The silence that descended after the artillery barrage stopped was far from absolute. Small-arms fire still crackled all around him, and in other areas surrounding Stewart, more battles were being fought. Lee also heard the cries of wounded and the calls for medics. He rose up to his knees and looked around. The fighting position the Abrams had engaged before it had been destroyed had taken a heavy hit, and many of the men there were wounded. Other lightfighters in the area had been hit by klown fire, and troops were giving them whatever aid they could. And through the smoke-filled day, Lee could finally see the enormity of the force that had threatened to overrun the tactical operations center. At least four to five hundred klowns lay dead or dying in front of the fighting position he knelt in. Some of them still crawled forward, leaving trails of blood as they giggled, foamy froths of red forming around their mouths and nostrils. Lee shouldered his rifle and killed those closest to him.
“You guys stay alert here,” he said to the men around him. His throat felt raw, and having to raise his voice in order to ensure he was heard through his mask hurt. “McAllister, you need anything from me?”
“A foot rub would be awesome, sir,” the sergeant first class said. “But if that’s too much to ask for, then some more five-five-six and forty mil would do the trick.”
“Roger, I’ll see what I can do about the ammo. Maybe Foster can help with the foot rub.”
“Nah, McAllister’s toes smell like Desenex,” Foster said.
Lee pushed out of the fighting position. There was still plenty of activity going on around the area, but for the moment, most of it seemed to be his guys shooting at the remaining crazies stumbling out of the kill zone. The artillery had done its job, and he was impressed. This was his first time sitting in ring seats for an arty barrage, and it hadn’t disappointed him. Of course, the fires that were starting to blaze out of control were concerning, but the battalion TOC and the majority of its vehicles weren’t currently under direct attack. He didn’t expect that to last for long, but at least the flames would serve to prevent assault from that direction.
He hurried over to the fighting position the Abrams had hit. He saw Colonel Tackaberry and his old NCO rendering aid. As he ran up, Lee saw at least two of his men were dead. Their MOPP gear had been removed and the medics had tried to save them, but they were gone. Both looked young in death, and their eyes were closed, as if sleeping.
“Colonel, over here, sir!” said Tackaberry’s NCO, a man whose name Lee didn’t know. He and Tackaberry were crouched over another one of his soldiers. Lee hurried over. He gasped when he saw the stricken soldier was none other than Doug Turner. A large gash had been ripped across one of Turner’s cheeks, and pinpricks of blood welled up through his uniform sleeves and his thighs. His left eye was swollen closed, but his right eye still moved.
Jesus Christ...
“What happened?” Lee asked as he dropped down beside the men.
“Got his bell rung bad when that tank round hit,” the black NCO said. “He saw it coming—was reaching out to those two over there”—the man nodded toward the two dead men—“when the round hit. He got blown about twenty feet away.”
“How bad?” Lee looked around for a medic. There was only one, and he was treating another soldier who had a badly mangled arm. The soldier was writhing in pain and trying to put on a strong face, but he was in obvious agony.
“Fragments in the extremities, looks like some in the face as well,” Tackaberry said. “Thank God he had his mask on, it took most of the punishment.” He pointed at the M24 mask that lay nearby. It was shredded, and its lenses were cracked. Lee noticed Tackaberry was bleeding from a sizeable head wound himself.
“Colonel, you’re hurt,” he said.
“Good to go here, Lee,” Tackaberry said. “Don’t worry about me—I’m one of the old guys you didn’t kill.” The remark was pointed. Tackaberry’s men in the pine barrens were doubtless dead, or at the very least dying. There was no way they could have survived.
“You expected me to do something differently, Colonel?” he asked.
“No,” Tackaberry said, “but you’re still a cocky little motherfucker, you asshole.”
A large-caliber rifle opened up, and Lee looked over to see an older man with a goatee leaning into his weapon. He gunned down two klowns that had stumbled out of the fiery pine barrens. Four shots, two in each target. They went down and didn’t stir. The man kept his rifle tucked in and scanned the area. After a moment, he fired again. Another klown collapsed as it emerged from the smoke, hacking and laughing.
