Devastation

by Paul Kirk

  Connor heard a quick double squelch. He and his team scrambled up to the second floor of the warehouse, running hard. Connor exploded with speed that surprised them all and Roger kicked in right behind him. Already, they heard the distinctive sound of a Colt fired at a very fast pace with smooth reloads.

  “Shit!”

  Connor stole a quick glance down the third floor hallway near Marty’s defensive position. Eleven men, five on one side, six on the other crouched on both sides of a door. They were ready to breach into the room.

  “Now, Roger!” whispered Connor.

  “Do it!”

  Connor burst toward the men with surprise on his side and shot three clean kills running down the hallway, before the remainder of men responded. Roger, with McLeod coming up fast, sent a coordinated spray of bullets into the crouching men until the last man collapsed in his own blood. One man barely got off a shot that hit the ceiling and another bullet whizzed past Connor’s shoulder. At the door, Connor ignored the mostly dead bodies, leaving that task to Roger and John. Energized, he addressed Marty’s position, but did not yet present himself in view.

  “Clear!” yelled Connor. “Marty! You okay?”

  “Here!”

  “You okay?”

  “Copy that, Mac.”

  Connor stood in the doorway, waiting. He grinned toward McLeod, who stood nearby, almost out of breath. Roger was busy finishing up on one of the combatants who still had some life left in him. Assessing the room upon entry, Connor marveled at the collection of bullet holes. A couple of fifty-five gallon drums were riddled and the scrap wood near the window was splintered and full of holes. He knew Marty was lucky to have survived the barrage.

  “Well, Surf Boy, quit lazing around and haul your ass out here! We got shit to do, least of all locate Amanda and that president.”

  Edging out from behind the drums and a few pieces of splintered plywood, Marty stood. In the faint light from the window, Marty dusted his shoulders off like he had just noticed some stray cat hairs. His empty handgun holstered, he walked toward his team with his sniper rifle in his left hand. Despite his best efforts, his limp was rather pronounced.

  “Huh! ’Bout time you showed up and did something useful, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah...yeah. C’mon. Let’s go! We need find Amanda and the president.”

  Marty approached with a huge smile on his face and, nearing Connor, he impulsively wrapped his arms around him in a fierce embrace.

  “Damn good to see you, sir!”

  Connor returned the embrace before pushing off.

  “Let’s move it...give me a sit rep on Amanda and the president. Now.”

  “Yep. I need .45 ammo…”

  Roger gave him half a box.

  “Good to see you’re in one piece, Marty,” said McLeod.

  “Thanks, John. Hey Roger. Nice shootin’ there.”

  “Hey.”

  They assessed exiting the building as a team. Refilling his Colt magazines, Marty filled them in on current events. He was not happy in telling the story. At the top of the third floor stairwell, Connor stopped, radioing BB.

  “Big Eye to BB. Do you copy?”

  “BB here. Over.”

  “Update sit rep. Over.”

  “Go.”

  “Target building is under full assault by an overwhelming and well armed force of over 400 men. Snuff entered target building to warn POTUS of impending attack. Surf Boy provided cover fire from the nearby warehouse. We extracted Surf Boy from a directed enemy assault. Snuff status unknown, but she did enter the building. We’re exiting warehouse and heading to established rendezvous. Over.”

  “Copy Big Eye. Status of Snuff? Over.”

  “Unknown. Went down, but recovered possibly by friendlies. Over."

  “Damn…”

  “Heading to established rendezvous. Big Eye over and out.

  “Roger that. We’ll meet you there. Over and out.”

  Connor studied the team as they took defensive positions, waiting for his next command. Marty, Jude, and Roger were carefully inspecting outside events through the stairwell window. Marty used his night vision equipment to provide updates. McLeod spoke to Rhonda and Cody; each excited, but still somewhat scared. Connor noted that Rhonda carried the big .45 caliber Smith & Wesson with some confidence, though she’d only put twenty training rounds through it due to the team’s limited .45 ammo.

