Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  “Sir, we’ve lost our drone coverage,” said Barton.

  “No shit. Get another UAV in the air now!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Barton, and he began barking orders into his headset.

  Inspector Cone watched the action with a look of concern and began typing notes in his pad.

  Then, urgent radio calls came in reporting troops in contact. Neither Section A fighting vehicles were responding. The rest of the deployed platoon in the surrounding houses reported being under high-explosive indirect fire. Pinned by a rain of explosions, the troops couldn’t pinpoint or fire back at their attackers. Across the radio, disturbing calls trickled in as the platoon started taking casualties.

  Paulson tried to make sense of the chaos. He glanced at the big-screen tactical awareness monitor hanging on the far wall of the command post. The airborne warning and control system showed no air threats, nor were there any enemy units near Mesquite. Over the target, UAV surveillance throughout the day, other than the neighbor, had detected zero enemy movements. Paulson realized it had to be a small unit action, on foot, suited to avoid detection.

  On his blank monitor, he shifted from the dead UAV feed to recent satellite imagery. With the target centered on his screen, the incoming enemy attack vector became obvious. The unexpected assault had to be coming from the south, originating in the desert. Operation Catcher was turning to shit, fast, but he knew where the enemy was, and there couldn’t be many.

  Paulson stood and turned to Captain Barton. “I’m assuming tactical control of the fight.”

  Barton, on the radio in mid-sentence, paused and looked up with uncertainty.

  Not waiting for Barton or caring if the subordinate approved, Paulson issued commands through his headset.

  First, he ordered both standby Custers into the air. He needed eyes above the scene, now, with killing power.

  Next, he ordered the Second Platoon reserves, containing the two remaining fighting vehicles, and Third Squad, into action. He directed them to move forward and deliver suppressive fire into the desert just south of the target.

  The combined power of the fresh reserves and the vertical-lift aircraft would force the enemy to run or take cover. Once the enemy in the desert was under suppressive fire, he’d swarm the original target house and find or kill McMichael.

  As a precaution, even though they wouldn’t arrive in time, he ordered the rest of A Company, totaling two mechanized platoons supported by eight fighting vehicles, into the fight. He didn’t need the extra troops, as they were overkill, but insurance never hurt.

  After issuing the quick string of orders, Paulson sat in his seat with rising confidence. Yes, the enemy surprised Barton, but it was nothing he couldn’t fix. He wasn’t sure why the enemy had attacked, but he guessed the bastards were after the same objective. It didn’t matter; he’d lead his troops to victory.

  Confident in the outcome, Paulson considered but rejected requesting more assets. He could ask for an artillery barrage on the desert, but in soliciting the extra firepower, he’d have to explain the urgent need. No, he had no wish to escalate up the chain of command. Besides, under his leadership, with the assets assigned, he’d plenty of resources to regain the initiative and destroy the enemy.

  Lemonade out of lemons, Paulson thought to himself as he reached into his pocket and felt the ragged name tag. Turning the cloth between his fingers, he smiled.

  * * *

  With the burning hulks of the two fighting vehicles illuminating the scene, thirty seconds into the attack, Captain Bowen gave the signal. Together with Ekin and Mason, he jumped up from their hidden position and dashed across the street.

  On the run, leading the way, Bowen pointed at Upton curled on the lawn and Mason veered in that direction.

  Still moving, Bowen and Mason continued forward reaching Staff Sergeant McMichael. Bowen took a knee next to the female while Ekin, assault rifle at the ready, covered their position.

  Bowen had no way of knowing if she was alive, wounded, or dead. Collateral damage caused by the missile attack was more than possible. Regardless, his orders were clear, fetch or eliminate Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael.

  With Ekin providing coverage, Bowen reached down and rolled the woman onto her back. To his amazement, McMichael stared back, face ashen, eyes round in fear, a tooth missing, but alive. Over the roar of the nearby grenades, he yelled, “Are you okay?”

  At first, McMichael recoiled at the sight of the soldier hovering above her. Then it seemed she recognized his camouflage and put it all together, and she nodded in the affirmative.

