There was thick, black smoke rising in the direction of Highland Avenue. An icicle formed in Marcus’ chest as he realized what the smoke meant.
He continued to urge the trucks on while standing on the side of the road. The people in the back of his pickup were nervously watching him and Tollhouse Road. They all had their rifles pointing in that direction.
Marcus knew he should be getting them to safety, but he felt responsible for the people who had followed his instructions. It was apparent that some of them had not made it past the ambush.
The other trucks sped past him, then two of the cars went by. The third car was swerving all over the road and showering sparks behind it. It was barely moving forward by the time it reached Marcus’ position.
He held out a hand and yelled when the car lumbered to a stop, the left front axle portion was spewing smoke. The metal pieces on the left side of the vehicle were glowing orange with the heat. Marcus pointed to his truck. “Get out of there and jump in the back of my pickup. Now, people, move quick.”
The five people flung their doors open and dashed out, happy to be rescued. It was clear that the car wasn’t going to make it any farther. The driver moved slower than the rest and seemed like she was holding her ribcage.
“You okay, Gina?”
The woman brushed her long black hair out of her face. “Yeah, fine, Marcus. I impacted the steering wheel when they hit us with a bomb or something.” She gave Marcus a defiant smile. “They got our wheel, but they didn’t get us.”
Marcus put an arm around the small woman and helped her to the truck then boosted her up into the bed with the others. It was tight, but it would suffice for the short trip they had left.
The others in the truck started shouting and pointing. Marcus spun around and observed the dust cloud rising up behind a line of vehicles that were heading their way. There was a new four-door Jeep leading them.
“Everyone take aim and put your weapons on full auto,” Marcus yelled as he ran around to the driver’s side and rested his gun barrel across the hood. He aimed at the Jeep and shouted. “Give ‘em all you got!”
There were ten people in the truck bed, four in the truck’s cab and Marcus leaning over the hood and they all let loose at the same time. With each weapon having a thirty-round magazine, that translated into four hundred and fifty high-powered bullets streaking toward the approaching enemy vehicles.
George had been in the cab, but he hopped out and took his place next to Marcus. When the rifles started barking, he saw the Jeep swerve and run off the road into a wide ditch on the side of the road. The Toyota pickup behind him slammed on its brakes as the bulk of the barrage slammed into the front of it. The sheer volume of bullets reduced the Toyota to scrap metal and pulverized glass in an instant.
Marcus yanked open the door on the big Ford. “Everybody in; we’re leaving.”
The last truck carrying the surviving members of Marcus and George’s neighborhood stronghold left tire tracks on the road as Marcus mashed the accelerator. A glance in the rearview told George that they were no longer being followed.
✽✽✽
Arturo had hit his head on both the side window and the windshield when the Jeep tipped over on its side and went into the ditch. The twin impacts knocked him unconscious, and he awoke to the swearing and yelling of Lobo next to him. The angle of the Jeep was wrong, and it took the big man a moment or two to figure out what had happened.
“Damn it, Turo, get your big ass off of me.”
Arturo looked over and down to see Lobo squashed between the driver’s side door and Arturo’s shoulder. The Jeep was in a ditch and pitched sideways with the driver’s side facing down.
When the pursuing trucks full of Mojados caught sight of the big white truck sitting on the side of Academy Avenue, Lobo had laughed in triumph, assuming it had broken down. He had stomped on the gas pedal, trying to get to them before they could escape. The gang leader’s smile vanished when he got close enough to see the rifle barrels bristling from the Ford, all of them pointed at his Jeep.
Without time to say anything, Lobo had sized up the threat and yanked the steering wheel to the left, putting them out of the path of the bullets and into the ditch.
Arturo now looked at his boss and saw blood leaking from several cuts on his face. He was still cursing him and trying to push his lieutenant’s bulk off of him. Turo pulled back on the passenger side door handle. It opened just a bit, then stuck. He leaned his weight on it, and the door reluctantly swung open, pointing almost straight up into the air.
