by John O'Brien
I pull out a map as Greg enters the cockpit and I relay the conversation.
“It’s about thirty miles away,” I say, pointing to the coordinates given on the map.
“Is there anything we can really do?” Greg asks. “I mean, I understand with kids and all, but look outside.”
Night runners continue to streak across the ramp with numerous ones gathered around the various aircraft. The moon’s rays sneak through a break in the overcast illuminating a portion of the tarmac. Several night runners glance up at the bright light while others look in our direction. The moon catches a few just right and their eyes glow in its radiance sending a shiver up my spine. There’s no way I want to be out there. I think about the kids and the soldiers fighting for their lives; the fear they must feel in the dark with night runners pressing in.
“We could unfasten the Stryker and load up. Rig something to lower the ramp, seal up the vehicle, and drive out,” I say.
“That would leave the aircraft open.”
“Yeah, but if we left the windows uncovered, there really isn’t a place they could hide out. We could just wait out the night in the Stryker and return in the morning,” I state.
“How many did you say were there?” Greg asks as Robert joins us.
“Seven soldiers and eleven kids,” I answer.
“That would make it a little cozy in the Stryker and there’s no way we can go outside to get another vehicle. Could we even fit everyone in?”
“We’d just have to pile in on top of one another and make do,” I respond.
“It’s your call, Jack,” Greg says.
Yeah, I’ve always loved that statement. It’s the one where there is no right answer, and I get to make the decision with anything I do decide being the wrong one. I know, because I’ve used the statement myself many times.
“Round everyone up and get them ready. Load them up and rig something to press the ramp button from the Stryker turret,” I say.
“Yeah, right. Want me to lasso the moon while I’m at it?”
“Well, while you’re at it, if you wouldn’t mind. It might come in handy,” I reply.
“Okay, Jack, I’ll figure something out. See you in the back,” he says and exits.
“Tim, did you catch all of that?” I ask, dialing our regular frequency back up.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t see what we can do, though,” he answers. I outline our plan to drive out of the aircraft and go.
“I don’t envy you. If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Tim says.
“I can’t think of anything. We’ll be back in the morning,” I reply.
“Okay, see you then.”
“Reynolds, we’re going to try and make it to you. How are you holding up?” I ask, switching frequencies once again.
“We’re expending ammo at a high rate, but managing, sir. And thanks,” she answers.
“Does your radio have enough juice for the night?”
“It should, sir,” she replies.
“Okay. I’ll call you when we get closer and ask about specifics. It’ll take us about an hour to reach you.”
“We’ll be here, sir… hopefully.”
I walk down the stairs into the dimly lit cargo compartment where the teams are gathering their gear; some donning their NVGs and checking them while others load mags into their vests. There is little talk amid the sounds of getting ready; boots walking across the steel decking, the metallic clink of a mag being inserted, the rattle of chains falling to the floor as the Stryker is unhitched. From time to time, the shrieks outside rise and everyone flinches each time a night runner pounds into the fuselage. Everyone has been briefed and, although they had a long day with little rest, their game faces are on.
Tension is etched on everyone as they realize we are venturing out into the realm of the night runners and will more than likely have to battle with them once we reach our destination. They also have looks of determination. There are kids and comrades out there who are in trouble and need rescuing. A soldier lives for the one next to them and will do anything for them. Kids, well, that goes way past any thought of themselves. To the soldiers donning vests and stashing ammo inside the Stryker, it’s a given that we will help.
Greg, having already donned his vest and gear, stands by the rear ramp staring at the control with a couple of long poles and duct tape in hand.
“Contemplating whether you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” I ask, drawing next to him.
“We don’t have anything that will reach,” he says, referring to finding something to activate the ramp switch and completely ignoring my comment.
“Okay. I’ll press the controls and jump in the back. The ramp lowering will give us time to close the Stryker up,” I say.
“I could have figured it out, but I really just wanted to see you run again,” Greg says, deadpan.
