Black lowered his head. “Molly, send in the first wave.”
White's ears flicked. “Defeat approaches them.”
“And death shall follow,” Black said.
79
Moraine went to the hotel roof north side. She dashed across the diamond cut gravel, landing prone near a parapet. She refused to miss the opportunity the dogs presented her.
Moraine loaded a ten round magazine into the rifle, adjusted the distance and focus on the Barrett’s scope. After three slow exhales, she settled her right eye behind the eyepiece. The scope optics displayed numbers, adding adjustments to Moraine’s precise calculations.
Black and White sat underneath the powerful Leopold lens. She set her crosshairs on White, pulled back the bolt and drove forward an explosive tipped fifty-caliber round into the chamber. She eased her finger around the trigger.
A high shrill stabbed the air, pierced with pain. She caught her breath, a tingle danced the length of her spine. One Delta Force operator bolted to his feet.
“Wait, don’t go,” Moraine said.
“But look at them, Moraine.”
Moraine hustled up on her knees. The screams echoed over the grassy field as children in the hundreds descended the hill. Their voices became grinding steel against her ears. She fought the rising tears as people fled from their entrenched positions, running out to save the babies.
Moraine sprinted from her sniper perch, taking the Barrett with her. “Cover me, Sergeant Robinson.”
“Rodger that, Moraine.”
She bounded down the stairwell leading outside into a world of insanity. Moraine knew Black and White pulled an elaborate ruse, using the little ones as bait.
She stopped, glanced back at Jenny standing on the balcony with her mouth twisted in a grimace of horror. “What's going on, Jenny?”
“My God, Moraine.”
“Stop gawking and tell me, Jenny.”
Jenny swallowed and focused on the tykes racing and tumbling and screeching from their pursuers.
“Get pass the screaming, it’s hard but detach for the moment.” Moraine searched for the ambush. Other adults poured into the kill zone in waves. A few hesitated, holding the line. Others left in groups to rescue the tortured kids.
“I see tiny dogs, Moraine. Chasing and biting their heels, herding them into the open.”
“Ok, they’re drawing the defenders out. What else? Where’s the trap?”
Pete joined Jenny, the other college students ran by Moraine headed for the stampede. She ignored them, needing to keep the battle from crumbling.
Moraine squinted, fighting the failing daylight, pushing her senses against the sudden madness. She spotted them. Several hundred pit bulls pacing fast in a flanking maneuver. They came in from the east with the dying sun gleaming against their eyes.
Moraine turned back to Jenny, watching her manipulate her rifle with awkward movements. “Jenny, wait.”
Jenny loaded a grenade in her rifle’s launcher. A metallic thunk sounded, and the twenty millimeter grenade arced over the defensive wall of cars, hit, and bloomed into an orange cloud and heavy explosion. Torn pit bulls splashed everything in blood and fur.
The rescuers in the middle paused. And the Canines attacked with fury.
80
Moraine counted her options and none bode well for the Bakersfield militia. Everything she sighted on favored the dogs. The low light conditions, the pit bulls ambushing, the shock and awe of screaming children.
Moraine admonished herself on needing to stop Black and White. She pushed ahead, racing for the little ones tumbling down the grassy incline boiling with Canines.
The fighters engaged the dogs, killing the mangy horrors descending the hill. Hank's soldiers used knives, rifle butts, steel-toed boots, and hot lead.
Dogs deployed the tactic of piling on fighters in teams of five, biting and grounding their enemies for the kill. A clash of screams and yowls punctuated the steamy air.
Moraine slung the light weight Barrett and pivoted up her assault weapon. She shot dogs on the run, or those in mid-attack. The animals did their best to avoid her skills, darting between the kids while throwing themselves at the adults.
A cluster of youngsters ran for the hotel, guided by Alice. Another large knot crumpled on the dried grass crying. Others drifted in a daze amongst the blood soaked nightmare. She couldn’t help them unless she stopped the devious pair orchestrating the madness.
Three Delta operators caught up with Moraine, firing their rifles. Dogs popped off their paws from the rounds. Many succumbed to the withering firepower delivered by the armed professionals.
