by J. P. Castle
“You mean the rogue faction headed our way—I don’t consider them our side. We aren’t traitors, Hank. Don’t you ever think of us as traitors. None of these fine people deserve this hell raining down on them. None of the people that had their lives stolen from them deserved that either. Lives stolen with a lie, without explanation. Girard’s nuts, and whoever gave him the order to kill half the country is nuts, too.”
“If we don’t come through this, it’s been an honor to serve with you, Dodi. We’ve seen and done a lot together. You’ve always had my back, man, you’re my best friend,” said Hank.
“Same here, you’re my best friend, too, Hank. And I’ve never been in a better unit than Tony Sinclair’s. Now let’s kick some Girard ass, it’s the only way we’re getting out of here alive. As much as I want to believe those birds I hear are Bastian’s uncle, I doubt we’ll be that lucky.”
THE ARRIVAL
IT WASN’T OFTEN General Given flew anything, but his hatred for Bastian engulfed his very soul. A hatred building more ‘n more with each blundered attempt to capture his target. General Given had never failed to complete a mission before. He could find and destroy anybody, anywhere, anytime—even a terrorist, lurking down inside the tiniest hole of the earth, in some far-off desert.
He always located his target and refused to be foiled now. He’d never allow a stain on his pristine record . . . especially not from some cocky teenage kid. Recent multiple failures rolled over ‘n over in his brain, badly bruising his ego.
General Given’s men knew his unquenchable thirst for revenge put the entire mission in danger. Silent rumors had spread around the base regarding Bastian’s many escapes. Other rumors swirled about the help he’d received from Tony Sinclair’s unit.
Tony was known as an honorable, trustworthy man, which left some saying they wanted to defect and join him. General Given made sure those considering their illegal departure, rapidly received solid confirmation of Tony’s capture. He further posted proof that Tony now spent his days busting rock in a hard labor camp.
“I’ve got you now, you little prick. If I don’t capture you, I’ll see you roasted like a pig in the flames heading your way,” said General Given, flying into Vedauwoo in a Bell AH-1 Super Cobra attack helicopter.
He circled the craft around the blazes, devouring the earth below. Peering down through his black sunglasses, he grinned and picked up his radio.
“This is Major General Given, all units switch coms to channel twelve. Report. Is the entrance barricaded?”
“Control this is Unit One, entrance secured,” reported one of General Given’s top Lieutenants.
General Given had brought overwhelming power with him this time. Multiple units dispatched from the Vedauwoo gate entrance and headed into the camp. Two of three Hummers with .50 Calibers attached drove in ahead of the ground units.
“Are my .50 Cals in place?” said General Given.
“Sir, yes, sir,” answered the drivers.
“Do not fire until I give the command. I want the kid alive, waste the others,” said General Given.
“Sir, yes, sir,” they answered.
How you diggin’ the fire kid, hehehe. Is it hot down there yet? Burn baby, burn for Girard. I’m about to blow anything you had left in this world sky high. I’ll light you up . . . one way or the other. The devil’s come to town. You’re rolling with the big dogs now. I’ll show you power like you’ve never seen before. I’m Major General Girard Given—THE GREATEST—NO ONE makes me look stupid, no one!
General Given had set the massive forest fire, tearing a path toward the group, an hour ‘n half earlier. He didn’t care about the land he destroyed, the animals, the trees . . . didn’t care about the families or people in harm’s way. This was all collateral damage in his mind. He had one loose end to tie up, Bastian and his friends, driving him to lose all focus—all control.
Bastian’s unintentional interference, and General Given’s inability to capture him, didn’t sit well with the General’s superiors. So far, he’d managed to smooth things over with the higher-ups. His superiors only knew about two of the four prior mishaps. General Given had spun an excellent narrative to keep the truth hidden from them.
He’d sent some of his best teams to capture Bastian. And Bastian managed to evade them every single time, even taking a few of General Given’s men down. The situation was more than personal to the General. This time, he’d come in person for his pound of flesh.
“I repeat, I want this kid alive, if AT ALL possible. No screw-ups today, gentlemen, or I promise you heads will most certainly roll.”
