“A vault inside a vault,” Lee said.
“My guess also, sir. Seems to me that if the klowns were to knock over the place, they wouldn’t be too curious about what’s really inside.”
Lee stroked the bristles that were forming on his chin. The constant movement had certainly eroded the Army’s usual grooming standards, if what he felt was any indication. “Nice ruse, acting like the ASP is just another ammo dump. But a big ass risk.”
“We do need to get in there, sir,” Turner said with a nod. “If Moreau is there, we need to extract her ASAP. But a daylight raid worries me.”
“What, isn’t that what you guys did in Vietnam?”
Turner frowned and gave Lee a scandalized glare. “Sir, how old do you think I am?”
Lee smiled. “Not a day over forty-five thousand years, Sarmajor.”
Turner harrumphed. “Insolent whelp.”
Lee snorted and turned to Walker. “Any day now, Major. Unless you need me to do the talking?”
Walker turned back to him. If he was irritated by the needling, it didn’t show. Lee figured Walker had suffered a lot more under Colonel Prince. “Freqs and POCs are good to go, sir.”
“Then light up the airwaves, lightfighter. Have Florida let the Third Infantry know that Tenth Mountain is about to get into the game, then hand me off to them.”
“Roger that, sir.”
TWENTY-ONE.
The way into Fort Stewart was mostly unguarded. Muldoon was surprised at how open it all was once they had made their way past the sandbagged revetments. Then he remembered the dead battery in Roger’s radio, and he figured the uncontested travel might be a surprise to him as well.
Despite that, the man Roger moved with a sure ease as he led them through the warren of sandbags and HESCOs that surrounded the outer perimeter, but he kept his rifle close and his MOPP gear on. Muldoon and the rest of the lightfighters did as he did, keeping eyes out as well as they were able. The day was becoming oppressively hot, and Muldoon knew the troops would exhaust their CamelBak hydration units before noon if continuous activity was going to be required. They filed past bodies with almost metronomic regularity. Some of them were literally covered beneath piles of writhing maggots, and he couldn’t tell if they had been friend or foe in life. He was thankful the seal on his mask was nice and snug.
Some of the kills were relatively fresh, however. Muldoon had no problem telling who was who, since the attackers were at best semi-dressed and had multiple injuries that appeared to be self-inflicted in addition to those resulting from battle. Intermingled with the dead klowns were uniformed soldiers, many in MOPP gear. Their injuries were grievous, and they had obviously gone down in close-quarters combat. How the klown attacks had been repelled after penetrating this far into the fort was a mystery.
Not that anyone was safe at the moment. All around them came the sounds of combat—small arms, crew-served weapons, the sharp crack of Claymores discharging their loads of pellets. The klowns were continuing to press their attacks, riding right into predesignated funnel points and kill positions. A normal enemy would have changed tactics by now, but Muldoon well knew the klowns had issues with self-control. If they saw an opening, they went for it, even if that opening was in the middle of interlocking machine-gun fire that had already been bracketed. The only things the crazies had going for them were determination and numbers.
He caught glimpses of movement from the edges of his mask’s lenses, but by the time he turned toward them, it was gone. Muldoon had no idea if they were being stalked by klowns or friendly forces, but Roger didn’t seem concerned by it. Maybe he didn’t notice the phantasms stalking between fighting positions that had been overrun, retaken, and overrun again. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Fires burned all across the post. Columns of black smoke generated a smudgy halo that surrounded the sun, but it did nothing to diminish the orb’s heat. Almost everything in Muldoon’s field of view was fortified, and that which was not, was thoroughly destroyed. Crude graffiti adorned the pockmarked wall of a small strip mall, the markings now the color of rust. Blood.
REPENT SINNERS! OUR NAME IS HELL AND WE’RE FOOKING HILARIOUS!
Yeah, a laugh a minute, Muldoon thought.
