Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  After a long pause, in a hesitant voice, Ortega agreed. “Okay, General, you run the military show. I’ve listened to your reasoning, and I trust you. Just make damn well sure to get her home soon. If she falls into enemy hands, the political repercussions, well, they aren’t pretty. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. I’ll keep her safety a top priority. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” replied the president. “If you learn anything else about McMichael or run into problems preparing for Heavy Metal, please inform me right away. I’m here to help. Agreed?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered the general.

  “Okay then, I’ve got to run, talk soon,” and the president ended the transmission.

  Relieved the conversation was over, General Story bent over his tablet and examined the latest updates on Heavy Metal. Damn! The defensive engineering tasks around the outskirts of town were slipping. He’d need to make a call and kick some ass. But he couldn’t shake off a bad feeling. He’d made the president a promise and told her to trust him. Looking up, he waved over his aid.

  “Sir?” asked Simpson as she approached.

  “I need an update on Lisa McMichael. Any changes?”

  “Yes, sir. Good timing. The S2 detected a US UAV surveillance drone doing high-altitude circle eights centered above the house where she’s hiding. I’ve asked them to conduct a risk assessment and put together possible contingency plans. They’re working the problem now and should have it mapped out within an hour. I intended to brief you then.”

  “What the hell! Why wasn’t I told earlier?” exclaimed the general. If the enemy was circling over that specific house, it meant only one thing. He ran the scenario in his head. McMichael and Upton were under orders to call in every eight hours. Until they checked in, six hours from now, they wouldn’t have any idea of the danger lurking overhead. By then, it might be too late, and he didn’t need a damn risk assessment to tell him otherwise.

  * * *

  McMichael, shaken awake and coming out of a deep sleep, focused her eyes and recognized Upton. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, and then the sinking feeling of her predicament settled in. She’d taken a nap in the master bedroom, and they were in danger. “What time is it,” she asked.

  “16:00 hours. We’ve still got two hours until we’re supposed to contact CENTCOM again.”

  McMichael sat up, and in her view, Upton appeared a new man. Tall, with a strong build and brown hair and eyes, his rugged looks were magnified by the black sweater he wore. He smelled clean and she appreciated having him and couldn’t imagine struggling alone.

  “There’s still enough time for you to get some rest,” she said.

  “We had a visitor while you slept,” said Upton with a frown.

  “What?” she said as a jolt of anxiety hit her stomach.

  Upton raised a hand and explained. “The neighbor, an older man named Russel, dropped by.”

  “Yeah?”

  Upton brought her up to speed. He explained how the neighbor was a complication, but Upton was confident the man meant no harm and would help keep an eye out for any enemy movement. He also explained how CENTCOM hadn’t told them about the pending US demand to turn over Nevada. In his estimation, the house was a trap behind enemy lines—lines that were about to be extended, making future escape that much harder.

  Pissed with CENTCOM for the deception, McMichael agreed with Upton. They needed to control their own destiny. Together they agreed on a plan. Tonight, as soon as it was dark, about an hour after informing CENTCOM, they’d get the hell out of dodge and seek extraction.

  Plans in place, Upton explained he was exhausted. After telling McMichael to watch the neighbor’s drapes and extracting a promise to awaken him before the next check in time, Lisa got up and Upton took her place.

  While Upton slept in the master bedroom, feeling better, another painkiller helping, McMichael tried to be productive. She filled their packs with canned food from the pantry, emptied and refilled two hydration systems. Tucked in her belt, she pulled out and checked the ammunition in the suppressed Glock. The magazine was six rounds short. Deep in her mind, she remembered Kinney squeezing off rounds in the pipe during their death struggle, and she shivered.

  On the floor in the master bedroom, next to the sleeping master sergeant, she discovered Upton’s combat vest and belt with two grenades still attached. Inside she dug out a spare magazine for his M18 and ejected a half dozen 9 mm-caliber bullets. They’d work in her Glock. With bullets in hand, she refilled the magazine to capacity. Satisfied, she tucked Kinney’s pistol back in her belt and walked into the living room to check the drapes. Through the rear window, across the yard, the neighbor’s shades remained untouched and the sight was reassuring.

