by Jack Murphy
“What the fuck was that,” Ignacio exclaimed. “How is this happening? These idiots don't know how to drive!”
“These idiots have escorted hundreds of shipments up north. They have traded fire with everyone from the Zetas to the Marines. This is happening because that gringo down there is motivated to win,” Jimenez stated. He was not amused.
Scrolling through the numbers in the address book on his smart phone, Jimenez placed a call.
“This is why you create a layered defense.”
CJ Reyes worked the chain on the pulley system hand over hand, bringing up the garage door. Inside was his baby. He had been working on it for several months. First sourcing the body and then the metal and welding equipment. Jimenez gave him as much money as he needed and it was every insane mechanic's dream come true.
Elsewhere, across town he could hear gunfire echoing throughout the city.
The phone in his oil stained jeans pocket began to vibrate.
“Yes, boss,” he answered.
“Is it ready?”
“Cebada is ready to be deployed. I was just about to start him up.”
“Cebada,” Jimenez repeated. It was the name of the breed of bull with the most human kills of any of the breeds used for bullfighting. “I like that.”
37
Nikita held his HK 417 under one arm as he staggered uphill. He was breathing hard and already covered in sweat. Aghassi followed just behind him. They had been running forward reconnaissance for the convoy in their indigenous vehicle when they heard of the enemy contact over the radio. Only a few minutes ahead of the main element, they had to act fast if they were going to respond.
Pulling off to the side of the road, they bolted uphill, grabbing onto small tree trunks and exposed roots to help make their way to a superior position.
“Here they come,” Aghassi said.
Looking over his shoulder, Nikita saw the Samruk convoy, their comrades, involved in a pitched gun battle with a handful of cartel gun trucks. At first glance, it looked like the Samruk vehicles had already taken a beating. Sitting down on the incline was awkward. He ended up laying on his side. Curling up his knees, he let the rifle rest with the barrel oriented down into the street.
The convoy was moving fast and would blow by their position and be gone in just a few seconds.
Nikita focused in on one of the machine gunners in the armored turret of the nearest pickup. The area he had to fire through was the small gun port that the M240B's barrel was stuck through. The gap was maybe a little wider than his fist, and the target was moving.
Tracking his target, the 417's barrel gently moved as the battle got closer and closer. Stroking the trigger, his round went wide and harmlessly struck the armor plating. His follow up shot disappeared into the gap and the M240B went silent.
Next to him, Aghassi fired his AK-103 into the passengers riding in the back of one of the cartel pickups as it passed, spraying them with gunfire.
Then the convoy was gone, twisting around the cut in the hill.
“Shit.”
“At least we thinned them out a little,” Aghassi said. “Let's catch up.”
Squinting to see through the blood splatter on the glass, Deckard turned the wheel as the convoy exited a long straightaway and began up the winding road that followed along the hill in the middle of the city. It was the same hill with the cellular phone towers on it that Nikita and Agassi had occupied the day before yesterday.
While reaching over the dead driver and steering the wheel, Deckard snatched the folder he kept secured on his Safariland holster. Flicking the switch, the spring-assisted blade locked into the open position. It was a small Benchmade folder that he carried for general purposes.
“Here,” he said handing the knife to Kenny. “Cut yourself free and give me a hand.”
Up above Kenny, the PKM gunner in the turret was rocking the gun sending hot brass raining down into the vehicle.
“Sh-sh-shit,” Kenny said, stumbling with the knife.
“Hurry up,” Deckard scolded him. I can barely see what I'm doing here.”
Kenny cut through the plastic flexcuffs and looked up.
“Sh-shit!”
“What the-,” Deckard's eyes went back to the road. “Shit!”
Jerking the wheel, the turret gunner lost his grip on the PKM and held on tight as the assault truck swung around a hairpin turn. If it wasn't for the vehicle being weighted down with guns, ammunition, and the mercenaries themselves, he probably would have dumped the Iveco truck on its side.
