Black Knights, Dark Days

by Fisk, J. Matthew;

  I was afraid. This was not how this was supposed to be. In the stories the hero always runs toward the battle with a knife between gritted teeth, both guns blazing. Unafraid. Well, I realized I’m not that guy. But there were people, my brothers in arms, depending on me to do my job. Echoing in my mind were my father’s final words when we parted ways, “Son, do your duty.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I got my feet underneath me and yelled. Shouted. Terrified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and seized the double grip of the Ma Deuce, expecting at that second to be cut down. Maybe the bullets were still striking our coach, but I could hear nothing except my own guttural, enraged voice.

  The buildings here were very tall, mostly four- and five-story apartment buildings. Riddell juked sharply left at that moment, throwing my right hip into the side of the turret. I growled, completely pissed off and afraid. A round zipped past my nose. The displacement of air startled and focused me. My eyes darted right and left looking for movement. I saw someone dressed in black 100 meters to my right, what would be the two o’clock position. The vehicle bounced as I tried to engage him, missing badly. I don’t think I was even close enough to make him mildly concerned. He ducked down an alley and disappeared.

  Lieutenant Aguero slapped my leg. Only then did I notice that he was yelling at me. I squatted down so that I could hear him. “Are they still behind us?” he yelled.

  I stood up and looked over the round hatch that doubled as a rear shield. About 300 meters back I could see one of the unarmored vehicles. They weren’t moving. “Sir, they’ve stopped way back there!”

  The vehicle slowed. The L-T opened his door while we were still rolling, one leg hanging out. I jumped, surprised when he fired his weapon. Glancing right I saw the same guy I had missed with my .50 fall dead. What in the hell? How could I miss with a solid wall of lead, and he nailed the guy with a pop gun? The HMMWV stopped and Aguero stepped out, craning his neck to peer around and over mounds of trash and metal. Cursing, he lunged back inside. I realized that the fusillade of fire had ceased. We were out of the kill zone.

  

  Meanwhile, a few hundred meters south, Private Perry was having the worst day of his young life and it was about to get worse. He watched in dismay as the L-T’s vehicle left him in the literal dust. His M998-variant Humvee could not keep up with the super-charged engine powering the M1114, although Perry was trying his best to keep up without flipping the vehicle. He saw a few metal poles placed in his path that had metal spikes protruding in all directions, created for the specific purpose of popping a tire. He dodged the jagged scraps of metal as best as he could at high speed, but quickly felt one tire then another give way. The L-T’s vehicle was almost 100 meters in front of them now, and he couldn’t squeeze any more speed out of the tortured engine.

  Why, oh why, had he joined the infantry? He was a musician rapper with a poet’s soul. This was a scene straight from Blackhawk Down that would make the hardest thug from the hood cry for their mama. He knew, though, that he could not afford to give in to fear, even as round after round impacted against his door’s bullet-proof glass. He was the driver and would ram his vehicle through the fires of hell because he it was his duty to do so. How many of his old friends from high school understood what that meant? That life seemed to belong to someone else. Someone whose largest concern had been to make sure that his numerous girlfriends didn’t meet each other. Would he ever be the same person again? His thoughts were focused on his newborn son. He now wanted nothing more than to live long enough to be the kind of daddy that such a beautiful young boy needed.

  If he was going to survive, he had to focus. His vision narrowed until it seemed that Route Delta had shrunk to a tunnel littered with scrap metal. All that existed in the world was this road and the wheel gripped in his hands. His vision sharpened and he could almost see the displacement of air caused by the bullets as they zipped by in front of his windshield. At least his doors were armor plated—or this would have been a very short ride.