Roger continued pushing forward, ignoring a sudden volley of gunfire that erupted nearby. A .50 cal opened up from a fighting position only forty meters away, the camouflage netting bouncing with the beat of the gun. Muldoon ducked down, staying low. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rest of his team had adopted the same position. Facing forward, he saw Roger just kept on walking at a fast clip. Totally unbothered by the fact some serious high-caliber rat-a-tat action was playing out virtually right next door. Muldoon turned back and checked out the emplacement. He could only catch a bare glimpse of the M2’s barrel, but it was raised. That meant they were engaging distant targets, nothing that was rolling up on the revetments right this very instant. Farther down the line, another big fifty started pounding away, then another. Muldoon didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad one. That fifties were manned meant the defenses still had teeth. That three of them were lighting up targets at once told him something mean was heading in from uprange.
“Hey, Roger!” he shouted. “Maybe we ought to pick up the pace a bit, man!”
“What, you scared, Muldoon?” the bigger man shot back. “A little fitty action has you feelin’ all fidgety?”
“He’s right, Sergeant,” Cassidy said. “We should move a little faster. We need to get to where we’re going to go, so I can report back and get support lined up.”
“But fuck, sir. I do so hate running,” Roger said.
“We all do, Sergeant. But now’s probably the time,” Cassidy said.
“All right, lightfighter bitches. Pick ’em up and follow if you can.” With that, Roger broke out into a brisk trot, leaning forward as he picked up speed. Cassidy followed, along with his RTO. Muldoon swore in his mask and charged after them. Truth be told, he hated running as much as the next Joe, but shit was getting hot and he wanted to go where people weren’t doing so much shooting. He checked over his shoulder again and saw Rawlings, Nutter, and Campbell following suit. Boats had the rear guard position, and he shook his head and started jogging after them.
Guess the old bull don’t like to run, either.
Something slammed into the ground at Muldoon’s feet. He knew exactly what it was: a bullet.
“Sniper!” he shouted. He jinked left and right, head on a swivel as he canvassed the area while on the move, rifle shouldered. Something cracked as it hurtled past his head at almost twice the speed of sound, missing him by inches. And then a saw it; a twisted, haggard klown atop a line of HESCOs, the butt of a hunting rifle pressed against its crudely tattooed shoulder. The man’s mangy beard was caked with blood, and shards of bone protruded from his cheeks and through his earlobes. His naked body was a total patchwork of cuts. There was a symmetry to the patchwork of slashes that likely made some sense to a deranged mind, but Muldoon saw no logic to it. The klown also sported a full-on woody, which made Muldoon snort despite everything that was going on.
I know I’m a good-looking man, brother, but that’s going way too far.
He slowed his pace now that he had eyes on the threat, and began swinging his rifle around. Three shots rang out, and the klown stiffened as he was tapped twice in the head and one in the chest. Muldoon looked back down the file and saw both Rawlings and Campbell on their weapons.
Campbell turned to Rawlings. “Girl, a single chest shot? Really?”
“Let’s keep moving, ladies,” Muldoon said before resuming his loping run. He yelled up to Roger, “Hey, how did that freak get through the line?”
“They always do, motherfucker. They always do,” Roger shouted back. “What, you think you have it easy now?”
“How far to the ASP?” Cassidy asked.
“Not far. Stay tight, we have to pass through some security. Standard review, and standard warnings: you
guys laugh or do anything that looks even remotely hinky, you’re gonna be dead in a heartbeat.”
Roger led the lightfighters past a series of angled revetments. Soldiers manned various fighting positions, and they tracked the file with their weapons. Most were in MOPP gear. There were far fewer dead friendlies here. Clearly, the klowns had perished trying to push their way in several times already, but the Army troops weren’t taking any chances. Muldoon knew infiltration was the big worry now. No one wanted a klown attack from the rear, especially since they were more inclined to infect than outright kill.
Though if they had the chance, they’d do that too.
Roger had been correct. The file was stopped three times and subjected to the same litmus test the battalion had administered out in the field: pain. Anyone who laughed would die. No one did, of course. Least of all First Sergeant Boats, who was getting mighty pissed off with lower-ranking soldiers punching him in the gut. All the same, he didn’t protest too loudly. They were under guns all the time now, and the lightfighters well understood the soldiers of the Third Infantry were going to be pretty stressed out. No one wanted an accident to occur.
