Cobra

by David E. Meadows

  HJ and Monkey squatted on either side of the makeshift passage between two stacks of boxes. Gibbons disappeared between them. Duncan followed.

  “Go ahead, Captain. We’ve got the rear,” HJ said.

  “Don’t, HJ. Come on.”

  The three entered the maze, traveling only a few feet before an explosion behind them sent them flying off their feet. Shrapnel, pieces of boxes, crates, lamps, and other debris from the hostage area whirled outward like small bullets to maim, mutilate, and kill. The blast hurled HJ into Duncan, knocking the two of them down. Monkey landed on top of them. Deadly debris sailed over them, heading upward and outward. Duncan glanced ahead and saw no sign of the wounded Gibbons.

  Monkey pulled himself up and rolled HJ over. Her eyes were shut and her head hung loosely to the right. Duncan’s ears rang with the pressure from the blast. He could see Monkey’s lips moving, but the words seemed garbled.

  “Captain, you ah right?”

  Duncan touched the side of his head, slapping his ears a couple of times. He understood the question. His hearing was coming back. Duncan forced himself up, his back braced against the crate behind him. He nodded to the big SEAL. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times feeling the air equalize behind his eardrums. Duncan whirled his carbine to the right as running footsteps caught his attention. A rebel appeared suddenly over Monkey, who was helping HJ to her feet. Duncan shot him.

  The carbine noise disappeared amid the heavy gunfire originating from the walkway above them.

  Duncan surveyed the area behind Monkey and ahead where the tail end of the fleeing hostages and SEALs had disappeared. The area behind them where the hostages had been held was covered in a fine cloud of dust.

  The explosion had not been that huge, but it would have been sufficient to kill most of the hostages and the SEALs if they had remained in the area. The tangy, acrid smell of cordite stung his nostrils.

  A moan escaped from HJ, her eyelids flickered, and then they opened.

  “What happened?” she asked, her voice slightly slurred.

  “You got knocked out, ma’am,” Monkey said, handing her carbine to her.

  He released Lieutenant Mcdaniels. She weaved a little but remained upright. Monkey reached over and picked up his M-60 with his free hand and shoved the stunned officer down the passageway. “That way, HJ,” he said.

  Shouts in Arabic rose again as the dust began to settle from the explosion.

  “Captain, you all right?” “I’m fine, Monkey,” Duncan said, pushing himself away from the crates behind him. “HJ, how are you?” he asked the stunned SEAL as she moved down the path.

  “I’m okay, Captain. Let’s get out of here.”

  She sounded okay; she just didn’t look it.

  Monkey peeped around the corner, his eyes searching the darkness for movement. “You lead, Captain. I’ll bring up the rear.” Ahead, HJ had stopped. She was bent over a body. It was Gibbons. The blast must have caught the point SEAL.

  Duncan picked up Gibbons’s carbine and handed it to HJ and shouted for her to keep going. He grabbed Gibbons’s arm. Monkey rushed up and grabbed the other one. The two lifted Gibbons a couple of feet off the ground and, with his feet dragging, hurried after HJ. Gibbons’s boots dragged along the concrete floor.

  “I’ve got him, Monkey. Guard our backs.”

  Monkey released Gibbons and, assured that Duncan had the man, he turned around and began to walk backward, the heavy M-60 held in his right hand, pointing back the way they had come. Duncan moved forward, dragging the unconscious Gibbons with him. HJ kept slightly ahead of the three men, watching the floor for trip wires, and ahead for more rebels.

  Gibbons moaned.

  “That’s it, Gibs,” Monkey said. “Don’t let the bastards get you down.

  What would yer mom say?”

  Duncan tightened his grip.

  “Is he all right, Captain?”

  “He don’t look all right, Monkey.” Blood covered the entire right side of Gibbons’s face.

  “Naw, Captain. Gibbons is okay. He’s moaning, and that’s his way of bitching when he’s working up a good anger. Those rebels ain’t gonna like what they gonna see when old Gibs wakes up.”

  “You and Gibs close friends, Monkey?” Duncan asked. He stopped for a moment to shift his grip on the unconscious SEAL.