  “We move now, team.”

  “Mac, there’s thirty or so men coming this way at a run pulling off from the main assault.”

  “Shit.”

  Slipping out of the warehouse alive might prove more difficult than they’d anticipated.

  CHAPTER 6.20-The Escape

  “Go! Go! Shamus,” yelled Colonel Starkes into her headset.

  Mickey and the last of his team dived into the helicopter door, rolling into position to provide further defensive fire. Though smiling like a cat eating a canary, Mickey had considerable blood dripping from his left arm near the shoulder; Rice had a bloody left hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage. Burroughs was unharmed though his trademark Ray Bans were no longer resting atop his head. All other men were safely on board with Nicole and CJ tucked as far back away from the doors as possible. A few men had minor wounds, but all would survive. Lieutenant Tim McDonald had taken some bullet shrapnel in his trigger hand from a stray round and was heard expounding upon what he was going to do Phoenix’s men the next time around. Near them, a young and unknown raven-haired woman lay unconscious, with Scott carefully tending to the substantial wounds the woman had sustained. GT sat nearby. Colonel Starkes sensed the ‘copter lift, hearing a few bullets strike the armor-plated fuselage. Taking stock, they had sustained no major damage.

  “Veer left toward the lake! Watch for RPGs,” she yelled into the headset.

  “Planned on it, ma’am.” said Shamus.

  The erratic spin and moves of the helicopter took on a dizzying pattern.

  “Get us the hell outta here, Shamus!”

  Moving safely away, Colonel Starkes took inventory, realizing that they’d barely escaped with their lives and what was already stowed onto the helicopter. Other than some short rations routinely stored, the limited rations and water would only last for about two days, if that. Ammo, on the other hand, they still had plenty.

  “Attack ‘em, ma’am?”

  “No. We live to fight another day, major.”

  CHAPTER 6.21-Acquiring a Beretta

  “Amanda made it in then?”

  "I dunno…from what I could tell Mac, I’m pretty sure she took a hard hit to the back once she entered the building. Possibly into body armor, but not sure.”

  “Aww, man—”

  “Several of Starkes men scooped her up at one point.”

  “She moving?”

  “No. But, then I had to clean up a few—”

  “Your next visual?”

  “They were dragging her toward the escalators, a big fucker he was...and…but...Amanda was down for the count.”

  “She alive?”

  “Umm, hard to tell.”

  Marty studied Connor, realizing the fierce intensity in his eyes was a definite effort to keep focused on the team’s survival and striving not to focus on Amanda’s fate.

  “Okay. Next topic...you think the president got the message to haul ass?”

  “Most definitely, assuming they’re all on board. Not sure who all jumped on the bird. I was a bit preoccupied at that point.”

  “So I heard.”

  McLeod approached, stepping close to both, listening with interest.

  “That’s a good point, Marty.”

  “Anyone left inside that building’s as good as dead, regardless,” said Connor.

  “I’d have to say yeah.”

  “No point in going in. Be suicide for us for no reason,” suggested McLeod.

  “Agreed.”

  “What now, Mac?”

  Connor studied the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the
Cleveland soldiers swarming all over it like ants on a dropped Popsicle. The team had made short work of the twenty men approaching their position, since it was apparent they did not expect to meet the level of firepower that riddled them to the ground. Many men lay dead across the open grounds and, with some satisfaction, Connor Mac knew he and his team had made some contributions to the fight. Taking stock from their hidden position one hundred yards away, he ferreted out his options.

  “We track to the rendezvous. No choice. We move now. Assume the president has Amanda, as that’s the only way she’d survive. We make rendezvous. She’s alive, she’ll tell them. Let’s go! McLeod, tell Roger he’s on point.

  “Cody?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Connor Mac?”

  “You’re with me up front. I need your eyes and especially your ears.”

  “Okay.”

  “You did okay back there. Nice shot exiting the building.”

  “Yeah, but Marty got him before I did.”

