As the Chief slid across the tiled floor at the entrance to his room, he reached out, grabbed the door jam and wheeled his big frame through the opening and into his room. The device at his waist crackled and he could hear an excited Allan speaking only briefly, before he heard the report of the Barrett again. For a moment, there was silence. Farrell paused, waiting to hear the voice of the gentle giant, but it did not come, and there was no time to wait. He tossed things aside, cursing God and Bullock both, unsure of who he blamed more for the loss of his friends.
In a flash he was back in Korea racing down a frozen road, a horde of Koreans chasing from behind and a grenade between his feet. Jarkowski knelt on the floor behind him, screaming in pain one second and crying for his mother in the next. Such a death would be quick for the both of them. The Sergeant had taken his hands from the controls, pivoted, as he was able, and held his friend’s head in his hands. He had waited the one-second, then two, and finally three seconds, before he realized it was not his day to die. “Jarhead, suck it up! We’re getting out of here and your momma ain’t here, but I am and . . . ” It was in that passing memory that Farrell caught a glimpse of why he had been spared. In his mind, Elva sat with a small child on her lap, sunlight beaming down and himself, pleased at who he had become.
He pulled himself from the daydream, dragging the mortar tube and rounds from a locker hidden in his room. The thought of Elva and her safety crossed his mind as he plunged ahead down the hallway and to the back of the school. In the fall he’d dug a firing pit, surrounded the circular dugout with sandbags and instructed a choice few on the operation of the mortar. No rounds had been fired as they were too rare and too valuable to waste, but that did not apply today. Today, they would be used to stop a tyrant from killing his friends. The thought of the urn sitting in his room crossed his mind and he wondered if there might be an opportunity to fulfill a hero’s final request, as a result of today’s actions.
Reaching the double doors that led to the western side of the school and the firing pit, Farrell saw Gary pacing back and forth, unsure of where he should go or what he should do. Having never seen battle and it being the furthest thing from his nature, the kind leader needed some direction, which Farrell was more than happy to give.
“Gary, get over here and help me with this mortar. We’ve got to get that sniper before he kills anymore of us!”
“What do I do?” Gary asked, immediately responding to Farrell’s request, meeting him at the doors and swinging them open so the two could pass through.
“Help me set it up. Then I’ll need you to get up to the roof and let me know where the rounds are falling. There are only two places on the east side where a sniper can hit the top of the building. There’s a radio tower to the northeast but my money’s on the grain elevator, directly east. Allan was headed up there but I think that last shot was for him. I haven’t heard anything from him after he first called out.”
“I was afraid of that. Poor guy just wanted everybody to get along.”
“I know, but we can’t cry about it now or we’ll have another dozen to cry over,” Farrell insisted. “Is our security out?”
“Far as I know. Rod and Allison ran out these same doors a couple of minutes after the call to arms and I’ve seen dozens moving through the hallways and into positions.”
“Good. Allison was with Rod? I asked her to stay with Elva and her family. Most bull headed woman I’ve ever met!”
“Yeah, she’s a lot like you, stubborn, through and through. I’m sure she just doesn’t dare let Rod out of her sight. Elva will be fine. I don’t think you have to worry about her. She’s a fighter, if you haven’t noticed.”
The two worked feverishly, moving the tube and stand into place, pushing the weapon into the mud and anchoring it as they talked. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t learned in the past week,” Farrell said, laying six torpedo-shaped rounds on the sandbags, away from the dirt.
“You okay here now, Farrell?”
“Yeah, get to the roof. There should be some binoculars up there. I saw Allan had some with him when we passed a few minutes ago. Breaks my heart that he . . . ” Farrell was silenced by the squelch of the walkie-talkie. He and Gary waited, but no one spoke. They could hear the faint sound of breathing, or perhaps panting coming from the other end. Farrell clicked in, “Farrell here. Allan?”
Seconds passed with no answer before the crack of the radio sounded again, “Farrell, I think he’s down. We’ve been listening and hoping, but that last shot had to have been him,” Rod said, calling in from across the field.
“I’m on my way Farrell. I’ll let you know when I’m there and I’ll help you take this demon out,” Gary yelled, as he backpedalled across the turf and careened through the school’s door.
“Rod, you guys set? I’m at the mortar pit. We gotta stop that sniper but I expect we’re about to be hit, fast and hard. If this goes bad, real bad, fall back to the shop area. We can try and make a run for it from there. Be careful little brother.”
“Yeah, we’re set. Only four of us here though, I’m almost afraid to say it, but I think our fifth was hit trying to get here. We’ll make do. Allison’s here and she’s not going to let anything happen to me. You keep your head down too. No heroics, there’s too much at stake,” Rod suggested, knowing the advice he’d just given went against the very nature of the man that it was intended for.
“I hear ya. Keep me posted on what we got coming your way,” Farrell said, pulling the slinged rifle from his back and laying it on the ground next to the pit.
“Will do. See you soon,” Rod said optimistically.
