by Joshua Hood
The idea was to hammer the pick into the iron door and once it was open, use the “ram” to breach the wooden door behind it. It was slow, especially when the men didn’t work together, and when the ornamental security door was finally forced open, they had been standing in front of the fatal funnel for ten seconds.
The “ram” was a heavy steel cylinder that had handles attached to the top. The breacher was too close to the door and couldn’t get any power out of his hips. So the first hit glanced off the sturdy oak door.
“Hit it again,” J.T. yelled over the net.
The man took a step back and hit the door right above the knob. The weakest part of the door was the locking mechanism, and the second blow tore it from the door frame with a groan.
The breachers moved off the porch as the point man moved up and tossed a flashbang into the open doorway. Instead of following it in, he waited for it to explode before entering the house.
“Get in there,” Renee muttered as she slapped the dashboard in frustration.
They were doing everything possible to give whoever was inside the upper hand. By not “riding the bang” into the house, they had once again failed to grab the momentum.
The team looked rusty and unsure. They needed to be the aggressors, but instead they were waiting. Whatever advantages J.T. had hoped to exploit had been squandered from the moment they pulled up on the objective.
Finally the point man made the decision to push into the house. He made entry, followed by four assaulters. Just as the last man crossed the threshold, though, a massive explosion erupted in the entryway.
The explosion created a vacuum at the breach point, as the overpressure sought the path of least resistance. The expanding gases hurtled out of the doorway in a ball of black-tinged fire. Renee watched as one of the operators was spat out of the doorway, a mangled heap of disjointed arms and legs.
As the smoke cleared, she could see that the shock wave had knocked the remainder of the assault team off the porch and singed the perfectly manicured azaleas that were planted near the front of the house. Burning wood and crown molding drifted slowly to the ground in the still morning air and then bright yellow muzzle flashes erupted from inside the house.
Windowpanes were punched out on the second floor as muzzles ported the glass and heavy machine-gun fire opened up on the team below.
Renee couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Five members of the assault team went down as heavy fire raked over the rest of the team. The radio was useless due to the heavy amount of traffic, and she could hear men yelling for help over the gunfire.
Ignoring the general’s warning to act as an observer, she flung open her door and stepped out into the street. Snapping her rifle up toward the house, Renee began firing controlled pairs into the upper window. She shot at the muzzle flashes but was unable to make out the shooters.
“Do we have any smoke?” Renee yelled at Steve, who sat wide-eyed in the front seat, watching the firefight unfold.
He was vapor locked, and Renee had to jump back into the van and punch his shoulder to get his attention.
“Steve, I need you to pay attention.”
Shaking off the initial shock, he tried to focus on what she was saying.
“Do we have any smoke? We have to go get those guys.”
“I think there’s some gas in the back.”
“Do something with this while I check.” She handed him the rifle before sliding into the cargo area. There were two rows of benches mounted on the thin metal walls of the van, and they hinged open to reveal storage space beneath them.
Renee found some gas masks and medical bags in the first storage bench, and she tossed them on the floor as she opened the second bench. She could hear someone firing in the backyard, but she kept searching until she found a forty-millimeter gas launcher and a row of green ammo cans. Frantically she pulled each can up so she could read the label and dropped them back into a heap until she found one marked “CS.”
The launcher looked like a huge revolver with a buttstock attached, and Renee snapped the breech open and began feeding munitions into the black cylinder. There were five chambers, and after she filled each one she locked the breech closed.
Taking a second to pull a mask over her head, she tugged down on the black straps until they were tight and placed her palm flat on the filter. Renee sucked in to ensure she had an airtight seal. She didn’t want to gas herself, especially since the bulky mask already cut down on her field of view. Sliding the left door open, she hopped out of the van and moved up behind Steve, who was shooting over the hood.
Tapping him on the back, she grabbed her rifle before handing him a mask. A man appeared in the burned-out doorway of the house and tossed a grenade at the agents in the front yard. The frag went off with a deep boom ten feet from where J.T. was hunkered on the ground. The explosion sent clods of dirt and grass showering down on him, but still he refused to move.
Once Steve had his mask on, Renee grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close. “I’m going to deploy the gas and then we go,” she yelled through the thick filter.
Her voice was muffled, but he nodded and hopped back into the driver’s seat while she brought the launcher up to fire. Unable to see the sight, Renee estimated the range and fired the first gas canister at the front door. The propellant from the munition left a white trail as it arced toward the target, but the round hit high above the door and bounced out into the grass.
Adjusting her aim, she fired the next round right through the doorway. The munition struck the shooter in the chest as he raised his rifle to fire on the van and backed him into the house.
Renee shifted fire to the second story, arcing two more rounds into the shattered windows. She knew there were only two more canisters left and decided to put them into the grass at the front of the house before jumping into the van.
Steve shifted into drive as the caustic white smoke began rising from the ground. Renee barely had time to get set before he floored it.
Steve picked a spot between the house and the downed men, while Renee fought to close the right-side door the team had left open after jumping from the van. When he hit the brakes, she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor. The stock of her rifle hit her in the side of the face, knocking the mask loose and breaking the seal.
