“Good. I feel sorry for Geoff, but not enough to let him get me killed.”
40
RESCUE MISSION
Sergeant Miguel Hernandez and Corporal Doug Hoffman squatted behind a weathered boulder, just north of where the train trestle ended, examining the scene across the river. From their position, they could see nearly everyone, including the two little girls.
Miguel closed his eyes, crossed himself then whispered: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me."
It took real effort to look through the binoculars again. Miguel had seen a lot of bad things in his life. One of his guys was blown apart by an IED while he watched. Twice he'd had friends die in his arms. Even so, seeing a human leg resting over a fire was almost more than he could handle. Even Doug had nearly lost his lunch when they'd realized what it was they were seeing.
“What do you think Doug?” asked Hernandez.
"Hell if I know. No, I do know. This whole thing sucks.
“Yeah, knowing you’re going to be dinner?” Miguel crossed himself, thinking perhaps dead would be an improvement.
"I don't know man. That leg on the spit was too big to be one of the girls, gotta be from the quiet guy — Fuck! I can't believe I just said that." Doug lowered his spotting scope and spat. I am really going to enjoy putting those shit-bags down, he thought.
“These are evil times." Miguel crossed himself again.
“Yeah—evil sounds about right.”
Miguel forced the memories away. "Okay, back to business — We got the two girls, the hairy guy, and the dude in the suit all in the makeshift pen. That's the package. We have three sentries. Tango-one is on the highway west of the overpass. Tango-two is on the train trestle in the middle of the frigging river. Tango-three is way the heck down the highway to the east. And we've got nine Tango's under the overpass near the package."
“Hooah” Doug grunted under his breath. He looked though his spotting scope. “What if we have Jack and the guys follow the railroad and hold up short of Tango-one? I'll go along the river until I can get a clean shot at Tango-three, then head back here. When I get back, we take out Tango-one and two. We should probably try to hit the guy on the trestle first, just in case he decides to shoot into his buddies.”
“Same time.”
“Okay, so Tango-three, then two and one as close to simultaneous as possible.”
“We could take out Tango-one first, let the guys get closer in." Miguel studied the scene through his binoculars, building a top down image in his head, and calculating lines of fire, movements, and possible reactions.
“Hmm—yeah we could,” said Doug.
“Yeah… But if our timing is off, everything goes to hell. Okay, so you and I hit Tango-one and two at the same time we send in the others, then we just keep anyone from getting to that cage.”
“And when Murphy shows up?” asked Doug.
“Just don’t let any of those monsters near the cage, it’s all we can do. I can’t say I’m happy about the idea of being on this side of the river when the shooting starts. If they’re not careful, we’re all gonna take friendly fire—”
“Shit. I’m not liking this idea all of a sudden.”
“Yeah? Well, it was your brain fart so—"
"Bite me." Hoffman paused in thought. "We might be able to follow the tracks, but even with the suppressors, we're gonna wake someone up when we take out the first sentry. Have to drop him from back toward the camp. We can't hit the guy on the trestle from that side until we're in the camp, and that's not going to work. If I go around and hit tango-three, then work my way back along the river, I can hit the guy on the trestle. But if I do that, I'm out of the fight. There is no way I'm walking in from the north while the six of you come in from the south."
“You know,” said Miguel. “Jack’s a pretty good shot. Easily good enough for the two hundred yards he’d be working at. If we put him over here to deal with the sentries, then we could be on the other side and clear the camp. Send Geoff and Chet directly to cover the package. Sameer can cover our six, and you, me, and David clear the camp. That would have Chet and Geoff shooting north along the tracks, assuming there’s anything left to shoot. If Jack is west of the Trestle, say right about here, he’ll be clear of their line of fire.”
“So, we sneak past Tango-one and get as close to the camp as we can then let Jack deal with all three sentries?” asked Hoffman.
“Yeah, we don’t have to worry about friendly fire since we’re all moving from south to north.”
