France jtf-3

by David E. Meadows

  Left? There shouldn’t be anyone to the left. He would have seen him.

  He had no choice. Tucker turned. Where the Seabees were waiting, the upper torso of Brute broke the night vision landscape. He wanted to shout. Scream at the Seabee to get down. But it was too late. The finger of the Legionnaire pointed directly at Brute. Tucker saw the night vision device down over Brute’s right eye.

  “Jesus Christ! It’s the Frogs!”

  Tucker lifted his Carbine and fired a three-shot semi-automatic pattern over the heads of the Legionnaires on the trail. Numerous moving bodies broke the night vision pattern as more French troops dove for cover. “Get down!” he shouted, but Brute had already disappeared. Gunfire erupted behind, in front, and across the trail from him. The terrorists and the French were shooting at each other. Time to get the hell out of here. He looked toward the Legion one last time as he pulled himself down, aware of bullets hitting the bush around him. They were good. They were damn good. He caught a couple brief glimpses of Legionnaires, but the others had disappeared into the bush.

  Firing continued to come from the terrorists ahead. That was good enough for Tucker.

  Steady gunfire echoed through the jungle. Several times shouts in French seemed closer than Tucker would have liked. He was in the bush, nearly on all fours, working his way back to their hiding place. It mattered little if he made noise as he hurried back to the others. The bushes rustled with noise as the tempo of combat rose. An explosion behind him numbed his ears for a moment. Tucker wondered briefly if the French or the terrorists had used the grenade.

  He broke into the clearing.

  “What the hell are you still doing here?” he said angrily. “I told you when the shooting started—”

  “The master chief—”

  “My fault, sir. We heard people approaching and weren’t sure if you heard them, too. Thought we’d better try to spot them and make sure—”

  “Later,” Tucker snapped. “Right now, we have three— maybe less — minutes to get back on the trail. Listen, because I’m only going to say this once. I’m leading, and when we hit the trail, I’m going to turn toward the clearing and I’m going to haul ass. If you want to ride back with me, then you better keep up. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Master Chief Collins said.

  “If we’re lucky, there’re nothing else between us and our ride out except jungle.” Damn, he was pissed, even though he knew his anger should be directed at whatever asshole sent them into harm’s way because of some political gambit.

  “Let’s go.” Tucker ducked and drove into the brush. Behind him he heard the others following. He wasn’t trying for quiet now, he was racing to gain separation and regain the trail. At the same time, they needed to keep low so their heat signature wouldn’t be visible to the French. Firefights seldom lasted long. One side or the other would disengage, fall back, and either regroup or flee. Five minutes is what they teach in the schoolhouse. The average firefight is five minutes. It wouldn’t be the French to fall back.

  He glanced at his watch, nearly tripping in the process. Twenty minutes to cover about a mile. They could do it, if nothing else waited to impede them.

  Someone to his right cried out in pain. Gunfire picked up in intensity. Like predators to a wounded animal, a cry of pain drew more gunfire in that direction. The few times he had been wounded, he had learned to bite back the urge to scream in pain. Keep it bottled up. Keep the knowledge you’ve been wounded to yourself.

  The Legionnaires may make shorter work of those ambushers than Tucker needed. It wouldn’t do to burst onto the trail to find themselves in the middle of a Legionnaire fire team. Scare the shit out of both of them. A limb whipped across his face, blinding him for a moment. He kept moving, blinking his eyes to clear them.

  If these terrorists are any kind of terrorists they’ll fight to the death. He’d shoot them himself if they didn’t. All Tucker wanted from his unlikely ally in this firefight was for them to keep the French engaged for another few minutes. By then, he and his team would be on the trail and hauling ass eastward. He didn’t want to discover the ambushers running alongside. How did that joke go about the two men stumbling across an enraged bear? One said to the other, “What do we do?” The other responded, “We run.” “We’ll never outrun that bear.” “Don’t have to. All I have to do is outrun you.” All they had to do was outrun the terrorists if the ambushers decided to flee.