Passing seconds seemed like hours as Farrell waited for Gary to mount the stairs to the rooftop. He positioned the tube, guesstimating the distance the projectile would have to travel to strike the grain elevator. He pictured the arc is his mind, the explosive being blasted high into the air with a burst of accelerant before gravity would bring it back to the earth toward the target. It had been years since he’d fired such a weapon and he was already second-guessing his skills. “Come on Gary!” he grunted under his breath, closing his eyes in disbelief as he heard the sniper rifle send another deadly round their way. “Dear God, not another one!”
“Anybody? Anybody still alive out there?” a very weak and groggy Allan repeated over the walkie-talkie.
“Allan! Allan, you okay?” Farrell shouted into the mouthpiece, his heart jumping within his chest and his breathing accelerating.
“Yeah, is the battle over?” Allan asked, still trying to shake the cobwebs from his head.
“No, hasn’t started. What happened?” the Chief replied.
“Don’t know for sure. One minute I was looking with the binoculars, and then it was lights out. How long have I been up here?”
“Just a couple of minutes. You remember passing me on the steps?”
“Kinda, now . . . wait a minute. I think . . . I maybe saw him. I saw a flash! Yeah, seems like it came from the grain tower.”
Suddenly Gary’s voice took control of the conversation, “Farrell, looks like Allan must have dived for cover and slammed the binoculars into his face. He’s got a nasty cut over his right eye and the binoculars are broken. He’d be dead if the sniper had hit the lens. Must’ve been firing at somebody else. Anyway, he’ll be okay, just disoriented, probably has a concussion. I can still use the one good ocular to zero you in. Start dropping the bombs when you’re ready.”
The Security Chief could hear Allan in the background, “Bombs? Who’s dropping bombs?”
Farrell lifted the first mortar, hung it over the end of the tube, and positioned himself away from the tube’s end, before releasing the flying grenade. A mild puff sounded as the explosive hit the end of the tube, igniting the rocket fuel and sending the missile into space. It reached the pinnacle of its flight quickly, coming almost to a stop before pitching downward, completing the arc, striking the ground 200 yards to the left of the grain elevator.
“You’re short about 50 yards and too far left by another 200,” Gary yelled into the communication device. He looked over to see Allan, still wrestling with his consciousness, not fully aware of where he was or what had happened to him. A few seconds later, the distinctive sound of a mortar in flight, punctured the air over the school. Gary waited anxiously for the impending landing and explosion. It took place much closer to the tower. He barked out another approximation of the distances needed to silence the sniper, “Close Farrell, give it 15 more yards east, and 45 south.” As Gary yelled out the last of his instructions, he turned to see Allan, attempting to get to his feet. The disheveled man knelt, with one knee on the ground and his head hanging down. The Chief could see the young man shaking his head from side to side, trying to clear the cobwebs and get himself back into the fight. “Allan, no! Stay down!” He screamed forcefully, ripping the tissue at the back of his throat in an effort to warn his friend.
Allan turned and looked into the older man’s eyes but there was only faint recognition. He shook his head again, not being able to register what was happening to him. Gary recognized the look instantly, knowing the man must have suffered more of a head injury than he previously thought. Overhead, another mortar was on its way but the two men on the roof ignored it completely. The battle for survival had never been more real for Gary than at that instant. Allan could see the panic in Gary’s eyes, and interpreted it to mean that he was in trouble and needed the giant man’s help. He lifted his knee from the roof’s surface, pushing himself up, wobbling a bit right and left, as he tried to get his bearings. He could see Gary waving, frantically calling out, but nothing coherent came through. Allan pushed on, tipping unsteadily as he tried to get to his friend.
The mortar round picked up speed as it plummeted toward the grain elevator, and Solomon. The sniper held his position, knowing there were two men now on the roof, one of them likely calling in the dropping rounds. He held his breath, waiting for a fraction of a second to extinguish another life. Waving hands appeared above the sandbags that surrounded the once operational machine gun. Patience and experience told him to wait for a more lucrative shot; a head or a torso would be far more rewarding. Then he saw it: a flash of shortly cropped blond hair, which moved through the field of his scope before disappearing from view. The sniper watched carefully, knowing another movement, into the crosshairs, would mean death for the foolish individual at the receiving end. Solomon tightened his finger on the trigger just as Allan stood completely up, pitching to the side, forcing the shooter to turn the barrel sharply a few degrees to the right.
Gary continued to shout at the confused Allan as he got to his feet and rushed the huge lineman. Knowing that he was exposed to the sniper’s fire did not deter him; his concern for the young man propelled him to action, with no thought for his own life or the grief that his widow would know. Swiftly, and with no sound of warning, a sense of extreme energy passed by the charging man, pushing him to the side. Gary watched in disbelief as the invisible, spinning bullet nipped at Allan’s belt, grabbed the leather and ripped the pants off the already confused man. Allan abruptly spun 360 degrees, his feet tangled below him as he collapsed in an awkward display of bare flesh, his pants lay torn on the ground.
