by John O'Brien
Blanchard looks back from his shooting position. Krandle nods at him in the direction of Speer and Blanchard scurries into the other room.
Krandle concentrates on keeping the front clear. He still sees the occasional tracer coming from Speer’s and Miller’s positions, but they are down to three shooters and maybe two if Speer is seriously injured.
Minutes pass slowly. Krandle sees the outside like snapshots. Flashes of light in the dark spaces across the street. Sunlight shining upon the five bodies huddled in the street to the right, dark liquid mixing with the sand. A glint of light from one of the weapons lying near them. The red-tiled roofs atop abandoned houses. Leaves drifting down from trees and bushes as rounds tear through them – some catching the wind and being whisked away. Feeling the push of the stock against his shoulder as he sends projectiles racing outward. The impacts of slugs smash into the side of the house or zip through the broken window and slam into the walls and stairs behind him. Smoke hanging in the room from the expended shells and the aroma of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The frequent screams of the night runner somewhere above.
Through the tumultuous noise, he can hear his steady breathing as it is inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He feels the curve of the trigger, its hard metal clicking under the ministrations of his finger. Sweat trickles down his temples to run down his cheeks. He is completely in the zone.
“We’re coming back in,” Franklin radios. “And we don’t have to worry anymore about those three. They were trying to come up from the rear.”
“Copy that. What about the cliff?”
“There is a cut in the bank one house over that we can shimmy down. We’ll be exposed from the top all of the way to the exfil though,” Franklin answers.
Blanchard reenters from the side room. “He took a round through his upper left arm. Hit under the bicep and passed through without hitting the bone. He’ll be sore but fine.”
“Is he still able to shoot?”
“Yeah. My parental heritage came into question as I was bandaging him, so I think he’ll be okay.”
Krandle gets in touch with the Santa Fe and informs them of the situation. They are essentially at a stalemate with their attackers. Those firing at them can’t close in, and the team can’t escape. That stalemate will end when the team runs out of ammo or nighttime arrives; whichever occurs first. Shouts carry from across the way interrupt the conversation. Krandle can’t make out the words through the sound of gunfire. He isn’t even sure it’s English. Other shouts are heard up and down the street.
Krandle hears Speer shout to be heard above the barrage. “Ortiz, what are they saying?”
“How in the fuck should I know? I don’t have super hearing powers!” Ortiz shouts, answering.
“You speak that language. Say something to them.”
“What do you want me to say to them, dumbass?” Ortiz yells.
“Tell them to calm the fuck down,” Speer answers.
Krandle thinks Ortiz may be a way to communicate with their assailants and dashes into the room. Just as he enters, he hears Ortiz shout at their attackers.
“Hey, Cabron. Tu madre es una puta.”
Ortiz draws away from the window with a smile and giggles.
Krandle recognizes the word ‘puta’ and guesses the rest was just as unpleasant.
Shouts from across the street rise above the din of firing. The volume of gunfire increases sending all of them to the floor. Rounds thunder into the house and decimate the remaining glass in the windows. Thuds against the side of the house shake it, sending splinters and shards of glass into the interior. The curtains hanging at the sides rock backward from the bullets slamming into them. The team folds their hands over their heads to protect from the rounds and volume of glass falling into their midst.
“What the fuck did you say?” Speer shouts from his defensive posture.
“I asked them if they enjoy a good cup of tea,” Ortiz yells back.
“Ortiz! You don’t get to talk from now on,” Krandle states.
Rising to the edge of the window, Krandle peeks out. He sees figures dart across the street to the right out of the range of fire. Franklin informs him that he saw others dash to their side of the road in his direction.
Calling the Santa Fe once again, he reports the change in their situation, giving their coordinates and those of the assailants.
“I don’t think they really like us being here much,” Krandle says, finishing.
“Is there any way you can extract yourself?” Leonard asks.
“No, sir. We’re rather stuck here,” Krandle answers.
“Will you be able to relocate?”
“How far are you thinking?” Krandle asks, amid the din.
“I would suggest four hundred meters,” Leonard replies.
“That’s iffy at best. But we’ll do what we can. How long are we talking, sir?”
“We’ll do what we can to help. Give me fifteen minutes and then I’ll tell you five minutes out. Twenty minutes total. Can you hold that long?”
“Do we have a choice, sir?” Krandle asks with bullets shredding the side of the house.
“No, Chief. Sorry.”
“Then we’ll do what we need to do. I need that five minute warning though,” Krandle says.
“You’ll get that, Chief.”
“Sir, it needs to be an exact five minute count down. Can we rely on that?”
“You’ll have it.”
Bullets unrelentingly tear into the house. Shredded window panes fall on the backs of the team as they fold themselves into a ball.