  With nothing else pressing, she sat in the darkened living room and waited. Her mind kept going back to the previous day: the attack and horrible shelling; shooting down the helicopter, Specialist Kinney squirming. She wondered how many she’d killed. Then she thought of the men and women in her squad—horrible explosions and ear-splitting noise, high-velocity rounds ripping through flesh, digging into the ground under relentless attack.

  She felt awful and wished Upton was awake so they could leave. But she knew he needed sleep. So she tried thinking of her kids, Samantha and Jonathan, but that increased her anxiety. Trying to stay positive, she shifted her thoughts and imagined getting out of the house and making it back to ROAS lines—the joy of returning, the danger lifting. Before she knew it, it was time, and with a sense of relief, she got up and headed towards the master bedroom to wake her partner.

  “What time is it?” asked Upton, opening his eyes.

  She’d checked the battery-operated kitchen wall clock before heading to the bedroom. “17:45. We need to call in soon.”

  With a grunt, Upton sat up and got off the bed. As he strapped on his combat vest and belt, he asked, “Everything okay? The drapes across the way still open?”

  “Yes. All’s quiet. It’s like the entire neighborhood is empty: no cars, no people, eerie,” she said.

  Upton checked his belt and holster and made a slight adjustment. “Good, let’s contact CENTCOM.”

  As they walked through the house heading towards the garage, Upton leading the way, McMichael glanced through the small opening in the patio window. The drapes across the yard remained undisturbed. So far, so good.

  In the kitchen, before entering the garage, facing west, Upton cracked the kitchen window shutters, and both soldiers bent low to peer outside. Bright in their eyes, the sun was on its descent. Through the glare, the street remained empty, and the houses across the way appeared empty. Satisfied, ready to move into the garage and make the call, McMichael stood straight. However, Upton continued to stare hard out the window.

  Concerned about the prolonged concentration, McMichael asked, “What is it?”

  Upton didn’t answer and kept staring. After a few seconds, he closed the shutter and pressed himself against the kitchen wall. McMichael, sensing danger, did the same.

  “What,” she whispered, fear and adrenaline mounting.

  “There is someone on the roof across the street. I saw the tip of a rifle.”

  “You positive?” she asked. She hadn’t seen a damn thing.

  He frowned, “Yes. You turned away too soon.”

  “Now what?” she asked, feeling a sense of panic and dread.

  Upton appeared unsure, but she believed him. They were being watched.

  She needed time to think. In another hour, darkness would descend. If they could wait until then before making a dash to escape, their chances might improve. The most promising escape route was through the front door. A quick burst to cross the street into the desert sage. Once there, they could work their way to safety. Still, she couldn’t fathom why the enemy had positioned someone on the opposite roof instead of just barging in with guns blazing. Maybe the rifle on the roof had nothing to do with them? No, too coincidenta
l. Her thoughts turned to CENTCOM and what they might do when they didn’t call in as expected. It didn’t matter. Right now, they had bigger problems.

  McMichael explained her thoughts. “We need to get out of here. It’s possible the enemy is surrounding us, and we can’t call CENTCOM from inside the house. We need line of sight, but going outside and opening the garage door to make a call, with a rifle on the roof across the street, isn’t an option.”

  “Yeah, this house is a trap. Dammit. Rus should have warned us by pulling the drapes. I guess our neighbor friend gave us away. My fault: I shouldn’t have let him leave the house.”