Arturo climbed out on the step rail and reached back in to grab Lobo’s arm and give it a big yank. The little man was dragged cursing across the console and in to the passenger side seat.
Arturo was still trying to get his brain back to normal as he struggled to free his boss. “What the hell happened, Jefe? Did you lose control of the Jeep?”
Lobo wrenched his arm away from his friend’s hand and pushed at him. “Get out of the damned car first, then ask questions.”
Arturo climbed down first then helped Lobo to the ground.
“The Jeep’s toast,” the bigger man stated. “The windshield and engine compartment are trashed, and the two front wheels are bent. Looks like the frame is all out of whack too.”
“Really? You think so, genius?”
Arturo spun around and barely kept himself in check “Hey, boss, I was knocked out for a while, and I’m just now getting’ my head back to working again, okay? And I’m not the one who was driving, either. How the hell did we wind up in the ditch?”
Lobo seemed to grow calm. He stood there with fresh blood still running down his face. For a moment, the demon was fully out and in control of the little man. Arturo could recognize the change, and he gripped the pistol at his side.
The leader of the Mojados struggled mightily to get the demon back under control. It did not help things to see his second-in-command ready to draw down on him, but Lobo fought it hard and finally coaxed the beast back into its mental cage. Now was not the time. But…soon, maybe.
Lobo pointed behind them at the ruined Toyota truck which had rolled forward and impacted an abandoned sedan on the side of the road before coming to a stop. Steam was rising from the hood and liquid was spewing underneath it. They could see the two occupants of the front seat of the Toyota because the windshield was gone, completely obliterated. The faces of the two men were frozen in pain, fear, and shock as if they had seen what was coming and realized they could do nothing to stop it.
“That’s why we’re in a ditch, Turo. The bastards set up an ambush of their own for us. I saw it in time to get us off the road. If I hadn’t, that would be us sittin’ there all dead.”
The people from the other trucks were out of their vehicles now and heading over to help their friends. There was nothing they could do for the occupants of the Toyota. The two men and one woman who had been in the backseat were also dead, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. Another woman was lying on the road behind the Toyota. She had been in the truck behind the Toyota and had caught one of the slugs in her forearm. She was screaming in pain, and two men were trying to work on her.
Arturo took in the sight of the woman and the Toyota and felt genuinely sorry. Lobo’s genius had allowed him to instantly recognize the danger into which they had been heading and react in time. He had saved both of their lives. Arturo felt a pain in his chest and his head where he had been thrown into the dashboard and windshield but he was alive and he owed that to his leader. His Jefe.
Sorry, boss.” He pointed over to the Jeep. “Thanks for that, man. You saved us.” He held out his fist, and Lobo looked at it for a moment before tapping it with his own.
“No problem, Turo. I always got your back.” He turned around and shouted, “Somebody get me a damned radio.”
✽✽✽
Arlo was getting bored and worried that their plan wasn’t going to bear fruit. He had exited his truck because the codeine was making hi
m so drowsy that he either had to stand up or fall asleep. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to take a little nap as they waited for the action to begin, but Arlo didn’t want to do anything that might be mistaken for weakness by his men. He was looking inside the largest of the garden sheds when one of the men in the Humvee yelled. “Radio LT. I think this is it.”
The burns on his legs wouldn’t allow Arlo to run, but he got to the vehicle as quickly as he could and accepted the walkie that had been passed down to him from the woman in the turret.
“Go for Arlo.”
“Get your asses up to the gate. The bastards put one over on us. The group by Shields and Fowler have skipped out, and they look like they’re heading for the hilltop location. If you hurry, you can maybe get there in time to take out a few of them before they get up the hill.”
Arlo frowned as he tried to grasp what he was hearing. “Whoa, slow down there, Lobo. You say the hilltop group is not coming down? And the little survivor bunch is headed up the hill to join them?”
The agitation and lack of patience were evident in Lobo’s voice. “Yes, soldier boy, you got it on your first try. We got a piece of them, but you are close enough to maybe intercept them if you get started right now.”
