Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  Captain Barton, his voice dripping with sarcasm, asked, “What now, sir?”

  Paulson clenched his fists. The impertinent captain was trying to undermine his authority and disrespect him in front of staff. Ready to explode, he caught himself and paused. He sensed the room listening and observing. There was nothing to gain by losing one’s composure. Besides, he never lost. In a confident voice, he replied, “We find and kill the enemy as planned. Nothing’s changed. Now, let’s get back to work!”

  The room remained quiet, tense. Sensing the mood, Paulson took a seat and called out, “Back to work. Everyone. Now!”

  Staff, seeming to get the message, returned to business, and the volume in the room increased.

  Just then, Paulson raised his finger as another call came into his headset. A new development. The Air Force was on the horn. AWACS reported a bogie inbound, rotary based, big. Maybe an ROAS Chinook, hugging the Virgin River coming in low. The big chopper popped up high enough for the AWACS to get a positive read. ETA to Mesquite, two minutes.

  Paulson didn’t need to ponder the sighting as the big picture crystallized. An ROAS exfiltration bird was on the way. Wherever the transport helicopter landed, the enemy small unit was sure to follow.

  Bent over the satellite imagery on his monitor, Paulson noted the Virgin River ran half a kilometer south of the target house. To avoid detection, the location was an obvious place to ingress and egress. Paulson thought for a moment and decided. Now it was his turn to spring a trap.

  Chapter Thirty

  EXFILTRATION, NOT

  After reaching the rest of the team, the sound of rotors emerged, and Bowen guessed a Custer was on his tail. He waved everyone to ground. Shit! He checked the time displayed in the upper-corner of his head protection visor and determined the Chinook was due. His ODA of Special Forces operators needed to get moving, but the night optics of the Custer were exceptional. He was debating the best course of action when he heard a swish and a quick series of explosions. Behind him, he risked a look, he could see the desert lit with three rounds of expended ordinance. For an unknown reason, the Custer had attacked something with rockets. He couldn’t fathom what the enemy was targeting. Regardless, he needed the damn bird to go away.

  Still debating what to do next, to his relief, Ekin, Mason, and a limping Upton arrived. He nodded to the men as they took a knee. Checking the time again, the team needed to get going, but the damn Custer continued to hover nearby. If the group moved, the advanced optics of the Custer might spot them, even with their active camouflage. On the verge of giving the order and risking it all, to his great relief, the Custer lifted, turned, and flew away.

  As they waited for the Custer to disappear, a new sound emerged. Horrible screams and yelling emanated from the area hit by the rocket attack. Captain Bowen wasn’t sure why the aircraft had departed but guessed the damn thing had fucked up and attacked its own people. His first urge was to assist the stricken troops, but he was in no position to help. Instead, he needed to take advantage of the unfortunate opportunity.

  Bowen rose into a crouch and worked his way among the team. Tapping folks on the shoulder as he went by, he waved for them to follow. In a moment, his entire group, along with the two rescued targets, were on the move and working against time.

  * * *

  Following the sound of pain, Sergeant Flood worked his way through the desert brush and found Corporal Dalton squirming on the sandy soil. His fire team leader alternated between moaning, panting, and outright screaming. Bending low, Flood tried to hold the thrashing man still when he saw the source of the problem. Two steel darts protruded from Dalton’s right shin, buried far into the bone. Even worse, the corporal tore at another dart, this one penetrating through the bone of his left forearm, the far tip protruding through skin.

  Flood assessed the wounds, spoke reassuring words to Dalton, and observed light bleeding. Good, no major arteries appeared compromised. Still, the corporal writhed in uncontrolled pain, the steel darts embedded deep within bone, beyond painful. Not knowing how to extract the darts without causing more distress or damage, Flood shifted to pain control.

  After removing Dalton’s head protection system, Flood dug around inside his own combat vest, pulled out a small medical kit, and extracted a Fentanyl lollipop. One of only two suckers in his possession, he knelt over the thrashing man and tried to explain. “Dalton, bear with me, calm down, open your mouth so I can give you this.” Flood waved the medicine on a stick in front of the corporal. In agony, Dalton continued to thrash, but at last, the corporal opened his mouth.