She shuffled forward, dropping targets in a continuous flow. Dogs avoided her on purpose, swinging wide yet launching at the trailing operators. Black and White remained at their command posts, overseeing the vicious clash. Lap dogs darted up to the Combat Canines, relaying orders from officers battling the foe.
“Cover me,” Moraine commanded, raising her voice above the tumult.
Moraine strapped down her M4. She dropped to the ground so sudden the operators hesitated a second. She unstrapped the Barrett Adder and aimed at White. Once again the Leopold scope dialed in her distance to the target as claws, hind legs, and slobbering jowls obscured her view.
She wanted White as she peered through the scope. “Hold them off me.” She focused the crosshairs on White’s shaggy forehead. The Leopold's electronic numbers flashed green, ready for her to engage the trigger.
White appeared to notice her and jinked towards Black.
Moraine nudged the barrel, an imperceptible change before squeezing the trigger. The rifle roared. The explosive tipped round blasted away at a subsonic speed. A scarlet plume burst from Black. The Canine leaped, not on its own, but from the bullet’s impacting blast. Shredded fur landed beyond her sight and neither Canine dominated their superior position.
Sergeant Robinson said, “Delta Force forever.”
Moraine hustled to a stand. The dogs slowed, a heavy silence swept over the battle in waves. “It ain’t over, Robinson. Not until they’re both burning in hell.”
What she noticed first amazed her and brought a breath of relief. The dogs scattered. The bulk of the Canine army collapsed panting, exhausted from their violent exertions. Despite the sudden shift, a big pack continued fighting and dying.
Moraine pulled herself from the unsettling display. She charged the hill, digging her toes into the dirt as the sun dipped below the horizon. The Delta operators stayed with her. She scanned the field and crested the rise once coveted by Black and White.
Moraine knelt at the bloody patch near her booted feet. Black lay in a twisted heap. Pink entrails glistened in the dust. Half his skull, the sole intact remnant of his existence, sat blown open. She stared at his teeth and dead tongue. She gazed into his right eye, wondered at his last thoughts before he died.
Moraine leaned her Barrett against a feeding bin, something training told her not to do. She doubted the dogs intelligent enough to shoot her in the back. She removed her SEAL Pup knife. An object glimmered behind Black’s shattered head.
Moraine wiggled the SEAL Pup’s sharp tip into the shattered skull. She flicked aside bone and brain matter, uncovering a Damascus Chip. The circular and dime sized piece of technology contained a small grid with a blinking LED. She seized the fragile silicon wafer, holding the dangerous device closer for a better inspection.
“Amazing invention,” Sergeant Robinson said.
Moraine crushed the thin object between her calloused fingers, strangling the amber glow. She stood, flinging the pieces into the fading sunset.
Moraine studied the scene before her. Bucky Brown wagons in the hundreds lined in neat rows sat before the four. She drew in slow breaths, calming her nerves.
Sergeant Robinson handed Moraine a night vision set. “Here, take these.”
Moraine took the harness, strapping the rig over her hair. She cinched the straps and flipped the goggles over her eyes and pressed the
activation switch. Her world transformed into an electronic emerald as the final rays of dusk winked out, bathing the team in blackness.
“It’s quiet,” an operator announced.
Hank's baritone broke the calmness. Cheers went up.
“Sounds of victory,” Sergeant Robinson said.
Moraine pursed her lips, raised her M4 and activated the green laser. “Let’s go find him.”
The four started at an easy pace, their weapons swaying, lasers striking into the darkness.
81
Moraine loved the darkness and so did White. The four operators worked through the parked Bucky Browns, picking out odd shapes within the haunting stillness. A clump of trees blocked their route, and beyond rose the gentle lowing of bovines.
Manure assaulted the air with a sudden pungency. A long wooden fence appeared, surrounding a barn crowded with live beef.
Moraine halted, checked her flanks. She sensed feral gazes from several dark corners.
Sergeant Robinson bumped Moraine’s arm. “We're entering a trap?”