“Okay, Tango-three is so far east he’s useless. But we can’t just leave him there. When the shooting starts for real, he’ll come running. So Jack hits Tango-three, then comes back to this point and takes out Tango-one, then Tango-two. He signals us, and we go. With his suppressed bolt-action and subsonic rounds, they won’t hear a thing over the sound of that river.”
“Now we’re talking. If you and I go in hard and fast, those animals will be dead before anyone else gets around to pulling a trigger.”
Hoffman nodded, “Plus if Murphy shows up, we’ve got armor. Although, Geoff and Chet will have Garands, and I’m not sure my ceramic plate will stop one of those if they get careless. I think I'd be happier if we just left those guys guarding our backs."
“We’re not going to stop those fathers from rushing in. We’ve got several hours to wait for first light and almost an hour or so of walking from the KOA with them in tow. We’ll just make it as clear as we can and hope none of them has to shoot at all.”
“Yeah… We’ll see,” said Hoffman.
Returning to camp, they gathered the team and laid out the plan. The families were overjoyed to learn the girls were still alive, but it increased their sense of urgency. Miguel spent nearly a half-hour explaining to the women why he wouldn't let their husbands go right then. The anguish was palpable.
Rachael managed to get Chet and Geoff to eat. She pointed out their depleted condition and asked them to think about what would happen if they were so tired and drained from not eating that they made a mistake.
For Chet and Geoff, it was hours of pure misery. The food they’d forced themselves to eat had no flavor. The only thing that seemed to help was the several pots of coffee Jack brewed.
AFTER BEACHING THE CANOE, Jack made his way down the north side of the Snake River well up on the plateau. It was dark, the kind of dark you only get on a moonless night in the country. He cursed himself again for not buying the night vision gear he'd been dreaming about for the last two years. The poor visibility, rough terrain, and deep snow forced Jack to move slowly. Which has the benefit of being quiet, which might keep me alive a bit longer, he thought.
He'd started out at 3:30 a.m., which would give him time to get into position. Miguel planned to launch the attack on Jack’s signal. Ideally, it would be close to 6:00 a.m. or nautical dawn, almost an hour and a half before actual sunrise. The rest of the team would head down toward the bridge at 5:00, so he had plenty of time. The problem would come when he got into position. He was concerned that if it were too dark to see across the river, he'd have to wait for the predawn light to find the eastern-most sentry. Every minute after 6:00 the sky got a bit brighter and his odds of being spotted moving back to the trestle increased. Jack’s goal was to remove the sentries as quickly as possible, but as close to 6:00 as possible.
As Jack neared the railroad tracks, he looked toward the camp. They still had a fire burning, and there was enough light to see through the riflescope. Jack could make out sleeping forms, and it looked like only the sentries were awake. The man on the road was easy to spot, but it took a few minutes to place the sentry on the trestle. He had silhouetted himself by passing between Jack and the burn barrel they’d set up to keep the guards warm. Now, at least he had a clue where that guy was.
Jack skirted around the trestle and moved closer to the river. Before he’d gone a hundred yar
ds he could see a campfire blazing in the dark. He continued east for about 500 yards. It seemed that being warm took precedence over actually being able to see. Their eastern sentry was sitting in a folding chair staring into the fire he’d built in the middle of the road. On the upside, Jack didn’t have to worry about being spotted.
He closed the gap to what he estimated as 250 yards. Using the binoculars he’d borrowed from Lexi, Jack checked his range. Two hundred and thirty-seven, not bad for a guesstimate. He shuffled forward and found a good rock to rest against. A man sitting next to a campfire would never spot anyone outside the ring of light. He smiled to himself. Awfully nice of them to make it so easy.
Jack checked his watch. He had another twenty minutes to wait before the first glow of dawn. Jack considered calling Miguel to see if he wanted the sentries removed sooner, but then reconsidered. Distracting the team to discuss changing the plan to save twenty minutes is maybe not the best idea I’ve had all night. The team had no idea how often the cannibals changed guards. In the three hours that Doug and Miguel had been scouting the camp, the sentries had not changed. This close to morning, it seemed unlikely they’d make a change until the camp roused itself. At which point, it would be much too late.