Finally, they made it through the defensive lines and found themselves marching down a trench toward the ASP. The defenses were more elaborate here, consisting of mined approaches, kill zones, and funnel points that would channel enemy formations into pre-zeroed engagement areas where they would be chopped to pieces. Muldoon was impressed. There was still a fairly sizeable component of military in the area, and they were angling on remaining just that. He followed Roger, Cassidy, and the RTO as they goose-stepped through a field of tanglefoot wire that seemed to be a mile across.
And then, they were at the ASP.
A trenchline ran right up to the entrance. Trucks were positioned on either side of the cracked concrete loading ramp, as the trench had been cut right through the thick pad. Battle-scarred construction equipment sat at one corner, partially hidden beneath camo netting. Muldoon did a double take as he climbed out of the trench. Backhoes and bulldozers weren’t the only thing hidden beneath the netting. There were also several 155-millimeter medium artillery cannons, in both the towed and mobile variety arranged in the usual artillery firing circle. But that wasn’t what caught Muldoon’s attention. What really got him interested in the lay of the land were the Multiple Launch Rocket Systems and what looked like a battalion of M1A3 Abrams tanks, all camouflaged as best as they could be under the circumstances.
“Looks like Stewart still has some pretty credible firepower, Sergeant,” Cassidy said.
“Yes, sir. A lot of this stuff couldn’t be deployed for peacekeeping,” Roger said. “That’s all peacemaking equipment. You guys need to stay with me, now.” He motioned them to follow as he padded across open concrete toward the open door that led into the ASP.
The Divisional Artillery Ammunition Supply Point was a large structure built right into a tall, broad hillside. There were multiple doors, though they all led into the same overall structure. Most were closed, but two were open as artillerymen and ammo handlers ferried out forklift after forklift of arty ammo and loaded them onto armored tactical trucks. Roger removed his mask and motioned for the others to do the same. Muldoon reached up, removed his helmet, then his mask and hood. He was a sweaty mess underneath, and he took the opportunity to greedily drink from his CamelBak. Cassidy did the same, and the lieutenant’s eyes seemed sunken and glazed.
“LT, you all right?” Muldoon asked.
“Super,” Cassidy replied.
Roger looked over at him. “Gotta watch out for heat stroke, sir. You need to keep drinking. We’ll get your water packs refilled inside.” After a pause to ensure that the rest of the troops had unmasked, he motioned them to follow him again as he led them toward one of the open doors. “Watch out for the loaders,” he called over his shoulder as another forklift emerged from the ASP, speeding along at a fair clip. “This place is still active.”
They were met by another group of soldiers providing security, all of whom were artillerymen. They recognized Roger and gave him cursory nods. One of them, a husky staff sergeant who looked about a billion years old, held up a hand, bringing the lightfighters to a halt at the ASP’s threshold. He regarded them with narrowed eyes, looking each of them in the face.
“What up, Thomaston?” Roger asked.
“Just wanted to see what lightfighters looked like these days,” the staff sergeant said.
Cassidy frowned. “You knew we were coming?”
The soldier nodded. “Yeah. Our bosses have been talking.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get inside, but we’re watching you, LT. No offense, but you’re not immediate family.”
“We’re United States Army, you stupid fuck.” Boats pushed himself forward, his narrow face glistening with sweat. “There is no bigger family on the face of the planet.”
The staff sergeant pointed to the distance, where gunfire raged. Something else throbbed in the void. Drums. The klowns sure did love making noise, Muldoon thought.
“They’re a bit bigger right now,” the staff sergeant said. “But we’re about to make ’em a lot smaller.”
No sooner had the words left his lips, the 155s in the firing circle fired a salvo that made Muldoon crouch. He’d never been this close to the big guns before, and even though they were a good three hundred meters away, they might as well have been right next to him. The thunder was immense, and the waves of sound hit him like a physical blow. He raised his hands to his head and instinctively started looking for cover.