  “Oh, thought it was you…”

  “Only after.”

  “Well, never hurts to double down in a firefight, now does it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “McLeod? Stick with Rhonda.”

  “Okay.”

  Each started to move.

  “Marty?”

  “Yeah, Mac?”

  “Do what you do best. Keep the bubble around the team. Keep us safe.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Rhonda? Stay sharp.”

  “Okay.”

  Studying the team, Connor’s confidence built and he forcefully pushed thoughts of Amanda to the back of his mind. Each team member performed well given the current circumstances; they’d mostly passed the first live test working as a unit. They’d emerged unscathed, except, well, except for Amanda. Again Connor forced away any negative thoughts of her demise.

  “All team. We hold any further fire to see how far we can fade away from the warehouse without discovery. We’ll try to slip out unnoticed.”

  “Understood.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sure.”

  The team nodded as one. Rhonda's expression especially serious; she knew she was the least trained.

  “Should we be compromised, we take out as many of these damn mother fuckers as we can while we make our evac. Got it?” yelled Connor.

  “Understood,” said McLeod. He stroked the new Sig Sauer in his side holster, comforted by the feel. All had grabbed new weapons and valuable supplies from the men killed on the third floor and were, essentially, armed to the teeth. In fact, Marty was particularly pleased to have extracted four fifteen-round magazines and a Beretta 92FS from the leader of the dead. As it stood, he’d always wanted to have this weapon to compliment his Colt Defender. And, carrying the Beretta with his rifle and Colt provided a sense of invincibility. Now, he knew he would survive any future firefight.

  SECTION 7: A Map, Steel Mill and Missed Connections

  CHAPTER 7.1-Bird Fuel

  “Where are we, major?”

  “Meadville, PA.”

  “Why here?”

  “Spaulding Airport's a secondary tier stop for bird fuel based on Jimmy’s FAA fueling data.”

  “That right?”

  “Obviously, we need the fuel.”

  Seriously pissed and irritated after leaving the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in haste, Colonel Starkes stared out the helicopter.

  “It's that easy? We're simply gonna roll in and grab the fuel?”

  “Never said it would be easy, ma’am. I'm optimistic that there might still be usable fuel at this tiny airfield after Scott's suitable conversion.”

  “Okay. Let’s hold that thought. Let’s hope Scott’s concoction still does what’s needed for the fuel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have Shamus set us down nearby for safe recon. Not too close...in fact, drop ten men at a hundred yards out to secure the area.”

  “Already assigned, ma'am.”

  “Good. Keep at it.”

  Colonel Starkes moved to the injured woman in the back of the noisy helicopter. Taking stock, she realized the woman was young, barely in her twenties, and had a deep crease running across the left side of her head, above the ear. Scott worked frantically stitching up the bloody wound. Scalp wounds bled profusely. The woman lay unconscious.

  “Talk to me Scott.”

  Remaining focused on providing emergency medical attention to the young woman, he explained. “She’s hit in the back near the lower left shoulder and upper left thigh besides her head wound. I stitched up the thigh. Twenty stitches, fairly deep. Not critical though, the bullet hit just meat.”

  “Go on.”

  “Won’t be pretty when she recovers. She’ll have a nice scar on her scalp and one on her thigh that’s for sure. The bruise to the shoulder blade will hurt like hell, but it’s really nothing more than that thanks to her body armor.”

  “She wore Kevlar?”

  “Yeah, level two in fact. Good stuff. So, it’s the bullet crease to her head that has me most concerned. Seen a wound like that in the ER amount to nothing, and seen it turn a man into mush.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “She’s still out. Knocked her around quite a bit. Hope she comes around.”

  “So do I. Keep at it. What do you need in supplies that we don’t have?”

  “Nothing, ma’am, other than a CT scan to check on her brain. We’re good. It’s up to her now.”

  Scott finished cleaning and stitching up the head wound, carefully draping gauze and sterile bandage across her scalp. For some reason, he wondered how pissed off this young woman would be when she found out he had shaved the entire left side of her raven black hair.

