Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

by Joe Nobody

  It seemed like hours passed, but in reality, it was less than 10 seconds after the first shots before the safety was removed. Taking a deep breath and fully expecting to have his arm torn off by the incoming blizzard of lead, Bishop hurled the canister with every ounce of strength he could muster.

  There was a loud “thunk” just after the grenade had left his hand, immediately followed by a voice that screamed, “Fuck!” After a few seconds of recovery, the same danger-close throat screamed, “Grenade!”

  Realizing his throw had hit one of the incoming foes, and that they were far closer than he’d guessed, Bishop buried his face in the dirt and covered his ears.

  The banger exploded, less than 15 feet away.

  Up came the pump shotgun, Bishop working the weapon like a madman, firing blindly where his tortured brain calculated the foe would be. Was it his imagination or had the suppressive fire slowed? Keep the shots low. They’ll be on the ground now. Fire ankle high. Mow the grass.

  Cursing the non-lethal rounds in his weapon, the Texan continued to spray and pray, emptying the eight shells in less than three seconds. In a flash, his secondary, a .45 caliber pistol, was in his hands. He desperately wanted his carbine that was inside the house, leaning against the doorframe.

  His pistol was barking now, four of his eight available rounds spread low and fast.

  Roll right.

  Two rounds at a shadow.

  Roll again.

  Two more shots at an outline.

  Run... run like hell.

  A stream of bullets chased the Texan the short distance to the house, their angry hissing seeming to swarm his head. The corner of the structure, a sanctuary from the death that was trying to shred his body, appeared to be miles away.

  “Bishop! Coming in!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping Grim and Butter wouldn’t shoot him.

  It was too far, the bullets now so close he could feel the concussion wave against his head. The enemy’s aim was catching up. He wasn’t going to make it.

  A gun barrel appeared around the corner, emerging from the exact spot Bishop was trying to reach. The barrel began belching white fire. For just a moment, the Texan thought the attackers had somehow managed to get between the home and him. He dove headfirst, skidding painfully across the earth, his forward motion stopping just short of the house and its promise of cover.

  An arm appeared, grabbed Bishop’s vest and lifted the Texan like he was a rag doll. In a blink, he was pulled from the line of fire, tossed into the safety of the backyard and tumbling across the cool grass.

  Bishop’s hand was just closing on his knife when he recognized Butter’s smiling face above him. The big kid was yelling something, but the Texan’s ears had been scrambled by the flashbang’s thunder.

  “Are you okay?” Butter was screaming.

  Bishop finally got it, nodding while trying to regain his feet. Butter handed over the Texan’s favorite M4, again screaming at the top of his lungs, “Grim is pinned down on the other side. Who are these guys, sir?”

  “Stay here,” Bishop bellowed back. “Keep 'em busy. I’ll get Grim.”

  Pausing for a moment to watch his man pop around the structure and snap several rounds, Bishop then hustled toward the opposite side, running across the back of the old house, still trying to figure it all out. The pop and crack of rifles increased in volume as he arrived at the far end of the yard. Grim was engaged in one hell of a fight.

  The contractor had somehow managed to retreat back to the flowerbed and its bastion of thick railroad ties packed with heavy soil. Bishop counted at least three weapons spraying automatic fire into the wooden mini-fort. His stomach knotted when the outlines of two additional foe appeared, trying to flank Grim’s exposed right side.

  Okay, so much for saving lives. These guys asked for it, Bishop thought, the red dot of his optic centering on one of the flanker’s chest. He began pulling the trigger.

  His first target went down, arms flying outwards as the 5.56 bullets tore into the flesh and bone. Bishop didn’t wait to see the guy fall, moving quickly to the second shooter trying to sneak up on Grim.

  But the fighter had inexplicably disappeared. “What the fuck,” Bishop whispered. “Are we fighting ghosts?”

  The Texan found him a moment later just as a string of bullets tore into the house next to Bishop’s head, large sections of the old clapboard sawed into kindling by the incoming lead.