“Oh, so obvious.” She climbed the fence into the stall, setting her boots on squishing earth, and waited. Cattle shuffled. Something darted across her path.
The irksome odor of methane tripled her headache and knotted her queasy stomach. Enormous humps lay in tight groups. A few cattle slumbered while others awakened, annoyed at the intruders.
Moraine respected White’s ability to keep up the struggle. But she wanted him to place his little nugget on the business end of her rifle barrel. She crept through the herd as the other Delta operators spread out.
Ripping fabric sounded.
“Fuck. One swiped my leg.” The operator swirled, looking for the culprit.
Moraine stopped. A growl. A figure dashed by. Rapid panting. An operator behind her cursed, she spun, finding him wrestling a dog attached to his calf. He removed a wicked combat knife from its sheath and stabbed with ferocious speed, ignoring the tiny yelps.
“Goddamned Chihuahua.”
Sergeant Robinson shushed. “Lower your fucking voice.”
“They know we’re here.”
“You get your rabies shot,” Moraine quipped.
“Not funny, Baxter.”
“I ain’t laughing.” She peeled herself from the group, vanishing into the building housing the cattle. She rubbernecked, making up for the lack of peripheral vision.
Moraine preferred the battle be between her and White. Her opponent desired the same, sending lackeys as a delaying tactic to harass the team, and boxing the three together to isolate her.
Moraine waded through the muck sucking at her booted feet. Bovine stares refracted a verdant incandescent from her NVGs, and she spotted a lone dog in the open.
Moraine pointed her M4 at the unmoving mutt. She approached slow until she reached it.
The Golden retriever with the smooth unknotted coat faced Moraine and yawned. White struck at the signal.
Moraine grunted from White's bite to her ear, locking the scream in her throat. She swung, butt stroking the hardened plastic into the collie. The Golden retriever sprinted ahead, chomped into a cow’s thick side. The beast bolted to her hooves. One thousand unhappy pounds drove upwards and got her pals going.
Moraine pivoted and White vanished into the growing chaos. She swept through the rising panic with the quickness of a sprinter. Rumps thumped into her, knocking her off balance and into the mud and sloppy manure.
Pain dazzled her right thigh, sharp and unforgiving from a grazing hoof. Her NVGs picked out White. The Canine burst from the confusion, locked his mouth on her damaged leg. His eyes reflected green light from the goggles she wore.
Moraine knocked the goggles off and launched the butt of her weapon for a blow. He moved quick, causing Moraine to stroke her own thigh. A sparkle of pain bloomed in her already wounded leg.
“Moraine, where are you.” Sergeant Robinson avoided the moving cattle escaping the harassing dogs.
“Don’t move, they might stampede.” She supported herself against a fence, praying for the agitated livestock not to crush her.
A furry body bounded a cow’s back, leaped off and headed for Moraine. Teeth sank into her cheek, a claw nicked her nose. Blood, warm and wet, splashed. Fangs clamped her M4 barrel, yanking with strong jerks. She pulled the trigger.
A yelp called out. She jammed a boot on the offending Saint Bernard’s neck and placed a second round in the Canine’s big head. A cow, startled by the blast, shoved its hoof backwards into her thigh. This time she cried out, surprised by her own scream.
“Where are you, White?”
Moraine scrambled over the fence and landed on her left shoulder. Her bullet wound protested with a hot stab of pain. She concluded the cow broke her thighbone as a steady throb and warmth filled the sore muscle. Her mental checklist: find the dog, and kill the dog, unraveled in a way she never expected.
White, she now discovered, created his own plan in tackling her. She arrived to the fight motivated and loaded with high-tech gadgets. He attacked with a methodical coldness, using the cattle and battleground to chip away at her defenses.
Anger flashed as she turned, searching for an operator. The cattle bellowing grew as they pressed the closed metal gate, straining both the chain and wood.
“Robinson,” she said.
“Yea.” Sergeant Robinson shouted above the tons of jostling bodies. He stood on a feed storage container above a sea of flesh joined by two other operators.
“Do you see the white dog?”
“No.”