  

  Davis saw that the L-T was pulling ahead and desperately tried to reach his officer on the radio. “Red One, this is Red Two. We can’t keep up with you! I say again, we are falling behind.” He heard no response and wondered if he would be able to even if Red 1 was broadcasting. His gunner, Wild, was throwing out a deafening volume of fire from the belt-fed 7.62 mm machine gun, and everyone else was adding their two cents to the fight. The doors were holding up well against the determined assault of the enemy. He was so glad that Swope had made the call to leave the extra personnel back at the FOB. Anyone sitting in the rear cargo area would have been chopped to ribbons. The fact that Wild was still standing, and uninjured, testified as a scathing indictment on the enemy’s marksmanship.

  “Perry, you’ve got to keep up with him!” cried Davis, who shared his platoon sergeant’s concern about being left behind. He could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears. He doubted that the L-T would be able to hear them at all over the puny radio speakers.

  “I’m trying, Sarge. There’s shit everywhere!”

  “Just hit it,” yelled Davis, “Ram through it!”

  Robinson cried, “RPG! RPG!” just as a rocket whooshed a few feet over their heads.

  “Perry, stop!” roared Davis. “Dismount and engage!”

  

  The rocket-propelled grenades began to fly from everywhere, one striking Red 4’s left flank and exploding harmlessly. No one really thought about why they were stopping. They just knew that they weren’t going to be a target in a turkey shoot any longer. Davis knew that they had to methodically clear out the route. The volume of fire was so heavy that unless they did a mounted version of a break-contact drill, where one element moves out of enemy fire while another element provides covering fire, they weren’t going to make it out alive.

  Everyone was out of the vehicle except for Wild, who stopped firing only long enough to reload, the brass links hanging out of the left side of the gun like the golden tongue of some starving carnivore. Robinson threw himself down in the prone even as he saw a small, black-garbed target at least 250 meters to the east and rear. Bullets were coming close enough to kiss him, but he hardly noticed. He had an M4 carbine with an ACOG sight that allowed for a small bit of magnification. Rather than cross-hairs, the scope had a small white arrow in the reticle. Rob put the tip of the arrow right on the insurgent’s chest, drew in a breath, exhaled slightly, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. And just like that, Darcy Robinson, a soft-spoken gent from the country whose greatest joy was playing Call of Duty with his son, killed his first man. He felt no joy, no loss of innocence. He merely sighted in the next target.

  

  Swope barely had time to comprehend what was taking place. He was well aware that this little ambush was developing into a battle they could not hope to win with their scant numbers and unenviable position. He had realized with mounting frustration that they were going too slow to keep up with the L-T. Now he saw Davis’ vehicle stop. Everyone in his vehicle got out and began firing in different directions. What were they doing? He tried to call Davis on the radio, but then saw him out of the Humvee alternately firing and shouting orders to his crew. Shit! Hoping that the L-T could hear him, he radioed that they had stopped. He thought about dismounting his vehicle to see what was going on, but if he left the radio, that lack of communication would be more likely to kill them all. He had to get in touch with the L-T or Battalion or both—and right now.

  He frantically called to his P-L to get them to slow down, that they were pulling too far ahead. Quickly he realized that either Aguero wasn’t getting his transmission or—more likely—the heavy metal singing of the machine guns was drowning everything else out.

  A bullet ricocheted off the back of his vehicle, and the platoon sergeant swore with conviction. Little puffs of dirt were erupting everywhere in the street around them as the
enemy attack grew more emboldened. What they needed was more firepower and quickly.

  “Coleman!” Swope said. “What are you doing with that M16? Use the fifty.”

  “On what?” Coleman demanded. “I don’t see a target!”

  Sergeant Bourquin called, “There! There’s a guy right there by the green car, running towards the green car!”

  “All right. Roger!” Coleman hit the trigger. His shot went wide as the man dodged behind the trunk of a car. He put a volley of lead into the vehicle’s cab and adjusted fire right slightly. Swope saw the insurgent collapse.

  Swope felt as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. He was constantly scanning for enemy threat, listening to his crew call off targets and listening to the radio traffic over the small speakers mounted to the middle console. He was delighted to hear first one big crew-served weapon and then another throw their harsh language into this insane conversation. He heard the lieutenant’s frantic call to higher that they were in contact. During the short space of 30 seconds or so, four or five black-garbed insurgents fell dead to the lethal fire of his crew. He watched as some fell—the ones he didn’t see were called out gleefully by his men.