“Turner? Sarmajor, how you holding up?” Lee asked, looking down at his command sergeant major. The black NCO was pressing a piece of kerlix against Turner’s face, trying to stanch the bleeding.
“Feel great,” Turner said. “Is it time...for PT?” Turner’s words were slow and a bit slurred. Lee figured in addition to his injuries, he had a humdinger of a concussion.
Lee patted Turner’s shoulder gently. “Hang in there, old dog. Got a doc coming over to check you out in just a second.”
“Don’t worry...’bout me. The guys...they...”
“Everyone’s good, Sarmajor,” Lee assured him. “Just kick back, Mountaineer. You’ve earned your break.”
“The fuck you say...sir. I know...I’m up the creek. You need Zhu.”
“What?”
“First Sergeant...Zhu, sir. Most experienced NCO. With Inveigle.” Turner paused to swallow. “Zhu can take over...for me.”
“Don’t worry about that, Turner. I’ll get Zhu or Riggs or Boats or someone to sub for you. Don’t worry.”
Turner nodded slightly, then his right eye closed. Lee was afraid the man had died, but he had just passed out. Lee took the opportunity to push back and reach for his mic button.
“Five, this is Six. SITREP. Over.”
“Six, this is Five. We’re still figuring things out. Have some casualties, we’re working on getting them squared away. Over.”
“Five, add Wizard Seven to the casualty list. Does not appear to be critical, but he’s out of action. We’ll need to get him to Nightingale ASAP. Give me the latest on Eyes, Inveigle, and Desperado. Over.”
“Six, roger. Eyes is ready to retrograde. Inveigle is underway, seems like Inveigle Six was taken down by enemy fire—have not been able to process many updates from them. Desperado is prepared to move on orders, but they’re holding pos for now. We may need to advance them toward Inveigle if they’re getting bogged down. Over.”
“Roger all, Five. Anything from Raptor? Over.”
“Arty’s still the king of battle, Six. Raptor has an armored detachment heading out now—looks like he was sitting on a company of M1s the entire time. Those are coming out to fight as there is some enemy armor moving in from the north. Over.”
That’s not cool. That meant the cavalry element Lee had managed to get obliterated wasn’t just a fluke. More dedicated assets were coming in to fight.
“Five, tell Eyes to un-ass and get back here. Inveigle needs to start their deception movement, then have them link with Desperado. Once they’re consolidated, fall back under covering fires from Thunder and get back here so we can start our next road movement. Pass on to Raptor that we have to pull out of here, and his forces are invited to come along for the ride. Over.”
“Roger, Six, good copy on that. Sending medics your way to tend to the sarmajor. Will report back. Over.”
THIRTY-ONE.
“Okay, sir, we’re up!” the RTO said to Cassidy.
“About fucking time,” Boats growled.
Cassidy nodded and turned to Rawlings and Campbell. “I want the two of you on this woman like glue,” he said. “You’re to provide personal protection for her at all times. Is this something you can do?”
“I’m up for it,” Rawlings said.
Cassidy looked at Campbell. “Well?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” Campbell said, a sullen expression on her face.
“Don’t fuck with
me here,” Cassidy said. “I know you’ve been through some shit with the klowns—we all have. No one likes this woman a damn bit, but we have our orders. The woman is needed by General Reynolds. We have to deliver her to him, or die trying.”
“I said I’d do it, Lieutenant—all right? What else do you want from me?” Campbell snapped. “You don’t like my attitude, sir? Then let Nutter help Rawlings watch her, he’s a little woman anyway.”
“Colonel, you are being severely disparaged here, sir,” Muldoon said.
Nutter sighed and shook his head. He was pissed, but what was he going to do? Punch Campbell out? If he failed on the first shot, she’d be all over him like Muhammad Ali on the Bayonne Bleeder.
Cassidy wasn’t bothered by Campbell’s insubordinate attitude. In truth, he had to admit he liked Campbell’s fire. “Nutter, back them up,” he said. “I’m going to break this up into little pieces—one, we get back to Urena and the rest of the team. Two, we hump it back to the TOC. Three, we load this bitch in an uparmored Humvee. Four, we secure her until the rest of the elements come back in. Five, we then get the fuck out of here. I realize counting to five is maybe harder than Chinese algebra for a lot of you, but that’s about as simple as I can make it. Questions?”