  “No one’s to blame. We need to think,” said McMichael. As her mind whirled, she spoke her thoughts out loud. “We can act like we’re surrendering. Walk out the front door with our hands held high. If they don’t spot us for a few seconds, then we can dash across the street into the desert. Once we’re hidden, we can call CENTCOM. Of course, if they do spot us right away, we’ll be forced to give up.” McMichael felt bad about suggesting the possibility of surrender, but she felt exposed, a sense of doom filling the house. Surrendering had popped into her mind earlier. In the pipe, before she killed Specialist Kinney, she considered giving up. At that moment, fighting back seemed instinctive. Now, with time to rest and reflect on the horrors of the past day, if cornered, giving up seemed logical. She didn’t want to die in a futile escape attempt.

  “We could go out guns firing, but no, I like your plan better. I’m not ready to die in a blaze of glory. But to give us a better chance, I wish it was dark. Right now, in broad daylight, they’ll spot us for sure. Of course, it might not matter, as they could storm the house at any moment.”

  “Sergeant, I’m sorry, but if they storm the house, we need to surrender. There’s only two of us against God knows how many. I’m willing to give it an hour, let it get darker, then we go out with our hands up. If nothing happens, we make a run for it.” In saying the words, her hands trembled, the memory of the pipe and shelling rumbling through her gut.

  “Fair enough. I’ll sneak into the garage and pick up the satellite phone. Then, let’s get our packs loaded and be ready to move. We’ll huddle near the front door. In an hour, near sunset, we head out. If something happens before then, we try to survive and, if necessary, surrender.”

  “Sergeant, you don’t think we’ve done anything wrong, do you? I mean, you think they’ll treat us as prisoners of war and not as murderers?” asked McMichael, the question troubling her.

  Upton looked at her and seemed conflicted. Then he nodded. “I expect they’ll treat us with respect. We’re not criminals. But we’ve still got a chance to get away.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SURROUNDED AND SURRENDER

  May 9, 18:42 (PDT)

  Inside the M2A6 Stuart infantry fighting vehicle, Sergeant Flood sat pissed off. His Section B, Third Squad squatted in reserve, a half-mile down the road from the real action. It wasn’t fair. After all, Flood was the reason for the mission. Without his efforts the two enemy combatants wouldn’t be on the radar. Now he sat on his ass, waiting.

  At first, when Flood learned about the mission from platoon leader Lieutenant Peck, he was excited. The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, after reading the intelligence reports on the target, had recognized Flood’s earlier involvement. In a show of good faith, Paulson tasked Flood’s platoon with the honor of executing the capture. But when it came time to hand out squad assignments, Lieutenant Peck, known by the men as Lieutenant “Prick,” fucked up the tasking. The platoon leader was angry at Flood for the loss of Kinney and took it out by posting him in reserve.

  Lieutenant “Prick” decided that Section A, with First and most of Second Squad, along with their two fighting vehicles, would conduct the actual capture operation. Not needed, Flood’s Section B, along with Third Squad and their two fighting vehicles, would stay in reserve.

  So now Flood sat stuck, guarding the main street leading into the target subdivision. Sitting on his ass, waiting and upset, Flood was in no position to avenge the death of Specialist Kinney. Even worse, the guilt from losing Kinney gnawed at his guts. Only by taking revenge did he imagine the pain going away.

  * * *

  In charge of Operation Catcher, back at Division Command Post, Lieutenant Colonel Paulson sat next to his Bravo Company commander, Captain John Barton. It was Barton’s Second Platoon on the ground, responsible for mission execution. Next to both men sat Federal Inspector Dan Cone. Excitement hung heavy in the air.

  The plan was basic. Encircle without being seen and then overpower. Two squads from Bravo Company, Second Platoon, eighteen dismounted soldiers, were to surround the target house. Once in place, two fighting vehicles from the platoon were to race up and, with overwhelming firepower, demand the surrender of ROAS Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael. The rest of the platoon, Third Squad, and two other fighting vehicles were to stay in reserve. As an added precaution, two Custer vertical-lift aircraft remained on standby and, if needed, could be over the target within five minutes.

  Paulson felt confident. He’d more than enough assets assigned to achieve mission success. He understood, like most plans, changes evolved based on circumstances. High above the target house, unmanned aerial vehicle surveillance provided continuous coverage and earlier in the day spotted a man entering and spending time in the residence. Intelligence believed the man was a neighbor living behind the target. Paulson decided it was a good break and revised the tactical plan.

