Surviving Rage | Book 5

by Arellano, J. D.

  A short distance off to the east, the Apache Helicopter was landing in the small dirt area his men had cleared for the purpose.

  ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘We’re all here. We’ve got the girl. We’ve got the doctor. We’ve even got his assistant.’ he finished, smiling. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here and back to the P.Z.’

  The high-pitched, roaring engine of a powerful racing motorcycle drew his attention back towards the highway. Sommer was on his way back, and he’d expect a full report when he arrived.

  Who the fuck was the guy? Where did he come from? Why did he hold so much authority? Did they even need him? Maybe they could have captured these people on their own…

  ‘Did you know they would be here?’ he asked himself. ‘Was it you that found this spot, where they could be attacked and separated, then taken? Where their ability to form a protective shield around the people they were escorting would be neutralized?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, as he watched Sommer drive up the off-ramp from the highway.

  ‘It was all him.’

  ‘What was I thinking?’

  Bringing a hand up, Paul felt random pieces of cloth and shrink-wrapped items fall away from his arm. He squeezed his temples gently, trying to temporarily stop the pounding inside his skull.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘Wait, where am I?’

  Remembering the explosions that rocked the Stryker as they tried to escape their attackers, he forced his eyes open. The roof of the armored vehicle was above him, steady and unmoving. There was no sound of the vehicle’s heavy engine, only the distant sounds of something burning, parts of it crackling under oppressive heat. Closer and all around him, the sound of the wind came to him.

  ‘That’s weird,’ he thought. ‘It’s usually hard to hear the wind when the door is closed.’

  Using his arms, he forced himself up into a seated position, keeping his eyes closed as he did to keep the dizziness at bay. As he lifted his torso, he felt a variety of objects slip off of him, falling to the deck on either side of him. ‘Was I like, hiding under a pile of gear?’ he wondered, hoping that he hadn’t allowed fear to get the best of him.

  Once he stopped moving, he opened his eyes and looked around. The inside of the Stryker was empty. The rear door hung open, revealing a highway that was largely empty behind him, save the smoldering husk of one of the Humvees up against the retaining wall on the inside of the road.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ he wondered, straightening himself. The grogginess was fading slowly, and as he felt better, panic began to set in.

  Where were Isabella and Doctor Reed? What about Logan?

  He was supposed to protect them, and though he’d been enlisted for all of a week and a half, he took his commitment seriously.

  ‘Dammit, Paul,’ he said to himself, feeling remorseful. The empty, quietness of the road suddenly seemed like a heavy burden, falling upon his shoulders as he contemplated his failure. Making his way up to his knees, he reached out and grabbed his rifle, which he’d secured on the backside of the seat, out of view, and, at the time, out of the way when he’d leaned back to rest in his chair.

  Moving forward slowly, using his hands to hold onto anything he could to keep himself balanced, he made his way to the door. He could see a pair of boots on the end of two legs on the road, their owner’s torso out of view.

  At the exit, he grabbed the doorframe and paused, taking a moment to regain his equilibrium as he held onto the door frame at the rear of the ICV. Stepping down from the ICV to the road, he felt his legs give way as the shock of recognition hit him.

  Oh my God! A.J.!

  He felt tears form his eyes as he knelt there on the road, trying to find strength. Though he barely knew the Air Force Staff Sergeant, he still felt a sense of sorrow, knowing that the man had been killed in cold blood.

  After a few minutes, something told him he needed to move, so he took a few moments to look around the vehicle, verifying the others were truly gone, before stopping once more and staring off into the distance to the west, where the Humvee sat against the barrier.

  ‘Where’s the other Humvee?’ he wondered.

  Turning, he looked to the east and saw a helicopter landing near a service station aout a mile and a half away.

  Definitely don’t want to go that way.

  Looking back at the military vehicle a few hundred yards away, he wondered if there were any survivors left in the wreckage.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ he thought, before breaking into his newly learned ‘military jog,’ keeping one hand against his still throbbing head as he made his way to the other vehicle.