  Bowen grabbed McMichael by her combat vest, and despite possible injuries, tugged her upright. She wobbled but stood. Worried of secondary explosions cooking off from ammunition inside the burning wrecks, holding her by the vest, with no time to waste, Bowen dragged her away.

  Forced to take a wide detour around the flaming hulks, Bowen got past the vehicles and pushed McMichael across the street into the desert brush and forced her to the ground. Kneeling beside her, he pulled a packet from his suit vest, tore it open, and extracted a folded camouflaged garment made of a thin material. Over the pounding of grenades, he pantomimed his wish.

  McMichael appeared to understand and took the material. With Bowen’s help, she stood and slipped the garment over her head and adjusted the attached hood. Loose fitting, the sleeves covered her arms well beyond her hands, while the length extended to the ground.

  Bowen grabbed McMichael’s shoulder and turned her towards the desert. With a silent wave, he pointed the direction they should head, and bent low, leading the way, he started to jog. Close behind, McMichael followed in the growing darkness. Together they scrambled through the brush, away from the sound of blasting grenades.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  FRIENDS AND ENEMIES

  Lieutenant Colonel Paulson swore into his headset, but the tirade wasn’t working. One of the two standby Custers was reporting a failure on its anti-missile Active Protection System and refused to launch. The Aviation Battalion wasn’t taking any chances, not with missiles in play. Based on the loss of a Custer the day before due to a failed APS, they wouldn’t budge.

  Now, only one vertical-lift aircraft was available with an ETA of three minutes. Even while arguing with the major in charge of the Custer squadron, Paulson believed the lone bird offered enough firepower to finish the job. Paulson gave in but requested a secondary replacement Custer, just in case. In response, the Aviation Battalion agreed but gave an ETA of fifteen minutes. To keep pressure applied, Paulson urged the major running the Aviation Battalion to move faster. For now, he’d have to make do with a single Custer.

  Meanwhile, the Second Platoon B Section reserves comprising two Stuart fighting vehicles carrying Third Squad were on the move. Assigned to block the two streets in and out of the target subdivision, they weren’t far away. Within two minutes of the order, both Stuarts approached the burning wrecks of their sister vehicles.

  Not knowing what faced them, fearing what happened to the fighting vehicles in A Section, they stopped a half-block away from the target house. There, they disgorged Third Squad with the order to fan out and approach the target with caution.

  Paulson didn’t care for the tactic. He wanted the Stuarts to charge forward and rake their main 30 mm chain guns into the desert south of the target position. But when he issued the order, the fighting vehicles resisted, not with two dead Stuarts burning towards their front. Instead, the Stuart section commander requested permission to hold fire until the inbound Custer was over the desert and his dismounted troops were in position.

  Paulson, expecting the lone vertical-lift assault aircraft on station soon, gave in and agreed.

  Seated next to him, Paulson noticed Barton and could tell the man wasn’t pleased. The company commander sat frowning with his arms crossed, shaking his head. He sensed that after the first shock of the enemy assault, Barton had recovered his wits. Now, he perceived Barton was itching to get back into the
fight and take over, but Paulson wasn’t about to cede his own authority and lose the engagement.

  Turning to his left, he watched as the federal inspector typed notes into a computer pad. He guessed the man was writing everything down to cover his own ass and, if needed, blame Paulson for any failures. Paulson felt an urge to lean over and swat away the man’s computer and slap the skinny bastard off the chair, but he refrained. Once the fight was over, he’d deal with the insolent son of a bitch.

  With commands issued, Lieutenant Colonel Paulson switched his screen to the live FLIR video feed from the Custer racing towards the scene.

  * * *

  Captain Bowen, with McMichael following, was moving fast, heading towards the rest of his troops and getting the hell away. For the assault, he figured it would take the enemy five minutes to respond and bring in more assets, so he wanted in and out in less than three. On his headset radio, he had just received good news. Ekin and Mason had Upton in tow and were working through the desert only twenty seconds behind.

