Doctors of Death

by Peter Nealen

  Brannigan cursed silently, then leaned out and put a bullet into the door just above where he suspected the man was hiding. He hoped Wade knew what he was doing.

  ***

  Wade dashed toward the HESCOs, even as the rest of the element opened up, gunfire roaring and rattling behind him. He was close enough, as he sprinted toward the tower, that he could hear and feel the supersonic cracks of the bullets passing by behind him.

  He slung his rifle as he neared the HESCO and jumped, reaching for the wire lip at the top. It was a substantial jump, and even as his fingers caught the wire, the edge digging into the inside of his knuckles, he was sure that without the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he never would have made it.

  Clinging to the side, feeling his fingers start to slip, he struggled against the weight of his own large frame plus his gear, pulling himself up as his boots scrabbled at the wire and dusty fabric to help himself up. He got an elbow over the lip, then another. Sweating and straining, he got one leg up, then swung his whole body up on top of the heaped dirt inside the wire frame.

  The barbed wire loomed right next to him, and he had to move carefully to avoid getting snagged while keeping far enough inside the barriers to avoid rolling off. That would be embarrassing. He knew he’d probably get shot if that happened, but not showing his ass, particularly in front of Bianco and Brannigan, was more important to him right at the moment.

  He considered getting up, but as the wind plucked at his shirt, he decided against it. Instead, he wormed his way along the top of the HESCO, having to carefully lift his chest rig over the lip between barriers.

  The covering fire died off as he got closer, and he knew that the guy in the tower was going to know that something was up. He was within arm’s length of the tower itself then, and slowed down as he started to figure out what to do next. This had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he was here, the angles didn’t look so good.

  He was about to stand up and try to shoot the guy through the open firing port over his head, when the man decided to make his job easy for him.

  The muzzle of the F2000 poked out of the open door, not three feet from him.

  Wade hesitated a moment, judging angles and leverage. It was almost too good to be true, and he could think of a dozen ways what he was about to attempt could go wrong. But he reached out, grabbed the rifle, and, holding onto the edge of the doorway with one hand, yanked.

  Wade was a big guy, and he had the strength to match. Apparently, the other guy didn’t, or simply wasn’t ready for it. With a wrench and a twist, Wade jerked the rifle out of his hands, then smashed the butt back into his face, before swinging out onto the landing on the inside of the boxy, modular tower, his own L1A1 tucked under his left arm. He wasn’t left-handed, but under the circumstances, he was flexible.

  The Humanity Front shooter was scrambling backward, running into the wall, making the whole post shake, fumbling for his sidearm, blood soaking into the balaclava covering his face. Wade pointed the L1A1 at him as best he could, one-handed, and pulled the trigger.

  The report was deafening in the enclosed space, and while he missed, the muzzle blast made the man in khaki flinch badly enough that Wade had a split second to drop the F2000, slap his off hand back onto his rifle, and shoot the man in the face. The muzzle blast shredded the guy’s balaclava, even as his head jerked back under the impact, blood and brains spattering against the tan wall behind him.

  Wade turned back to the entrance, scanning ahead. He could just make out the cover over the motor pool, and the hulking shapes of the last couple of Hawkeis sitting underneath it. The trailer that apparently served as the Humanity Front contractors’ team room and prep area was just beyond it, and he could see some movement around the Hawkei.

  “Kodiak, Angry Ragnar,” he called.

  “Go,” Brannigan replied.

  “You’re clear to advance,” Wade reported. “I’ve got eyes on the motor pool, and I might have a shot on a couple of them.”

  “Hold what you’ve got until we get closer,” Brannigan said. “But if you’re in a position to cover us, do it.”

  “I’ve got you,” Wade said. He settled in, getting in the prone where the dead man had been, his boot coming up short against the body. He unceremoniously shoved the cooling corpse out of the way, then got down behind his rifle and waited.

  ***

  With Wade in position, Brannigan got up and drove hard for the far corner of the generator lot.

  He skidded to a halt and dropped to a knee, still a couple feet back from the corner of the farthest generator itself, and started to work his way around, keeping off the side of the generator, unmasking more of the compound from behind his rifle as he went. He could hear more gunfire, as the Humanity Front contractors tried shooting at Price’s men, only to get forced back behind the Hawkei they were still using as cover by another long burst of 5.56 fire.

  He couldn’t have asked for a better setup. He had a clear shot at a man with a dusty, stylized skull mask, who was leaning around the Hawkei’s hood, peering through his F2000’s sights.

  Brannigan leaned into his rifle and shot him right under the armpit.

  He shifted quickly as he recovered from the recoil, targeting the next man in the stack, who was, to his credit, already reacting to the threat that had suddenly appeared on their flank. Brannigan walked a pair of shots up from the top of the man’s plate into his teeth. The second bullet blew out the man’s spine and he dropped bonelessly to the dust.

  Bianco opened fire from just over his shoulder, dropping a third man who was trying to dash for the second Hawkei, closer to the wall. Another round cracked overhead as Wade opened up on yet another shooter that Brannigan couldn’t see.