  They were making an awful lot of noise when suddenly the gunfire slackened, then stopped. The terrorists or the Legionnaires may hear them, but it couldn’t be helped. The sound of shouted French reached him. They were still back where he had seen the bulk of the column.

  The French were shouting orders, and Tucker, who didn’t speak French, figured the Legionnaires were maneuvering. Those who possess the maneuver advantage control the tempo — the pace of battle. They also control where the battle is fought, and, in the end, they achieve more combat successes than a superior-sized force.

  Tucker turned left. Gunfire was behind and to their left. He had little choice. The trail was to their left too. The ambushers were amateurs compared to the French. But they had something. Whether that something was tenacity or stupidity, he didn’t know. Sometimes there was little difference. If the terrorists expect to live, they will break and run. If they were smart, when Tucker fired the first salvo would have been an excellent indicator for amateurs to beat feet. Tucker had no way of knowing that those waiting in ambush believed they were fighting four or five Americans.

  He broke through the bush, nearly falling onto the faint trail. He quickly regained his balance, turned right, and glanced just long enough to see Ricard fall onto the trail behind him. Brute nearly stepped on Ricard when he widened the access. They both looked at Tucker. Without a word, Tucker turned and started trotting down the trail. Behind him came the noise of the three Seabees as they ran to keep up with him. Gunfire erupted again for a few seconds.

  Maybe he’d been too rough with them. All things considered, the Seabees had done well. He’d consider complimenting them, if they made the helo.

  Once again, the sounds of gunfire broke the jungle. When, after a few seconds, it didn’t stop, Tucker figured the terrorists and Legionnaires were engaged again. With every step, the gunfire faded. He didn’t expect the firefight to last this long. He took time to glance at his watch and his GPS indicator. Fifteen minutes to pickup. They could expect the helicopter to wait a few minutes, to give them some margin of error. But, the helo wouldn’t wait long, of that he was sure. Bennett’s orders had been explicit. If Tucker and the Seabees weren’t there within a minute— two at the most — after the helicopter landed, they’d have to hike home.

  Tucker tripped on a vine, causing him to jump to keep from falling. He landed wrong, twisting his left knee slightly. A sharp jolt of pain ricocheted up his leg. This was his bad knee. Everyone has a bad knee, a bad arm, a bad eye — one of the many pairs of things on the human body that wasn’t quite as good as its mate. He kept running, except now he nursed a slight limp with a sharp pain that rippled up his leg and across his back with each jarring step. Hope it isn’t that damn tendon again, he thought.

  “Come on, sir,” Ricard gasped from behind him. “You okay?”

  “Yep, I’m fine. I’m giving one of my legs a rest.”

  “Sure, you are, sir. We’re all okay.”

  “Where are the others?” Tucker asked without turning around. He kept his eyes on the trail. He couldn’t afford to trip again.

  “They’re right behind me, sir. I just outran the others.”

  A limb whipped back, caught the Seabee across the face. “Jesus!”

  Tucker kept running. He glanced at the GPS. A quarter mile and ten minutes to make it. Piece of cake.

  Overhanging brush and limbs pelted them as they ran. A jungle gauntlet was tearing at exposed skin, opening welts, and ripping their clothes, but they ran. Ahead was safety. Ahead was survival. Ahead was the promise of water,
food, and rest. Vines entwined across the trail tripped them, caused them to stumble, and then they were up and running, moving forward, lured by the promise of safety ahead. Behind lay death, and death gave incentive to bodies unused to such physical exertion. Bodies that cried for their masters to slow down, take a break, take a breath; but still each foot moved in front of the other, and ahead of the three Seabees the lone Navy SEAL ran, urging them forward even with a limp that was slowing him down. Ricard muttered an obscenity.

  Tucker heard the curse, but ignored it. The sound of feet running behind him was all the noise he wanted to hear. Several steps later, he realized Ricard had tried to drink water only to stumble and jam the canteen against his teeth.