You can rot in a dirty cell same as your ole man today, BASTIAN. I’ll finish you off, along with the rest of your family . . . every last single one of ‘em, AND that stupid Science Club group you hippy around with.
General Given hadn’t physically participated in live combat for many years now. He commanded missions from a control room via satellite. It felt great to be back in the saddle again. His superiors were unaware he’d even gone to Vedauwoo, only the people taking part in the operation knew.
About to land, General Given raised the big bird back up in the air, after eyeing Bastian’s camper.
“Sir, are we aborting?” said one of his Captains.
“No, you idiot,” said General Given, positioning the two-man Super Cobra directly in front of the R.V. He hovered there, grinning.
Kuchug, kuchug, kuchug, kuchug, the steel dragon unleashed a tiny taste of its power from the three-barreled Gatling gun. Bullets blazed from the turret, tearing holes through every section of the R.V. Hot steel ripped straight through Bastian’s bed, feathers flew from the pillows. No part was left unscathed.
Glass windows shattered in every direction, the R.V. rocked back ‘n forth, bouncing up ‘n down on its tires. The side panel sheered open like a candy bar wrapper. The final blow came when General Given hit the propane tanks, causing the rig to explode like a time bomb into the air. Debris scattered at high speed in every direction.
“YOU FEEL ME NOW KID! YEAAHHHH, HAHAHA. DADDY’S HOME—COME OUT ‘N PLAY! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, welcome to the big leagues,” he said in an evil tone, fully overcome by intense, blinding anger.
The Captain inside the cockpit, sitting directly behind General Given in a raised seat, had never seen this complete and utter loss of control in his superior before. Chills slivered down the Captain’s spine. Does he realize he’s saying that out loud? He feared General Given may put the whole company in danger with this type of rage.
The General floated there in front of the demolished R.V. and laughed, admiring the carnage he’d dealt. He tilted the metal bird toward the van with the slightest twist of his thumb and lit it up. Immense pleasure flowed through him, watching it rock around . . . glass breaking, tires deflating. Intoxicating adrenaline flooded his veins with every piece of equipment he destroyed, knowing Bastian needed it to survive. Doling out the litany of punishment filled his dark soul with jubilation.
He wanted Bastian to witness the destruction if he was dumb enough to be this close by. General Given needed, desired even, for Bastian to recognize the power he wielded at the tips of his fingers. To hear the bullets penetrate and obliterate every small piece left of his life.
General Given played like a kid in a candy store, leaving no part of Bastian’s camp undisturbed. The last thing he did, with a twist of his thumb—release a Hellfire missile into the center of the van. The van exploded, raising six feet above the surface to land on its side. The blast echoed through the valley; a ball of fire rounded in the air.
Through the haze of smoke, Bastian spied the war machine leveling their camp, just like General Given wanted. Joaquin, Lumen, Ginger, and Mateo laid closest to the R.V. Bastian spotted them racing backward away from the explosion.
“MOVE, MOVE,” said Joaquin.
The four beelined for the creek bed behind Bastian.
“Ground units—move in,” commanded General Given. “T
ake ‘em down, but not the boy, make sure no one touches the boy.”
He sat the assault chopper down nearby, slapped on a disposable respirator, and exited the cockpit.
Bastian had only seen a picture of the man on the Internet receiving an award. But, intuition told him all he needed to know. Major General Girard Given had come himself to finish this. The intimidating man carried himself like an ancient highborn king, barking orders over the radio and directing units all around. No doubt, he was the one calling the shots . . . the one Bastian needed—wanted—to kill.
“He’s here in person. A man of his rank coming out here only means one thing. He wants us bad,” said Bastian, coughing. “I have to get to him.”
“Bastian no, you’ll get yourself killed,” said Troian.
“This only stops when he’s dead,” said Bastian.
Troops plowed forward into Vedauwoo camp with respirators on. Dodi and Hank, east of the camp, could barely spy anything through the smoke, but swiftly recognized the two .50 Calibers as an immediate threat.
“We have to take those out,” said Dodi. “They’ll make quick work of this place. Girard’s made a big show that he’s here for one thing and one thing only—blood. Tactically he didn’t need to level the camp. He’s clearly lost it or wanted to make a show of his power.”