Moraine rolled, shifting her frame to stay flexible. Shadows graced the scene, undulating, deceptive. The pain in her face, hand, and leg caused her to pick non-threatening figures dancing amongst the ground and random objects.
For a moment Moraine’s thoughts seized up and congealed. An overwhelming sense of overload dumped into her mind. This dog came pre-programmed with enough tactics and skills to make a Navy SEAL blush. What saved her ass; the dogs didn’t own arms or legs. She wallowed in the comfortable thought until White dragged her Barrett sniper rifle into view.
82
Moraine’s heart thumped as if someone dropped a thirty-pound medicine ball onto a rubber mat. Reality became fuzzy, bordering between the real and not real. The scene resembled a psyche test asking whether people talked to her from the television.
Once she answered her shrink, yes, and observed the Army captain’s look change from mild boredom to a clinical curiosity. The same curious stare floated into her own eyes as White dragged the Adder rifle five feet from her. He paused, panting from exertion.
White settled his gaze on her, barked a few lines in a conversational tone as if to say, “Bitch, I’m not done with you.”
Moraine nodded and wondered why she acknowledged the Combat Canine performing such a foreign and dangerous thing. A dog killing her with her own sniper rifle appeared both exotic and absurd.
An object hurtled from above Moraine. White yelped as the item landed near his hind legs. He growled low in his throat, displaying fangs at the Delta operator who threw the knife.
Moraine twisted. “Where’re your rifles?”
The men waved their bitten hands.
“They got us, Moraine,” Sergeant Robinson said. “We killed them with our knives, but they trapped us.” Robinson pointed at White. “He did this. A dog.”
White howled and resumed his work. Using a paw, he shoved the Barrett’s long barrel so the business end aimed at Moraine's face.
The Golden Retriever she spotted earlier trotted to Moraine, cocked his leg and peed.
Moraine blocked the yellow splash with her arms. She kicked and the Golden retriever skirted the blow. Next, a German shepherd arrived, snagged the M4 barrel and dragged the rifle further from her reach.
She drew Erik's Saturday Night Special and shot the shepherd. A Greyhound swooped in, clamped her gun hand with piercing incisors. With a wrist twist she shot twice, lodging two bullets in the ski
nny dog's chest. She swung the gun at White, fired but the hammer struck an empty chamber.
When she looked up, a sad looking hound trotted away with her M4.
A rueful laugh fled her cracked lips. She pitched Erik's gun at White who ducked the missile.
Moraine’s fighting resources diminished. With her rifle stolen, and a broken leg, she unsheathed her knife and reeled in her slipping sanity.
White stood above the sniper rifle, and with delicate movements worked the safety. His claws produced a continuous clack-clack against the tiny switch.
Moraine drove her forearms into the dirt, preparing to crawl. A growl erupted and another German shepherd formed from the shadows and pounced. He gripped her wounded thigh with sharp teeth, pinning her.
Moraine screamed. Her first righteous scream in years after the blast in Afghanistan peppered her body with nails, shrapnel, and blown marbles. She grimaced, struggled on her back, snapped out with her good foot while swinging her blade. The German shepherd dodged the lunging weapons.
A Chihuahua scampered forward and bit Moraine’s knife welding hand. Painful pricks punctured her skin. She released the Seal Pup, caught it with her free hand and drove the blade into the Chihuahua. Little did she know, the infamous Alvito died by her hands.
“Jesus Christ on a moped. Robinson, do something.” She flung the dying Chihuahua aside.
“Moraine, we’re stuck.”
Moraine gazed at the cattle up and moving as the Golden retriever returned to harassing the bovines, keeping the three operators hemmed inside the pen.
A solid clack reached her ears as White selected the fire position. He scrambled to the trigger and tapped at it with an overgrown claw. He performed the act with deep concentration, tongue out, focused.
Moraine recalled a baby's fart strong enough to set off the rifle. She raised her chin, readying to escape. The German shepherd lunged again, biting the same injured leg. Heat seared the muscles into an uncontrolled spasm.
Baxter’s War Page 26