  He raised his head slightly, trying to hear the gunfire. It had disappeared, but he had no knowledge as to when it quit. It could have been right then or minutes ago. If any of the terrorists lived, they most likely were running pell-mell along the trail behind the four of them, unaware they were about to encounter the Americans. And behind the ambushers would be the French Foreign Legion, no longer concerned about stealth and guile.

  Three bunches of people, all chasing someone or something ahead, and Tucker and his team the rabbit at the forefront. He only wanted to leap aboard a helicopter that maybe, just maybe, was already waiting for them. It would not be a pleasant experience if the CH-53 was late. In which case, he’d just keep running and hope the trail turned west and led to Liberia.

  Tucker broke through the jungle curtain into the clearing. His cammies were soaked, rivulets of sweat poured down his head and neck, forcing perspiration out of saturated undergarments further down his body. His boots felt as if they were full of water, his feet squishing with each step. He forcefully ignored the pain of the knee. Someone somewhere could always make it better, but it’d be hell trying to restore life if he gave in to the pain and got his ass shot.

  Tucker ran thirty yards into the clearing before stopping. They were there. Ricard and Brute were close behind, but the master chief was nowhere in sight. He held up his hand.

  “Where’s the master chief?” he asked between gasps, continuing forward halfway between a walk and jog.

  “He was right—”

  Collins broke into the clearing. He waved. Tucker motioned him on. Even from here, tens of yards away, Tucker could hear the labored breathing of the master chief. Tucker turned and started running again. Not much further. He wanted to be in the center of the clearing, near enough the pickup point that when the helicopter touched down they could immediately leap aboard. As he looked around the clearing, it seemed to him the grasses that flowed like a fine carpet when they landed were laying haphazardly in different directions. Several large areas seemed flattened now. He didn’t recall those areas when they landed.

  He heard the noise of the rotors before he saw the CH-53. Moments like this in combat could bring tears to the eyes of the most seasoned veteran. This was the tenuous lifeline to home. It was the way out. It meant life until the next mission. It meant laying back, replenishing the body with water and food, and telling each other how brave they’d been. Sharing beers and basking in the excitement of the mission. It was the post-orgasm of combat.

  He caught a glimpse of the darkened Super Stallion from the corner of his eye, turned his head, and there it was. Big, beautiful, and descending toward their location.

  “Be ready to flip up the PVS, troops. He’ll turn on his landing lights right before touchdown.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ricard and Brute said in unison.

  He glanced back. The master chief was behind them breathing heavily, bent over, his hands braced against the knees. He waved in acknowledgment to Tucker. Damn good thing we don’t have to go further, he thought. We’d have to carry the master chief or reduce the pace. It’s hard to increase speed across ground when you’re outnumbered by pursuers. Tucker could have done it. He wasn’t sure about Ricard or Brute, but they seemed in tiptop shape. The master chief would have been the linchpin if they had had to continue.

  “Lift them, gents!” he shouted over the noise of the helicopter as it neared the ground. They all flipped their night vision up. The pilot must have seen them. The helo veered right, its nose aimed directly for them.

  Gunfire joined the noise of the rotor. Tucker flipped the night vision device back down and looked north. Partially hidden by the descending helicopter, about thirty yards away, terrorists jumped up from where they had been hiding in the grasses and were firing at both the helo and at them.

  “There!” Tucker shouted, pointing toward the attackers. He lowered his Carbine and fired. Ricard, Brute, and Collins moved alongside him, their guns quickly joining his. The landing lights of the helicopter came on. Tucker shut his eye, but knew it was too late. He should have listened to his own words, but he had to know who was shooting and where they were. The light blinded the attackers, also, who threw up their hands in a futile attempt to shield their eyes.

  * * *

  “Argggg!”

  The cry startled Tucker, causing him to jerk his head to the right. It was Brute. The man was running, charging the terrorists. Brute’s gun fired twice, hitting the African on the far right. The next three-volley round knocked the hat off the head of another terrorist who threw his gun down, turned, and started running toward the far tree line. A shot rang out, the man arched as if punched in the back.