With the engine howling and spewing smoke from bullet holes in the hood, they rounded the turn with inches to spare as they left some of the truck's desert tan paint job behind on the concrete barrier at the edge of the road.
The cartel gun truck that had been close on their heels and gaining on them didn't see the turn soon enough with Deckard's vehicle blocking their view. Once he turned out of the way and the cartel driver saw the sharp bend in the road he didn't have enough time to make a correction.
The armored pickup truck jumped the curb and smashed right through the flimsy metal railing at the edge of the road before plummeting off the side of the cliff.
“Kenny, grab the driver,” Deckard ordered while struggling to control the vehicle. The PKM gunner up top was firing again. As long as the convoy was still in contact, he didn't dare slow down or stop the vehicle.
Samruk's oracle grabbed the driver by his shirt and attempted to pull him out of his seat.
“What is that sticking out of him?” he asked.
Deckard frowned and stole a quick look away from the road and down at the corpse.
“That's an RPG rocket,” he said looking back at the road in front of him.
Somehow the rocket had penetrated the vehicle and failed to detonate. More than likely, the shooter had gotten nervous during the fight and forgot to pull the nose cap off the rocket which protected it from accidental detonations in the event that it was dropped or fell out of the RPG launcher. Still, Deckard felt less than secure with a live RPG rocket lodged in the abdomen of the dead driver.
“Yeah, don't touch that.”
They reached the hump where the road began to head into a decline as they shot downhill and back into the city as they circled around the edge of the hill. Picking up speed, Deckard slipped into the driver's seat as Kenny pulled the body out of the way. The PKM gunner was still firing wildly and they could hear bullets pinging off the armored cab. How that RPG had penetrated the armor, he didn't know but there was always that golden shot. Deckard could recall an American M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank that had been taken out by an RPG in Iraq.
“Reloading!” the PKM gunner yelled as he popped open the feed tray cover and reached for another belt of ammo.
The side view mirror on his side was now missing, but using the mirror on the passenger side, he could see his men riding in the back turn their Kalashnikov rifles on the tires of the cartel vehicle now lagging behind them. With two burst front tires, the enemy gun truck spun out, spiraling down the road. The Samruk vehicles following Deckard in the convoy sprayed the gun truck with more gunfire as they passed by.
The needle on the speedometer ticked up as they picked up velocity going downhill.
Rounding the final turn and blasting into the city, Deckard's jaw hung open as he saw the road blocked up ahead of him. Slamming on the brakes, Kenny shot forward into the dashboard as he hung onto the body of the former driver. The PKM gunner was thrown onto his gun as Deckard held his foot down, burning rubber in a trail of smoke behind them. The back tires threatened to spin out from under them, forcing Deckard to milk the wheel to compensate and keep the vehicle under control.
Leaving a streak of black skid marks, they finally jerked to a stop. Deckard looked up at the medieval contraption rolling towards them, the exhaust spewing a cloud of black smoke. He threw the assault truck in reverse and the engine died. Gray smoke was pouring out from under the hood. They had absorbed a few too many
rounds.
The clack-clack-clack of tank treads filled their ears as the machine moved to take up Deckard's entire field of vision through the windshield. The PKM gunner let off a stunted burst that was nothing more than a token show of resistance. He might as well have been firing rainbows and sunshine instead of the 7.62x54R API rounds that bounced right off the steel beast.
“OUT!” Deckard yelled.
The assaulters launched themselves off of the outward facing seats in the back while the PKM gunner dismounted the machine gun from its pintle mount. Climbing out of the turret, he grabbed an extra belt of bullets, jumped down onto the hood, and then down onto the pavement. Meanwhile, Deckard grabbed the deceased driver. He was about to order Kenny out but then saw the passenger side door hanging open and the seat empty. Kenny didn't need to be told once, much less twice.
Aware that bumping the RPG round could detonate it, Deckard grabbed his AK and yanked the body out behind him. The tank treads were just a few meters away. The assaulters who had been on the back of the truck came over to help him handle the corpse.