“Yeah, right. You haven’t seen me really run. When I do, all you see is a blur of movement,” I reply.
“That’s only because everyone’s eyes are teared due to of the agony of watching you.”
“I’m sorry, did I just hear you volunteer to lower the ramp?”
Greg smiles and sets his large hand on my shoulder. “You run like a ballet-trained gazelle, Jack. The honor is all yours.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Team members board the Stryker in ones and twos as they are ready until all have gathered inside. I do a last walk around to make sure the vehicle is completely untied. It wouldn’t do to lower the ramp and be swarmed by the night runners, who are waiting ever so patiently outside, only to find out that we are still attached to the aircraft. That would pretty much seal it for the kids and soldiers battling a few miles to the northeast. I head to the cockpit to turn off the battery, plunging the interior into darkness.
“Everyone ready?” I ask, poking my head inside the vehicle.
“Hooah, sir,” they all respond, filling the interior with their quiet shout.
“I hate my life,” I mutter, shaking my head and turning to the ramp controls.
The Stryker starts, filling the interior of the aircraft with diesel fumes and noise. Red light from the vehicle interior bathes the rear of the aircraft with an eerie glow.
Here goes nothing, I think, pressing the button to lower the 130 ramp.
The hydraulics whine, barely heard above the noise of the idling diesel and the shrieks outside. The top half of the ramp begins to rise. I hotfoot it a couple of steps and enter the armored vehicle. The Stryker ramp is quickly drawn up sealing us inside. The screams from the night runners increases momentarily as the 130 ramp opens up and then is muted once again with the closing of our door. The thick steel of the Stryker mutes a lot of the sound coming from outside, but there is the unmistakable sound of night runners scrambling into the aircraft as the ramp reaches a position where they can climb in. Shrieks surround us as night runners pour into the now-exposed cargo compartment. I keep an eye on the ramp through the monitor and see it fully lower. The screams from the night runners prevents me from hearing the usual clang of it hitting the hard pavement.
“It’s down. Back us out…nice and slow,” I tell the driver.
The engine revs and we all lean forward as the wheels engage. Inching backward, the vehicle is completely surrounded by a shrieking horde. The Stryker pushes the ones behind us out of the way, its mass and power enough that there is no way the night runners can prevent it from moving. I would like to open up and see what they are ‘saying’ but my mind is centered on getting out without damaging the 130. I’m also thinking about how to get the soldiers and kids out. The actual plan will have to wait until we get there and see the situation firsthand. It’s in a school so I imagine we’ll have to go inside at some point and that isn’t leaving me with a warm glow of comfort.
The vehicle levels out after transiting down the ramp at an angle. Night runners continue to scream outside and we hear them clambering on top. We’ll have to shake them off some
how as they will hinder any rescue attempt. We may have to leave the Stryker and having the creatures on top will limit our options. I’m quite the fan of having all choices available.
With the tarmac bathed in moonlight, we begin to pick up speed across the concrete. A couple of night runners get caught in the press of those behind them and end up under our wheels. I look through the monitor only to see a mass of them chasing, their mouths open in screams. The ones on top leave of their own accord. Apparently they don’t like road trips much.
We plunge into the gloom of the night and push off the base, speeding down the Interstate heading northeast. I am fairly sure we won’t be encountering bandits trying to block the road as we travel through the inky hours of darkness so we hasten down the four-lane highway without a worry of being ambushed. Committed as we are, time is now of the essence. Greg and I pour over maps under the light of a red lamp, plotting the best route to the school. The maps are only street diagrams so I have no idea what we’ll encounter when we get there.
The teams sit in hushed silence, crunched together on the seats along the wall, each lost in their thoughts. They rock slightly in the vehicle as the driver guides us along with the use of night vision. The hum of the diesel is felt through our boots. The miles pass silently by.