  “Scratch one for the good guys,” Ricard said with a smile. He licked his finger and touched the far sight on the Carbine.

  Brute was still screaming. Arggg! filled the area. The man turned slightly in his charge. Tucker couldn’t shoot because the huge Seabee was in the way.

  The helicopter lifted away. The lights blacked out.

  Tucker opened his right eye, the vision device was still down. The heard the noise above them. The helo wasn’t leaving the area. The pilots were probably watching the battle through their own night vision devices.

  Brute reached the first African. He grabbed the soldier by the neck and lifted him in one sweeping motion. The man dropped his weapon. His feet kicking as he struggled against the grip. Tucker hadn’t realized how gigantic the man’s hands were. They were hands a proctologist would die for. Brute never ceased moving, the man turned toward the remaining terrorist, still holding the other one by the neck. The African brought his gun up. Several shots rang out, bright light arcing from the barrel. Tucker took off at a run, a chill in his stomach, moving obliquely to the right, trying to clear Brute from his aim. What the hell was he doing watching this one-man charge? Why wasn’t he over there with him?

  Footsteps beside him. Master Chief Collins had his Carbine pointed toward Brute, whose body blocked a full view of the remaining terrorist. Tucker saw the terrorist raise the gun again. At the same time, Brute brought the man in his grip around in front of him. Hands and legs jerked out from the side of Brute as bullets blasted into the human shield he had thrown up. And the Seabee never stopped running.

  His Arggg! increased in intensity. Brute tossed the dying or dead man to the side as he reached the remaining terrorist. The giant stopped suddenly. The African was trying to swing his gun around again. Brute’s right fist clipped the man under the chin. The African’s gun went off, firing a burst into the ground before it fell from his hands. In the night vision device, Tucker watched small white specks shoot from the terrorist’s mouth, followed by a long strand of what had to be a spurt of blood. The man fell. Brute stood over him, lifted both his arms, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Tucker reached him. He waited a second and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  Brute’s breathing came in rapid, quick gulps. He turned and nodded. “Yes, sir, but I ran out of bullets.” Brute’s hand rested flat on his right chest.

  “Ran out of bullets?”

  “Yes, sir. My magazine fell out, and that thing in my pack is sitting on top of my other magazines.”

  The sound of the helicopter descending caught their att
ention.

  Ricard reached the two men. “Here, Brute. Here’s your piece,” he said, handing the M-4 Carbine to his fellow Seabee.

  “Can you carry it for me? I’m kinda tired right now.”

  “Sure. No problem, bro.”

  The helicopter settled on the ground. The rotors never stopped. The flight engineer was leaning out of the open doors.

  “Hurry up, y’all!” came a shout from the back of the helicopter.

  More gunfire broke the night. From the trail, more terrorists were emerging. Where in the hell are they coming from? Tucker asked himself. He immediately answered the question with the realization that this group was the one that tried to ambush them. He fired several bursts toward the terrorists. They were easily a hundred yards away, and neither his nor their gunfire would be accurate. When bullets are in the air, you dive for cover.

  “Go, go, go!” Tucker shouted at the three. Ricard and the master chief took off running toward the helo. Brute walked slowly to the open door and, using one hand, hoisted himself inside.

  Gunfire stopped for only a few seconds before the ambushers started firing again. Tucker thought a bullet barely missed his ear — it seemed close. Had to be an accident; no one was that accurate with automatic weapons from that distance. Tucker fired another volley in the direction of the ambushers. Then he sprinted toward the open door of the helicopter. He leaped as the wheels of the helo left the ground. Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him inside.

  The door slammed shut as the whooshing sound of the rotors increased and the helicopter tilted backward. It was up and moving. A bullet entered the back compartment, ripping along Ricard’s leg before bouncing off the top of the compartment and rolling across the deck.

  “Damn! I’m hit!”

  “I think I am, too,” Brute said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the helicopter.

  The flight engineer stepped over Tucker. Tucker remained on the floor of the compartment. His knee burned with pain. A small compartment light, glowing red, came on.