by James Tarr
“Hey.” Weasel looked up, and Ed dropped the heavy can into his arms before climbing down.
“There’s a big water tank on the wall in here.”
“Can we grab it?”
Weasel shook his head. “Bolted in.”
“Fuck.” He thought for just a second. “You done in here?”
“Yeah.” Weasel glanced down and Ed saw the grenade box, three ammo cans, and a battered M4 carbine that probably belonged to the driver all lying on the back hatch. Weasel’s chest rig was stuffed with the extra magazines that went with the rifle. Ed dug out his empty canteen and tossed it to Weasel.
“Form up on the IMP for water and grenades!” he called out to his men. He could see they were almost finished, and he checked his watch. Three minutes already. They needed to move. Weasel tossed the canteen back to him, full.
George staggered up with an extra carbine over one shoulder, his pack stuffed with salvaged gear. Ed was happy to see two grenades hanging from his chest straps. George was too overloaded to reach his canteens himself. Weasel yanked them out roughly and began filling them.
“Some of these guys were carrying M4s, so we can finally grab some ammo.”
“You find any intelligence?” Ed asked George. The taciturn man shook his head.
“Whatever they had was probably on the officer, who was in the back of the Growler.” They both looked at the vehicle, which was still burning fiercely. The two bodies in the back seat were black shapes huddled low in the seats. The pungent odor of burning flesh and rubber filled the street. It was a smell they’d become all too familiar with.
George looked down at the big can of belted grenades on the ramp of the IMP. “What’s that?” Ed told him about grabbing the can off the roof. “No, no, leave it, you can’t use those in your grenade launcher.”
“They’re the exact same!” Ed protested.
“No, they’re hotrodded, like magnums. They’d blow your thumper apart if you could get them to chamber, but you can’t, they’re a few millimeters longer. Leave ‘em.”
“Shit.”
Mark jogged up and hefted his SAW in Ed’s direction. “I’ve only got about five rounds left.” The end of the ammo belt barely extended out of the receiver. He had a salvaged carbine slung over one shoulder but it couldn’t put out anywhere close to the amount of fire that the SAW could.
Ed nodded. “Don’t worry about it now. Right now we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” He jogged around the side of the personnel carrier to Jason.
“Haven’t seen anything,” the young man said before Ed could speak. Ed stared down the street. Blank faces of crumbling houses lined the street, stretching away from the men for half a mile. In the distance the concrete was a shimmering puddle in the heat, the rising mirage making the far houses dance and sway. Ed could see a hundred windows and only a handful of them still held glass. Most of the doorways were gaping, splintered ruins. Every yard was overgrown with waist high grass and weeds and the occasional patch of flowers.
“Jesus, he could be anywhere,” Ed breathed, thinking of the sniper. He tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Go on back and gear up,” he told him. “We’ve gotta move.”
He stood behind the rusting car husk which smelled of charcoal, staring at the street and listening to his men behind him. He could hear the clank and rattle of metal, the gurgle and splash of water, and the groans as they tried to get used to the weight of much-needed gear and water and ammunition.
“Hey. Ow!” Early was just throwing things into Jason’s backpack. Hard metal corners were jabbing at him. Everyone jumped at a nearby gunshot and turned to see Weasel stuffing a snubnose revolver back into a pocket. Jason realized he’d been hearing a low groaning sound nearby, and now that sound had stopped. Fresh blood seeped from the head of the soldier at Weasel’s feet.
Jason turned to Early, but the big man cut him off before he could say anything. “We don’t take prisoners, boy,” he said roughly. Beyond Weasel George was rising from a crouch, a bloody long-bladed knife in his hand. He was cutting the throats of the wounded, as it was quieter and didn’t use any ammunition. Jason was shocked.
Every vehicle in the army’s inventory was equipped with a GPS transponder that broadcast its exact position day and night. As soon as someone in headquarters realized they’d lost contact with the column they’d be able to get a fix on the IMP accurate to within one square meter. They’d see the column was stopped, and when further attempts to raise the vehicles on the radio were unsuccessful a phone call would be made. Airborne reconnaissance would be next, unless another patrol was close by. The column of black smoke rising from the burning Growler would make a spotter’s job just that much easier, but depending on how close the nearest fighter or helicopter was, it might be another five or fifteen minutes before they had eyes on target. The squad needed to be long gone before then.
The Army would probably assume they were using the standard guerrilla tactic of hit and run which meant they’d also assume they’d head back north. At least, Ed hoped so. He swept the street with his eyes one final time, then backed up to the IMP. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his plate carriers and hooked the lever of a grenade through a MOLLE strap. Quentin had two hanging from his chest already. Ed smiled at him, then grabbed an ammo can, surprised at its weight. “Let’s go. Doubletime.”
The squad spread out and began jogging down the sidewalk. They didn’t have time to be discreet; what they needed was distance between them and the ambush site. They needed to move.