Renee could feel the gas slipping into her mask as she jumped from the van. As it wafted past the broken seal, it got trapped inside the mask and immediately attacked the sensitive mucous membranes of her tear ducts. Her eyes shut involuntarily against the pain. It’s not called tear gas for nothing, she thought as her lungs began to burn.
Grabbing the closest man by the casualty evac strap sewn into his heavy vest, she dragged him to the van. She fought the overwhelming urge to vomit as the gas slipped down her throat. Renee felt her tendons straining and she was very cognizant that she could rip her bicep if she wasn’t careful. Ignoring the pain, she continued pulling him toward the van, until Steve appeared and effortlessly relieved her.
Taking a moment to clear the mask, Renee held her breath before resealing it over her face. Once the tear gas made contact with her skin, it deposited the activated crystals, which fed off the sweat running into her eyes. The molten liquid found its way into her pores and burned like acid.
The wounded in the van reverted to survival mode instead of helping their teammates get to safety. They fought over the extra masks like a bunch of children while another round of gunfire poured from inside the house. Wisps of black smoke were beginning to rise from the roof of the structure, and Renee realized that the munitions had started a fire.
I’ve got to get to the doc.
Her lungs were heavy as she ran to the edge of the house. Each breath was more difficult to catch than the one before, and her eyes were watering heavily. Renee slipped up behind what was supposed to be the perimeter team. The men had their backs to her and were struggling to pull their masks tight over their heads.
Renee was surprised tha
t they had actually brought their masks, since the rest of the team couldn’t be bothered with the extra kit. She reached up and squeezed the rearmost man on the shoulder to alert him of her presence. His body tensed under her light grip, and he turned awkwardly to see who had gotten behind him. If the situation hadn’t been so grave, it would have been comical. The bulky mask robbed him of his peripheral vision, so much so that he was forced to turn his entire body to see over his shoulder. It was as if the mask had made his neck immovable.
Renee noticed the fear in the man’s eyes and gave him a second to compose himself. The situation sucked and she could see that he had already checked out mentally. Using rudimentary hand signs, she motioned that she was going to move around to get a better look. But the agent shook his head vigorously and signaled for her to stay put.
Renee shoved him out of her way and moved up to the lead man, who was posted at the corner. The smell of smoke made its way past her filter, and she knew they were about to lose any chance of getting the doctor out alive.
“Are you going to do something or just stand here?” she yelled into his ear. Her voice was muffled and ragged under the gas mask. The agent had to lean his head back to hear, and when he shouted back at her, Renee had no idea what he was saying.
There was no point in talking. She was about to push him out of the way when he brought his muzzle up and turned back to his sector. Renee squeezed the back of his arm, letting him know she was ready, and waited for him to take the lead. She prayed he’d been paying attention while pulling security on the backyard, because she needed to trust him to lead her in.
Hugging the wall, they moved around the corner and toward the back door. Between the windows and the yard, there were too many angles for the two of them to cover. The threat could come from anywhere and it was her responsibility to cover the point man.
She was placing her life in the hands of a stranger.
Renee wanted to take the mask off. It made it impossible to get a good sight picture because she couldn’t get her cheek to the stock of the rifle. If a threat appeared, she would be point shooting, which was not the preferred method.
The point man stopped suddenly in front of her, and his rifle locked on to a tree ten meters to their right. Slowly a member of the security element peeked out from behind the giant oak. He moved out just enough to get their attention but refused to leave the cover of the large tree.
She could see the bodies of two of his teammates lying motionless on their faces near the cover. The man made no attempt to help them but slowly raised an outstretched finger toward the second-story window adjacent to Renee. She looked up in time to see the blinds moving, and a barrel appeared, pointing at the tree.
The man ducked out of the way just as three shots splintered through the glass. The rounds sent bark flying off the tree while Renee lined up for a shot. She fought to bring the optic in line with the mask as her point man dropped to the ground. Flicking off the safety with her thumb, she fired a round at the target and cursed as it went wide.
The muzzle began pivoting down to address the new threat, forcing Renee to rip the mask off her face with her left hand. Firing two more rounds in an effort to keep her attacker off balance, she felt the stinging effects of the gas once again.
The gunfire from the window was ineffective, forcing the man to expose his body for a better shot. Renee centered the Aimpoint’s dot on his chest and fired again. She allowed the muzzle rise to carry the three-round burst up his chest and watched his head kick back as the final round struck him in the forehead.
Reaching down, she grabbed ahold of her partner’s vest and tried to drag him to his feet. They had lost the element of surprise, and she needed to get into the house before the defenders moved to the back. The agent was halfway to his feet and Renee was already pushing him forward. He dug his feet into the ground to halt his forward momentum, forcing Renee to dodge around him.
Snatching a flashbang from the man’s kit, she saw the back door a few feet ahead. There was too much of a chance that it was booby-trapped and she just wasn’t willing to risk it. Arcing past the door, she tried to steady the rifle on top of the bang she held in her left hand.