Twenty minutes…Fuck! Krandle thinks, knowing twenty minutes in a firefight can seem like forever, especially when holding out for an extraction.
“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the team.
A scream rises momentarily above the clamor. Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the air.
“Miller’s hit,” he says.
“How bad?” Blanchard asks.
“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a little busy over here,” Franklin replies.
Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway. Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest at the top of his shoulder.
He’s been here before and knows that if they continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.
Several people run from between the houses, attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.
“Miller took a round below the shoulder. He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard reports.
“Can he move?” Krandle asks.
“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.
“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the background.
“He’s mobile, but he’s lost blood,” Blanchard continues.
“Okay. Keep an eye on him and stay there to support Franklin,” Krandle says.
Shouts of “reloading” rise above the tumult as the team, minus Miller, direct fo
cused and intense fire toward the flashes of light. The return fire is reduced as their bullets, tearing through shrubs and ripping into house corners, keeps the opposing heads down. The team has gained a small measure of containment, but it’s the ones that are coming from the sides and possibly the rear that worry Krandle. The openness of the yard around the house allows for good fields of vision and will make anyone approaching more cautious. He knows though that, regardless of how careful they may be, it is only a matter of time before they start receiving fire from the flanks.
It’s nothing. Just a few more minutes, Krandle thinks, looking at his watch.
He repeats this as a mantra while he sends burst after burst downrange. He has Ortiz watching the sides for any sign of those that crossed and reminds Franklin to do the same.
“We have movement near the house next to us. I can identify only three right now,” Franklin calls out.
“Can you hold or do you want Ortiz?”
“We’re fine for now,” Franklin says.
Ortiz catches Krandle’s attention and lets him know he sees movement on their side as well. As if to validate the information, rounds begin to pepper their position from that side.
“Speer, take care of the flank. Ortiz, head to the back and keep anyone off our backside. That’s our only way out,” Krandle calls out.
Ortiz rises and dashes into an adjoining room leading to the rear. Speer adjusts his position to take the shooters on the side under fire. Feeling the effects of his wound and the tightening of the muscles around it, he brings his carbine up slower than usual. However, he starts delivering high-speed projectiles at those attempting to flank their position.
Having to cover all sides diminishes fire they can concentrate in any one area. They are slowly being surrounded, regardless of how much they try to keep their assailants’ heads down to prevent that very thing. Krandle glances at his watch yet again.
Come on, Leonard. Do what you’re going to do and do it soon or we won’t be around for it to do any good, Krandle thinks, having an idea of what Leonard has in mind.
Focusing on those across the street, the sudden sting and burning on his forehead takes him by surprise. It feels like someone pinched him and then held a burning cigarette to his skin. He reaches up to the sudden sensation trying to wipe the burn away with the back of his hand. His glove comes away with a smear of blood soaked into the fabric. The blood mixes with the sweat and the warm flow trickles down his brow. He wipes it away again and continues firing.
“Chief Krandle,” he hears Leonard call over the radio.
“Krandle here,” he answers, resuming fire between clicking the mic button.
He’s the only one delivering fast-moving projectiles to this side of their front and they can’t afford to slack off on their fire. They have to keep the pressure on.
“Five minutes...ready, ready, mark,” Leonard says.
Krandle, having set a countdown timer on his watch, reaches up and clicks a button starting it.
“Copy,” he replies.
“Be sure you’re at a minimum of two hundred meters. Four hundred would be optimal, but two hundred should provide a measure of safety. Not much, but some,” Leonard states.
“Copy. Call you in five.”
“Five minutes. We’re leaving out the back in three plus forty-five. Ortiz, we’ll be coming out your way. Then we’re across the back yard to the cliff edge. Be ready to peel away on my call,” Krandle informs the team on the radio.
“The back is clear for now, Chief,” Ortiz radios.
That will be cutting it close to be away in time but they can’t leave too early as that will give their assailants time to chase them and put the team at a greater risk in the open.
Offshore, in the deeper water of the bay miles to the northwest of the Palos Verdes headland, the rolling swells are interrupted by an eruption. Water is flung upward and out. Through it rises a sleek, cylindrical shape. The roar of a rocket echoes across the bay and the object launches into the sky at an angle, leaving a trail of fire and smoke. With a rumbling roar, it picks up speed as it gains altitude.
A short distance later, the solid propellant rocket that provides its initial boost detaches and falls into the ocean with a splash. The smoke trails off as the turbo-fan motor engages and the object vanishes from sight as it hurtles toward its destination.
Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, watching the small numbers wind down. They hit the one minute, fifteen second mark.
“Everyone empty two mags and then we’re out of here. Blanchard, you start with Miller now. Franklin, Speer and I will follow you out,” Krandle calls.