  “This is good,” Steve Sommer said, looking down at their prisoners as he paced in front of them. Stopping in front of the light skinned African-American man, he grinned. “Hey Doc. Remember me?”

  Reed looked away.

  Sommer laughed. “So who’s this guy?” he asked, turning his head to focus on the Army soldier that sat near the Mexican girl.

  “Apparently, that’s the girl’s dad,” Cotton answered from behind him.

  “Yeah?” he asked, reaching out and nudging the grizzled, thirty-something year old with his boot. “You’re her Dad?” he asked, skeptically. “Bullshit.”

  “Apparently the girl’s biological dad left.”

  Sommer chuckled. “Yeah, Mexican men are known for that shit.”

  Cotton nodded. “So this dumb fuck married her mom and raised her.”

  “Sucker.”

  “I know,” Cotton replied. He shrugged. “Anyway, I thought we might be able to use him.”

  Sommer grinned. “Yeah, I think we can.” Turning his head to look at Isabella, he said, “Hey.” When her eyes met his, he asked, “Is this guy important to you?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yes.”

  Spinning deftly on one leg, Sommer’s right foot shot out and drove into Logan’s midsection. The force of the kick knocked the wind out of him and lifted him off his feet, sending him flying backwards. He hit the pavement hard, then skidded along its surface for a few feet.

  Isabella cried out as she saw the man kick Logan, and as he came to a stop on the parking lot’s surface, she moved to go to him, only to be grabbed by the men around her.

  As Logan writhed in pain, Sommer walked over and grabbed her face hard, his powerful hand forcing it upward so that she was looking at him. “Do what we say, or I’ll hurt him much more than that,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

  Arriving at the Humvee, Paul was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of dead bodies and burning flesh.

  ‘Dear God…’ he thought, staggering slightly, before bringing his arm up to cover his mouth and nose with the inside of this elbow.

  Looking at the passenger side of the vehicle, he saw the dead form of the young black woman (Simmons, he reminded himself, suddenly embarrassed that he didn’t know his fellow soldier’s first name).

  Shit.

  The back row of the Humvee was a jumbled mess of equipment, gear, and the camouflage uniform-covered legs of another soldier.

  Feeling the urge to vomit rise up inside him, Paul fought through it and moved around the vehicle, towards the driver’s side.

  What he found there wasn’t much better. Staff Sergeant Nicholson’s dead eyes looked out the driver’s side window, staring into the sky, and in the rear, above the seat, the dead body of Specialist Rodriguez, who Paul had thought was cool, amusing, and generally someone he wanted to emulate, was lying atop the back of the seats, which had collapsed forward at some point.

  Dammit.

  “Hand me that bottle,” Sommer ordered.

  Cotton did so quickly, passing him the small bottle of ack Daniels whiskey.

  Sommer took a swig. “Ahhhh….” he exhaled. He admired the cheap bottle of liquor, then looked at Cotton. “Good job getting these fucks.”

  “Uh, thanks...Sir.” Cotton replied, still unsure of the man’s position in the hierarchy.

  Turning
to look at the Army Captain and Warrant Officer, he added, “as for you two, your efforts were barely satisfactory.”

  FItzgerald visibly swallowed. “I...don’t understand.”

  Sommer ignored the man. “Not so much you, though you’re not off the hook ‘til I say you are.” He pointed at the big man standing next to the Captain. “You. How the fuck did you miss? I lined those fuckers up in front of you.”

  O’Sullivan raised his hands defensively. “I said I could handle the helo’s weapons. I didn’t say I was an expert. Overall, I think I did pretty good.”

  Sommer stared daggers into the man. “Your efforts were BARELY SATISFACTORY. Did you not hear me, you Irish fuck?”

  The Warrant Officer stared back at him for a moment, then looked away.

  “Whatever,” Sommer said, taking another swig from the bottle. “Just so you know,” he added. “One of the reasons I’m irritated is because I wanted to see that SEAL’s fuckin’ corpse with my own eyes.”

  The big Irishman looked back at him impassively. “Sorry,” he said, after a moment. “Which vehicle was he in? I blew the shit out of bof’ ‘em.”