  Flood stuck in the lollipop. “There you go, give it a minute, you’ll feel better. Help is on the way. I’ve got to check the other guys. Hang tough, good buddy, and I’ll be right back.”

  With more distant screams ringing in his ears, Flood moved off in a tormented search.

  On the move he barked into his radio headset, asking Captain Barton for an ETA on further medical help. The answer wasn’t great. There were casualties from the precision grenade attack against First and Second Squads taking up available resources, and further medics weren’t due for another five minutes.

  Disgusted with the answer, Flood reached the next injured man. Private Ted Henry lay whimpering, bleeding heavy from a dart in the thigh. Blood squirted in the air with the dying rhythm of the man’s beating heart. Flood recognized the signs, the femoral artery severed, and his hopes sunk. But he went to work.

  On a knee next to the private, Flood procured a bandage from his medical kit, ripped it open, and tried to apply it around the wound. But the damn dart was in the way, and a bandage couldn’t repair a torn artery. Near panic, Flood tossed it aside and considered applying a tourniquet when the private convulsed. Before Flood could react, the young man stiffened and stopped breathing. Flood tried to save the soldier’s life, tore off the young man’s head protection system, and gave CPR. Both hands pumping on the man’s chest, Flood tried to revive the failing man. Blood still pumped from the wound, but not as much, and the soldier wasn’t responding. A change of tactic was needed. With one hand pumping Henry’s chest, with the other, Flood ripped at his own belt, trying to get it off and use it as a tourniquet. Frantic, after fumbling for a few seconds, he got it loose and cinched it above the frightful wound.

  Although blood no longer pumped from the torn artery, Private Henry lay lifeless. Flood stared into the vacant eyes of his fallen solider and knew he’d failed the young man. Part of it, he knew, was the lack of body armor below the waist. Too often, the soldiers didn’t connect or test that portion of their liquid armor as compared to the torso, thinking the upper body more susceptible. Besides, the armor, procured from the ROAS years before, was older, and maintenance was a pain in the ass. Now, it had cost Henry his life.

  He looked to the heavens for relief, tears of frustration forming, and noticed stars twinkling above. The sight juxtaposed against the man beneath him magnified the loss and made the sense of loss and guilt even worse. And then his headset crackled with the voice of Captain Barton.

  “Squad Three Actual, gather up your combat effectives and fall back to the original target house. Wait there for revised mission orders. Do you copy? Over.”

  Disgusted and demoralized, Flood considered not replying, but there wasn’t a choice.

  “Catcher Actual, Catcher Squad Three Actual has multiple WIA and at least one KIA. Where the hell is our medical assistance? Over!”

  “Squad Three Actual, help is on the way. But we need you and any combat effectives to rally at the target house. Now. Do you copy?”

  With hands drenched in the blood of his troops, Flood struggled to his feet. He considered ignoring the captain’s order, but all that would do was cause more headaches.

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

  Flood then switched to the Platoon Net and ordered each man in his squad to report in, one by one, and provide a status. As the calls came in, he ascertained the horrible reality. Of
the eight men entering the desert with him, only three remained combat effective: five men down, three wounded and pleading for help, and two others, including young Private Henry, didn’t report in at all.

  No way could he leave his wounded until the medics arrived. About to inform Captain Barton of his decision and take the heat, he heard beating rotors in the far distance. The sound sent shivers down his spine. Turning south towards the noise, he tried to ascertain the threat but was unable to see beyond the nearest high brush.

  He decided to call it in when another sound emerged, this time coming from the north. He spun back around and, straining his neck, caught sight of two Custers slowing into a fast hover. The sight angered him.

  * * *

  The ancient ROAS Chinook CH-47F came in flying low, hugging the Virgin River, cruising at its top speed of 170 knots. Covered in the latest stealth material, the large transport helicopter was difficult to detect by radar. The big machine had a large carrying capacity, well within the parameters of the mission, and contained a myriad of defensive weapons. But getting in and out in one piece wouldn’t be easy.