Solomon watched the events unfold a mile away through his high-powered scope. Anger and frustration took over the man’s actions, as only seconds before he’d been lined up to live a sniper’s dream: ‘one shot, two kills’. But it would not be. The third mortar round had jarred his aim just enough to send the projectile askew, preventing the loss of life but not for long. The sniper quickly drew back the long bolt, ejecting the spent casing while clasping the rim of the next round, sliding it smoothly into the firing chamber. For an instant, the explosions taking place on the ground nearby distracted him. He looked for direction from Bullock, who was nowhere to be seen. Concentration, and his need to kill, forced his eye back to the glass and the scene on the rooftop. No targets were visible but he could wait, there would always be another opportunity. Such was the nature of his work, and his love.
The un-orchestrated ballet on the school’s roof was followed quickly by a small explosion, which precipitated a very loud detonation of unequalled volume. Gary rushed to the aid of his friend, finding him unharmed but naked from the waist down. Perplexed, he moved to the safety of the sandbags and the mangled binoculars he’d left there. Peering through the good ocular he could see that the grain elevator had not been struck directly, but rather, something near it had been hit, sending out sparks and explosions of its own. He watched, transfixed by the events inside the angle of the lens. “Come on. Come on,” he said, with increasing punctuation. The grain elevator had been rocked by the first explosion but was now listing oddly to the right. The combined combustion of the ammunition in Bullock’s jeep was doing the job to bring the tower down.
“Gary, where did it hit? Do I need to make another correction?” Farrell asked, from the blind side of the school.
The Community Chief could not pull his eyes away from the elevator long enough to answer. The top of the structure swayed slightly, then collapsed completely into a pile of dust as the missing portion at the base weakened the elevator enough to bring it down. “That’s it, Farrell! You’ve done it! I’m bringing Allan down, then I’ll get back to keep an eye on things from the Eagle’s nest. Mel, if you’re listening in, I’ll need help with Allan once we’re inside. Meet us at the office!”
“Good work, Gary! Get Allan the help he needs, then let me know when you’re ready on the roof. I’ll need you to blow the drums when we’re ready,” Farrell commanded.
Gary struggled to get Allan to his feet. Moving the 290-pound man was not an easy task. “I’ll be okay. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just tell me again what happened,” Allan said, feeling some strength returning to his legs. Gary repeated the recent events as quickly as he could, while bracing the somewhat weakened man. It suddenly occurred to the injured man that he was lacking in his attire and looked questioningly at Gary for answers.
“I know, I’ll explain it to you later, but for now, we need to get you out of here so Mel can take a look at you,” Gary said.
“Okay, I’m feeling a little better. I think I can walk if you’ll just hold me up. Yeah, that’s good,” he said, as the much smaller man allowed Allan to use him as a crutch. “I’m actually starting to remember a bit. I’m not so woozy, but if you could just tell me one more time what happened, I’m sure I’ll be okay and can help out.”
Again, Gary began to run through the injury and the shooting that left Allan naked, and then realized it was not sinking in. “Never mind, we can talk about it later. Let’s get out of here,” he said, directing the duo to the exit and the office below.
“Hold on Gary, hold on. I need to get the machine gun. Farrell’s gonna want me to have that.” The big farm boy’s bell was rung but his sense of duty and obligation to the community was still intact. He pulled away from his helper and lumbered to the downed gun. The mount was mangled from the .50 caliber slug, which had dropped it a short time before, but the weapon appeared to be undamaged. It took Allan a few tries but he was able to manhandle the weapon away from the mount, draping it across both his powerful arms, as he returned to Gary and the fight ahead.
Chapter 24
Farrell sat back in the mud, momentarily breathing a sigh of relief, which would only be fleeting. Reaching for the assault rifle, the Sergeant got to his feet, slipping briefly in the wet clay and mud, before he extracted himself and ran for the school’s door. The ammo, at his hips and the small of his back, rattled as he ran, adrenalin and his desire to protect the school pushing him on. Exiting the school, Sarge knelt at the side of the unmovable old bear and looked at his watch. They must be coming, he thought, acknowledging that it was a minute to one.
“We’ve got movement. Holy, we’ve got lots of movement, folks!” came a cry from Clayton at the northern perimeter.
“Same here, I can see two, no, make t
hat three trucks approaching fast from the west,” Rod confirmed.
“Alright people, hold your fire until you can make it count!” Farrell belted out over the airwaves. He could see the four defenders holding their positions on the east side, their heads randomly popping up above sandbags to assess the oncoming threat. “When they’re at the 200 yard marker, hit ‘em with the claymores!” Farrell shouted into the mic. The Security Chief got no response from the outposts but he knew it was about to get very loud, very fast. “Gary, what’s your situation? How’s Allan?”
“Mel’s with him now. He’s anxious to get into the fight but I don’t know if he’s capable. Mel was saying something about hitting him with some adrenalin. Anyway, I’m almost back to the roof. Just tell me what you want me to do, once I’m there.” Gary confirmed.
“Great, keep your eyes peeled and alert us as you can!” Farrell said, moving toward the parking lot and the men huddled there. “What’s happening on the south side? You got anything coming your way?” Before there was a reply, a series of loud blasts filled the air, coming from every direction. “Claymores,” Farrell whispered. That should slow them down, he thought, bringing his assault rifle forward and running for the safety of the barricade.
The Living Hunger Page 19