get to live. You don’t and…” Horace says, leaving the last part unsaid but nods toward the bodies.
The man hangs his head, understanding that, for him and his group, the fight is over before it really began. It’s not that they are fighters to being with, but the realization that they’ve lost hits him. He can only imagine what is going on inside the rest of the complex. Whatever it is, he and his staff will not be of any help.
“What is it you that want us to do?” the man asks, looking up.
“First, are any of you armed? With any kind of weapon? I don’t care if it’s a butter knife or a letter opener, I want to know,” Horace asks.
The man shakes his head.
“Know that we’re going to search you. If we find a weapon on anyone, they die along with the person next to them. So, let’s be sure of your answer. Is anyone armed?”
“No, we’re just support staff. We don’t have any weapons,” the man answers.
Turning to the teammate next to her, Horace has him go down to the far door the four were running for and wedge it closed. There are only eleven personnel remaining in the operations center but, with two doors and having to cover all of them, she feels spread thin.
She has the technicians line up against the wall and searches them. The supervisor is true to his word; not a one of them has a weapon. After removing a phone from a windowed conference room to the side of the main control room, she herds her captives into it, telling them not to talk with each other.
“Just so we’re clear. If there’s a word spoken between anybody, or if I think anyone is passing messages in any fashion, they’ll meet the same fate as those other unfortunate ones,” Horace tells the supervisor.
He nods his understanding and enters the conference room with the others.
“The operations center is under control,” Horace speaks into her radio.
* * * * * *
Sergeant Montore is jolted awake by the alarm blaring in the squad room. Only temporarily confused, he springs into action, jumping off his upper bunk to the left side so he doesn’t come slamming down on his bunkmate below. Dressing quickly, he grabs his carbine hanging from the bunk post, slams a mag in and checks that the safety is on. There’s a flurry of activity as the others of his squad are doing the same.
Fucking drills, Montore thinks as the lieutenant enters from his room in the back, yelling for them to form up by the door. At least it does break some of the monotony.
Forming with his teammates, Montore has a fleeting thought that maybe this isn’t a drill knowing what happened to Bravo Company the other week. The lieutenant makes his way through the waiting squad to the door. Opening it, he waves them through, telling them to meet in the equipment bay to await further orders. The ones in front of Montore enter the hallway, some still donning their vests.
Montore is about to enter behind the others when a large blast fills the corridor. Those outside are torn apart and thrown down the hallway. Smoke rolls past the doorway carrying the smell of gunpowder. Stunned, Montore reels backward.
Amidst the instantly confused scene, he notes sparks showering off the walls and floor. Before he stumbled away from the door, through the smoke, he caught a brief glimpse of winking lights coming from the vicinity of the vehicles. Even startled and stunned as he is, he knows they are under attack by someone inside the complex.
Heavy caliber slugs begin impacting the walls, tearing large chunks from the concrete. Those remaining of his squad hunker by the door in shock. To step out of the door is to walk into a shower of steel and death. Several try to direct fire into the equipment bay from the doorway but are immediately hit. One heavy round slams into the door frame as Montore screams for those of his remaining squad to get back inside. Dragging their wounded, they leave the door and take positions behind semblances of cover, ready to repel any invasion into their room.
* * * * * *
Lynn directs fire from the teams into the hallways. Inside their narrow confines, with the smoke clearing, she sees several bodies in each one. They are really nothing more than dark lumps within the gloom. They have the upper hand at the moment, but she knows that may not last. Once the soldiers, whom they have momentarily pinned down, overcome their initial shock, they’ll react. She’s outnumbered but has the advantage of position. However, even with that, she has to do something if they are to maintain their fire superiority.
The blast of the siren stops. With the alarm gone, the sound of the fight comes to the forefront. Behind her, there is the heavy thud of the .50 cals as they send their heavy bullets into the hall. To the sides, there is the tinkling of empty cartridges bouncing across the concrete floor and vehicles, the calls of ‘reloading’, and mags hitting the floor with metallic rings. The M-240s chatter away, adding their fire. Lynn walks down the line, talking to each solder, telling them to conserve ammo and put out just enough bursts to keep the opposing force’s heads down.
There is movement at the fourth doorway as it swings open. Several people peek out from behind the door and into the bay. By what she observes of their clothing, the
y are civilians. She can’t determine if they are maintenance folks or operations room technicians. Who they are doesn’t really matter. She needs to keep the equipment bay clear. A volley of gunfire sparking off the metal door sends them scrambling back inside.