  To avoid detection, before reaching the outskirts of town, the Chinook veered away from the river and flew south and east over the unoccupied desert. After reaching a position due south of the target, it turned north and headed for the river again. The planners expected the enemy to detect the bird on its final approach, but it was all about speed.

  As the Chinook approached the landing zone, skimming low over the dark desert terrain, the big bird locked onto its landing zone. With side doors opening, the machine descended the last few meters until its wheels touched down on the soft bank. Rotor wash sent sand scattering, and already, it was time to leave.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Paulson guessed right.

  To set the trap after the ill-fated rocket attack, he’d ordered the offending Custer to fly far north, away from the river, to lure in the prey. Simultaneously, the replacement reconnaissance UAV finally arrived on station high above the original target location. Paulson directed the drone to put eyes on the Virgin River towards the south and to feed observation video to the battalion command network.

  Sure enough, perched over his monitor, watching the video feed, less than a minute later, Paulson grinned as a big transport helicopter came into view. Excited, he viewed his victim with intense satisfaction. It came flying in just above the deck, crossed over the river, came to a hover, rotated, and landed.

  Not waiting, Paulson contacted the Custer, its crew eager to make up for the prior mishap. By now, the second vertical-lift aircraft had joined the mission. The colonel fed both aircraft the UAV video along with the associated target coordinates.

  While keeping an eye on the UAV feed, Paulson reached into his pocket and felt the strip of cloth. Comforted, smiling, he ordered the Custers to attack.

  The ROAS exfiltration Chinook never stood a chance.

  It had been on the ground for less than thirty seconds when, at a speed of three hundred knots, the two Custers approached from the north. After locking on and going into a hover half a kilometer out, Paulson gave the green light to engage, and each bird fired a JAGM missile.

  Although the Chinook missile warning system appeared to detect the attack and launch a couple of flares in response, it wasn’t enough. The old bird was a sitting duck. The first missile ignored the pathetic decoys and struck the front half of the Chinook, burrowing deep into the superstructure, where it detonated in a thunderous explosion. Split in half by the force, parts of the big helicopter hurled high into the air. Within two heartbeats, a second missile slammed into the burning stew, adding its own lethal mix, ripping and tearing everything anew.

  Tossed into the night air, burning fuel, chunks of twisted metal, and body parts flew everywhere. Seconds later, the wreckage came crashing down, some landing in the surrounding desert while other pieces fell with a hiss into the nearby Virgin River.

  Even before the raining debris settled, the Custers moved in, firing cannons, shredding anything and everything around the wreckage. Not even a small rabbit could have survived the terrific onslaught.

  Watching the video, Paulson smiled while cheers erupted in the command trailer.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  CLEANING UP THE MESS

  May 9, 20:47 (PDT)

  Flood, along with the walking remnants of his squad, approached the heat of the smoldering ruins.

  In the darkness, the light from the various fires obviated the need for night vision, and Flood lifted his visor. From his vantage point, he detected pieces of the large helicopter spread wide around the Virgin River. Nothing but burning chunks of twisted metal remained. Driven by a gentle breeze, another larger fire swept among the farthest brush, burning east along the river.

  As Flood worked closer, assault rifle at the ready, he happened upon the first corpse. Charcoal black, lying in burned-out sage brush, a twisted torso, no legs, fingers curled tight from the cruel heat. He couldn’t tell the sex, or anything else definitive, other than it was dead.

  He kept moving closer, stepping over bits of metal, smoldering wires, insulation. All around the wreckage, small shell holes left by the intense cannon fire pocked the desert landscape. The destruction was sickening. More body parts, a leg with no boot, a dismembered hand, a bloodied helmet protection system.

  Among the wreckage, as he searched, the area reeked of smoke and death. The destruction was immense and total. Looking at another body, still smoldering, Flood felt vacant. Earlier, he’d wished for revenge, to get the two enemy soldiers who had killed Specialist Kinney. But now, the world devoid of joy, his heart was empty. Sure, the enemy took a beating, but it wasn’t worth it: too many people killed, good soldiers injured, none of it worth it.

