Dogsoldiers

by James Tarr

  There was a pause, less than one second, and then the rifle shoved the sniper back several inches. Even with the suppressor the gunshot sounded like a gunshot, it was simply quieter. Through the spotting scope Keeley saw the armed man’s head disintegrate in a chunky crimson spray, and he dropped lifelessly to the sidewalk. The other man froze for a second, then took off running. Unfortunately for him, he began running directly away from the sniper team. Hulce worked the bolt, and settled the reticle high on the running man’s back, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  “Down,” Keeley said flatly, to the sound of Hulce working the bolt again. “Good hit.” Keeley sighed, then said, shaking his head, “That’s just…”

  “Hey, fuck those guys,” Hulce said quietly, back on the scope and scanning the street once again. “They’re playing the game, they know the rules.”

  “I was going to say it was a waste of a good bullet,” his partner told him. “Two bullets. That shitty little revolver probably doesn’t even work, and those two dudes didn’t look like they had two spare brain cells to rub together.” Their rules of engagement were simple. They were weapons free to engage anyone with a firearm or wearing body armor, as both were expressly prohibited under martial law, and had been for years. Their commander had been very clear about their mission. It was time to bring some order back to this lawless shithole of a city, some fear back into the hearts of the shitty little civilians playing soldier.

  “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” Hulce murmured, cheek against his rifle’s stock. “Only the police and military can have guns. Should have guns. You can’t get that through your head, you deserve whatever happens to you. Let’s see if anyone tries to pick it up. It’ll be like hunting over bait.”

  Keeley entered the time and distance of the two kills and then went back to scanning with the binoculars.

  They worked their way steadily west through the neighborhood, moving as quickly as they could remain quiet…which was not quick at all. Jumping fences, even low, waist-high chainlink ones, was easy for kids at play but not so much when you were men burdened with body armor and rifles trying to not make a sound or be seen, pausing for minutes at a time at every noise, hunkering down into waist-high grass and wildly overgrown bushes and ornamental trees that had once been landscaping for the trim houses. Twice they heard barking nearby but never saw the dogs. The houses were small one-story edifices, brick with siding, most of them with covered car ports instead of garages, which was unusual for the area.

  Ed had paused in shade at the back corner of a small house, peering between it and its neighbor at the street to the north, drinking from his canteen, when he noticed movement nearby. His eyes darted over to see an old man standing in the shadowed dining room of the house, staring at Ed and past him at the gear-laden soldiers creeping silently through his and the adjacent backyard. The man was short and thick, but not fat—it was all knobby bone, including a big brown head dotted with just a few gray hairs. He and Ed stared at each other for a few seconds, then the man gave him a slight nod and a thumbs up. Then he gestured at Ed and walked closer to the window between them, which was open.

  “You gentlemen look like you might want to rest your feet for a few minutes.” He nodded past Ed. “I appreciate that you didn’t trample my garden.”

  Ed glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like you’ve put a lot of work into it.” He pointed at the adjoining backyards of the two houses to the south, which were nothing but rows of plants from fence to fence. “Those yours too?”

  The man nodded. “Most everybody else in the hood has skipped out, but I’m too damn old to pick up and move. Besides, gardening relaxes me.” He gave a brief smile. “’Nother hot one. I don’t have the water to spare, but I just picked a mother of a watermelon out of the garden this morning, was just about to cut it up. Care to join me?”

  Ed glanced up at the sky and did a little figuring in his head. They were not quite a mile southwest and fifty minutes removed from the crash site. He smiled at the shrunken man. “That’s mighty neighborly of you. I’m Ed.”

  “Russell.” He pointed down at the floor beside him, and there was a dog that Ed hadn’t even noticed. It was small but thick, with white fluffy fur and a short tail going back and forth so vigorously its rear feet were dancing on the floor. It appeared as old as its owner. “And this is Willis.”

  Ed raised his hand and signaled the men to him. The rest of the squad had paused when they heard Ed talking softly to a resident, and headed his way silently when he waved his hand.

  Ed and the rest of the men in Theodore—heck, every dogsoldier in the city—did their best to tread softly and treat nicely anyone brave or crazy enough to still be living in the area. There was always a chance a local would contact government forces and rat a team out for the standard reward, but grisly ARF reprisals against civilians actively collaborating with the military were a very real thing, and everyone knew it, so usually residents pretended not to see anything if they didn’t want to pick a side. Truth was, most people who had picked a side were already in the fight.

  The remaining locals generally had very little love lost for the Army. It was the Army which put up roadblocks and enforced martial law. The Army which went through neighborhoods, kicking in doors, looking for guns and other contraband. And the Army which had shut off water and power to the entire city in hopes of driving away the Irregulars. Of course, they denied it was intentional, claimed the water and electrical infrastructure had been irrevocably damaged from the fighting, but nobody believed the official story on that. Besides, both the water and power had been off for years, with no sign anyone was trying to “repair the damage”…and yet, somehow, the Blue Zone, which included the Army headquarters, had never lost power, and still had running water. It was hard to feel sympathy for a government that lied to you and was doing its best to drive you from your home. The suburbs still had power and water, but it was nothing anyone could depend on.

