Plague Years (Book 3): This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine

by Rounds, Mark

  “Let’s go over there and check them out,” said Forrest. The words were hardly out of his mouth before they started to receive rifle fire. The young private next to Sergeant Lint slumped over and the good sergeant slid him to the roadway and dragged him over to the barrow pit.

  “Take cover but for God’s sake hold your fire,” shouted Forrest. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot some jumpy farmer out checking his crops for damage. He pulled out his binoculars and wished for the thousandth time that the National Guard company had night vision equipment. He peered into the lengthening shadows. There was an intermittent flash of rifle fire from what appeared to be several weapons. No farmer would be that wasteful of ammunition.

  “Put it to ‘em!” shouted Forrest as he began firing short bursts from his M-4. His M-60 gunner did likewise. Most of his troops, including his new recruits, were using privately owned weapons and so were firing semiauto.

  Forrest looked around. The bad guys were working towards their vehicles. Then he remembered his orders; they were to stop them escaping, or failing that, slow them down, to prolong the engagement window. Forrest took one of the two grenades he had left and tossed it toward the two pickups and the bus in front of him. The grenade rolled under the nearest pickup before exploding. The gas tank ruptured and soon burning fuel was running in rivulets down the roadway. Instead of lighting the dusky shadows, the burning gasoline ruined everybody’s night vision and made the firing even wilder. It was clear now that they had stumbled into the retreating mercenaries. They had far more automatic weapons than Forrest’s troops had and they were pretty good at laying down suppressive fire. Forrest and his troops were soon pinned down and unable to even fire back.

  Forest motioned to Rosenthal, his RTO, for the radio.

  “Racetrack Control, this is Racetrack 3,” said Forrest desperately. “Is anybody out there?!”

  “This is Racetrack 1,” said Amos’s voice over the radio. “Gather it up 3. What’s the situation?”

  “Sir,” said Forrest who paused for a second to regain control. “We have found what looks to be the vehicles the hostiles used to approach the battle area. We have destroyed one of three vehicles. We are currently under sustained automatic weapons fire. Sir, they shoot like someone else is paying for the ammo! We are pinned down on the east side of the road on Stakehouse Hill to the north of the summit, near the Phillips Farm turn off. We are returning fire as we are able but they currently have fire superiority.”

  “Roger Racetrack 3,” said Amos. “hold your ground and try and hold them in place. I will see what forces I can get to your area.”

  “Roger Wilco,” said Forrest.

  Amos heard gunfire in the background. Young Johnson was, if anything, understating the incoming fire he was being subjected to. Amos shut off the microphone.

  “Chad,” said Amos forcefully. “What do we have in the area?”

  “There is a section of cavalry near Viola,” said Chad. “They have a radio.”

  “How are they armed?” asked Amos urgently.

  “Privately owned weapons, sir,” said Chad. “Semi-auto carbines and shotguns.”

  “Shit!” said Amos. “Get them moving but have them approach cautiously. I suspect they can hear the firefight where they are. They don’t have enough force to do much.”

  “Sir,” said Chad. “Could we have them dismount and set up an ambush? Some accurate rifle fire could take out some tires and maybe slow them down. Have Racetrack Three hunker down or withdraw. Then Three can come and mop up after the ambush.”

  “That sounds better than sending them into a shit storm,” said Amos. “And it gets Forrest’s platoon out of harm’s way. Make it so!”

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:39 pm PDT

  Rosalia Airport, Rosalia WA

  Dave had hidden his troops in the outbuildings on the north end of the runway. With the prevailing wind, he figured that the rollout of whatever plane Nergüi had been able to request, would hopefully come rest near to the location his troops were hiding. Just in case, he had placed Connor and Corporal Gibson in the brush to the south on an escarpment near the center of the runway. Hopefully, they would be able to disable the aircraft if everything else went awry. The length of the runway also put them out of effective range, even for Connor, from both ends of the runway, as the runway was 2,800 feet long.

  “Captain Raines,” said David into his radio, “do you copy?”