  “You might say that, Captain. Grew up together in Newark; went to school together, except when I had to do the eighth grade twice; and even dated the same girls sometimes, though we tried not to date the same one at the same time. I’d say we’re more like brothers than friends. Lord, I don’t know what I would do if he died. God, his family would never forgive me.”

  “And I’m not gonna forgive you if you don’t put me down, ya bastard,” Gibbons mumbled, thinking Monkey was dragging him. “Give me a second to stand on my feet, and I’ll walk.”

  Duncan released the wounded SEAL.

  Gibbons stumbled, he was caught by Monkey, he pulled away, and then he shuffled forward a couple of steps before he started to fall again.

  “Here, Gibbons,” Duncan said. “Lean on me. We don’t have far to go, but we need to catch up with the others.”

  “Duncan, where are you?” came Beau’s voice from the brick radio strapped to his web belt.

  Duncan pressed the Transmit button. Before he could talk, Monkey’s M-60 blasted away. “Here they come, boss!”

  “Beau, where are you?” Duncan shouted.

  “Duncan, your machine gun is to our right. I have a defensive position against the wall, but we’re trapped here until the Marines arrive. Come straight ahead. We’ll be waiting.”

  More short blasts from the heavy M-60 rocked the confines of the warehouse as Monkey walked slowly backward. He glanced behind to see how much of a separation he had with Duncan, HJ, and Gibbons. The glance saved their lives. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a grenade sail over the boxes toward them.

  “Grenade!” he shouted, reached up with his left hand, caught the grenade in midair, and with a strong backhand toss sent it sailing back the way it came. “Hit the deck!” he hollered as he dove to the cement floor.

  Duncan and Gibbons were already there to meet him, their eyes tightly closed.

  The grenade exploded in the air. Screams of pain mixed with Arabic expletives erupted from several yards away.

  “I don’t know what they were saying, but I doubt it was songs of praise,” Monkey said.

  “Let’s go!” Duncan urged. “Run, Monkey. Gibbons, move your ass.” Now was the time to beat feet, while the grenade slowed the rebel advance. “HJ!” he shouted. Where did she go?

  “Here, boss!” she replied, standing ahead of them and motioning them forward.

  The SEALs dashed between the warehouse supplies as fast as Gibbons’s injuries allowed. HJ led the way, faster thari Duncan thought prudent but slower than he wished they could go. Duncan realized that in this maze they could run right past Beau and the hostages and never know it.

  He also hoped that Gibbons’s condition was more of a light concussion than any major life-threatening event. The shoulder wound was another factor, but he couldn’t tell if the man was still bleeding.

  Duncan rounded a crate and came to a three-way fork. HJ stood there. She looked at Duncan. “Which way, boss?” Duncan pressed the brick. “Beau, where are you?”

  “Duncan, I have not the slightest idea of where the hell I am. Where are you?”

  “Shit, Beau. Shout or scream or do something!” Duncan released the Transmit button. Then came Beau’s voice, breaking through the noise of the gunfire.

  “Duncan, is this shouting loud enough? Do you think everyone can hear it?” Beau shouted.

  The shout seemed to originate from the left.

  Duncan pointed to the left passage. “Come on!”

  An explosion ripped through the area behind them, the same place where Monkey had grabbed the grenade and lobbed it back. Thirty feet later, they stumbled into where Beau had p
ositioned the SEALs surrounding the rescued hostages. The hostages were shoving crates and boxes forward, building a barrier to fight behind.

  “Oh, there you are, Captain. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Bud ran up and helped HJ take Gibbons and guide the dazed petty officer to the back of the area, bracing him in a sitting position with his back against the warehouse wall. They handed the SEAL his carbine.

  “Beau, what’s the plan?”

  “Duncan, you don’t have one?” The two looked at each other and grinned.

  “Just like Pentagon duty.”

  “I am beginning to feel the fatigue, boss. Where are the Marines?”

  As if hearing his question, their bricks erupted. “Duncan, this is Bulldog. Are you ready? We are in position. Tell me yours.”

  Duncan pulled his compass from his vest pocket and glanced at the reading. “Bulldog, we are against the northeast side of the warehouse.