The extra water and weapons and ammo were heavy and awkward but time was their enemy now, not noise. On the sidewalk at least the tall grass to either side would shelter them somewhat from inquisitive eyes. Ed was in the lead, setting the pace, watching the houses to either side and scanning the sky. His carbine hung across his chest by its sling and he kept one hand on its grip both to keep it from bouncing and to remain ready for any other surprises that might pop up. The grenade hanging from his webgear bounced around a little but seemed firmly attached. He glanced behind him and saw the rest of the squad spread out in a ragged line, jogging along with good intervals between them. They were all carrying extra gear, ammo cans, backpacks, even a few rifles.
The squad neared the end of the first block and Ed, in the lead, paused. He checked the cross-street, glancing both ways, paying close attention to the direction from which the patrol had come. Nothing, but then he hadn’t expected to see anything—if there’d been another patrol anywhere nearby they would have raced up as soon as they heard the first shot. He sprinted across the intersection, breath loud in his ears. The rest of his squad followed, dashing across the street singly and in pairs. After checking that the rest of the squad was still coming Ed jogged on.
It was ninety degrees in the shade and every man had been carrying thirty to forty pounds of gear before they’d started looting the soldiers’ bodies. In the baking sun their burdens doubled in weight, then quadrupled. The heat and the long days without adequate food or water had them gasping for air after two minutes. By the end of the second block so much sweat was running into Ed’s eyes he was having trouble seeing but he didn’t dare slow down.
“C’mon! Go! Go!” George urged his squadmates, his breath coming out in rasps. Between his own gear and what they’d taken off the bodies he was carrying a hundred pounds on his back. His thighs felt like they wanted to seize up. Instead he helped Mark, grabbing the big man by his webbing when he tripped over a buckled sidewalk slab and almost fell.
Two blocks covered, then three. Ed checked his watch without stopping, barely able to focus on the dial as he fought for air. To do it he had to lift the ammo can to shoulder height and his arm, already on fire, started shaking. His fingers were cramping up, yet one more burning pain shooting through his body.
They’d been on the move for just over four minutes. His urge to put distance between themselves and the ambush location was tempered with the knowledge that if they didn’t slow down,
they could run into something nasty and never spot it until it was too late.
At least half a mile. That’s how far Ed figured they needed to be from the ambush site before they went to ground. They hit another cross-street and dashed across it in pairs. The houses here were in bad shape, some nothing more than piles of rubble. There’d been a lot of fighting here once. They could still smell the smoke from the fires that had charred them years before. Charred timbers shot skyward from jagged clots of broken brick. The curbs were choked with mangled vehicles and Ed eyed their dark interiors suspiciously until he heard something bump in a house as he jogged by. He gripped his carbine tighter. Running headlong into unknown areas of the city was the closest thing to suicide he’d ever attempted, but they couldn’t stop, not yet.
George was having trouble keeping up under his payload and Early dropped back in the pack to give him a hand. “C’mon boss,” Early urged the compact man between gasps. Early grabbed hold of George’s shoulder strap and pulled him on. George was panting hoarsely with the effort of running and he didn’t have the air to argue.
Ed reached the end of the block and peered out past the tall grass, trying not to gasp for air too loudly. The cross-street dead-ended a block to the left at what once had been a park. To the right, about two hundred yards down, was a jumbled pile of cars that had perhaps once been part of a roadblock. With a grunt Ed jogged across the open space toward the safety of the tall grass on the far side. Three houses down from the corner he checked his watch and slowed to a walk. Sweat dripped off his nose.
The squad formed up behind him, gasping and coughing. Mark vomited quietly but angrily waved off worried looks. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ed checked to make sure everyone was caught up and looked past them. The column of smoke from the Growler no longer seemed close. He pointed at the houses to their right. The squad silently disappeared into the shadows.
On either side of the crumbling ruin of a house they swished slowly through the grass. There were fences separating many of the back yards, but most of them had been knocked down or ripped up for reasons unknown.
Behind the house they spread out and paused, watching and listening. Insects, birds, and the distant hollow hammering of a woodpecker were they only sounds they heard. Slowly and carefully they began moving southward through the backyards between two rows of houses. They crouched low, staying in the shadows and grass, peering into the houses and between them, listening. Gradually their pounding hearts slowed, and their breath came easier.
The area was either devoid of people or they’d learned long ago to stay out of sight whenever they heard gunfire nearby. Halfway down a block Ed held up a hand and the squad hunkered down. For half a minute they squatted, waiting, watching, listening, then Ed pointed at a house. The squad rose as one man and moved forward.
Ed took the left side of the house, Quentin the right, as the rest of the squad quickly entered the battered abode and checked it. After determining the perimeter was clear Ed slowly backed up to the house. Its side door was half off its hinges and he sidestepped inside.
The brick-sided bungalow was in better shape on the inside than its exterior led them to believe. Although nothing but slivers were left of its windows, and both its front and side doors had been kicked in, the interior walls and floors hardly showed any damage. It was over three-quarters of a mile from the ambush site, and looked unremarkable. It should do. Ed sent Mark to the front of the house to keep watch and Weasel to the back. After dumping their extra gear in the center of the house the two men moved out.
Jason helped a staggering George onto a chair in what had been the dining room. George fought his way out of his pack straps and slid onto his butt on the floor, chest still heaving.