  There he is, Bishop thought as he ducked back for cover. Damn, he reacted quickly. Who are these guys?

  “Coming in,” Grim’s voice sounded in the distance.

  To give him covering fire, Bishop popped around the corner, found Grim’s line of egress, and began snapping off rounds. He’d never seen the old contractor’s legs pumping so hard.

  His friend was halfway back when a familiar motion caught Bishop’s attention… an arm extending in a wide arc. “Grenade!”

  If Grim heard the warning, he didn’t heed. While Bishop commanded his feet to step back and use the home’s corner for protection, his eye caught a glimpse of the falling explosive. It landed less than five feet behind Grim’s legs, spun around twice and then a blinding red flash filled the Texas night.

  A body flew past Bishop’s boots, Grim landing a few feet beyond his leader’s legs and skidding across the ground. Bishop watched in horror as his friend tried to roll and stand, only able to fall clumsily back to the earth. The contractor’s face was contorted in extreme pain.

  That’s it, Bishop decided. We’re out of here.

  Seeing Grim go down crystalized the tactical situation, and more importantly their mortality. We’re out. They can have this fucking valley. It ain’t worth dying for.

  Bishop extended several rounds to keep the enemy back and then went to Grim. “How bad?” the Texan shouted.

  “I’m still in this fight,” Grim replied, his face straining with the effort to roll over.

  Bishop pulled off his gloves and ran his hands up and down Grim’s legs and back. The Texan grimaced when he felt several areas of warm sticky liquid already soaking through his man’s clothing. There’s no big hole pumping blood like crazy. I’ll fix him later.

  Bishop helped Grim move to a better position and said, “Can you keep them off my ass for a minute or two?”

  Grim nodded, moved onto his side, and began firing around the corner. “Hurry,” he said. “They’re determined to take this backyard.”

  Nodding, Bishop ran for Butter’s position, not surprised to find his man still engaged in a desperate battle. The Texan almost lost his footing, slipping across the growing pile of brass next to the big man’s boots.

  “We’re out of here in two minutes. I’m going in the house to get our packs,” Bishop announced.

  “Yes, sir! Hurry, sir. They’re working me pretty good over here. They’ve advanced another 35 feet since you left.”

  “Grim’s hurt. I don’t think he can walk. Get ready to use all those muscles. I’m not leaving him here.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Again, to buy precious, life-saving time, Bishop popped around the corner under Butter’s taller frame and added a second rifle to their defense. It would give the enemy something to think about. After dumping five quick rounds, he was gone, darting for the back door.

  Bishop found their gear mostly packed, the home’s interior illuminated by a single flashlight somebody had left on as Grim and Butter had scrambled outside to meet the threat.

  His own pack was first, quickly followed by Grim and Butter’s heavy kit, one on each arm. He scanned the interior, saddened by all of the food, ammo, and gear they were leaving behind. A wooden crate of real hand grenades drew his attention. Given his arms were already maxed out, he managed to palm one of the explosive devices before grunting toward the door.

  There were also two cans of gas for the ATV and motorcycle.

  He hesitated for a moment, sure that whoever was pushing them out would have to clear the house. In a flash, his anger
over the whole ordeal got the best of Bishop’s thinking. He dropped Grim’s pack, pulled his knife, and stabbed each can. It was with some gratification that he kicked the two leaking containers to opposite sides of the main room.

  A second later, he was pushing through the back door, wiggling sideways through the threshold to squeeze the bulging packs out into the night air.

  Saying a quick prayer that the attackers hadn’t spotted the game trail at the back of the property, Bishop lifted his NVD and scanned the area rising up into the sheer cliff face. While he didn’t see any sign of human activity, it wasn’t going to be an easy hike. Especially with a wounded man.

  The sound of Butter and Grim’s weapons keeping the assaulters at bay reminded Bishop that the alternative was far worse. He doubted the men they faced were interested in taking prisoners.