There were none.
“Muldoon, point with Roger. First Sergeant, you and Nutter play rear guard. We all cool with our roles here?”
“Sir, you need to have a talk with the colonel before you take off,” Roger said.
Cassidy frowned. “What?”
“Colonel Barker needs a word, sir,” Roger said.
“A word? Now?”
Roger shrugged. “Probably not going to take very long, sir.” With that, he pointed toward a secondary storage area, where the tactical operations center had been set up. Cassidy sighed and turned to Boats.
“First Sergeant, hold position until I get back.” He pointed at the bound and trussed Moreau. “Stay eyes on her at all times.”
“You have it, sir,” Boats said. He turned to the rest of the troops. “All right, people. Close ranks. We’re going to literally surround the lady.”
“Me too, sir?” the RTO asked.
Cassidy glared at him. “Yes, Simmonds. You too.”
“Oh. Roger that.”
Cassidy turned back to Roger. “Okay, Sergeant. Let’s go.”
“Follow me, sir.”
Roger led him across the floor to the operations center. The guards there allowed both men to pass. The TOC was nothing Cassidy hadn’t seen before—a little more tech in evidence because of the improved communications with the arty batteries outside, but that was about it. On one big screen, he saw surveillance footage from the Merlin that was still orbiting overhead. Apparently, Reynolds and his staff were sharing that with Barker’s people as well.
“Colonel? Lieutenant Cassidy, sir,” Roger said, bringing Cassidy over to where the artillery commander sat. He was alone for the moment, a mug in one hand sporting the divisional artillery’s crest.
“Thanks, Rog. You can hold up here for a bit.” To Cassidy: “Not going to keep you for long, Lieutenant. I know you have a mission to complete. Here’s the deal—I’d hoped we’d be able to go with you, but that’s not in the cards. We’re going to have to remain here.”
“Sir?” Cassidy was a little flummoxed by this. Why would Barker and his people choose to remain at Stewart? The place was a klown magnet of the maximum order.
Barker reached forward and pushed a mouse around on his desk. A window opened up on the display facing them. Framed within its confines was what was obviously a column of klowns in tractor-trailer rigs. And with them were self-propelled howitzers called Paladins. The klowns were bringing more big guns to the fight.
“We’re about to get into the counter-battery business,” Barker said. “To be honest, it’ll be the first time I’ve ever had to do that—most of the enemies we’ve fought in the past twenty years or so have been a little light on artillery.”
“All the more reason for everyone to get the hell out of Dodge, sir. Let the klowns blow up empty buildings.”
“We’ll never make it. And if I break down the firing circles, we’ll be dead meat. These guys are within maybe two hours of setting up and firing. We won’t be out of range by then, and the last thing we want to do is retreat under bombardment. Trust me on this, Lieutenant. You need to get back to the One Fifty-Fifth and bug out at max speed. These guns here”—Barker tapped the display, his finger making that queer halo effect when he contacted the plasma display—“have an effective range of over eleven miles, depending on their payload. I can’t break down our guns and get them out of here before the crazies start lobbing munitions our way. But I do have a store of ordnance that can reach out and touch them before they can start firing.”
“Okay, I get it, sir. But what about your MLRS? Don’t they have like a hundred-mile range or something?”
“I’ve been ordered to hold them down for the time being. That’s why we haven’t used them yet.” Barker paused for a moment. “This is why I’ve called you over here, Cassidy. I want you to tell your commander that Florida isn’t all wine and roses. They’re fighting a battle down there, too. Thousands of crazies, trying to get in and overrun them at Eglin, MacDill, anywhere they can get to. The MLRS you see outside is a reserve component that’s going to be used to smash open a hole for you guys to drive through.”
Cassidy rubbed his face and motioned to the developments on the screen. “Sir, you communicate this to higher?”