Time crawled. Each time Jack checked his watch, the minute hand had barely moved. The subdued glow of the tritium vials marking the hours and the watch hands seemed much brighter than usual.
The only noise he could hear was the river, but the blanket of snow seemed to muffle even that sound. There were no birds, no wind and no voices, just his breathing and the occasional scrunch of snow as he shifted his weight. The minutes ticked by. There was just enough light to make out the vague shape of the trestle almost five football fields away. It would get lighter fast as sunrise approached. Another half hour and he’d be too easy to spot as he moved back toward the trestle.
He set a small sandbag on a nearby rock, then settled the rifle onto it. He twisted the dial on the riflescope that lit the reticule. The nearly invisible crosshairs turned laser red. Jack turned the dial back, adjusting the brightness. Jack clicked in 200 yards on the elevation dial and lined up on his target. He was about to lower the rifle and wait out the last ten minutes when he remembered the change for the subsonic ammo he was using. Jack added the additional adjustment which would compensate for the slower moving bullet. Had he forgotten, the first shot would have been too low to even hit the target.
Jack wished he’d had more practice with the slower rounds and the suppressor. He’d done enough to know where the bullet should hit at any range from fifty to 300 yards, and that would get the job done. Practice won’t change the trajectory. That’s just your nerves talking.
He set his zoom to provide a decent field of view and scanned up the road looking for a possible sentry change. Having seen no movement on the road, Jack did a quick survey of the path back to the bridge. It was now light enough to make out the big rocks. He turned and lined up his target. The rifle snugged into the sandbag and the reticule centered on the target's head. Rocksteady.
At this range with no wind, the only real variables would be the bullet itself, and Jack’s ability to hold a steady aim. He could put round after round into a one-inch-circle at this distance, at least in practice. Jack took a breath, let it out, paused, then squeezed. The trigger broke like a shard of glass. Jack's heart jumped at the sound of the shot even though he knew no one would hear it. The target rocked sideways in the chair and fell to the ground motionless. There was no chance anyone further up the river had heard the noise of the shot over the sound of the river.
Jack collected his bag and moved back west, toward the trestle. One down, two to go.
This was the part of the plan that had made him nervous. If they found the dead sentry while Jack was moving into position, the camp would be alerted. It would make it much harder for the other team and would put the hostages at risk. It took eight minutes to cover the 500 yards of rough terrain in the early morning gloom. For the first time since leaving Pilot Rock, Jack regretted the clearing sky that was just showing the first hints of color. Jack crawled the last hundred and fifty yards. There was no cover and his dark clothing would stand out against the white snow. He found a spot to set up the rifle and spent another two minutes catching his breath and letting his heart rate recover. He scoped the camp and the road leading to the dead sentry. There was still no movement.
It was getting light quickly now. Another few minutes and the team would have enough light. Once again, time dragged as the seconds ticked by. Jack continued to check the camp for any indication that they were waking up.
Jack worked the bolt, caught the fired brass and dropped it into his pocket, then chambered the next round. He set up his sandbag and snugged the rifle into it. Tango-one was standing next to a burn barrel warming his hands. Jack lined up the shot and worked the trigger. The rifle bucked, and he watched as Tango-one jerked back and slumped to the ground. He worked the bolt again and pocketed the just-fired brass casing still hot from the burning powder. Jack adjusted the zoom on the scope and searched for the man on the trestle.
Shit, where did he go? Jack zoomed in and began a methodical search of trestle’s steel structure. There! Barely visible behind one of the steel posts. Now you decide to take a piss? It seemed to take forever, but the man finally stepped back from the edge just enough.
Jack had no problem making out the shape. He centered on the man’s chest, afraid that if the target moved he would miss a headshot, even at 125 yards. He squeezed the trigger. Once again the rifle bucked against his shoulder, and the smell of burnt powder wafted his way. Jack could hear his heart pounding in his ears, which seemed louder than the shot, but he knew that wasn’t possible.