  “Right here, Major,” said the disembodied voice over the radio. “we are spooled up and can be airborne in seconds.”

  “Roger that,” said Dave. “Your first target is the aircraft they send in. I have no information on what it will be. Disable it if you can but under no circumstances is it to be allowed to take off. After that, locate the van and open up with suppressive fire. I have one of my men inside and the capture asset is in there. There may be up to twenty troops riding in the van so target identification is critical.”

  “All in the pre-brief Major,” said Raines. “You know it would help if you had a picture.”

  “We didn’t know this guy existed until a couple of months ago,” said Dave. “I have given you the picture of our agent. For God’s sake don’t shoot him. Nergüi should be near him. Our only description we have describes him as a fit man in late middle age.”

  “Roger,” said Raines. “Our sniper is on the ground approximately 300 meters from the center of the runway to the north to back up your shooter. He is cleared to shoot young targets on and around the van armed with modern weapons. He has a picture of your man.”

  “The van is in sight,” said Dave quietly.

  “Good hunting, Major,” said Raines who continued to listen but stopped transmitting.

  The van drove slowly down Squaw Road with its lights out. It paused several times while the driver looked for the turnout for the airport. The four outriders raced ahead as planned and spread out to cover the aircraft parking area down by the north end of the runway where Dave’s troops were hiding in the outbuildings.

  All of a sudden, the landing lights of a Short 370 short hall transport came on. The pilot was very good and kept the lights off until he figured people could hear the engine.

  “Now comes the tricky part,” thought Dave as he trained his rifle on the plane.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:40 pm PDT

  Squaw Road, slightly south of the Rosalia Airport, Rosalia WA

  “Go over to the parking area and wait there,” said Nergüi. The strain was apparent in his voice.

  Little Bear drove the van to the designated spot. He was startled when the landing lights flashed abruptly from the plane that was carrying his goods and was going to extract Nergüi. As he brought the van to a halt, he could hear Nergüi talking to his toady, Macklin, letting him off the hook. Little Bear figured that the distraction over the conversation with Macklin was going to be his best chance to get clear so he nonchalantly opened the van’s door and stepped down. He began walking purposefully toward the inviting darkness of the outbuildings on the edge of the pavement.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” shouted Sven, who was now out of the van with a rifle trained on Little Bear’s back.

  “I am going to tell my shooters to hold off,” said Little Bear over his shoulder not breaking stride. “But if you do something stupid, you’ll be on the ground before your second shot. Your best bet is to let me control my warriors. But it’s your call.”

  Sven didn’t shoot and Little Bear made the darkness of the hangar. Only then did Little Bear relax.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:42 pm PDT

  Phillips Farm, north of Moscow ID

  Sayla could move as silent as a whisper when he chose to, and right now, it mattered a great deal that he not be spotted. He was creeping up on a platoon sized force with a two and half inch skeleton knife. Thankfully, they were all focused to the west and laying down a solid base of fire. His night vision was abnormally sharp and he took care to avoid looking directly at the outgoing
fire so he was able to spot the young mercenary who apparently had enough of this life and was slowly sneaking away. Sayla moved slowly but surely until he was near the scared mercenary’s line of retreat.

  As the panicky addict crept away from the fire fight, Sayla struck. Coming from behind, he buried his skeleton blade deeply into his target’s throat, the razor-sharp blade cutting his wind pipe and effectively silencing him. It was over in a few seconds and Sayla collected the poor mercenary’s Czech made AK-47 and fighting knife. Apparently, he had been firing for he only had had a single full magazine plus the one currently in the weapon. In the dark, it was impossible to tell what its status was so Sayla swapped the magazine in the well for the full one now on his belt.

  Silently, Sayla slipped down the hill until he was under the cover of some low shrubs. He began sniping at the mercenaries, taking care to fire only when the noise level was high to cover his shots. He aimed only for those who were shooting, as in the low light environment he couldn’t sort out the hostage. It would only be a matter of time before they figured out what he was doing so he hoped to take as many out as he could to make the next phase easier.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:44 pm PDT

  Phillips Farm, north of Moscow ID

  Macklin’s cell phone sounded off. As it was Nergüi’s tone, he could not ignore it.