  Directly against the bulkhead — the wall. We are under attack, and your presence would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Roger, stand by one. We will be entering—” the brick clicked off.

  Several seconds passed before the radio came back on. “From the north end. Time check, Duncan. I have ten after.”

  Duncan looked down at his watch. The crystal was shattered. “Beau, do the time check.”

  Beau looked at his watch and clicked his brick. “We have ten after.”

  “We’ll be coming in hot, two minutes at my mark. Mark!”

  Monkey and Mcdonald’s M-60s erupted simultaneously as Algerian rebels burst from four different openings between the warehouse supplies.

  Algerian rebels ran along a balcony walkway along the other side of the warehouse; the familiar shouts of

  “Allah akbar” accompanying their approach. Fire from their automatic weapons rained down on the SEALs and hostages. Monkey raised his heavy machine gun and sent a wave_.of bullets along the metal balcony. Sharp chimes echoed as his bullets hit the steel railing and walkway from where the rebel sharpshooters were trying to get into position. Screams from the wounded and dying rebels followed. Duncan thought he saw a body fall, but it was hard to tell in the poorly lit spaces, even with daylight increasing as the sun rose.

  The distance from the supplies to the haphazardly arranged perimeter where the hostages continued to shove supplies and material to build a makeshift wall gave them about twenty feet of open space, not enough to hold out against a concerted attack. Duncan looked at his watch, forgetting it was broken.

  “Any moment now, Duncan!” Beau shouted.

  “Now!” came the command from the brick.

  Duncan gestured to Monkey and Mcdonald. “Quick, back behind the boxes!”

  he commanded as he and Beau jumped over the perimeter defense the hostages had built.

  The sound of an explosion outside the warehouse and behind them drew their attention.

  “We’re inside, Duncan! Where the hell are you?”

  Duncan grabbed his brick. “Bulldog, you’re not inside the warehouse we’re in. Did you use an explosion to get inside?”

  “No, dammit, we’re Marines. I used a goddamn tank! I don’t want to run over your ass.”

  “You’re behind us somewhere. Sounded like to our northeast.”

  “Hold out, Duncan. We’re moving now. We’re in the wrong warehouse.

  There’s nothing here; just empty space.”

  Rebels poured out again from the four passageways leading toward the makeshift barrier as they mounted a new attack. Duncan whipped up his carbine and slipped the setting to automatic. He blasted away, firing toward the oncoming waves. Beau slid up beside him, raised his carbine and, with his back touching Duncan’s, fired at those coming through the far side. The M-60s of Monkey and Mcdonald raised the decibel level within the warehouse. To Duncan’s right, HJ stood, exposing herself to the rebels. She was screaming, tears running down her cheeks, but the noise of the firefight obliterated her words. Her carbine moved back and forth rapidly in large, sweeping motions, mowing the rebels down.

  “We hear the fighting, Duncan! My recce squad has you located. Two minutes. Give me two minutes!” Bulldog transmitted, but the noise of the firefight drowned out the transmission, and no one heard it.

  Three Algerian rebels jumped the boxes. Beau shot one. The other two whipped their weapons around toward him. Mcdonald’s M-60 filled the two with bullets, causing them to jerk like puppets as they fell back across the boxes. An Algerian rebel dodged through the fighting, stopped, and drew back to throw a grenade. HJ shot him and then she dove to other side of the barrier. The grenade dropped from the lifeless hands to bounce off a nearby crate.

  “Grenade!” shouted Bud as the device bounced a couple of more times before sliding off the crate and into the secured area.

  “Get down!” he shouted just as the grenade exploded, sending him flying backward into the crowd of terrified hostages.

  Several of the Americans pushed him upright. “Christ, I’m getting tired of this job,” Bud mumbled before passing out.

  Another grenade sailed over the heads of the SEALs to land in the middle of the hostages. A silver-haired lady who could have passed for a small-town librarian scooped it up and, with an underhand pitch, tossed it over the heads of the SEALs into one of the passageways from where the rebels were attacking. The grenade exploded, killing several rebels and stopping the attack from the center, but rebels continued to pour out of the left and right passages to be mowed down by the M-60s.