From inside the metal beast, gunfire sprayed from several port holes, narrowing in on the rest of the Samruk convoy coming down the hill. One by one the assault trucks swerved to avoid oncoming machine gun fire. The heavy ka-chunk ka-chunk and massive muzzle blast alerted Deckard to the familiar sound of the M2HB machine gun inside the monstrosity. The twin streams of gunfire hosing down the street also told him that the crew inside was running a dual machine gun set up with two of the .50 caliber machine guns firing side by side from one trigger mechanism. Lucky for them, the guns were elevated inside the armed vehicle and the operators were unable to drop their gun barrels to target the mercenaries right in front of them. Instead, the driver would just run them over.
The mercenaries carried the driver away but Deckard found himself crawling up the side of the assault truck in a flash. Pushing a tow strap out of the way, he threw stray bottles of water aside looking for an ammo can kept in the back of the truck. The tank treads were coming straight down on the stalled vehicle, just feet away.
Deckard's teammates screamed at him in Russian as the machine threatened to grind him up underneath it. Sweeping empty shell casings out of the way, he found the green ammo can he was looking for. One of the boys had written on the lid with a paint marker.
It read: BLAMMO.
Deckard grabbed the ammo can by the handle and propelled himself off the back of the truck just as the treads made contact and pushed the vehicle slightly backwards before climbing up the hood. When his boots made contact with the street, he went into a roll and came up on one knee. The cartel-made tank rolled right over the top of the assault truck, completely destroying it.
Getting to his feet, Deckard could now see that the behemoth was a bulldozer that had been heavily modified by wielding hardened metal plates around the entire vehicle, fashioning a giant brown tower on top of the treads. Gun ports at the top of the tower allowed the dual .50 caliber machine guns to fire on anything that got in its way.
The Samruk assault trucks moved to cover, or shot off onto side streets to avoid the improvised tank and its large bore machine gun.
“Find a corner and hold it down,” Deckard ordered the mercenaries who had escaped his truck.
Popping open the blammo can, he reached in and grabbed two large black thermo-baric grenades. On his pistol belt he had a dump pouch for stashing spent magazines which now pulled double duty as a grenade carrier.
The tank continued to clank down the street, looking for his men and firing bursts whenever the gunner inside spotted them. Some of the mercenaries had dismounted their vehicles and were prepping their own RPG-7 launchers with anti-tank rockets. Letting a few fly, one grenade detonated harmlessly in the metal blade of the bulldozer. A second rocket bounced off the armor and exploded in the street next to Deckard's group, covering them in sulfur smelling white smoke. The third rocket exploded against the armored tower and the machine gunner inside began homing in on the RPG gunner squatting behind a car at the base of the hill.
It only took a nano-second for the twin barrels to spit enough lead to turn the car into a sieve as sparks flew around it like angry bumblebees. That was the last they heard from the RPG gunner.
“All stations on this net,” Deckard said into his radio. “Cease fire and attempt to evade. Drive on to the objective.”
Kazakhs called in to acknowledge the order as Deckard ran up behind the tank, passing his now demolished assault truck. Sticking out from the armor at the rear of the bulldozer was a three pronged ripper that would normally be used to loosen dirt prior to excavation on a work site. Slinging his rifle, Deckard reached out and grabbed the ripper while the bulldozer was still on the move.
Lifting his feet up, his boots scraped up against the sides of the ripper while he found a hand hold. Wiggling his way up, he stood on top of the metal claws. The sides of the armor plating were slick and getting up to the top of the tower was going to be a challenge to say the least.
They could stand around and shoot at the giant death machine all day and maybe that was the point. If Deckard let it, the tank would wear down Samruk's resources until they had nothing left to fight with.