Lynn briefs Jack on the situation and their need to keep the opposing forces off balance before their four-to-one numbers start making a difference.
“Are you sure you need to go in?” Jack asks.
“We need to do something. We don’t have a limitless supply of ammo,” Lynn answers.
“Okay, you’re there and I’m not. Do what you see fit.”
Walking down the line, Lynn briefs the other team leads on her plan to commence a room clearing operation, cautioning them to conserve their ammo. She briefs Mullins to gather as much .50 cal ammo as he can find and begin to use it sparingly. It may be the only thing that keeps the opposing forces at bay.
Taking Black Team, she approaches the first hallway, keeping to the side out of the line of fire. Waving the team covering the door to hold their fire, Lynn steps into the hallway. It’s filled with a lingering odor of gunpowder and the stench that accompanies death. The walls are pock-marked from the numerous rounds that smacked into them. Deep gouges show where the .50 cal rounds slammed into the concrete. Chunks of concrete are scattered across the floor, with concrete powder coating the bodies.
Making sure the ones in the hall have passed the boundary of life, she steps over the shredded bodies. Cautiously and warily, trying to avoid the pools of blood gathered around the still forms, she edges to the first door, keeping her attention on all of the exits.
She directs three of her team to cover the hall farther down. Readying a grenade, she nods to one of her teammates at the doorway. He opens it just enough so that she can toss the grenade in and they fold back against the wall. She gets ready to follow it up with a flash bang and they’ll sweep inside. The door shakes as the grenade goes off.
Ready to flash and enter, Lynn’s attention is caught by a different kind of flash. Strobe-like flashes light up the hall from the three she posted to cover the corridor. Turning sharply, she catches the last hints of sparks off one of the doors. Looking to the three, they are intent on a doorway several doors down.
“What is it?” Lynn calls, bothered that those inside the room might get a chance to recover.
“Someone opened the door and poked their head out,” one of the soldiers says without taking his eye from the doorway.
“Did you get them?” she asks.
“No, we’ve been made,” the soldier answers.
“Everyone out! Now!” Lynn shouts.
The team begins backpedaling quickly while keeping a watchful eye on the doors. One them opens suddenly with a flash of movement. In the dimness of the hallway, Lynn hears something metallic bouncing across the concrete floor.
“Grenade,” she yells.
The team turns and dives for the entrance. In mid-air, Lynn hears a tremendous explosion and feels a concussive wave roll over her. Above the blast, she hears a scream of pain. She lands hard on the unyielding surface, banging her chin which momentarily stuns her. Recovering, she notes three of her teammates on the ground.
Rising, she and her two remaining team memebers drag their comrades a short distance away from the hallway opening. Seeing what happened, the other teams direct a flurry of fire which envelopes the corridor. Under the covering fire, using the drag handles, they pull their wounded to safety.
Looking at her teammates, Lynn sees that two have been peppered across their backs and the rear of their legs. The two are covered in blood from many small wounds. One is moaning while the second is out cold. The third has superficial wounds along one arm.
“See to them,” Lynn directs her two remaining team members. “Stop the bleeding and dress the wounds as best as you can.”
The two immediately begin taking care of their own. Black Team, with the exception of Lynn, is out of the fight.
* * * * * *
The grenade goes off, decimating several of the remaining survivors of his squad. Sergeant Montore’s ears are ringing from the tremendous concussion. Recovering, he quickly checks himself and looks around the room. It’s barely recognizable. The few pictures remaining on the wall hang askew, their glass coverings shattered. Mattresses are half on and half off the bunks with chairs thrown about. Hanging in the air is the smell of gunpowder. Several of his squad are screaming in pain. Some of the others aren’t moving at all. The door opened and closed so quickly that they didn’t have a chance to react.
Montore and a couple of others are the only survivors. Directing those still on their feet to help the wounded, he knows that they are out of the fight, regardless of what transpires. He has one of his teammates watch the door but knows that they will be hard-pressed to stop a mouse from entering, let alone armed combatants. He resigns himself that this won’t end well and becomes absorbed in helping the injured.
* * * * * *
Seeing the wounded being taken care of, Lynn proceeds down the line checking on the teams’ ammo supply.
“Are you okay?” Cressman asks as she checks on his team.