As we near a road that will give us a more direct route, I call Sergeant Reynolds. “What’s your situation?” I ask once we establish radio contact.
“We’re holding them back so far, sir, but when we run out of ammo, that will change in a hurry,” she answers.
“Where are you located within the school?”
“We’re in the main building on the third floor. You’ll see it straight ahead when you pull into the main entrance. It will be the one that is being swarmed. I’m assuming it will be apparent which one from the outside. We’re holding a hallway just outside a classroom that we have the kids hiding out in. We had the stairs blocked but they broke though that earlier this evening. I think we’ve sealed the windows in the room effectively, but I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to hold,” she answers.
“Okay, sergeant, we’re just a few minutes out. Will you be able to move to our location if we set up a perimeter?”
“Not with the kids in tow, sir. I think we’d be easily overwhelmed if we tried to,” Reynolds replies.
“I guess we may have to come to you. We’ll analyze it from the outside when we arrive and let you know what we come up with,” I say.
“Roger that, sir. Faster would be better.”
“We’ll do what we can, Reynolds. Just hang tight a little longer.”
The road we selected doesn’t have an actual off-ramp so we exit onto a grassy shoulder and power up a slope. Traveling at high speed, we arrive at a “T” intersection. Across the road is a large refinery. A dirty white sign, seen in the glow of the night vision optics, hangs loosely on a fence denoting this as the ‘El Dorado Refinery’. It would be rather nice to actually be able to operate one of these plants. That and to operate one of the finer grade oil plants. That would take care of our fuel situation but I, nor anyone else in our camp that I know of, has the first clue about how they work.
Those are thoughts for another day, I think as we turn north. Right now, it’s about getting the kids and soldiers out.
We are soon passing a large campus to our left. When Reynolds mentioned school, I assumed that she meant a high school or something similar. The complex we are about to pull into is a college campus. Not that it changes anything but the area is huge. I’m glad she was fairly clear on what building they are in. Of course, it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out by the scene before us as we turn into the main entrance.
Ahead, just as advertised, sits a central building just off the main lot. The structure looks like one of those four foot ant hills that has been kicked — night runners are swarming everywhere. They are climbing up drain pipes and entering through broken windows and doors. There must be hundreds of them with more running across the parking lot to join the mass. I’m guessing the sound of gunfire within is drawing them but it’s not like I can tell Reynolds to stop shooting.
Some of the night runners break off at the sight of us and head in our direction. I’m sure they can’t hear us as it’s difficult to hear ourselves breathe, even from this distance. The ear-splitting shrieks are filling the night. Radio communication will be hard if we have to go any farther into the tempest ahead.
“Verify that you’re on the third floor?” I ask Reynolds.
There’s a pause. “That’s affirmative, sir, third floor,” she answers, sounding out of breath.
“Take care of those coming at us, then sweep the ones off that are on and around the building. Stay clear of the third floor,” I say to the gunner, slipping to the side to give him room.
“Copy that, sir. They’ll be clear shortly.”
I notify Reynolds and her group that we are commencing fire on the building but staying clear of the third floor. The shrieks outside, with so many night runners eager to get at their prey, are amazingly loud. I’ve heard a mass of night runners in a building before, but this is as deafening as I’ve ever heard. It’s not the low intensity sounds that you can feel in your heart; it’s the high-pitched ones that you can feel crawling across your skin. The very walls vibrate.
The whine of the turret turning and then the staccato firing of the .50 cal firing overhead barely register above the screams. I watch on the monitor as long streams of fire reach outward into the night. The devastation when the heavy rounds, each loaded with a tremendous amount of kinetic energy, hit flesh and bone is grisly to watch. It’s like watching a train wreck — gruesome yet you can’t tear your eyes away from it. Bodies are propelled backward when bullets hit the center mass and when they hit arms or legs, the limbs separate. Heads disappear in a bloody mist.