The tank lurched, threatening to shake Deckard off. Finding a bump where one armor plate was welded to overlap on top of another revealed a very small handhold but it would have to do. Pushing off with one boot against the plate, Deckard flung himself up and got the tips of his fingers on the metal lip. Grunting, he got his other hand onto the lip and walked his legs up until his knees were almost in his chest. He would have to make one more reach to the top of the metal tower and his strength was already giving way.
He was dangling by his fingertips and unlike a rock climber, he was outfitted in body armor, rifle, grenades, magazines, and other tools of the trade.
Suddenly the entire bulldozer quaked beneath him causing one hand to slip off the lip. The next thing Deckard knew, sheet metal was raining down around him. Rocks were dropping down and clanging off the roof of the tank's tower. Something hard struck his shoulder and he lost his grip.
Deckard kept his feet and knees together but still nearly blacked out when he impacted the street below. Groaning, he spat dust out of his mouth. Propping himself up with one arm, he saw the bulldozer smash the rest of the way through the entire corner of a warehouse. Bricks rained down around the dozer and the sheet metal roof collapsed in entire sections. The tank simply rumbled right over the debris and turned back out onto the street.
They must have had cameras somewhere on the outer skin of the tank and had seen him climbing up the back end of it. The mercenaries left the street corner they had taken shelter behind and moved up to help their commander out.
Deckard handed his rifle to one of them before unplugging his head set from his radio and undoing the Velcro on the cummerbund of his body armor. Ripping off the plate carrier he handed that off as well as his radio headset. All he kept with him was his pistol belt that had his 1911 pistol, extra pistol magazines, his knife, and his dump bag with the grenades on it. He needed to be light and agile if he was going to scramble up the side of the tank. It was a calculated risk.
Up ahead of them the tank driver threw one control level forward and the other backward to turn each of the two treads in opposite directions to spin the tank around to face the mercenaries.
“Hurry up,” Deckard yelled as he took off towards the tank. Once again, running away would have been futile and they would have been cut down by the machine guns. In this case, they needed to get back under the gunner's arc of fire. Closer was safer, relatively speaking.
The mercenaries sprinted up and followed Deckard as he dodged to the side of the tank and ran around the back again. Out in the middle of the street, the driver must have realized that he didn't have any obstacles to run up against and knock of any sappers crawling up the side of his hull. Throwing the tank in reverse, Deckard was nearly impaled by the ripper but managed to
climb up on top of it again.
Frantic screams beside him made it clear that one of the mercenaries had not gotten out of the way in time. Deckard reached out and grabbed the Kazakh's hand as his eyes went wild. He was trapped under the treads and was being crushed. His hand was violently ripped from Deckard's as he was crushed to death. As the tank tread rolled over the mercenary it had the effect of rolling a tube of toothpaste from the bottom up to the top. Deckard looked away as the mercenary burst in a tide of blood and gore. He braced himself against the armor plating, he was dizzy and about to vomit.
The tank was backing up into a brick wall and if he didn't move fast, Deckard knew he would be crushed as well. He hopped back up and found purchase on the lip of the armor plating, then reached up with his free hand and grabbed the ledge at the top of the tower. Executing a pull up, Deckard climbed up on top of the tank.
Reaching into his dump pouch, he palmed one of the thick cylindrical hand grenades. Pulling the pin, he lay down on his stomach and looked down over the front end of the tank where the port hole was. He could feel the heat through his uniform and gloves. Without hesitating a second longer, he plunged his hand through the port hole and dropped the grenade.
Panicked shouts came from within the metal beast.
Hanging off the edge of the tower, Deckard pushed off and was airborne for what seemed like forever before he hit the ground and stumbled down to his knees. Knowing there was probably only a second or so left on the grenade's time delay fuse, he threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his arms
The formal name of the thermo-baric grenade was the Anti-Structure Hand Grenade. Thermo-baric, meaning heat plus pressure made for a longer blast duration than conventional hand grenades as well as increased thermal output. The PBXN-109 inside the grenade created enough heat and pressure to collapse a building's walls, collapse an underground tunnel, or drop the top of a cave on top of pesky Taliban insurgents.