  “Macklin,” he said into the cell phone over the rifle and machine gun fire.

  “It sounds like you are busy,” said Nergüi, “doing what I asked you to do. It has worked. I will be airborne in a few minutes’ time. You will be rewarded when we return. Do what you can to extract yourself and as much of your force as possible from your current problem and head back to Spokane. You can begin rebuilding your army. It was reasonably effective.”

  The connection was broken before Macklin could respond. Before he could take in what he had just heard, Ngengi spoke.

  “Their fire is slackening,” said Ngengi. “We have fire superiority. Should we rush them?”

  “No,” said Macklin somewhat panicky and worried about getting tied down as his adversaries piled on. “That was Nergüi. He will be out of danger in a few minutes. Our new mission is to extract the older Strickland. We have agitated them enough. Let’s board the bus and get down the road. Nergüi wants us to start rebuilding our army.”

  Ngengi was momentarily confused so Macklin played the recording of the message from Nergüi.

  “We should move out then,” said Ngengi who was now more confident. “I will stay with the machine gun team until the rest of the force has boarded. Carlos will have them lay down suppressive fire from the bus windows so I can board with my team. Take care not to leave too soon Macklin or I will hunt you and find you.”

  “We understand each other then,” said Macklin. “I need you and Carlos to control this mob. You need me to communicate with Nergüi and provide command and control. We best take care of one another for a while longer.”

  Ngengi nodded and moved toward the machine gun team. When they began firing more heavily, Macklin moved toward Carlos.

  “Begin loading the troops,” said Macklin trying to regain control. Carlos took careful aim and fired. Almost instantly he was hit from behind through the shoulder, taking his rifle out of his hands.

  “They are behind us!” shouted Macklin, who began grabbing the three nearest mercenaries and pointing down the hill. “Fire down the hill for suppression. Everyone else, start loading the bus!”

  Instead of an orderly retreat, a Keystone Cops moment erupted at the door of the bus. Several of the mercenaries jammed in the doorway succumbed to accurate rifle fire as they struggled to get into the bus. Then the three mercenaries that Macklin had tasked began firing at the muzzle flashes and the incoming fire slackened.

  Even though Carlos was wounded, he had the presence of mind to clear the door to the bus forcefully and establish control, allowing the rest of the mercenaries to enter the bus. Carlos quickly got them to lower or break the windows and then they began firing on the Guardsmen in the far barrow pit.

  “Are you coming?!” shouted Carlos.

  Ngengi didn’t have to be asked twice and ran towards the door, followed by the machine gun team. Macklin waited until the big black man had cleared the door, then pushed his three mercenaries ahead of him and aimed them at the door. Whoever was sniping from behind took out one of the mercenaries, but Macklin figured that he would try to shoot the first man to the door to slow the rest down. He was right and so when the lead mercenary went down, Macklin vaulted the crumpled form and rolled onto the floor. The other two mercenaries attempted to enter but only one escaped the accurate sniper fire from behind.

  Unfortunately for them, the driver of the bus was one of the casualties, so they continued to take rifle fire for a few seconds until Macklin crawled over to the driver’s seat and while crouching behind the partial cover of the engine, started the bus and began to steer it down the hill from beside the seat. As they were headed down hill, they were quickly away from the firefight. Macklin got into the driver’s seat and began to relax, which was his first mistake.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:45 pm PDT

  Squaw Road, slightly south of the Rosalia Airport, Rosalia WA

  “Do you think you could hit one of the tires, before it turns off the runway” asked Corporal Gibson, Connor’s spotter quietly.

  “It would be a hard shot,” said Connor skeptically. “I’d probably have to fire half dozen times before I hit it. Moving targets are kind of hard.”