“Let’s move in closer,” said Hank. “We’ve got four grenades between us, right?”
“Yep,” said Dodi. “Let’s try to cripple both of those .50’s on the count of twenty.”
“Got it,” said Hank, splitting off from Dodi.
They’d parked Bastian’s SUV back behind them, under a small amount of cover, in the event they needed it. They’d correctly figured the camp would be leveled.
Dodi and Hank, now within throwing distance of the Hummers, counted. On twenty, both threw their grenades, aiming beneath the Hummers with the massive guns on top. Dodi’s grenade flipped the first Hummer, disabling the vehicle. The driver and the rest of the crew didn’t exit, lying dead or incapacitated on the inside.
One down, one to go, thought Dodi.
Hank’s grenade landed perfectly, too, but failed to explode.
A dud.
Hank’s heart fell. The crew inside heard and seen the other vehicle’s demise. The top man guided the .50 Caliber toward Hank, who split into the smoke for cover. Kuchug, kuchug, kuchug. An endless array of bullets sprayed toward him.
Hank knew it would only take half of a bullet from a weapon that size to end a man’s life. The enormous weapon could easily take off a leg, an arm, or explode one’s head into a million pieces. Hank maxed out his legs to reach safety. He dove behind some boulders with Dodi, fragments of rock bounced off of their helmets.
“We can use the smoke as cover. That’s the only good thing about this fire,” said Dodi.
“If we don’t cut out, we’re gonna get strung up right here,” said Hank.
“We need those masks,” said Dodi. “Let’s circle right. If we can make it through the smoke, we can circle back to the disabled Hummer.”
“Let’s do it,” said Hank.
The man on the .50 Caliber let up for a second. The wind drove the smoke in his direction, preventing him from getting a visual on anything. Dodi heard the crew exit the vehicle and relocate toward the rocks.
Hank sidestepped a soldier in the middle of the smoke. He fired a single shot, dropping the man down. Dodi glimpsed another, but before he fired, the man disappeared into the haze. Certain Hank stood a few yards back, he chanced a single shot in the man’s direction. Dodi heard the wounded man fall.
In view of the disabled Hummer now, Dodi and Hank eased forward with great caution, sliding along the edge until they reached the window. Everyone lay wasted inside except one man, half alive. Dodi didn’t want to give away their position by firing his weapon again. He pulled out his knife and finished the man off. Hank gently removed two of the disposable respirator masks from the dead. Finally, he and Dodi could breathe a little better. They took the soldier’s guns and extra grenades.
General Given hailed his men across the radio. “Get my .50 Cals up here.”
“Sir, one destroyed, one on the way,” said the Lieutenant.
“One destroyed?” said General Given.
“Sir, yes, sir, I’m on the way.”
“Copy that,” said General Given. How’d these punks waste a .50 Caliber weapon, and the crew inside? Must’ve been a lucky strike. That’s okay, I’ve got two more.
Gunfire erupted west, in Bastian’s direction. The working .50 Caliber crept forward, mowing down anything in its path.
“Shit, Hank, here they come,” said Dodi.
“They can’t see us, Dodi,” said Hank. “Lay low, let’s burn it. If they get across the road with that, those kids are finished.”
The Hummer neared Hank. At the very last second, the Hummer’s crew spotted Dodi and Hank.
Hank kissed the grenade he held, “Please, don’t be a dud.”
Dodi and Hank both threw grenades at the rig and dove for the dirt. The .50 Caliber racked off several rounds in the seconds before the grenades exploded.
The explosion burst the Hummer’s engine into flames. Hank killed two men fleeing the vehicle, the rest were on fire inside. Hank and Dodi shot nine more soldiers, making their way to Bastian’s side of the road. Ground troops located the group’s position and opened fire.
“Fifty Cal where you at?” said General Given on his radio.
No response.
“Fifty Cal, do-you-copy?” he said.
General Given’s blood boiled as he climbed back into the Super Cobra to survey the area. The rotors kicked up dust and rock during lift-off. He didn’t want to waste his own troops, though he knew he could easily wipe out his intended target by killing them all.