  “The second, which, you stupidly sent over the side of the wall,”

  “Not my fault,” O’Sullivan replied. “I targeted ‘em with a missile, blasted the shit of ‘em, then lit ‘em up with the thirty mike mike.”

  “Whatever,” Sommer replied with a wave of his hand. “If the blast didn’t kill them, or the thirty millimeter rounds, the fall did. That’s a long way down.”

  “I’m sure it did.” O’Sullivan replied, nodding.

  “And you guys checked the other Humvee for survivors, right?” he asked, looking at Cotton.

  “What?”

  Moving to the rear area of the Humvee, Paul shook his head as his eyes landed on the lifeless eyes of Specialist Rodriguez.

  Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, he stepped back and lowered himself to the ground, taking a knee on the pavement. He brought his gloved hand up to cover his face as he felt tears well up in his eyes. ‘Stay strong, Paul,’ he chided himself.

  “Unnnhhhh….”

  ‘What the heck?’ he asked himself, opening his eyes and turning his head to stare at the Humvee in surprise.

  “Unhhh,” a voice came from inside the collapsed area behind the front seats.

  “Holy crap!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and moving forward. Focusing in on the area the voice had come from, he noticed a pair of small boots down near the floorboard, underneath the folded seat.

  Oh my God….

  Placing both hands on the seat, he tried to push it back. It didn’t budge. ‘Dammit!’ he cursed, looking above the seat at Rodriguez’s corpse.

  ‘Sorry…’ he said, before pulling the man’s body off the pile. It fell forward, nearly taking him to the ground with it as it flopped to the pavement. Unwilling to be deterred by the way the man’s face smacked the pavement with a wet sound, Paul lunged back forward and placed both hands against the seat and pushed, trying to move it up and back so that he could free the trapped soldier. The seat moved slightly, but no more.

  “Dang it!”

  The voice under the seat, which he now understood to be that of Specialist Zhang, made a weak sound. “Mmmhhh…”

  Wanting to encourage the woman, Paul said, “Listen, I’m gonna get you out, okay?”

  As he watched, the woman’s boots moved slightly, straining to work their way free, to no avail.

  ‘Alright, you told her you were gonna get her out. How the hell are you going to do that?’ he asked himself. Moving forward again, he placed his hands on the seat and pushed as hard as he could, using his legs to give himself extra leverage. The seat moved a little more this time, but no more.

  “Frick!” he yelled, letting go of the seat and stepping back. Bringing his arm up, he leaned it on the frame of the vehicle, then brought his forehead to it as he sucked in big gulps of air. Closing his eyes, he cursed himself. ‘Come on, Paul! Figure this out! There has to be a way.’

  Stepping back, he looked at the seat. The metal was bent, disfigured by the impact of whatever had struck the Humvee.

  ‘If firefighters were here, they’d just use the ‘jaws of life’,’ he thought. Looking away, his eyes came to rest on the flattened rear tire. Staring at it for a minute, he looked back at the bent seat frame.

  That could work.

  Moving to the rear of the vehicle, he grabbed the rear gate, which, like much of the vehicle, had been warped by the blast, and forced it open. Stepping closer, he used his body to keep the gate open while he found and removed what he needed. Straining under the weight of the thing, he quickly moved back to where Zhang was trapped.

  ‘God, I hope this works,’ he thought, before heaving the vehicle jack up and wedging it under the seat frame. He inserted the hydraulic jack’s arm and began pumping it up and down. At first, it didn’t seem to do anything, but slowly he saw the gap underneath the seat begin to grow. The metal groaned in protest as he continued to work the handle up and down, moving with excited determination.

  Zhang’s boots wiggled slightly, moving more freely now. Pausing in his efforts, he grabbed one of the young woman’s ankles and pulled slightly. “Can you move?”

  “I…” Her leg moved a bit. “Not...much…” she said, before adding, “Hard...to...breathe…”

  Crap.

