by Nathan Jones
Although this was looking to be a hairy night.
Lewis had ordered Brenton to withdraw as soon as he'd gotten the enemy's numbers and the direction they were approaching from. Hopefully the blockheads wouldn't decide to veer off another way while they were temporarily out of sight, but the risk couldn't be helped. Brenton wasn't up to staying out of sight while he kept tabs on an enemy at in the dark, and also kept pace ahead of them.
Lewis didn't want to see the older man discovered and shot for no good reason. Not only that, but if Brenton was discovered the enemy would know they'd been spotted and would become more cautious, fearing a potential ambush. That could lead to far more deaths than just one man's.
In case the blockheads did change direction or send out scouts, he had the Mayor send a screen of defenders out to either side of the rendezvous point to watch and, equally important in the dark, listen. It was a bit frustrating to have to coordinate things over the radio while he bolted through rough terrain with the dubious aid of night vision. He wanted to be there, looking over the ambush spot and getting his people in position.
Instead Lewis had to trust that Catherine and her defenders would do a good job. Which he did . . . he just wanted to be there.
The Mayor reached the rendezvous much sooner than he did, even though it was about the same distance for both of them. She had a clear road most of the way, over more or less level ground, while he was forced to alternate jogging and walking uphill most of the way. By the time he got there he wasn't much use to anyone, since he had to lean against a tree panting for several minutes. While he caught his breath the defenders around him quietly deployed, calling to each other as they got in position.
Once he'd stopped sounding like a leaky bellows he made his way to the truck, which Catherine was driving, and took over for the defender who'd been manning the M2. The Mayor had picked a good spot to place the truck: up on a rise looking over the area to the north, with most of its body hidden by cover which the heavy machine gun was high enough to see over, giving a good field of view.
Lewis looked over that field of view, doing his best to picture the approaching blockheads as Brenton described him, then at the defenders set up to either side. Most of the slope beyond the rise was dense scrub oak or aspen thickets, with only a few meadows spotted here and there. The enemy would have cover all the way to where the defenders waited for them, although he doubted they'd be able to move completely unseen.
This could get ugly fast. If Brenton was right the enemy didn't have much night vision, but neither did Lewis's defenders. A lot of what they'd got from the raiders had gone south with Matt and the other volunteers, and most of what was left was with Lewis and his volunteers. Who aside from him were all sitting on the slopes east of here, babysitting blockhead snipers who hadn't moved in days.
Every tactician in history had agreed that night attacks, no matter how well planned and executed, were risky. High risk, high reward. There was too much confusion in the dark, too much uncertainty. Man's own nature worked against him when facing an environment he wasn't well suited for. Armies could end up routing when they were victorious, based on faulty information or baseless panic. Brothers could end up killing each other with friendly fire on accident, or entire companies butchering allies in the fog of war.
Of course this wasn't exactly a historical battle. As long as the few people with night vision they did have were calling the shots, and his defenders were shooting at the enemy muzzle flashes they saw, things might not turn out so badly. Especially since Lewis would be manning the heavy machine gun on the truck.
That was a weapon that could take out the entire enemy force in the right circumstances, even if they tried to hide behind cover. He just had to make sure the circumstances were right, which against an enemy that knew what they were doing would be tough.
Yeah, this could get ugly.
After what felt like an eternity but couldn't have been more than ten minutes, the scouts they'd sent ahead to give early warning radioed in. The blockheads were almost to them, on almost the exact route Brenton had guessed they'd take.
Unfortunately, almost immediately after that first warning the scouts radioed in again, this time with news that wasn't quite so good.
“They're circling around?” Lewis hissed. “Did they catch wind of us?”
“I don't know, but they're splitting up to hit the rise from both sides. Either they know we're here or they're being incredibly cautious.”
Lewis wasn't about to dismiss this as simple luck. “Maybe they've got scouts you and Brenton didn't see.”
The scout didn't seem offended by the suggestion. “Maybe. So what do we do now?”
That was a good question, and the scout wasn't the only one asking it. There were half a dozen defenders in the truck with him, using it as a mobile emplacement with the reinforced sides as cover. They'd heard the news and were watching him expectantly, expecting him to have a solution.
Only what solution was there? “We split up, too. Catherine, once the shooting starts take us after the western group.” That would be the more dangerous one, if any of them got past the defenders. He continued grimly. “Everyone on the western and eastern ends of the rise, pull back and try to circle around to hit them from another angle. And anyone who's got Molotovs, grenades, whatever, get ready to use them. Remember, the refuge is less than three miles south of us. We can't let them win here.”
On that note . . . “Wes, get in touch with Grimes and let him know what's going on. If he can spare anyone have him send them to protect the refuge, just in case things go bad here. And while you're at it get the defenders there and anyone else who can hold a gun ready to defend yourselves.”
“Right,” Wes replied, sounding shaken.
Lewis continued to whisper instructions. He could see the blockheads approaching now, ducking from cover to cover as if avoiding eyes on the rise. They'd be close enough to open fire soon.