  “Got you, you son of a bitch! Target down.”

  “Get that shit-head by the car.”

  “On it—he’s down!”

  “Sergeant Swope,” Bourquin called out to him, “Four insurgents down.” Then five. Six.

  Swope heard Lancer Mike request their location. He was still really new to this place and couldn’t think of what street they were on. He thought that this one was Delta. They had passed what east-west route? Was it Florida? Georgia? It was one of the states. He knew basically where they were in his mind and could have pointed to it on the map. He ducked in the cab and fished out the bulky military-issue GPS called a Plugger or PLGR. He had been using the stupid thing not long ago when they were at the Mosque—God, that seemed forever ago—and was chagrined to discover that it had shut itself off to conserve battery power. He pushed the power button again, knowing that it would take several minutes for it to initialize and acquire a grid, and threw it on the seat. This was a well-planned and deliberate ambush. There was no way they would be able to successfully defend against the number of enemy that he knew must be engaging them right now. They would have to blow through this ambush time now.

  

  Coleman was in a target-rich environment. Heads and rifles poked over the roof tops like evil Whack-a-Moles. As quickly as he sighted in on one target, it would disappear to be replaced by another on a different building. All the while, the steady dull thud of bullets against the vehicles armor told him how close he was standing to death. He smoothly transitioned back to his M16 and shot one more on a roof and then another who popped up in a window just below that.

  

  Just ahead of Coleman, Bellamy was firing at anything that seemed remotely suspicious. He couldn’t yet spot a solid target, but he fired anywhere he could hear the report of a rifle or catch the tell-tale flash from a muzzle. He quickly realized how dire the situation was when he heard machine gun fire behind him. This development threw the notion of sectors of fire right out the window. His weapon was mounted on a simple pole jutting from the middle of the vehicle allowing the 240 Bravo machine gun 360 degrees of movement. He made good use of that flexibility, spinning around to engage enemy contact to his rear. His dismay grew when he realized that he might have more targets than ammo.

  A few times, he had to lay across the roll bar and canopy over the driver’s seat to fully line up his sights on a target. He found it easier to distinguish targets on the east side. The buildings were further back from the road, at least 200 feet away, and that open space extended further to the north than he could see. The lot was full of parked cars in different states of operability—some dented and battered and others pristine. They were mostly of the obscure foreign make and model unfamiliar to most Americans but punctuated here and there with Mercedes and BMW brands. A few concession-type carts dotted the field as well. Most were painted a pale blue. All were stripped of their merchandise and abandoned by their merchants. Now Bellamy could plainly see men dressed in black, and a few with white didashis and matching pants, darting for cover and firing at them as they moved.

  A white sedan charged toward them from an alley to the east. The battered car, an Astra or Seneca or God knew what, was hurtling directly toward them at a speed that made the front end bounce up and down as if on hydraulics. The driver was the only passenger, and with his heightened senses, he could see the man’s lips moving as if in prayer from 150 feet away. A mental klaxon alarm sounded in his head, V-BIED, V-BIED. Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device. Had to be. Bellamy unleashed a burst of fire, saw the rounds kicking up dirt in front of the car, and walked the next burst directly into the engine block. Dust and paint chips flew into the air as holes appeared in the hood, the spider-webbed windshield obscuring the driver. The car coasted to a halt. Before Bellamy had time to wonder if he had killed the driver, the man lunged from the car with an AK-47. The idiot, dressed in a new, white man-dress, was charging toward him. Justin Bellamy was determined that he would not be killed by a man in a dress. He put his weapon’s front sight post on the man’s hips, knowing that the muzzle would lift as he fired, and squeezed the trigger. A dozen holes peppered the would-be martyr. The man collapsed in his tracks.