  CHAPTER 7.2-Waving the Taurus

  “You gonna tell me what the hell just happened, uncle? Or, should I just shoot you and find out for my fuckin’ self?”

  Phoenix paced the Hilton penthouse floor, angry and fuming. The taking of the Hall of Fame was complete, but there were no captives and certainly no helicopter. Furious at the loss of sixty-three of his own men and the current turn of events, Phoenix gripped his stainless steel Taurus Judge in his right hand, conveying little doubt he might kill Larry Reed where he stood. Using the gun for emphasis, Phoenix waved Reed into the room.

  “Not sure yet what happened, Phoenix. Still working on it. There was a third player hidden in the Goodyear warehouse when we launched the attack.”

  “Starkes’ men?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, do tell...please.”

  “I’m thinking he was a trained sniper for sure, based on his uncanny accuracy.”

  “A sniper?”

  “A tall, black-haired woman caught us by surprise, running right through us and into the building right before we planned to go full assault.”

  “A woman—”

  “She ran like a damn Olympic sprinter.”

  “C’mon!”

  “No, she ran like a gazelle.”

  “Start giving me some damn answers that make sense!”

  Phoenix slapped his hand on the bar countertop. Gathering nerve, Larry Reed emphasized his talking points.

  “Phoenix, they must’ve killed Ghost and Simpson right off. Had to. We found both bodies on the third floor along with the bodies of twelve of the fourth Brigade near a room facing our assault of the Hall…it was a sniper’s nest, for sure.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “And that sniper had some help ‘cause the Fourth wasn’t taken out by him, but from behind. They were readying to breach the door to his nest. Probably...way I figured it, they got hit right before they launched into the room.”

  “Fuck that! Impossible.”

  “I saw it, Phoenix! I did a personal assessment. There was blood, guts and all. A fully trained team, that’s for sure, hit them hard from behind. And, based on their body positions, they were surprised and barely got off a shot.”

  Grumbling behind the wet bar, Phoenix placed the Judge on the grani
te countertop and snatched two crystal tumblers from the mirrored shelf behind him. Sloppily, he poured both half full with Jack Daniels. Simmering with jaws clenched, he carried both drinks toward Reed, pushing one toward him. Cursing again, he stopped in the middle of the room, taking a deep gulp before turning toward the windows. With a slightly shaking hand, Reed took the glass of whiskey, downing a double gulp. He walked to stand beside his nephew and continued in his update. Phoenix stared out the window.

  “Whoever killed the Fourth were well trained, nephew. Shot placement was excellent with minimal waste. I’m not talking some amateurs that stumbled into the party. No way, and after they were done, they stripped our men of all weapons, ammo and supplies.”

  Phoenix sipped his whiskey and took a few deep breaths. Sufficiently calm, he turned with blazing eyes.

  “You think it was this Connor MacMillen everybody’s fuckin' whispering about these past weeks?”

  “I dunno. Though, it certainly fits his profile based on what we’ve heard about the guy in bits and pieces.”

  “So, the bastard did decide to show up?”

  “Again, dunno. Maybe he was running surveillance prior to his entry to see Starkes. I’d do that if I was him. But, if it was him, what the hell was that woman doing running through us like an antelope on speed?”

  “Hmm, she say anything before she went down?”

  “No, not that we could make out, no.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, but, a few men heard her yell something, but nobody’s confirmed.”

  “Hmm.”

  “We think maybe this Connor MacMillen must have spotted the assault and sent the woman in to warn the president.”

  “Did you kill the black-haired bitch?”

  “Yeah, she went down hard entering the doors.”

  “Where’s her body? Anybody confirm?”

  “No, the guys say Mickey, Rice, Edgars and Burroughs were in position and ready for us at the top of the escalators.”

  “Ready? What do you mean, ready?”

  “In no time, they scooped the little bitch up and slowed us down with some serious cover fire.”