He worked the bolt, jacking another round into the chamber. By the time the scope was back on the target, the man was falling. The sentry had spun and stumbled back over the railing, off the bridge, into the river. Jack clicked his microphone twice, which was all the signal Miguel had wanted. He picked up the ejected casing and dropped it into his pocket.
It was a matter of a few seconds before Jack spotted the team coming toward the underpass. As planned, they’d swung wide around the sentry and had come down the hill in the dark. It was a risk, with the possibility of kicking loose rocks down the hill and attracting attention, but it gave the team a straight shot into the camp. Jack ducked down behind the boulder just in case a stray bullet came his way.
Miguel was almost on top of the sleeping forms when one of them sat up, alerted by the crunch of gravel under the advancing boots. The Sergeant gave a slight shrug to settle the MK-17 carbine and then fired. The noise for those sleeping must have been a shock. He and Doug had electronic earplugs to handle the concussive sounds of rifle fire and still allow them to hear each other talk. Even so, it was painfully loud. Short controlled bursts of 7.62 slammed into one target after another, the two Rangers wreaking vengeance on the monsters who had taken children as food.
David had taken the center of the track while the Rangers cleared the western edge where most of the camp was sleeping. He was rushing to keep pace with the fathers as they raced toward their children. His weapon light flashed across a man rising from a pile of rags. David swung the rifle back, put the red dot center of mass, and pulled the trigger three times. He couldn't match the cycle time of the Rangers automatic weapons, but it was more than sufficient for the task. The target twisted and fell. He caught motion in the corner of his eye and tracked the rifle to his right.
Geoff Beals ran for the cage holding his daughter. He spotted a woman moving toward the cage with a hatchet in hand. She was filthy, brown hair a rat’s nest of kinks and knots. With her dirt-streaked face and a wild look in her eyes, she was the most terrifying thing Geoff had ever seen. Without thinking, he raised the rifle and fired. The woman dropped the hatchet and grabbed for her stomach. Her mouth worked a silent curse as she pulled her hands away from the wound to see them drenched in blood. She dropped to her kne
es, looking down at the hole in her abdomen, face hidden behind the limp, filthy hair. Geoff turned to look for his daughter.
Chet Quigley had reached the cage only a moment after Geoff. He raised his rifle to shoot the woman again when he saw a man rushing toward them from behind the dying woman. Chet fired twice, finishing what Geoff had started, then aimed at the charging man. The man was screaming, but all Chet could hear was the ringing in his ears.
His sights aligned on his new target and he fired. Chet stopped shooting when the clip popped out of the rifle. Somehow, that pinging sound of the clip ejecting from the rifle got past the ringing in his ears when the screaming couldn’t. He never noticed David taking aim at the same man.
Chet had learned to shoot at his father’s side, and the lessons had held, every one of the six rounds hitting the man in the torso. The first shot had killed him. The rest had simply made sure he knew it. David’s three rounds hit the man a fraction of a second later.
Geoff was busy trying to get to his daughter, but Chet clung to what the Sergeant had pounded into him over and over on the hike down to the camp — “If the girls are still alive, they’ll be alive when we’ve finished cleaning out the camp, stay focused. Protect the cage, focus outward. We’ll deal with what’s going on in the cage when everyone is secure.”
Geoff was screaming his Katie’s name and clawing at the wire that held the pen closed. Chet smacked Geoff on the back of the head. “Focus damn it, watch that side!” He pointed, the ammo clip still gripped in his fingers.
Geoff spun and saw where Chet was pointing. He turned to look at the woman he’d shot then noticed the corpse laying on the ground behind her. "I…sorry. Sorry. I'm good. I'm okay," he shouted. Geoff brought his rifle up to ready and knelt by the northern corner of the cage the way he'd been told. He scanned the embankments on either side of the tracks in case someone had been up on the road and was coming to defend the camp.
Solar Storm: Homeward Bound Page 43