“I have. They see the same things we do. The order remains the same: hold the MLRS in reserve.”
Cassidy didn’t know what to make of that. “Okay. But what about your dependents, sir? We can take them with us?”
“I’ve discussed that with my staff, Lieutenant. We feel that the ASP is a safer place for them. It’s tight quarters, but it’ll have to do. We figure we’ve got three weeks of life in this place once we close the gates and button up. After that, it’s up to you guys to save our bacon. You understand what I’m telling you here, son?”
“Yes, sir. I understand,” Cassidy replied.
Barker nodded then and got to his feet. “Pass on my compliments to your Colonel Lee. We’ll provide covering fires for your retreat, and I thank you and your men for taking some heat on our behalf. But right now, your mission is to get that crazy bitch to Armand Reynolds. Get that done, Cassidy. But don’t forget about us. We’re not going to last, and we’ll need you guys to come back for us.”
Cassidy stood up a bit straighter. “Sir, you can count on us to do that. Really.”
Barker clapped him on the shoulder. “I know, son. I know. The Tenth just doesn’t give up.”
THIRTY-TWO.
Laughter. Always laughter. Even during sleep, the chuckles kept on coming. Only death stopped it.
And maybe not even then?
They set up the mortars with hands that were practiced and steady despite the hitching giggles that never subsided. A mile away from Fort Stewart in the shattered remnants of Hinesville, the entire fort was within their range. And the special payload the eighty-one-millimeter rounds carried.
The M252 mortar systems came together quickly as manic but practiced hands did their work. It was second nature, and even the laughter did little to slow the assembly. Within minutes, tubes were unpacked, bipods attached, and base plates were situated. Even as the sounds of combat continued to pulse all around them, the rest of the infantry company surrounded the mortar team, providing physical protection. All the while guffawing and cutting and slashing themselves as they awaited the moment of deliverance.
Then came the munitions. These were different. Not just eighty-one-millimeter high-explosive projectiles or smokers, these were brand new, brought down only a few days before from an overrun arsenal in the northeast. Others had reloaded the rounds with something new, something special, something that would forever alter the scope of humankind. The mortarmen chuckled at this.
Time
to make some new friends.
THIRTY-THREE.
Inveigle pulled back, bringing with it a mass of klown combatants who pursued them with zeal. At first, Inveigle headed due west, then turned on a northerly tack, pulling away from its pursuers as it slipped into the pine barrens surrounding Fort Stewart. It was unlikely the klowns would continue on to the north; once they lost track of Inveigle, they would cast about, searching for their quarry. If they struck out to the south, they would find nothing. If they headed to the north, then they would run right into the guns of Desperado. The remaining bulk of the battalion’s might was organized into a firing line, ready to take down the klowns and tie them up long enough for Inveigle and Eyes to consolidate and fall back to the rally point where Lee and the others waited. Under cover of Thunder’s mortars—and, Captain Beach was pleased to discover, heavier arty fires originating from Stewart—Desperado would fade back as well. The klowns might attempt to pursue, or they might become so disoriented by the artillery that they would find it difficult to give chase. Either one would work.
“Desperado, Inveigle Seven. Over.” Beach recognized First Sergeant Zhu’s voice over the radio. The man sounded out of breath, and given the amount of fire that was being thrown around to Beach’s south and east, he probably had reason for it.
“Inveigle Seven, Desperado Six. Send it.”
“Desperado, Inveigle is coming in. We’ve started our turn, we’ll be passing to your west. We’ve got several wounded. Would like to pass through your line instead of looping past. Over.”
Beach considered that. He looked over at Sommers, who was in direct control of Desperado’s fire teams. Sommers had been wounded during the big fight for High Point, but he was still combat effective. The battalion medical staff hadn’t wanted the officer to return to active duty, but there wasn’t enough senior leadership left for him to spend his days and nights mending in a hospital vehicle. When the decision had been made to staff Desperado, he had volunteered for the duty. While he wasn’t going to lead the fight from the front, he would handle the logistics of combat, leaving Beach free to oversee the full operation.
The Retreat (Book 5): Crucible Page 17