  Butter’s end of the house was first. After dropping his man’s ruck on the grass, Bishop hustled to the big shooter’s side. “Put on your pack and then get Grim. Meet by the head of that backdoor game trail. We’re out of here.”

  Nodding, Butter fired two more shots around the corner, switched to a fresh mag… and was gone.

  Bishop had a pretty good idea where the attacking foe would be. His narrow escape had royally screwed up their plans, which had been to take his former position at the woodpile first and then they would have had the house completely at their mercy. Grim’s fast reaction and stronger than anticipated resistance had been a second wrench in the enemy’s gears.

  At least that’s what Bishop thought.

  So now, the assault force was having to regroup, and that was buying Bishop and his team precious time. There was only one suitable place for them to stage, so the Texan focused his shots there. He had little faith the rounds were hitting anything or anybody, but it would delay their final push.

  “Ready!” came Butter’s distant shout.

  Popping off three more shots, Bishop backed away and made for the trailhead. Butter, with a limping Grim using the big kid for support, was right where he should be.

  Bishop took the rear guard while his men advanced on the trail, slowly backing into the underbrush and giving his guys a head start. He noticed one of Grim’s legs was dark with dampness, but that was a problem he couldn’t address with several accurate shooters hot on their heels.

  Pulling the recently acquired grenade from his pocket, Bishop set up a cross-path booby-trap using a short length of paracord line. If anybody followed them, at least in the dark, they were in for a nasty surprise.

  As he worked on the booby-trap, it occurred to Bishop that his foe would be preparing to storm the old house – once they’d determined that the SAINT team was no longer in the backyard, that walls of the home were the only logical place where anyone could hide. Even if the Texan and his men had been spotted disappearing into the undergrowth at the foot of the cliffs, any good commander would want the structure cleared.

  Taking a chance on his muzzle blast being spotted, Bishop rose slightly and put three quick rounds into the kitchen window, calculating that the metal cabinets and appliances would provide the best chance for a hot, gasoline-igniting spark.

  The Baxter home seemed to swell for a hundredth of a second, and then all hell erupted in the canyon. The remaining glass windows blew outwards, followed by roaring spews of boiling fire. Large patches of the roof shot skywards as whole sections of the rear wall began to collapse.

  In the sun-like glow of illumination that bathed the valley, Bishop finally got a good look at their attackers. He could clearly see several men, a few bowled over by the shockwave from the house.

  These weren’t ranchers, but he’d already figured as much. What stunned Bishop was the Kevlar helmets, bulging body armor, professional looking load vests, and radio ear pieces. It was as if he was facing a U.S. Marine Corps Rifle squad. Who the hell are you? he whispered to the night.

  The ex-Marine captain took a knee beside one of his wounded, his experienced eye taking only a moment to estimate the injuries were life-threatening. In the light of the still-burning home, he could see the medic’s junk scattered around the area, used bandages, gloves glistened crimson red, paper wrappers, and the empty tubes of hypodermic needles. Litter no officer ever wanted to leave behind.

  “Hang in there, Corporal. We’ll get you out of here ASAP,” he said softly to the barely conscious man.

  While the team’s pharmacist mate worked quickly on the two most seriously wounded men, the captain’s expression remained stoic and unreadable. He’d watched this scene play out too many times before.

  The battle to control the valley was over; the fight to save the wounded had just begun. “Get them stable enough to move,” he informed the hustling sawbones. “We’ll load them up in one of the vans and get them out of here as soon as you think they’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied, his hands a blur over a nasty looking chest wound. “I’ll do my best.”

  Rising, the captain assessed their status. He had two dead, three wounded, including his second in command who was suffering from a badly broken nose. The injury had been a freak, the result of his man taking a thrown flashbang grenade square in the face at point-blank range.