  “General, I’ve got some news.”

  Parker looked up from his paperwork. “Tomahawk Two-Bravo have some luck chasing down those guerrillas that shot them up?” The patrol had taken fire a few hours earlier, but only suffered one minor injury, probably from a ricochet. They’d seen at least two insurgents and given chase on foot while their Growlers had driven ahead to box in the enemy. The pursuit had very quickly turned into a house-by-house search.

  “No news on that, Sir. They’re still doing a grid search. We’ve got a second enemy contact.” He stepped to the large map of the city and its environs Parker had tacked to the wall. He pointed to a spot north of the city. “Kilo One-Three, one of our Kestrels running low and slow, reported an enemy contact here. Two trucks full of Tangos. Then they went radio silent. The two other birds we had on deck rotated over there ASAP and reported Kilo One-Three down and burning in the middle of the Ditch—”

  “Shit,” Parker swore. He got up and moved around his desk to peer at the map.

  “Yes sir. Ground units arrived on site fifteen minutes ago. It appears Kilo One-Three was downed with an RPG, both pilot and co-pilot dead in the bird, but not before he lit up the two vehicles. Initial reports are eight enemy KIA, two vehicles destroyed. However, it seems clear some enemy combatants survived the attack.”

  “How many?”

  “Unknown, sir, but first aid was attempted on one of the dead, and the RPG was fired a distance from that body, so best guess is at least three or more survived the attack and are on foot in the area. Our guess is that they were heading south, and whoever survived the contact continued in that direction or went to ground nearby. I’ve got two birds in the air, looking, and two platoons in Growlers and IMPs heading to the area. I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you.” Parker thought for a bit. “Is this related to the other incident this morning?”

  “I don’t think so, Sir. Not directly. This was two miles north of the city, the other incident was in a suburb as well, south of the city.” The Colon
el pointed. “They’re nearly twenty miles apart.”

  Parker huffed. “I still don’t like it. I want us to find these fuckers, Coop. North and south.” He waved a hand at the map. “I’m getting tired of this shit. I’m glad that aircrew gave better than they got, but it’s still a tragedy.” As was the loss of the Kestrel, he could have added. “Any insurgents killed or captured at either of those locations, I want to know. Or if anything else pops off in the city. AARs on my desk tonight either way.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Sir, if this was your daughter, I would ask you for its hand in marriage,” Mark said, hoisting the curve of watermelon rind aloft. It was his third, and his lips and fingers were wet and sticky with the juice of the fruit. He hadn’t had fresh watermelon in forever. He wasn’t alone.

  “Nothing seasons like hunger,” Ed said. He’d heard the phrase years ago, and had found it to be unerringly accurate. He looked at their host, missing the strange look Jason threw his way. “And you’re taking one of those birds as a thank you.” He pointed at the pigeons Weasel had field dressed while they’d eaten and rested.

  “You won’t get an argument from me.”

  “This seems like a nice neighborhood,” Quentin said. He was still trying to forget the smell of Bobby’s blood, the sight of the boy’s shocked, pale face as he died.

  “It’s quiet. I enjoy my gardening. And I get a lot of reading done.”

  “Not at night,” George observed. Even in midday the house was gloomy due to a lack of windows.

  Russell chuckled. “I get up and go to sleep with the sun. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do anyway, get up at the crack of dawn and eat dinner in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “So I’ve heard,” George replied with a smile. He checked his watch, then pointedly looked at Ed, who nodded.

  They’d been inside the house for an hour. Longer than Ed had first intended, but they’d heard Kestrels passing nearby twice, and he was loathe to head outside when helicopters were in the air close enough to hear.

  “Haven’t had electricity but three weeks this year, but the water’s running two or three days a week. ‘Course, you still have to boil it. I’d offer you some, but it’s been four days since I got a trickle out of a faucet. I would like a favor to ask of you boys, though, before you leave,” their host said from his chair. “Might sound a bit odd.”

  “Try us,” Early said, leaning on a door frame, letting Willis lick the watermelon juice off his fingers. The dog was very friendly as well as being seriously arthritic.

  “If any of you feel the urge to do your business before you get on the road, I’d be obliged if you could do it around the corner,” he pointed, “where I’ve got a compost pile. Every little bit helps.”

  Early’s face split in a huge smile. “Well, Sir, folks have been telling me my whole life I’m full o’ shit, it’s about time I finally put that to good use.” George snorted and Ed shook his head.

  Before they headed out, Ed took a moment to talk to the entire squad. They were all hurting, some more than others. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a casualty, but it had been quite some time since Theodore had suffered a loss, and they’d all been feeling lucky. Untouchable. Especially after Weasel’s close call with the Toad.

  “Bobby was a good man, and he will be sorely missed,” he said to their solemn faces. He traded a look with Quentin, and squeezed Weasel’s arm. “As will everyone we lost today. Franklin was as good as they get, and if it wasn’t for Arnold, that magnificent bastard, we’d all be dead too.” He paused. “A whole squad, plus one, is a stiff price to pay for a Kestrel, but don’t think they scored a walk-off home run on us. Maybe losing that one bird, that one thirty million dollar bird, will put a hole in their air coverage that will save lives tomorrow or the day after. Either way, we don’t have time to grieve. Not now. We’ve got a mission.” He paused, then his voice got steely.