The night runners heading toward us all go down in a row, one after the other, as the large bore machine gun overhead sweeps through them. The ones near the campus building turn in our direction as the gun opens up. Night runners on drain pipes or crawling through windows look back fearfully as their approaching ranks simply cease to exist.
“How many do you estimate inside, Reynolds?” I ask as the firing ceases and the turret whines once more, lining up with new targets.
“I’m not sure, sir. There are a few in the hall, but I can hear a lot more on the stairs and floors below. We’re down to our last few mags,” she answers.
“Are you at the front, rear, or side of the building?”
“The front, sir.”
“Do you have any rope by chance?” I ask.
“No.”
It’s now that I wish the Stryker had one of those high-lift ladders like a structural fire engine. Getting them from the windows while keeping a suppressive effort on the front would be the best solution but it’s not one we have.
I quickly consult with Greg. “It looks like we’ll have to go inside. Just taking care of the ones out here isn’t going to do it as they’re running low on ammo.”
“That sucks, but if it’s what we have to do, then it is. How do you want to do it?” he asks.
“I figure we can clear the front and back the Stryker to the entrance doors. Blow them apart and lower the ramp right into the entrance foyer. The Stryker will block the runners from getting around and to us. Leave the driver and gunner to keep the front clear. You take your team and maintain a close perimeter inside to keep the Stryker clear of any night runners. I’ll take Red Team and sweep upstairs, taking extra ammo. Once we reach the soldiers, we’ll have additional firepower to fight our way back down. If we run into too many on the way, well, then we tried and have to figure something else out.”
“One team and three floors filled with night runners. That’s not the optimum solution, Jack.”
“I don’t see any other way. If you have another, please share it,” I respond.
“Unfortunately, I don’t,” Greg says. “Do you mean you are taking Rob
ert and Bri through the building with you?”
“You are going to attract a lot of attention with the Stryker so I don’t really see a ‘safe’ place, so yes, I’m taking them,” I reply.
“Your choice, Jack.” Again, with that.
I turn and give a quick rundown of the plan. To Red Team, I brief, “Gonzalez, you and McCafferty in front. Henderson and Denton, keep our back sides clear. Robert, Bri, and I will take the middle to lend support where needed. We’ll be in a moving perimeter. Stack on corners. If we come across any open doors, we’ll be closing them to try and keep our backsides clear. Anticipate that any number of night runners inside will be heading toward the Stryker and we may bump into them. Remember, there is no ‘hiding’ from them so we engage any we see. If we run across too many to handle, we conduct a fighting withdrawal in the same positions. When we do manage to reach the kids and soldiers, same formation out with the kids in the middle. The other soldiers will be used as fire support if needed but mainly used to keep the kids moving. We’ll keep the front and rear. Any questions?”
I am met with stern nods. It’s approaching game time and we steel ourselves. Tension is palpable as we are about to launch into a horde of night runners within a large darkened structure. This is something I was hoping we’d be able to avoid, well, forever with finding the distribution center, yet here we are.
The staccato bursts of the gun open up. The tracers streak into the darkness in slow motion, seeming to arc as they pour toward the structure. The rounds send out a shower of sparks where they strike the thick, brick walls, and, in some places, pound through the building. They strike windows that haven’t already been broken with an explosion of glass and wood. Night runners in the middle of crawling over window frames are shoved violently inside, coating the interior walls and floor with sprays of gore. The ones scaling the drain pipes are thrown clear, splashing the exterior with splotches and streaks of blood.
The gun is walked across the front of the building and up the sides, clearing the walls of night runners from the surfaces before it is turned on the crowds waiting their turn to get in. The bullets tear into the gathered masses, shattering bone, tearing flesh, and ripping through internals. Night runners fall as if a scythe ran through their midst. A single .50 caliber round carries so much inertia, because of its weight and speed, that it is able to slash through multiple bodies. The carnage is horrific. The .50 cal, doing its job mindlessly, ceases firing with smoke drifting from the end of its barrel.