  Monkey’s was the first to run out of ammo. “That’s it, Captain.” He turned to discover Gibbons crawling toward him. “Get back, Gibs. This is no place for you.”

  “I’m out, too!” Mcdonald shouted, tossing his M-60 to the side and drawing his pistol.

  “Screw you, Monkey. You always did want all the fun; ain’t no way you’re stopping me.” He lifted his carbine and shot a rebel who appeared behind Monkey.

  “Keep your eyes forward, Monkey. I’m coming.”

  Monkey pulled his knife and waited.

  An almighty crash shook the building as the north end of the warehouse exploded. The rebel attack seemed to stop in midstride, with them looking toward the noise before fleeing back into the logistical warehouse maze that masked the floor. The primal “Ooyah” yells of United States Marines in full battle gear filled the warehouse as hundreds of them rushed through the opening. The warehouse supplies blocked the view of the Marines, but the fighting sounded intense as Marine riflemen fought hand to hand against Algerian rebels attempting to flee the combat. Devil Dogs were not for them.

  Duncan turned to HJ and Beau. “Chief Wilcox,” he said. “If the rebels try to escape through the tunnel, they’ll overrun him.”

  Duncan grabbed his brick. “Chief, you hear me?”

  “I not only hear you, sir, but I see you.”

  “They’re coming your way, Chief. Get out of there.”

  “Already out of there, Captain. Look to your left, along the wall.”

  From a small, maybe two-foot-wide passage running along the side of the warehouse, Chief Wilcox and Pauline King strolled into the perimeter.

  “Chief, how did you get here?”

  “Elevator, Captain.” He pointed to the southern end of the warehouse. “I watched everything from up there, and when I saw the firefight start, I knew we couldn’t stay there long. I heard the Marines preparing to enter, and, knowing Marines, I knew they would do it in such a way they’d either piss them off or scare the shit out of them. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if you had them trapped here and the Marines had them trapped there, there was a damn good chance I would prove only a small bump in the road when they decided to leave via the only other exit. I did as you ordered and made preparations for the two of us to leave via the sewer, but— Christ! — Captain, I’ve had it with being underground.”

  “Glad you made it, Chief.”

  “So when I heard the Marines were coming and saw
the odds you faced over here on this side of the warehouse, I started looking around and discovered this old warehouse had a small elevator on the right side.

  You went down the stairs on the left side. So, Pauline and I, when it became obvious we might be having company, took the elevator, followed by a leisurely stroll along the side of the warehouse until we reached here. No rebels, no problems, no sewers.”

  The fighting began to taper off. The sound of military English began to fill the warehouse. They all listened as the fight moved across the warehouse, and they prepared to repel the Algerians if the Marines forced them this way.

  “Ahoy, the SEALs!” came a shout from inside the warehouse.

  “Over here!” Beau shouted back.

  From the passages where only moments ago Algerian rebels had attempted to overrun the SEALs and hostages, United States Marines emerged.

  Leading them was Colonel Bulldog Stewart, the right sleeve on his cammies torn in several places and blood running down from a slight wound on his left arm.

  Duncan stood, followed by the other SEALs.

  Bulldog smiled and walked over to him as his Marines moved among the hostages. He shook Duncan’s hand. “Congratulations, Captain James. Well done! Sorry we ran a little late.”

  Following the Marine riflemen came several United States Navy corpsmen who moved among the SEALs and hostages, assessing their condition and marking medical priorities for their removal. Duncan was thankful when he saw one of the corpsmen working on Gibbons. Another was holding up fingers in front of a conscious Bud, who was holding his head and trying to tell the corpsman how many fingers he saw. A third corpsman ran up to Colonel Stewart. “Colonel, let me see that wound.”

  Bulldog pulled his arm away. “It’ll keep, Corpsman. You take care of the civilians.”

  “I think if you had been any later, Bulldog, this”—Duncan waved his hands across the perimeter—“would have been a different story.”

  “Captain,” HJ said, sliding down to a sitting position on the cement floor, resting her back against a crate. “Think we can go home now?”