The staff sergeant laughed, the sound completely lost in the racket of the outgoing artillery salvo. The guns fired a volley of five rounds each, then fell silent. Through ringing ears, Muldoon heard the distant reports as the shells impacted their target area.
“Good thing your boss called us up,” the staff sergeant said. “We were about to open up on a zone one of your elements was crossing.”
“What, you redleg pukes don’t issue a firing warning?” Muldoon asked.
The staff sergeant shook his head. “You big baby. Voice comms have been a thing of the past. We only do that when a gun or battery falls off the net. You oughtta know we’re all digital these days.”
“I think we need to talk to whomever’s in charge here, Sergeant,” Cassidy said.
“Yeah, you done jawboning, Thomaston?” Roger asked. Without waiting for an answer, he motioned Cassidy to follow him. “After me, sir.”
Muldoon followed Cassidy and the others inside the ASP. It was a cavernous structure, divided into separate sections. It was also being used as a barracks and dining facility for the troops on station, which made some sense. It would be a tough nut to crack, though it wasn’t impenetrable. There was a field hospital set up in one of the areas where artillery shells had once been stored. That the vault was empty told Muldoon the redleggers had been operating at a brisk operational tempo. The storage racks inside no longer contained shells. They held wounded soldiers instead, and there were a lot of them.
“I take it this is more than just where you’re holding Moreau,” Cassidy said.
Roger nodded. “Yes, sir. This is the last part of the fort we pretty much control.”
“You won’t be holding it for much longer,” Muldoon said.
Roger glanced back at him, but didn’t say anything further.
A group of men advanced toward them. One of them was a blunt-faced man with squared-off shoulders and a legitimate flat-top buzz cut. His stride was long and strong, and his hands seemed much larger than they should have been. The subdued colonel’s eagles on his lapels and cannon insignia on his uniform blouse told Muldoon all he needed to know. This would be the lead gun-cocker.
Well, his hands are certainly big enough to handle arty rounds...
“Hey, First Sergeant,” Nutter said. “Looks like we found your brother.”
“Nutter, are you the progeny of a butt fuck?” Boats asked. “You must be, because you don’t have the c
ommon sense to know you shouldn’t talk to a first shirt.”
The colonel stopped before the lightfighters and frowned. He returned Roger’s salute, but his eyes were locked onto Cassidy.
“Sir, these people are from Tenth Mountain,” Roger said. “They helped us wipe out an attack against alpha two—”
“I know who they are, Roger. Who’s manning your position while you’re out?” The officer’s voice was as rough as sandpaper.
“First Sergeant Urena, my company senior NCO is, sir,” Cassidy said. “We left the remains of our squad to reinforce your troops there.”
“Perfect timing, Lieutenant. You’re Cassidy?”
“Yes, sir. From Bravo Company, First Battalion—”
“Fifty-Fifth Infantry, Tenth Mountain Light. I’ve heard the song, son. Who the hell is Harry Lee?”
“He’s...he’s our commanding officer, sir.”
“I knew Prince several years ago. He get taken down?”
Cassidy paused for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir. Colonel Prince is dead. Colonel Lee assumed command of the battalion before we broke station in Boston.”
“Reynolds’s staff gave me the rundown on your unit’s current chain of command. Told me how Lee stepped into the rank. I figure if he got you guys this far, I personally don’t give a damn.”
“Glad to hear it, sir.” Cassidy paused. “I’m sorry, Colonel. You are...?”
“Hubert Barker, commander of the Third Infantry Division Artillery, call sign Raptor Six. I’m pretty much all that’s left of the senior staff after some Special Forces guys went over the fence and called in air strikes against the divisional command. How many men are in your battalion, Cassidy?”
“Sir?”
“I mean, an entire battalion couldn’t have survived a road movement all the way from Boston—too much crazy activity between here and there. What would you estimate the strength of the First, as a percentage?”
Cassidy paused, then turned back to Boats. Boats cleared his throat.
The Retreat #5: Crucible Page 11