  * * *

  “Sir, we’ve got confirmation from Second Platoon. After inspecting the site, multiple enemy KIA counted, probable squad size unit. We have some intact bodies and a bunch of parts. No enemy WIA, all confirmed dead. Overhead surveillance reports no enemy movement. The area is secure,” said Bravo Company Commander Barton in a tired voice.

  “Excellent,” replied Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, smiling, pleased with his own performance. Other than the friendly-fire incident, in his opinion, things had gone well. He’d give the good news to General Gist and complain about Federal Inspector Cone. After all, he rationalized, the damn government spy interfered in Operation Catcher, leading to the blue on blue accident. Even with the horrendous civilian distraction, mission accomplished.

  Paulson remembered to thank Barton. After all, it was important to recognize contributions, even when trivial. He’d also need Barton to sign off on the after-action report and the sticky events involving Cone. Still smiling, he turned to Barton.

  “Captain, a fine job. Pass along my compliments to your team. An absolute and stunning victory. You should be proud. In your report, please point out Cone’s egregious interference. In no way do I hold you responsible for the accidental deaths. I’m sure you agree.”

  Barton stared back, and then gave a short, quick nod.

  * * *

  After investigating the Chinook helicopter wreckage, Sergeant Flood and the rest of the able-bodied men from Second Platoon rested near the original target house. Gone were his Third Squad wounded, evacuated to their home base, Fort Carson, Colorado, where doctors awaited with more advanced capabilities.

  As Flood leaned against the side of his assigned Stuart, assault rifle slung, the floodlights from the fighting vehicle lighting the sidewalk, he waited for the punishment detail to arrive. Exhausted, one dirty chore remained.

  Corporal Able Hanford, one of a handful of men still walking from Flood’s Third Squad, was filthy but seemed to still carry energy from the earlier fight. Walking up to Flood, he shook his head at the row of blanket-covered bodies lying on the sidewalk.

  “Bad day,” said Hanford.

  Flood nodded.

  “Sergeant, I found one more wounded. Not
one of ours, but a civilian, an older guy in the house behind the target. Fucked up by a grenade. A grunt from Second Squad identified the guy, says he was trying to protect the ROAS soldiers hiding in the target house. After getting roughed up, the old civilian bastard admitted consorting with the enemy. Second Squad used him as a lure. Weird: I’d have thought more folks around these parts would welcome and help us. Fuck that guy.”

  “Is he getting medical treatment?” Flood didn’t care that much, but it was only right.

  “Not yet. Our medics are still working on our own.”

  “I’ll see if I can round someone up,” said Flood. Before he could call it in, he paused as two older Humvee’s rumbled down the street and parked near Flood.

  He watched as Captain Longfellow from Mortuary Services stepped out of the lead Humvee. To his disgust, the captain barely looked at the row of covered bodies stretched in a line atop the sidewalk. Instead, the captain nodded his head in recognition and stomped his direction. Before Flood could get away, the officer was standing in his way with a smile.

  “Sergeant, good to see you. I understand we got the bad guys,” said Longfellow.

  Flood looked at the overweight officer with disdain. Since jumping into the shell hole the night before to assist the arrogant bastard, bad shit had followed. No doubt, Longfellow started the mess that led to the loss of Kinney and the men now stretched dead on the hard pavement. He didn’t think the lumpy officer could manage twenty pushups or had ever fired a shot in anger. But the fucking guy was an officer.

  “Sir, a lot of people died.”

  Longfellow looked askance, then put on a broad smile. “Cheer up! Without you, we wouldn’t have gotten the bastards. In my report, I’ve put you and the specialist, what’s his name again?”

  “Kinney, sir, Specialist Kinney.”

  “Yes. I’ve put you and Kinney in for a decoration. What you accomplished early this morning, going into the pipe, helped us achieve a great victory tonight. By following my foresight, you tracked the enemy, and that led us to finding and killing a full host of enemy insurgents. It’s all in my report, and I’m sure decorations will follow,” said Longfellow.