It’s then that Lynn feels a burning sensation across her forehead near her temple. Rubbing her hand across it, her glove comes away smeared with blood. Removing her glove, she tenderly pokes at the cut to find that it’s just that, a cut, but bleeding like scalp wounds will.
“Let me see to that,” Cressman says.
“No, I’m fine,” Lynn says, moving on down the line.
Lights flare on the floors and walls in the hallways from multiple doors opening. Silhouettes form in the light like a multitude of shadow puppets. Grenades are lofted from the open doorways. Some land in the corridor but a few make it a ways out of the hall forcing the teams to take cover behind the Humvees. A series of explosions rocks the end of the bay. Shrapnel is hurled into the vehicles and walls with heavy thuds and pings.
Lynn, crouched behind the hood of a Humvee, her ears hurting from the blasts, hears the .50 cals behind start chattering. Rising quickly after the explosions cease, she sees soldiers trying to make it out of the hallway, only to be thrown back by the three heavy machine guns. Lynn adds her own fire to the fray and the forced rush is beaten back. Two more are wounded but are still in the fight, only marginally hampered.
The teams continue to pepper the hallways at intervals with bursts of fire to keep any curious heads down. In front, Lynn observes the carnage from the attempt of the security forces to sweep out of their quarters. More bodies lie within the hall with several on the concrete floor in the bay. Some are attempting to crawl to the sides, trying to get away from their pain. Moans can be heard coming from several who are lying still. Rivulets of blood seep out from the bodies, following the uneven contours of the floor.
“Should we do something about them?” Jordan asks.
Lynn looks at the devastation and really doesn’t have an answer. The humanity aspect of her says that they should help any wounded, but that would involve depleting her forces further and they are barely holding their own. She knows the opposing companies have been hit hard but doesn’t know exactly how badly. Right now, the safety of the teams is paramount.
With a sigh, she answers, “There’s not much we can really do except listen to their pain from a closer angle. We just don’t have the personnel to treat them without depleting our own firepower. I hate to say it, but we’ll just have to leave them where they lie. Afterwards, we can treat them. Until then, we’ll just have to suffer their moans and screams.”
“Lynn, Horace has the ops center under control. How are you doing?” Jack asks over the radio.
“I heard. We have the security forces bottled up for the moment, but who knows how long that will last. The room clearing was unsuccessful and they just tried rushing under a volley of grenades. We beat them back with the help of the Strykers,” Lynn briefs.
“The what?” Jack asks.
“We have three
Strykers operational and are using the .50 cals. That’s the only way we were able to force them back into their quarters,” Lynn states.
“Good thinking. That never occurred to me.”
“Jack, they have the ability to communicate with each other. I don’t know if that’s by phone or radio, but they are coordinating their actions. From what I see, they have twenty six down and almost double that wounded. We have five wounded, two immobile and three ambulatory. Black Team is out of action, but we need to do something, and soon,” Lynn replies.
“I’m working on it, Can you hold?” Jack asks.
“For the moment, yes,” Lynn responds.
“You have Watkins if you need.”
“Jack, we’re going to need more ammo before this is all said and done,” Lynn states.
“Horace, can you find out where their armory is?” Jack calls on the radio.
“Standby,” Horace answers, moments later returning. “They say it’s in rooms off the barrack’s hallways.”
“Well, we aren’t getting to that,” Lynn says.
“Horace, if things are under control, and if you can, send part of your team to give Lynn some of your team’s mags,” Jack radios.
While waiting for Horace’s teammates to show up, Lynn directs Mullins to send the drivers with him to scout the other vehicles for ammo. Her teammates return from patching up their compatriots. Black Team is back to having four members available.
“Hold out as best as you can, Lynn. I’m on my way in,” Jack says.
* * * * * *
Crouched by the entrance with Gonzalez behind and Henderson and Denton on the other side, I hear the alarm begin blaring. Looking behind, I watch as Horace enters the control room. A short time later, across the equipment bay and out of sight, explosions rock the interior as Lynn triggers the claymores. I don’t hear an ensuing firefight with the exception of the M-240s firing and the heavy staccato of heavy machine guns. I can’t see in that direction and hope that those aren’t being used against us. If so, then this will be a very short sojourn into the bunker. I contemplate calling Lynn to find out, but I know that she more than likely has her hands full at the moment, and doesn’t need any distractions from my end. If she needs help, she’ll ask for it.