Arlo bristled at the ‘soldier boy’ comment but kept it in perspective to what was happening. There would be plenty of time to make the ignorant gang banger pay for his insolence and lack of respect.
“We’re on, men, everyone follow the Strykers,” he shouted. Arlo pointed to the man behind the fifty caliber machine gun on the first Stryker. “Make sure that thing’s chambered and ready.”
The convoy pulled out from behind the sheds and onto Academy Avenue with the two Strykers leading the way, their armor and heavy machine guns giving protection to the others. Arlo had his driver follow along behind the second Stryker with the two Humvees behind him. The former lieutenant was impatient to see the damage that the fifty-cals would do to their opponent’s trucks.
The formidable caravan eased up to fifty miles per hour as it headed north toward the gate that they believed was the probable entrance to the troublesome group’s hideout. The man driving the first wheeled tank had actually spent time in a Stryker brigade and knew how to operate it. The driver sat protected deep inside the metal beast and used a video feed to see where he was going. He was anxious to get his vehicle into action thinking success here might result in a promotion.
As the vehicles made the curve by Shaw Avenue, the Stryker driver observed a narrow bridge over a flood wash. He let off on the accelerator and let the drag of the engine slow it to a safer speed with which to manage the bridge.
✽✽✽
Buck and Isaac had finished their roadside tasks and crawled back up the hill until they were two hundred yards away from the road. They had unwound the wire spool as they climbed and Buck was working on the two plastic control boxes. There was a truck battery lying at his feet which had been carried down the hill by Isaac.
“Hurry, Buck; I hear diesel engines,” Isaac cautioned.
“I hear ‘em too, but you don’t want me to rush this part.”
The two men had selected this part of the hill because it featured a long natural furrow in the topography which would allow them to follow it most of the way back up the slope while being protected from view.
The sounds of engines grew stronger, and Isaac grew more worried. He was about to again suggest to Buck that he needed to make more haste when the other man spoke.
“Yes. That should do it. Where are the clamp wires?”
Isaac showed him the two wires he had been holding. There was a red one and a black one. There were small spring clamps on each end of them. Isaac attached the clamp from the black wire to the negative battery terminal and the red wire to the positive. He held the opposite ends of the strands up, one in each hand, taking care not to let them touch each other. “They’re ready to go.”
Buck carefully attached the spring clamps of the wires to two bare metal contacts on the control box. Immediately, four lights on the device glowed amber.
They crouched behind a high spot of the natural ditch and waited, listening to the sounds of the approaching vehicles.
“If you hit it now, it will probably delay them from getting by the bridge long enough for everyone to get up the hill,” Isaac observed.
Buck shook his head. “That won’t help us down the line, and we might not get a chance like this again.”
Isaac shrugged and lowered his head until just his eyes were visible above the raised side of the furrow.
The two ex-military men heard the change of tone in the diesel engine’s whine as it slowed on its approach to the bridge. The first Stryker came into view from around a curve in the road. The sight of the big war machine was intimidating even to the two combat veterans.
The wheeled tank slowed to about fifteen miles per hour before entering onto the bridge span. The girth of the vehicle was so massive that it barely fit in between the rails guarding the sides of the bridge.
Buck’s finger flipped the toggle switch, and the amber lights changed to red. His finger hovered over a large red button directly in the middle of the box.
The Stryker passed onto the mid-section of the small bridge.
Buck hit the red button.
✽✽✽
“What the hell?” Arlo was directly behind the second Stryker and was unable to see anything past its bulk as they sped down Academy Avenue. When the first wheeled tank passed onto the bridge, there was an ear-rupturing explosion, and the ex-Army officer saw the front end of the first Stryker lift up from the road high enough to be seen over the top of the one behind it.
The tank in front of Arlo slammed on its brakes and skidded sideways to a stop, narrowly avoiding the fiery shell of the other, now-ruined, Stryker.