Hovering above, he sized up their position, wanting desperately to take Bastian alive, to meet him face to face. How could one kid cause so much grief? “All units hold position. Lighting a backfire,” he said.
Bastian watched General Given poised above, thick smoke concealed he and Troian’s location. Missiles swooshed from the chopper.
“What’s he doing?” said Troian.
“He’s firing over us to finish burning us out,” said Bastian. “He’s turned this place into a tinder box, we’re trapped.”
The area quaked as the Hellfire missiles landed one after another simultaneously in a line. General Given had created a new fire along the backside of the creek bed, to prevent the group from retreating any further.
Dodi and Hank broke right, to avoid return fire from their own group. Bullets chipped away at the rocks Troian and Bastian hid behind. Troian crouched with her back against the rock, holding onto the children.
Bastian’s veins bulged from his arms; his body shook from the heavy Caliber gun as he returned fire toward the enemy. His cheeks pulsated with every bullet leaving the barrel, trying in vain to hold off what seemed to be the entire army General Given had brought with him.
“Bastian, I can’t breathe,” said Troian.
He couldn’t talk, nearly overcome himself by the smoke. The situation appeared bleak in his eyes.
Final Battle Positions
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Out of Time
CALEB AND BRYCE sat front and left of Bastian, closer to the troops. “ANOTHER CLIP, BRYCE!” said Caleb. “THEY KEEP COMING LIKE ANTS!”
Bryce handed him a second clip. She started loading the one he dropped as fast as her fingers would work. “It’s hard to breathe, Caleb,” she said.
“I know, baby, hang with me, don’t give up,” said Caleb. Sweat rolled down his vibrating muscles as he fired the heavy gun into the smoggy haze.
The inferno glowed in the distance; hot embers floated through the air. The thick smoke allowed one of General Given’s soldiers to sneak up behind Caleb. He didn’t shoot Caleb, fearing he might be Bastian. When the soldier recognized it wasn’t Bastian, he ambushed Caleb. They rolled violently. Caleb
evaded the first punch, turning his head sideways. He slugged the man in the face twice and pounded the soldier’s head against the dusty ground.
“CALEB,” coughed Bryce, straining to identify Caleb a few feet in front of her. Her body refused to move, flashing back to Caleb’s near-death battle in the R.V.
The man wrestled Caleb to the bottom and pulled out his knife. On top of Caleb now, he tried gravely to cut Caleb’s throat. Caleb’s knuckles turned snow-white as he squeezed and pushed back on the man’s hardened hands. The knife was inches away from cutting the flesh on Caleb’s neck and moving closer.
Bryce didn’t want to lose Caleb and gathered enough courage to crawl over to the gun. Hesitantly, she picked up the heavy weapon. She stood, pointed it toward the soldier, and froze.
Is this how I’m supposed to do it? What if I hit Caleb? What if I accidentally kill him?
“SHOOT HIM BRYCE,” bellowed Caleb, narrowly holding the man off. “SHOOT HIM!”
Bryce squeezed the trigger, multiple bullets flew from the barrel, causing her to lose her balance. She lay in shock, unable to determine whether she’d hit the soldier or killed Caleb. She rolled her head to the right, just in time to see Caleb shove the man off.
“Dang it, that was too close for comfort. Come on, we gotta move.” Caleb reached down for the gun and yanked Bryce up by the arm. “Bryce, baby, you gotta snap out of it! Don’t worry about him. He can’t hurt us anymore. Me ‘n you doll face, me ‘n you. Bryce!”
She couldn’t speak—or move. Caleb knew they were out of time. He threw Bryce over his shoulder like a pair of jeans and made tracks toward Bastian. His tired legs wobbled when he placed her down beside Troian.
Bastian continued to fire, “Is she hit?” shouted Bastian.
“No, in shock,” shouted Caleb, joining Bastian to return fire.
“I’m almost out of ammo,” said Bastian.
General Given lingered above them, drifting back ‘n forth like a fire breathing dragon. He kept his finger on the trigger, tempted to wipe out the whole mess below.