  The UAV, as had been the case since early in the morning, continued circling high above the house, unseen or heard by the occupants. Flying in a tight figure eight, the unmanned aircraft provided live video to the HQ operational command team.

  In the previous hour, Paulson watched as Bravo Company, Second Platoon crept unobserved through the suburban back and side yards and moved into place. Now, on three sides of the target house, other than the desert facing south, his troops lay in wait. Not only were they inside the surrounding houses, but at least one soldier clung to each roof providing overwatch. Only the front of the target, the southern exposure facing a road and the open desert, remained open.

  But that was about to change. Engines idling, several blocks from where they’d dismounted their infantry squads, two fighting vehicles awaited orders.

  “Remember, we need her alive and unharmed,” said Inspector Cone. He hovered behind the two infantry officers, both of whom stared into monitors watching real-time surveillance video and wearing headsets.

  Colonel Paulson ignored the statement.

  “I still think Special Forces is better suited for the job. They’re trained in these actions, you know—captures, rescues, and so forth,” said Inspector Cone.

  Angry, hearing the words once again, Paulson looked up and glared at the inspector. “Cone, please keep your mouth shut during the operation, or I’ll have you escorted from the command post. And I remind you, General Gist has complete faith in my leadership and the forces under his command. He doesn’t need help from Special Forces, or the Air Force, or any outside units. Gist made that point earlier. Now, act as an observer and stay quiet, or leave.”

  Cone was about to open his mouth when the radio came to life.

  “Catcher Actual, Catcher Team One. Target C is in custody and talking. I repeat Target C is talking and confirms location of Target B. But Target C cannot confirm Target A and claims zero knowledge of her. Do you copy and should we proceed with phase-two as planned? Over.”

  The first curve-ball, thought Paulson. The neighbor, Target C, was claiming knowledge of Target B, Upton, but not of Target A, McMichael. But it dawned on Paulson that this was a better opportunity than he had hoped. Not answering the radio call, instead he turned to Captain Barton. “Tell Catcher Team One to go ahead with phase-two with a minor alteration. We know she’s in there, but let’s act otherwise. Have Lieutenant Peck focus only on Upton. During the surrender negotiation, blame Target C for turning in Upton. Don’t
mention McMichael. Once Upton’s in custody, you’re allowed to use whatever force is needed against him to compel McMichael into surrendering. If she doesn’t, move forward as planned. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Captain Barton. Two seconds later, he was on the platoon network relaying the new orders.

  Colonel Paulson swiveled in his chair towards Cone and laughed. “You don’t mind if we kill Target B, Master Sergeant Upton, do you?”

  “Not at all. Just get McMichael alive,” said Cone.

  * * *

  “It’s getting dark,” whispered Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael, sitting on the tile foyer.

  So far, everything remained quiet. Every few minutes, Upton checked the back window and looked through the small crack in the curtains at the neighbor’s drapes. Every time, nothing. As the minutes ticked, Upton doubted himself. Maybe earlier, his eyes had been playing tricks. But he knew better. “I think we should wait longer, give it another fifteen minutes. It’ll be darker.”

  McMichael nodded and sitting cross-legged, continued to wait. On her back, she wore the medic pack, and in her right hand, she gripped Kinney’s Glock.

  After ten minutes, the stress getting to him, Upton grew impatient. “Time to check the drapes,” he whispered to Upton. Without waiting for a response, on hands and knees, he approached the back window.

  He froze.

  Upton crawled back, pretending not to notice how hard she was gripping the handgun, and whispered, “Drapes are closed. I knew Rus was a good guy, poor bastard. They must be behind us. We need to move.” He ran McMichael’s game plan through his mind. They’d both dash through the door with hands up. If not confronted, they’d take off through the desert. About to explain, he detected a sound, getting louder. “You hear it?” he whispered to McMichael.