The four bricks of C-4 each contained 1.25 pounds of the plastic explosive and Isaac had placed all four of them on the left side of the metal pipes under the road. As a result, when the explosion happened, the Stryker was tilted up on that side and tossed over the guard rails on the bridge. Two of its eight wheels had been torn free by the detonation, and one other was now sticking out of the tank at an unnatural angle. The metal beast came to rest upside down in a bed of weeds and water on the right-hand side of the road. Smoke was wafting out of every opening.
“I think that’s our cue to run,” Buck whispered. The two men bent low and began running along the trench. They had snipped the wires from the control box and gathered up all of the unused material.
Arlo grabbed the radio handset. “Back up, everyone back up. Get us out of the kill zone.”
Tires began screeching as their drivers got the idea that the attack might not be over. They fought each other for turning room or simply dropped their transmissions into reverse and gunned the gas pedals. The remaining Stryker backed up slowly with the machine gunner whipping his weapon’s barrel from side to side. There were scorch marks on the nose of the surviving tank from the explosion.
When they were a good hundred yards behind the smoking Stryker and the demolished bridge, Arlo had his driver stop. He got out of the truck taking care to keep the vehicle’s body between him and the looming hillside to the east. Arlo feared the attack wasn’t over and kept his head down to avoid a possible sniper assault.
A hot, searing rage bloomed in Arlo’s head and spread down into his chest and abdomen. This attack would cost him dearly. His men followed him because he had been an officer and they had bought into the military myth that every officer knew all there was to know about tactics and military procedure. That thought was correct in most cases, but Arlo had been a marginal student in Officer Candidate School, doing just what it took to pass on to the next phase of training. He had paid former students good money for the questions and answers that the instructors usually tested them on.
Arlo had graduated despite a review by the Curricula
Officer that characterized him as ‘Barely Acceptable”. Havin
g never been in actual combat would have been considered a minus by his men, so Arlo had invented several war stories. The stories invariably featured him as the hero and savior, and the soldiers under his command believed them. Mostly.
A few of the men who had elected to follow Arlo had actual combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan. Those combat veterans had heard the stories being circulated about the LT and recognized the inconsistencies in them. Already, rumors about Arlo’s real capabilities as a leader were circulating among the soldiers. The loss of over forty people in the disastrous attack on Marcus’ people had not helped his image at all.
And now this!
Arlo cursed a long stream of obscenities and kicked at the truck tire, realizing too late that his legs were still tender. The pain that shot up his leg was like touching a bare electrical wire, and he found himself falling backward onto his ass. His driver hopped out and came to his aid, getting him on his feet again and back behind the truck’s protection.
Arlo slapped at the dust coating his backside and looked at the rest of his attack team. The people in the trucks were all outside their vehicles; their rifles pointed to the east and up at the hills there. More than one set of eyes was on him, though, and he knew they were judging him. This attack was the second one that Arlo had planned and the second one to end in defeat and destruction. His status as a trained military tactician was undergoing serious evaluation by his people.
A lone soldier came striding up to him from the direction of the bridge. He walked confidently with no apparent concern over a possible sniper attack. When the soldier drew near enough, Arlo saw that it was the man named Barrow or something like that. Arlo only recalled his name because the former officer had promoted him to the rank of Sergeant some two months prior. The sergeant reached the place where Arlo was still shielding himself and came to attention while executing a smart salute.
Arlo made a swiping motion with his hand, and the man shifted to the parade rest position. His nametag said ‘Barrett.’
“Sitrep, Sir,” Barrett said, using the military contraction for ‘situation report.’ “The Stryker looks to be damaged beyond our ability to repair it. We have two men dead from blunt force trauma related to the bomb. The explosion did not defeat the armor, but the effect of being slammed around inside while it turned ass-over-teakettle did it to them. We have two more with broken bones and one with a probable broken neck, but we don’t have the means to confirm that. I have the wounded being removed from the vehicle and request the use of one of these pickups to transport them back to the motel for treatment. Sir.”
Virgil's War- The Diseased World Page 28