Catherine leaned out of the driver's window below him. “How do we do this, Lewis?” she hissed.
It took him a second to realize she meant what he wanted to do with the truck. “As soon as I open fire with this thing the truck's going to become a target,” he replied. “So we might as well help out the left flank by using the headlights to pinpoint the enemies for our shooters and blind our targets.”
She frowned up at him, looking owlish in her night vision goggles. Since she'd been driving the truck she'd needed to have a pair. “I was thinking we'd try driving around so we won't, you know, get shot at.”
“You're not dodging bullets in a truck,” Lewis answered dryly. “We might end up moving if we need to, but at first we'll want a stable platform to shoot from. Maybe after the blockheads take out our headlights.”
Before she could reply the tense quiet around them was shattered by the sharp cracks of dozens of rifles, and below the rise the trees and scrub oak thickets lit up like stars in Lewis's night vision with muzzle flashes.
The enemy definitely knew they were here.
* * * * *
Lewis immediately returned fire with the M2, the shouting around him and noise of gunfire becoming a distant buzz to the roar of the weapon.
He still heard the sharp pings of bullets striking around him as he panned across the muzzle flashes below, not due to the volume of those ricochets but what they meant. He could only hope that the reinforced metal around the top and sides of the heavy machine gun, along with his body armor and helmet, would protect him, because he was going to be the enemy's number one target.
For good reason. Under his withering hail of fire the muzzle flashes winked out, enemy soldiers either hit or taking cover from the M2. Some of them were illuminated by the truck's headlights as Catherine flicked them on, the vehicle's engine roaring to life in preparation to move.
The defenders were getting over their initial panic at the surprise attack, and around him he heard others also opening fire. Soon after that the twinkling stars of muzzle flashes we
re joined by brighter novas as Molotov cocktails and grenades were hurled at the enemy.
Unfortunately the explosions weren't all happening in the blockheads' neck of the woods. Lewis winced and ducked slightly as the truck rocked beneath him from a grenade detonating nearby. He wasn't sure if it was a stray shot, shrapnel, or just his imagination, but he could've sworn he heard something whizz by his right ear.
He looked around, trying to find the thrower, or any other weapon. There were plenty of muzzle flashes he could still see, but they were sporadic and never anywhere near where he was firing. The enemy seemed to be doing their best to mitigate the damage he was doing with the heavy machine gun, and even with night vision he couldn't be sure he was hitting anything.
What seemed like only moments into the fighting he abruptly found himself flat on his back, nearly blinded by stars flashing across his vision and ears ringing. He had the vague impression he'd fallen on top of one of the other men in the back of the truck, who was now leaning over him shouting in alarm.
The spinning in his head was joined by a bouncing sensation as the Mayor lurched the truck into motion to move them to a new position. There was no sign of headlights, although it was hard to see anything with his vision obscured by the cab and the sides of the truck around him. That and it was hard to focus his eyes.
Lewis struggled to get his thoughts together, just long enough to tear off his night vision goggles and shove them at the man leaning over him. “Man the gun!” he shouted.
The defender abruptly went silent. “You're alive!” he said, sounding shocked. Then he raised his voice. “He's alive!” There were a few shouts of relief from the other men in the truck as they jounced along.
“Man the gun!” Lewis shouted again. His hand was waving wildly due to the truck's motion, maybe a bit due to his dizziness, and the goggles slapped the man in the chest. That finally got the defender's attention and he hastily snatched the night vision gear away, lurching to his feet and grabbing at the M2's mountings to get behind it.
As soon as Lewis was alone, relatively speaking, he lifted trembling fingers to feel at his helmet. There was a deep dent there, which started less than an inch above the rim and dug a furrow up towards the top.
Less than an inch. Just a bit lower and the bullet would've destroyed the night vision goggles. And scattered his brains across the other defenders in the back of the truck. Lewis had to hold back a slightly hysterical laugh at how his mind, just for a moment, had prioritized the goggles first.
He had to get his act together, quick. He had no idea how the fight was going, but what he did know was that the truck had stopped and the defender above him had opened fire with the M2.
Who was that? Billy Yates, maybe? Whoever it was that should be Lewis up there, not him. Lewis wasn't injured, not really, and he had no right to order anyone else to take the riskiest position when he could do it himself. He tried to push to his feet, and suddenly it felt like the truck was lurching beneath him again as another wave of dizziness struck.
Okay, maybe he wasn't just fine. He let himself sink back down and closed his eyes, listening to the shouting, the sounds of gunfire and explosions, and the screams of injured and dying men. At least he had his noise canceling earphones, or the racket might've been overwhelming. He could only imagine how the defenders around him were handling it.
His radio abruptly crackled with the welcome sound of Jane's voice. Although her news wasn't so welcome. “The blockhead snipers are moving.”
Lewis fumbled for the transmit button. “Just yours?”
“And mine,” Tam spoke up. “And the ones farther south. Almost fifty in all. It looks like they're using the distraction to try to sneak up. And blockheads are starting to come out from the emplacements farther east and head our way, too. Hundreds. There are signs of those stationed in Aspen Hill getting ready for something big, too.”