  “Just take your time, son,” said Gibson soothingly. “To haul the plane down to a reasonable taxi speed on this short of a runway, they’re going to have to plant it right on the numbers, so it will probably be moving real slow when it gets there. We will need to let it get slow enough, and far enough down the runway, so that they can’t goose it and take off. I suspect it will be about a 300-yard shot. I’ve seen you do that in training.”

  “Stop the plane,” said Dave’s voice over the earbud in Gibson’s left ear. Gibson clicked the transmit button twice on his radio and then tapped Connor on the shoulder. Connor’s M-1 spoke twice in quick succession and the right tire of the dual landing gear exploded, dragging the plane off the runway. The turn brought the other gear into Connor’s field of view so, just for thoroughness, Connor disabled that set of wheels as well. Then Gibson and Connor rolled a few feet to the right.

  “Everybody stay right where you are!” said Dave’s voice over the police bull horn. “There are a dozen automatic weapons trained on the van and the aircraft. Keep things nice and loose and nobody has to get hurt.”

  Sven began firing before the echo of Dave’s last sentence died out, probing the area where Connor’s rifle had damaged the landing gear of the getaway plane. Ælfheah began throwing mercenaries off the van shouting at them to begin firing. Both snipers began firing at the men on the ground but the bulk of the forces around the airport waited for Dave to give the word.

  “Which one is our man?” said Dave forcefully to Little Bear.

  “He is still sitting in the passenger seat of the van,” said Little Bear pointing to Nergüi.

  “To all units,” said Dave into his radio, “our target is in the passenger’s seat of the van. Take out everybody else.”

  A wave of small arms fire covered the van and the nearby vicinity. Sven was shot five times before he even hit the ground. Ælfheah fired all the remaining rounds in his MP-5 before the effect of several rounds of .556 brought him down. The other mercenaries were either shot down where they stood or went to ground, cowering in fear.

  Nergüi belatedly figured out that he had been set up. He closed his eyes momentarily, and summoned up all the strength he had in his mind, then he released it. Suddenly, the firing stopped. A quick glance showed that all of his attackers were unconscious or stumbling back. Weakened though he was, Nergüi knew that he had seconds only before people started shaking off his mental attack. As unfocused as it was, the effects were only momentary. He
lunged out of the passenger seat and stumbled into the darkness.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:46 pm PDT

  Phillips Farm, north of Moscow ID

  Sayla screamed with frustration as the bus began to pull away and then he spied the undamaged small pickup that had been partially shielded by the bulk of the bus. He took off in a sprint that would have done a pole-vaulter credit and gained the truck in just a few seconds. He hoped that the mercenaries had left the keys, and a couple of seconds of frantic searching was rewarded by a set of keys under the floor mat. He jumped in the driver’s seat and started the truck.

  The Guardsmen also saw the truck begin to move and shifted their fire in its general direction. Sayla put his foot down on the accelerator and as a result, most of the shots went behind the truck or into the bed causing minimal damage.

  The bus did not have much of a head start so he caught up at the bottom of Stakehouse Hill. Sayla fired his AK one handed from the window. He knew that shooting one handed out of a moving vehicle was just a way to waste ammunition, but he really didn’t have any other options save ramming the bus, and the little Nissan pickup he was in wasn’t likely to stop the bus from any angle he could get coming from behind.

  Sayla realized that he must have penetrated the bus in some way, for the emergency door suddenly flew open and two of the mercenaries began firing wildly from the opening. Sayla began swerving to throw off their aim. He flicked his lights on and bumped them up to bright, hoping to momentarily blind them. He knew this scenario couldn’t last long. Eventually they would hit something vital and the truck would have to stop. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

  July 11th, Saturday, 7:49 pm PDT

  Rosalia Airport, Rosalia WA

  Little Bear shook his head, he was the first to shake off the effects of Nergüi’s mind blast and looked up just in time to see his quarry shambling off the edge of the tarmac into the darkness. While he was trying to clear his head, the click of the hammer being cocked on Dave’s big revolver jarred him back to reality.