  “Okay, hold on, I’m gonna jack it up some more!” He grabbed the handle once more and began pumping it again. Sweat streamed down his face as he worked, silently glad that his idea was actually working, and grateful for the fact that the Humvee required such a powerful hydraulic jack with that much extending capability.

  “Better now!” Zhang’s voice called out.

  Stopping once more, Paul looked back at the gap and was surprised at how much it had grown. He’d been so focused, he hadn’t realized he’d managed to force the seat up nearly a foot and a half from the floorboard.

  “Okay, I’m gonna pull your legs!” he yelled. Grabbing the woman’s ankles, he did so, leaning back as he tugged. Fabric tore as he pulled steadily but carefully, bringing her body slowly towards him. He had to stop twice so that Zhang could wiggle free of pieces of metal grabbed at her uniform, as if the vehicle itself was trying to prevent her from leaving, but finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was free.

  Exhausted from the effort, the pair collapsed to the pavement. The two of them laid there, flat on their backs as they fought to catch their breath, sucking in the smoke-filled, acrid air.

  “What do you mean, ‘what?’” Sommer asked, staring at the Major.

  Cotton looked away, unwilling to hold the man’s gaze. “I mean,” he began, shrugging, “our job was to get them,” he said, pointing at Reed and Isabella. “We did that.”

  Stepping closer, Sommer clenched his fists as he glared at the other man. “Yeah? And what if there are survivors? What if those people tell others what happened here?”

  The Major shook his head. “Can’t be. We got them out of the Stryker. The one Humvee went over the wall, and did you see the condition of the other one? No one could have survived that.”

  Unable to control his temper, Sommer grabbed a handful of the man’s uniform at his chest and pulled him closer. “We don’t take chances.”

  Cotton pulled away, roughly shoving the man’s hand, but Sommer’s ironlike grip refused to let go. “Let go of me!”

  Sommer smirked as he watched the man struggle against his unrelenting grasp, then released his hold suddenly, causing the man to stumble backward. In an instant, Sommer stepped forward and hooked his heel around the back of the man’s leg while simultaneously slamming the flat of his palm into the soldier’s, sending him to the ground. Before Cotton could recover, the former Marine pulled his pistol and fired a round into the pavement inches from his head.

  Unable to help himself, Cotton flinched and gave a slight yelp of fear. Looking up at Sommer, he saw a malicious smirk on the man’s face as he
re-holstered his gun.

  “On this mission, only one person is in charge, and that’s me. Any variation from the mission will be approved by me,” he said, thumbing his chest, “and I’m not approving shit.” He turned to Fitzgerald and O’Sullivan

  “Get back up there,” he began, pointing upward. “Put a fucking missile in the Stryker. Put a fucking missile in the Humvee on the road, and put a motherfucking missile in the Humvee that went over the side.”

  Finally feeling his strength come back, Paul allowed himself to rest a little while longer. After a few moments, he heard the woman crying softly. Sitting up, he looked at her, then at the Humvee. He opened his mouth twice, wanting to say something that would help ease the pain of her loss, but he was unable to find the words.

  After some time, he did the one thing he could do: retrieve two of the few remaining water bottles that were still whole from the back of the Humvee. Walking back to where she sat, he passed one to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking up at him. Opening the bottle she took a sip, then removed one of her gloves and poured a small amount of water in her palm and used it to wipe her face, removing the grime that her tears had cut paths through. Putting her glove back on, she held out her hand. “Help me up?”

  Paul grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet.

  Standing near the wrecked Humvee, the two of them stared at each other for a minute. Each of them was bruised and bloodied, though somehow, miraculously, neither of them had been seriously injured.

  Lisa brought a hand up and wiped her brow again, then stepped away, moving to the center of the road so that she could look in each direction.

  “Stryker looks messed up,” she said.

  “Yeah, I think they hit us underneath with a grenade. Took out the tires.”

  “Any idea where the other Humvee is? The one with Serrano and the two Marines?”

  “And that boy…” Paul replied, as he shook his head. “No. Can’t really see anything when you’re inside that thing,” he said, pointing at the Stryker.