Krandle fires continual bursts at anyplace that anyone could possibly be hidden in. He hears the shuffling of Miller and Blanchard behind him as they make their way to Ortiz. Replacing his mag, he sweeps the area with gunfire again. A series of rounds impacts the edge of the window near him, splintering the already shredded jamb. He feels a sting as several sharp fragments cut into his cheek.
“Okay, Franklin, you’re next…Go!” Krandle calls, down to the last few bullets in his mag.
Seconds later, as Franklin dashes by, he touches Krandle’s shoulder to let him know he’s past. Krandle fires the last rounds, replaces his mag, and looks at his watch. Fifty seconds to go.
It’s past time to beat cheeks out of here.
“Let’s go, Speer!”
They rise and race toward the back, passing Ortiz on the way. Ortiz follows them out a back door. Franklin, Miller, and Blanchard are part way across the large, open back yard. Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle emerge from the rear door when shouts ring out from both sides of the yard. Gunfire follows seconds later. They are being assaulted from both sides. The team’s unexpected appearance causes the assailants to fire hastily and therefore inaccurately.
Krandle hears rounds zip through the tall grass. He feels the pressure of one round passing just in front of him. Not slowing one bit, Franklin aims his carbine haphazardly in one hand and fires. The rounds go wide, but it causes the attackers to take cover. Miller shoves Blanchard away with his good hand, grabs his arm on the wounded side, and continues running toward the bluff edge.
Blanchard unslings his M-4 and adds his rounds to the fray. Krandle and the remaining two fire as they race across through the tall grass. Mindful of their limited time remaining, Krandle sacrifices his aim to keep pace. It’s now a pell-mell race for the edge as they try to outrace time itself. Krandle and the two with him catch up and pass Miller and Blanchard close to the bluff threshold.
The edge looms near with nothing in sight beyond except the ocean far below stretching out to the horizon. Their pace doesn’t slow. Rounds continue to pepper the air around them, following their mad race. Only a few feet separate the team from the long drop.
“Over we go, gents. Slide down,” Krandle shouts.
A couple of feet from the rim, they sling their M-4s and go to the ground like they were sliding into second. As their feet go over the edge, they roll onto their stomachs. Their legs slam into the rocky sides of the cliff and they begin skidding down. Stomachs, chests, knees, and elbows scrape against the rocky outcroppings as they scramble to grab hold of something to arrest their fall down the cliff.
The angle of the bluff at the top allows them some control and Krandle manages to grab hold of a rock projecting out of the steep wall. His feet find purchase on a small ledge and he secures himself. He looks up in time to see Miller falling past him, unable to catch himself with his one free hand. With a firm foot and hand hold, Krandle reaches out and grabs a handful of shirt. Miller screams in pain as Krandle has grabbed the shirt near his wounded shoulder. Krandle feels his feet slip and his hand aches holding onto the rock, but he doesn’t let go. Miller’s slide stops and he manages to secure his footing. With his good arm, he finds a handhold. Miller looks up, the pain evident in his eyes, and nods his thanks.
Krandle secures his grip on the cliff face once again and looks over his team.
They have all found holds of some sort, but they are all hanging precariously to the side of the cliff. Just a few feet below them, the angle they slid down comes to an abrupt halt and plummets straight down onto a rocky shoreline two hundred feet below. Krandle begins to feel a little more secure in their situation as long as those above don’t appear at the edge and begin firing down on them. His watch chimes as the countdown ends.
Krandle hears a sound rising above the roar of the surf below, similar to that of a low-flying jet. This is followed quickly by a storm of explosions. The cliff wall shakes from the multitude of blasts above, each detonation sounding like a mortar round going off. The thunderous explosions are indistinguishable from each other and form a continuous, rolling barrage. The shaking precipice on which they only have a tentative hold threatens to knock them loose. The ten feet between them and the straight, two hundred foot drop seems to shrink. Rocks shaken loose pelt the team members and continue past them over the edge.
Krandle hugs the wall, trying to push farther into its solid exterior. As quickly as it began, it’s over. Krandle feels his heart beating rapidly and hears his hoarse, panting breath as he exhales into the cliff, blowing dust away with each breath. He feels small rocks and grit fall out of his hair, and sand makes its way into his collar. Looking up, he sees dark smoke roiling above the ridgeline overhead.
The stunned team waits several seconds, expecting to see figures materialize, outlined on the ridge above. When the anticipated forms and subsequent volleys of fire don’t appear, they start climbing slowly up the cliff wall. Krandle helps Miller who grunts and grimaces with pain with each extension of his arm but they eventually crest the ridge.
The landscape ahead looks nothing like what they left minutes ago. The house they were in and the ones to either side, along with those across the street are smoldering ruins. Smoke drifts up from the rubble of timber, red slate, and stucco to join with the dark clouds hanging over the area, created from the explosions. A breeze catches the dark mass and carries it inland.