He cursed. “Scare them off, and make sure whoever's got the detonator is ready to take out the canyon if they have to. Things are going bad here . . . we can't handle a major attack.”
It was rare to hear his wife sound uncertain, but Jane definitely sounded that. “I'll do my best. But you do know what “hundreds” means, right?”
From only a few feet away he heard the rattling, pinging noise of bullets bouncing off or piercing the truck's side. The engine roared to life as Catherine moved them again, and Lewis determinedly grabbed the side of the truck and dragged himself up.
As they bounced along he lifted his head enough to search through the darkness for signs of the enemy. The moment they stopped he fumbled his G3 off his shoulder and began shooting at the closest muzzle flashes.
He might not be able to man the M2 in his condition, but at least he could provide Billy some cover fire. Maybe keep him from taking a bullet to the dome.
The blockheads were behind the cover of some trees and more deadfall, making his shots difficult. Since the Browning M2 could chew through even logs eventually, and Billy definitely seemed to be trying, Lewis focused on keeping the enemy pinned down until the heavy machine gun did its work. He just hoped it would do it quick.
In spite of his best best efforts, and the efforts of the other defenders in the truck bed, before too long enemy soldiers behind other cover began popping out shooting directly at Billy. And to a lesser extent at the rest of them. Still jittery from his near brush with death, Lewis ducked down and sprayed his bullets wildly at the spot of cover they'd been trying to clear. If nothing else maybe those blockheads would stay pinned down, at least.
To his relief half a minute later the idling truck lurched into gear, and the Mayor drove them away in search of a new vantage point.
He'd been so occupied with the fighting that he hadn't even paid attention to what was going on over the radio. “Lewis?” Jane asked for the second time. “Lewis, are you okay? What do you mean it's going bad?”
He dropped down into the safety of the truck bed with the others, including Billy, and hit the transmit button. But not to answer his wife. “Wes, radio Grimes.” The colonel had promised reinforcements, but Lewis had sent them to the refuge. That wasn't going to be very useful for them in this fight. “Most of our defenders are in a genuine shootout here, and the blockheads are getting ready to push up from the valley. We need some sort of show of force or we could end up losing this area.”
There was no answer, which Lewis hoped meant the young man was already complying. Jane had stopped asking after him, maybe comforted by the sound of his voice verifying that he was still okay. Or maybe she had her own problems to deal with.
Either way he was distracted from the radio as they screeched to a stop. Billy started to rise, but Lewis put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down, retrieved his night vision, and went after the M2 himself. He still felt like the world was spinning slowly around him, and any movement quicker than a sloth's made him want to puke his guts out, but he could man the machine gun.
There were certainly plenty of enemies. After what felt like way too long Lewis found the more extensive cover he'd been targeting before Catherine moved them, and he turned the gun that way. They had a better angle on it now, and he was able to mow down a few blockheads as the others scrambled for new hiding spots. Which put many of them in the sights of the defenders farther down the rise.
“Um, Lewis?” Wes's voice, confused, uncertain. It sounded completely out of place in the nightmare battle around him.
Lewis kept firing even as he used his shoulder to tap his mic. “What?” Harsher than he'd intended, but who could blame him?
“Grimes's people want to know where you are.”
Letting his hands drop to his sides, Lewis ducked down and stared blankly ahead. “Where we . . . what?”
“Are you to the north or to the south of the fight? East or west? What terrain? Who's you and who's the enemy?”
After what felt like too long, his dazed mind processing the question, Lewis answered. “We're spread out on a rise to the south of the
enemy, being attacked by two groups to the northwest and northeast.”
“Okay.”
For a confusing moment Lewis waited for more, but that was it. Why did Grimes want to know the specifics of their location? If he'd sent people to the refuge the directions weren't really necessary, since the defenders there would be able to point the reinforcements the right way.
Not that it really mattered. At best the soldiers coming to help would arrive in time to mop up, assuming there were any defenders left by that point. Lewis shrugged off that unpleasant thought and continued firing at the enemy's crude cover. If he could only get past that stupid pile of logs . . .
A blockhead popped out from behind a tree not far from where he was shooting, raising his rifle to aim at the truck. But before Lewis could target him the man abruptly dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. Almost at the same time, the racket of gunfire became even more disorienting as dozens more weapons joined in.
A moment later Jack Hornady's came over the radio, shrill and excited. “The blockheads on the east flank are dropping like flies!”
Lewis stared at the dead man, vaguely aware that the blockheads behind the cover he'd been aiming at were also dropping, or stumbling into view only to be shot and flop to the ground. “Good shooting,” he said numbly.
A new voice appeared on his radio. “Thanks, Aspen Hill. We're cleaning your mess up, now be sure to let your people know we're friendlies.”
After a stunned moment Lewis relayed the order, not only over the radio but also by shouting it into the night. Somewhere out there, farther north he guessed, Grimes's reinforcements had miraculously showed up to help them.
He addressed the newcomers over his headset. “Our mess? The blockheads didn't break through on our end.”