  He kept moving, motivated by the fact he was close to reaching the rest of the team.

  Bowen checked the time on his helmet display. Less than three minutes into the assault, well within mission parameters, but the team needed to exfiltrate before the enemy rallied. Through his radio, he gave the word to break off the assault and head to the rally point.

  So far, the active camouflage suits had worked and protected them from prying eyes. As he waded through the brush, McMichael right behind him, he hoped their good fortune would continue.

  * * *

  Sergeant Flood and his Third Squad, comprising two fire teams totaling eight infantry soldiers, piled out of their fighting vehicles. He felt relieved. At last, an opportunity to join the fight! To avoid the incoming indirect grenade barrage, he ordered the men to flank the target house by moving down a parallel side street.

  Leading the way, determined to avenge the loss of Kinney, it didn’t take long for Flood to reach the final dead-end cross street fronting the target. Upon doing so, he went to ground and waved at his men to do likewise.

  Now on his stomach, crawling the last few meters, Flood peered west down the street. Sure enough, he observed two fighting vehicles burning bright in the early darkness. Grenades, not as many, still burst among the houses around the objective.

  Flood shifted his focus towards the desert. In listening to the radio chatter, he knew Higher Command believed the enemy attack originated from the south. Through his night-vision visor, he stared across the street into the open desert and tried to detect movement or muzzle flashes. Nothing.

  Over the radio, more calls came in from First and Second Squads, reports of KIA, urgent demands for medivac. He thought back to the beginning and felt a twinge of guilt. All of this because two bastards were found knifed in a shell hole. Then he noticed the quiet: no more explosions. The incoming indirect barrage had stopped.

  In an instant, Flood guessed the enemy was retreating. Now he had an opportunity to redeem himself. It was time to seize the initiative.

  Across the squad network Flood gave instructions. He explained how they would get up and dash across the street. Once in the brush, they were to fan out, keep good spacing and push towards the south. Their purpose: search, find, and destroy any enemy targets.

  After issuing the order, Flood stood, and with his assault rifle at the ready, ran across the street and took a knee inside the desert scrub. Around him, his men did the same.

  As his squad took their positions in a line facing south, Flood grew excited and could feel the pent-up energy. His night vision was excellent. Even in the early evening darkness, the optics lit up the surrounding terrain.

  With his men in position, he switched his comms to the company network and notified Captain Barton of his location and intentions. Good news, Barton acknowledged the call but didn’t interfere or even comment. Meanwhile, both of his section Stuarts had pulled up to the end of the street and were idling near the target house. In an excellent position to support Flood’s assault, they confirmed their readiness to offer fire support. Relieved by the response, Flood acknowledged the message and asked the Stuarts to stand by and remain ready to engage. With everything in place, Flood rose from his knee and issued orders for his squad to move.

  Assault rifle at the ready, Flood took off at a slow jog. The going proved more difficult than he anticipated, as thick brush often forced him to sidestep. He began to worry about the men around him keeping proper spacing. Alert and anxious, he picked his way through the desert terrain.

  * * *

  Paulson finished speaking over the radio with the Aviation Battalion, confirming the second bird was about to spin up. Standing nearby, Paulson watched as Inspector Cone scribbled more notes. Oh, how he wanted to strangle the man. Beside him, Captain Barton was on the radio and seemed to be under control. Then Cone looked up from his tablet.

  “Colonel, the mission calls for Staff Sergeant McMichael to be taken alive, I trust the objective hasn’t changed?”

  The last thing Paulson needed was Cone telling him what the mission parameters were. If the target objective couldn’t be taken alive, dead was the next best option, and he felt no compunction to explain. Not responding to the insolent question, staring at Cone, Paulson’s radio headset came to life. Excellent news: the inbound Custer pilot reported enemy targets in sight and requested permission to engage. The colonel glanced at his monitor where the Custer transmitted a high-definition night-vision scene. An entire squad of enemy soldiers was retreating through the desert south of the target house.