  “Are you dragging? Are you tired? Sad? Want to quit, go home, take a long nap, have a good cry? Make it personal. Remember the names of the men who died today, fighting for freedom. Remember their jokes, their laughter, the things they did that annoyed the fuck out of you. Remember their bloody, burned faces. Bring that pain, that hurt, that outrage at the unfairness of it all with you wherever you go. Make it personal. Because if you don’t keep that fire in your belly, the enemy will kill you, and getting killed is about as personal as it gets.” He looked around the squad, and Jason was shocked by the anger on the man’s face. “And if we all keep our heads on straight, maybe we’ll get an opportunity to fucking avenge them. We clear?” He got a chorus of yessirs and thumbs up.

  Half an hour earlier they’d heard the muted rumble of several Growlers rolling down a street nearby to the north, but then nothing. “Haven’t heard a Kestrel in ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” Early said, staring out the window. “And it was way the hell off, at least a mile and a half.” All of them had become experts at gauging the distance of armor and aircraft.

  “Twelve minutes,” George said, glancing at his big watch. It was solar powered and GPS enabled, although several times a day it lost all connection to the commercial GPS satellites. He didn’t know if that’s because the army was jamming their signal, they were being routed away from the city, they’d been downed as part of the war effort… So many questions, so few answers.

  “We’ll separate into two groups, but I want to stay line of sight. Leprechaun is just a couple hundred yards west of here,” George told them, using the nickname for the major road that paralleled “The President” a mile to the west. “I want to cross it, then start heading south.”

  “That’s a big ass road,” Weasel pointed out. “We’ll be wide open.”

  “So we’ll need to be quick about it.”

  “You don’t want to search the neighborhood for a car?” Quentin asked.

  “There’s but one car in this neighborhood with more than a drop of gas in it,” Russell spoke up from his easy chair. “It belongs to Amy Robinson, down the block. You’ll have to cut through three locks to get to it, and by that time she will have stitched you up one side and down the other with birdshot from her giant duck gun.”

  “There’s seven of us,” Mark pointed out.

  “She don’t care. She’s feisty.” He smiled, his white teeth just visible in the gloom. “That’s why I like her.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing more in your afternoons than just reading and gardening,” Mark observed.

  Another flash of teeth. “That just may be. I ain’t dead yet. There’s a small market, half mile west of here, sometimes they have gas. They take cash, food…or ammo. But then, I guess, you’d have to find a car to put it in.”

  “We’ll make do,” Ed told him. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  They slipped out the back door in ones and twos, moving silently through the yards. They could hear birds, and the occasional squirrel, a random dog barking in the distance, and the sound of the wind moving through the treetops above the houses.

  They crossed the last neighborhood street in two columns and then moved between houses, into the back yards of the residences that lined Leprechaun on the east side. Ed moved to the edge of the back yard which was separated from Leprechaun and the sidewalk there by a six-foot wooden fence. There were enough missing slats in the fence for him to see up and down the street easily, and he pulled out his binoculars.

  Leprechaun—Greenfield on maps—was two lanes running north/south with a center left turn lane between them. Even with little vehicular traffic the concrete lanes were heaved and cracked after a decade of winters with no repair. There was a two-story brown brick office building directly across from the squad on the west side of the street. A fading “Government Health Care” sign hung over the front door, but there wasn’t an unbroken window visible, and only a few vehicles in the lot, all of which sat on flat tires. Behind the building was another neighborhood of one- and two-story brick houses. To the north and south of it were more
small commercial buildings and empty parking lots.

  Ed signaled for the rest of the squad to stay put and moved two houses north. There he slipped through an opening in the wood slat fence made by a privet grown wild. Just two feet away was a mature maple. He stood between the tree trunk and the huge bush, nearly invisible in the shade, and looked up and down Greenfield. To the north he saw several people on foot, maybe a quarter mile up. Not military. To the south….

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Not quite three-quarters of a mile south was a major cross-street, and through the binos he could see several Growlers scattered across both north- and south-bound lanes. A few soldiers on foot around the vehicles. It appeared to be an impromptu roadblock. And past that, beyond where he knew there was another sunken highway running northwest/southeast, Slash in ARF-speak, he saw a Kestrel circling. He could faintly hear it, and guessed the bird was roughly a mile and a half away.

  He retreated into the backyard and made his way to the squad. He pulled them together under the overhang of a house and related what he’d seen. “If I can see them, they can see us if we try to cross,” he said quietly, stating the obvious. “So we wait until they displace, or until it gets dark. Then we cross Leprechaun. I want to get on the far side of that road ASAP.”

  “They looking for us?” Jason said nervously.

  “Wouldn’t you be? We downed one of their helicopters and killed the crew. But they don’t appear to be doing a full grid search of the area, so it seems they aren’t sure which way we went after the crash. They’re all south of here, so until that changes we’re going to keep heading west. Spread out in a defensive perimeter, find some cover, and I’ll give you the signal when we can move out. It might be a while.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Terrified?”