There had to be another way in.
Just past the porch, she found the floor-to-ceiling windows of the solarium. Juggling the rifle and the flashbang, she placed the muzzle over her left forearm and pulled the metal pin with her right index finger. Praying the flashbang was heavy enough to breach the plate glass, she hooked the metal munition through the window and into the room.
Renee punched the bottom corner of the window with her muzzle, and the large pane quickly shattered. Ducking her head, she stepped through the makeshift breach and waited for the explosion she knew was soon to follow.
It came in a white-hot flash of light and deep sound. The concussion reverberated off the walls and slammed into her like a kick to the chest. She’d spent years training with live flashbangs being thrown on top of her and knew she had to keep moving. Her body leapt into action on instinct.
Renee could almost hear her CQB instructor yelling the checklist of a proper room entry at her as she moved.
“Hard corner, primary scan . . .” She mirrored each step as she cleared the room.
The tile-lined solarium was empty, but she had a foothold into the house and showed no signs of stopping. Carefully stepping into the hallway, she snapped her rifle to the left. A man stood dazed and her safety came off as she fired center mass. She saw the blood mist onto the wall and was moving to her right before his body hit the ground.
Two doors stood open on either side of the hall. She needed another body but stood alone. There was nowhere for her to hide, and her left hand swept to her belt for the flashbang that wasn’t there.
Shit, move.
Renee had learned the basics of CQB at Bragg, but it wasn’t until she was sent to the Direct Action Resource Center, or DARC, in Little Rock, Arkansas, that she mastered the lethal art. Under the tutelage of Rich Mason and his Special Operations cadre, the wheat was separated from the chaff.
As heavy metal blasted from speakers attached to the catwalk, they would don their gas masks before entering the blacked-out kill house. Inside, role players armed with Simunitions waited in the shadows to teach them the difference between life and death. Knowing she’d had the best training in the world, she pushed forward.
She was well past the point of no return when she heard a scuffing sound to her right. She crowded the left wall and switched to combat clearing, a technique designed to maximize speed while giving the operator the best chance at survival.
The known threat in the room dictated that she clear that room first, and she dutifully turned her back to an open door. She was playing a numbers game now, weighing risk versus reward. She saw a foot in the corner of the room and was getting ready to take a shot when something slapped her hard in the back. The impact sent her reeling headfirst into the room.
Fighting to keep her rifle up, Renee heard another round zip past her head as she pulled the slack out of the trigger. Knowing she was in a bad spot, she tried to move out of the line of fire without getting hit again.
Fuck!
Renee was a split second away from shooting Dr. Keating in the head, but upon identifying her target, she released the pressure on the trigger.
She felt someone moving into the room behind her, and she turned her head in time to see an AK-47 pointing at her head before three shots punched through the man’s chest.
Her unlikely savior appeared in the doorway, his gas mask still covering his face. The man she’d left outside had come in after her, and not a moment too soon.
The fire was raging upstairs and they could hear wood splintering as it was consumed by the blaze. Any second now, the roof would collapse and they’d all be trapped. Renee grabbed hold of the doctor’s shirt and dragged him out of the room. Pushing him headfirst through the twisted door frame, she paused to check the pulse of the two mangled agents lying in
the entryway hall. They were both dead and from the looks on their faces hadn’t felt it.
Outside, the local police had made the scene and secured a wide perimeter as the upper floor of the house caved in. The smoke was dense around the front of the house and Renee pushed the doctor toward the van so they could get some fresh air.
Assistant Agent in Charge Jim Green looked totally defeated as he briefed police commanders and the federal agents who would be handling the investigation from now on. Ambulances carted the wounded off to the hospital as Renee pushed the doctor into the back of the van and slammed the door behind them.
She was sweaty, bleeding, and totally pissed off when she fit a pair of flex cuffs over the doctor’s wrists, pulling them tight. Renee knew that it wouldn’t be long before the Feds took control of their prisoner; there was no way she was going to retain custody of him after what just happened.
“Listen up, doc, because I’m only going to ask this once. If you lie to me I’m going to shoot you.” She slipped the SIG from her chest holster and pointed it between his legs to make sure he got the point. “I want to know everything you have on whatever you sold Decklin two nights ago. You have less than a minute.”
Dr. Keating looked over at Steve, expecting him to do something. When it was obvious the agent wasn’t going to step in, he tried stalling. Renee’s patience was already thin and she didn’t have time for his games. She slammed the barrel across the side of his face before hitting him in the throat with the web of her left hand. Using the momentum of the throat strike, she slammed his head hard against the metal interior and squeezed.
“You’re going to kill him,” Steve said calmly as the doctor’s face turned red. Renee knew what she was doing, and after a few seconds she released the hold on his throat. Keating gasped for air and tried coughing his Adam’s apple out of the back of his throat.
Holding up his zip-tied hands in submission, the doctor managed to say, “Stop. I’ll tell you what I know.” Renee slipped the pistol back into its holster and glanced out the front windshield to see if anyone was coming. The scene outside was chaotic and no one was paying them any attention—yet.