  For a few seconds, Colonel Paulson considered his options. Deciding, he authorized the Custer to open fire with anti-personnel ordinance aimed at stopping, but not necessarily destroying, the fleeing enemy. He’d like to take some prisoners, guessing Higher Command would be pleased. After giving the order, he sat back in keen anticipation.

  * * *

  Vigilant, scanning the desert as he jogged, Flood detected the sound of rotors coming from the rear, and he stopped. Turning, he looked up through a break in the heavy scrub but couldn’t spot the aircraft. By his estimation the squad was already fifty meters inside the desert and no one had mentioned air support. The realization of his exposure caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. Before he could get on the radio and remind Barton he was in pursuit of the enemy, he spotted a Custer coming in fast from the north. And then it twinkled.

  A shocked realization dawned, and Flood dropped to the ground and curled into a tight ball.

  Within a second, the first rocket struck forward of Flood’s left flank, followed by two more rippling across his line. Each rocket detonated just before striking the ground, unleashing a payload of 1,200 hardened-steel darts. Hurled in all directions, the fléchettes were perfect ordinance for the job, slicing through dense brush and embedding in any hard targets along the way.

  Curled tight, Flood heard the killing projectiles whistle past. Many of the shrubs around him shook as darts ripped through the vegetation. At least one dart glanced off his head protection system, two others ricocheted off the back of his liquid body armor, while another embedded in the heel of his right boot.

  Still cringing in a ball, Flood waited a few moments for more explosions. Nothing. Other than the sound of rotors, it grew quiet.

  Unscathed, he sat up and tried to shake off the shock. He’d been damn lucky. Then, the radio calls started coming in. Pleas for help and medical attention from his squad. On the verge of panic, trying to keep his wits, knowing the Custer could attack again at any moment, Flood called into the company net.

  “Catcher Actual. Catcher Squad Three has sustained a blue on blue attack! Call off the Custer, cease fire. We are friendlies. Repeat, we are under friendly fire. Over!”

  “Catcher Squad Three, Catcher Actual copies. Ceasing fire. Out.”

  Flood dropped his head and took a deep breath. Unabated screams and urgent calls for “medic” filled the air and his headset. Angry and
upset, Flood got back on the radio.

  “Catcher Actual, Catcher Squad Three needs immediate medical support, we have multiple WIA, repeat multiple wounded. Over.”

  “Catcher Squad Three, Catcher Actual copies. Standby for ETA. Over.”

  “Catcher Actual, get them here quick. Out.” Flood slumped. Ever since jumping in the shell hole the prior evening, everything had gone to shit.

  Angry, exasperated, Flood stood and looked towards the sky. Off to the north, where he last spotted it, the Custer hovered. Right then he hated the sight. The son of bitch lacked any fire discipline. Flood made a silent vow to find the pilot, hunt him down, and make him pay. But first, his men needed help. Disgusted, all thoughts of the enemy gone, slinging his assault rifle, and with a sense of dread, Flood headed for the closest calls of distress.

  * * *

  Paulson was surprised when Barton, seated next to him, swiveled in his chair and jumped up waving his arms. “Cease fire, cease fire!”

  Not waiting, Paulson ordered the Custer to hold and await further orders. Just then, an urgent radio call came in from Third Squad confirming the horrible reality. Barton answered and confirmed the cease fire. A few seconds later, a second call came in for a medivac.

  Paulson stood and stared down at Barton with anger. The captain glared back. Spinning on his heels, Paulson pointed an accusing finger at Cone. “You, sir, are the cause. Your constant interruptions in the middle of complex military maneuvers led us astray. I’ll be reporting your actions to General Gist and holding you responsible. Now get the fuck out of my command post!”

  Cone stepped back in apparent shock. Inside the command post, the trailer full of staff went quiet. After several seconds, Cone shook his head. “Colonel, I didn’t issue any commands, you did. If anyone is to blame, you are. I’ll leave, but I expect you to complete the mission and capture the objective. Either way, I will brief the president.” Cone, tablet in hand, turned and strode to the nearest door, pulled it open, and slammed it shut behind him.