  Out of ten original men, the captain’s force was now only 50% effective. They had, he reminded himself, achieved the objective. It had required twice the original estimate of ammunition, with double the number of anticipated casualties. The two bleeding men at his feet would require serious medical attention within the next few hours, which meant they would have to be transported back to Oklahoma. The trip would reduce his headcount even further. The ranch house was a complete loss.

  Visually sweeping the area, he noted the light flickering off the high stone walls that bordered the valley. It was an eerie hue, red flames against the black rocks. It reminded him of a village in Afghanistan from eight years back. That had been a bad night as well.

  That war is long past, he thought, bringing his mind back to Texas and the problems at hand. You survived there; you can thrive here.

  His Marines had taken their objective, but didn’t they always? The price had been high – too damned high. Like all men who lead combat units, he mentally replayed the engagement, making entries into a conceptual ledger of what had gone right… and where they had fucked up.

  Tonight wasn’t much different from previous battles, he decided. Fate had been against them, and there was little he could do about that. He’d also run into an enemy that had far exceeded their expectations. The men he’d dislodged from the property had been organized, disciplined, and had fought with more skill than any foe the captain had ever faced.

  The former officer studied the ridge above, hazarding a guess that the men he’d just beaten were up there somewhere, staring down at the ground they’d lost.

  He knew from the blood trails they’d discovered that one of the Alliance shooters was wounded. There was no way to know how seriously. Maybe his opposite was up there tending to his causalities, having the same thoughts about the price paid.

  Another batch of rounds cooked off in what remained of the old farmhouse, drawing the Marine officer’s attention back to the flames. Knowing that his foe had been forced to retreat without all of their ammo did little to placate his melancholy outlook.

  His men, angered over the loss of their comrades, had wanted to chase the Alliance team into the hills, but he’d not allowed it. Their foe had fought harder than anticipated, obviously possessed far more skills than anyone had estimated. Given what they’d experienced so far, it wouldn’t surprise him if an ambush or booby-traps awaited anyone stupid enough to go chasing after the retreating defenders in the darkness.

  Who the hell are you? He whispered to the dark cliffs above.

  Chapter 7

  Bishop and Butter had taken turns helping Grim, the contractor’s loss of blood draining his strength as they followed the game trail higher into the canyons. Thorns and cactus tugged at their skin and clothing, low branches
and thick underbrush making every step difficult.

  When it wasn’t the high desert foliage, it was loose, sandy soil and sharp rocks. Steep ravines threatened the misplaced step, narrow ledges overlooking vertical walls that would have been difficult in the best of circumstances. In the darkness, after an exhausting firefight, with heavy packs and a wounded man, it was the most difficult trail Bishop could remember negotiating.

  Every muscle in the Texan’s body was burning like fire, perspiration running down his forehead to deliver stinging salt into already overtaxed eyes. Grim was getting weaker at the same time the incline grew steeper.

  After just a half-mile, Bishop had to call it quits. Butter didn’t protest the decision.

  It was as good a spot as any, a small enclave that offered a relatively flat floor and high rock walls on three sides. They could defend it if the men from below pursued, but it would be their last stand as there was no escape route.

  “This is our Alamo if they come after us,” Bishop said in a matter of fact tone. “Let’s hope this isn’t where we die.”

  The Texan didn’t believe they were being chased. He’d listened for the telltale “whump” of his hand grenade booby-trap, but the warning had never sounded. Unless the men in the valley were the absolute best stalkers in the world, there was no sign of anyone on their trail.

  Bishop was also aware all of that could easily change come sunrise. That’s what he would do, wait for good light and follow the blood.

  Grim was priority one.

  After cutting away one leg of the contractor’s fatigues, Bishop found three shrapnel wounds. Two were no longer bleeding, deep scrapes that he doubted still contained any of the explosive metal fragments.

  The third puncture in his friend’s limb, however, was troubling.

  Between Grim’s knee and buttocks, directly in the middle of the thigh, was a nasty looking hole about the size of a dime. While a major artery had been spared, blood continued to run out of the wound at a good clip.