“Christ I’m out of shape,” he murmured. He allowed himself another thirty seconds to recover, then took charge of inventorying their booty. He glanced around, finally deciding the kitchen, with its counters, would be the best spot. “I need a magazine count,” he announced.
Even though he knew his men had already checked it Ed crept up the stairs to the second floor and made sure it was clear. The top floor contained a master bedroom with its own bath and a tiny second bedroom hardly larger than a closet. The roof seemed to be intact, keeping the interior dry except for a leak in one corner which had soaked the mattress there, making the whole room smell of mildew. Ed peered out the windows front and back, then went back downstairs.
Mark was in the living room in the shadows six feet back from the bay window’s empty frame. The SAW was set up on its bipod next to him. Shards of glass littered the stained carpet, glinting faintly in the light. They’d all been cut by broken glass so many times it hardly seemed worth mentioning. George set an ammo can next to him just as Ed was coming down the stairs.
Mark cracked the can open and nodded. He opened the top of the SAW, then unhooked the soft-sided ammunition box from underneath the SAW’s receiver, revealing a belt of linked ammo barely six inches long. From the ammo can he pulled a fresh, gleaming belt of 200 rounds and wound it carefully into the soft-box. After reloading the light machine gun Mark pulled a second full belt of clinking ammo from the can. He sent Ed back to his pack for the spare soft-box he’d kept, never really believing he’d have the ammo necessary to fill it. He wound the second belt of ammo into the spare box.
“Got a better view out the front upstairs,” Ed told him, jerking his thumb at the ceiling. “There’s a wet mattress up there. A soaked mattress will hide you from infrared in the middle of a snowfield in January,” he said, not telling the big man anything he didn’t already know. “Pull it off the bed and set it up so you can dive under it quick if you need to.” Mark nodded and grabbed the SAW, now ten pounds heavier, with a grunt.
“Here,” George said quietly as Ed came back into the kitchen, pointing at a stack of loaded magazines. Ed counted six.
“Excellent,” he said.
“You’re going to get more, I just haven’t finished inventorying everything,” George told him pointedly. The two men looked at each other. Finally George shook his head. “Can you believe that?” he asked.
Ed shook his head and smiled. How they’d managed to not just survive but get through the incident without suffering any injuries, other than the small cut on Weasel’s forehead, was a minor miracle. He grabbed the magazines and began quickly stuffing them into the pockets of his vest.
George had the kitchen counters piled with confiscated gear. Among the many items were three old M4 carbines that had been stripped from fallen soldiers. Ed pointed at them questioningly.
“Spare parts,” George told him. “And maybe one for the kid.” Ed nodded in understanding, then his eyes shot toward the ceiling. The rest of the squad heard it too, and the rustling as they checked their gear ceased.
“Kestrel,” Mark called softly down the stairs.
The helicopter came curving in from the west, a thousand feet off the deck, the pilot aiming for the column of oily black smoke rising slowly in the afternoon air.
“That’s gotta be it,” the copilot confirmed, nodding at the smoke, after checking the GPS.
The big bird circled once high above the smoke, then dropped down low for a closer look.
“Christ,” the copilot muttered.
The pilot keyed his radio. “Hotel Four, this is Lima Eleven, over.”
“Go ahead Eleven.” The Major at the other end didn’t sound like he was expecting good news.
“Hotel, we’ve got one vehicle on fire, another stationary, surrounded by what looks like at least a dozen friendly KIA. Nothing’s moving, no sign of hostiles. It’s over, over.”
“Roger Eleven. Circle the area, see if you can spot the Tangos heading out. I’ve got Lima Twelve heading your way, ETA three, over.”
“Roger that.”
“Hotel to all air and ground assets, per protocol we will be switching to the alternate channel. I repeat, switch over to your designated alternate channel now, over.”
The p
ilot spoke over his shoulder. “You keep your eyes on that SAM radar. I don’t want to get a Spike up my ass.”
“I thought that was just a bullshit rumor.”
“You mean like the Gators pushing north and west far enough to hook up with the Longhorns?”
“What’s he doing?” Ed called softly upstairs.
“Circling around to the north.”
Ed nodded and went back into the dining room. Early had one of the dead soldier’s rifles and was explaining to Jason how to operate it. “I know it’s an ugly piece of shit,” he heard Early murmur, “but even John Wayne wouldn’t use a lever action in this war.”
“Who’s John Wayne?”
“Do we have satellite coverage?” the Major in charge of the air wing, such as it was, asked loudly, not turning around. The operations center behind him grew quiet.
“No,” the Sergeant tasked with knowing such things answered, after checking his watch. “We’re right near the end of a forty-two minute blackout window.” The blackout windows were getting longer and more numerous. At the start of the war they had numerous Keyhole reconnaissance satellites over the city at any one time. Now they only had coverage nine or so hours a day…spread out over twenty-four hours.
“Goddamnit,” the Major growled. His headset came to life.
“Lima Twelve is on station, over.”
“Roger Twelve. Be advised we have ground units en route, ETA six minutes, over.”
“Roger Hotel Four. Four,” the Kestrel pilot asked, “any chance we have a bird overhead that we can roll back the film on, see which direction the Tangos went? Over.”