  Someone—he thought it was Taylor, maybe it was Guzman—called out, “Van from the south. East side!” Bellamy could see at least four heads in a silver mini-van. He didn’t notice weapons, but he knew that no good could come from someone who would drive a minivan alongside a bunch of soldiers with their guns blazing. Was mom dropping off the kiddies at soccer practice? Unlikely. In unison, everyone around Haubert’s vehicle opened fire on the van. The windows exploded, the passengers danced a little number in time with the bullets, and the minivan slowed to a stop. No one got out.

  Specialist Pete Guzman, the medic, was armed with only a 9mm Beretta pistol and felt suddenly underdressed for the day’s festivities. He slapped Bellamy on the leg, “Hey! Let me use your rifle. All I got is my pistol.”

  “Sure, go ahead!” Bellamy said without ever taking his eyes off of a small man with an RPG. He sprayed him with an unhealthy layer of 7.62 mm. Then he realized what Doc had asked. He was shocked. If things are so bad that the Doc needs a bigger weapon, we’re all screwed, Bellamy thought.

  

  Fire was erupting all around Trevor Davis, and he was trying to get a handle on the situation. Once everyone started firing, he was no longer able to hear anything coming across his radio, as their volley was deafening. He looked south and saw Haubert’s vehicle about 100 feet behind him, and his platoon sergeant’s victor another 100 feet beyond that. They were all on the right or east side of their Humvees and were firing at targets to the west. Davis yelled for Perry and Denney to get the hell over to his side. Darcy Robinson had been sitting behind him and was now by his side, scanning for targets. Wild began firing at one of the windows to the southwest. Almost immediately, he heard weapons fire behind him. He whirled and realized that they were surrounded. He saw figures dressed in black, green bandanas rolled up and wrapped around their heads, darting furtively from car to car in the open field to the east.

  This activity all happened in the space of less than a minute, but to him, time had lost relevance. Denney called out, “Hey! Where’s the L-T?” Davis looked at the big man, saw his large, young eyes brimming with near-panic, and swallowed the first comment that came to his mind. He’s right there in front of us, duh. He whipped his head right and then noticed for the first time that the platoon leader’s victor was no longer in sight, as if they had evaporated. The colorful old infantry interrogative rose to his mind. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

  He heard Wild, his gunner, call out, “Denney! I need you to cover my back! Pick up those roof tops to our t
hree o’clock. I can’t see over there.”

  “Roger. I got your back!”

  Davis picked up the radio and called out to the L-T. Nothing. He called out to Red 4. Nothing. Shit. Either his radio was disabled, no one was listening or no one could hear. Or all the above. Double shit.

  “Rob!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Hold it down. I gotta find out what’s going on.” Davis took off at a run for Haubert’s vehicle. He asked if anyone knew what the hell was going on. Where did the L-T go? Did he know that they were still here? No one had any answers. He looked further south to where Swope was alternately firing his weapon and shouting at his gunner. Davis noticed with clinical detachment that rounds were ricocheting off the driver’s side of the up-armored Humvee. Coleman, heedless of the near-hits, was responding vigorously with the .50 caliber machine gun. All five, Swope, Coleman, Bourquin, Hayhurst and Rogers were actively engaging.

  Davis didn’t really consider that he was charging toward the hottest part of the fight, though he was keenly aware now of the tactical situation. He just knew that he had to link up with the platoon sergeant. Find out what’s going on. Develop a plan. His soldiers were in extreme danger, and they were depending on him to see them through. This was why he joined the Army 15 years ago. This moment.

  Davis ran at a dead sprint toward the trail vehicle, toward the high volume of enemy fire. He never felt the added 40 pounds of his gear’s weight. Swope sensed his approach and whirled to make sure that he wasn’t being attacked. His face was the same red that Davis had come to expect when a man was about to thoroughly ream a soldier’s ass for doing something stupid. The platoon sergeant’s lips were pulled back from his teeth like a rabid wolf looking for blood.