  Another long burst of machinegun fire tore chunks out of the Hawkei’s fiberglass hood, driving the shooters back, and Brannigan lunged off the ground, hooking around the generator and running to the next bit of cover. As he crouched down, he realized it was a fuel tank. Probably not the best cover he could have picked with bullets flying around. He took a deep breath, or at least as deep as he could in the middle of a sandstorm, and came back around, hoping he wasn’t about to step into Bianco’s line of fire.

  He had his rifle up as he moved, coming to his feet and hooking around the tank. A bullet passed entirely too close by his ear for comfort, and then his attention was drawn to movement underneath the nearest Hawkei.

  One of the shooters had crawled under the armored vehicle, trying to get a better angle on Price’s people, and was shifting around to shoot back toward the maneuver element. He was in a sideways prone, aiming along the ground, and had just swung his stubby, streamlined rifle toward Brannigan when he popped out from behind the fuel tank.

  Only the fact that he was already up, practically on sights, gave Brannigan that split second advantage he needed. He fired on the move, gliding forward, pumping two rounds into the man on the ground, even as a bullet kicked up dirt within an inch of his toe. But the man jerked as the bullets tore into him, and the rifle slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers.

  Brannigan’s advance turned into a sprint as soon as he saw he wasn’t going to get shot from under the Hawkei. He ran to the vehicle and dropped to a knee behind the grille, aiming around the side of the hood toward the enemy team room. A shape was running toward the open door leading into the trailer, and he started to draw a bead, but then jerked back as a shot from inside blew fiberglass chunks into his face.

  He heard footsteps, and then Bianco hit the front of the Hawkei beside him, panting hard. “Price’s guys are moving up,” he reported. “They must have cleared out any flankers.”

  “I hope so,” Brannigan replied, scanning their surroundings.

  The motor pool occupied almost a quarter of the compound, with the security trailers just beyond it. Past that lay the helopads, then the trailers and vehicles that supported the Humanity Front’s humanitarian facade. The dusty yard was empty, and as he scanned the remaind
er of the camp, he could see that there weren’t a lot more places to hide. Several more guard towers, the security trailers, and another row of trailers that were probably living quarters. They’d have to clear them quickly, but his focus at the moment was the security section.

  He mentally tallied his rounds, and called out, “Reloading.” He yanked the half-full magazine out and rocked in a fresh one. He stared at the security trailer.

  “Fresh mags,” he said. “We’re clearing that out. If there are any heavy weapons in there, I want ‘em. Ditto for any explosives. And we’re not dicking around at the door, either. They’re expecting us to go in there after them.

  “Let’s not disappoint them.”

  Chapter 26

  They really weren’t screwing around. A young-looking kid with a sandy beard leaned out around Brannigan’s shoulder with that underbarrel 40mm and lobbed a High Explosive Dual Purpose grenade at the team room door with a solid thunk, just before Brannigan moved.

  The door blew open with a heavy wham and a cloud of dust, smoke, and fragments. Then Brannigan was up and moving, sprinting toward the door.

  Wade outdistanced him by a hair, pausing just long enough at the threshold for Brannigan to bump him, then plunging in, kicking the shattered, twisted debris that was all that was left of the aluminum and fiberglass door out of his way as he went. Brannigan followed, with Bianco on his heels.

  The grenade had actually blown through the door before it detonated. The interior of the team room was a mess, laden with smoke and dust. There wasn’t any resistance in the first room, which was lined with maps, computers and now-shattered plasma screens. A body was slumped near the doorway leading back toward what was probably the gear room.

  Brannigan took a split-second to sweep his eyes and muzzle across the room, making sure it was clear, then he was moving toward the next door, even as Wade opened fire through the opening.

  The pressure of the muzzle blasts thumped the room, the deafening reports more of a physical blow than a noise. The muzzle flashes flickered in the dimness inside; the grenade explosion had shattered the lights in the ceiling.

  Brannigan paused at the doorway, but then Wade was pushing past him through the door, advancing on his target. Brannigan fell in right behind him, hooking through the door to clear the near corner.

  The room wasn’t the gear room at all, but more of a rec center. There were three couches drawn up in front of five TVs, with expensive game consoles hooked up to each of them. There was yet another closed door at the far end.

  Wade had shot a man just short of the door, who was crumpled between the far couch and the wall, but as Brannigan came in and turned toward the corner, he saw another man, kitted up, in a low kneeling position behind the nearest couch, his rifle tracking toward Wade. They were so close that Brannigan could see his finger tightening on the trigger.

  His own muzzle was practically touching the man’s head when he fired, a split second faster.

  The 7.62mm round blew a fist-sized chunk of the back of the man’s skull off, showering the TV behind him with blood, brains, and bits of bone and hair, even as the bullet, having spent only part of its energy, punched a jagged hole through the screen and into the wall beyond.

  Bianco was right behind him, pushing into the middle between him and Wade to check behind the couches in the middle, just in case there was one more lying prone and waiting. “Clear,” he called.

  Wade was already moving on the far door. He didn’t line up with it; that was a good way to get shot through the door before even making entry, though it wasn’t as if the walls were exactly bulletproof. But most people would aim at the “fatal funnel” anyway.

  Price had come in behind Bianco, and was pulling a grenade out of his vest. Brannigan reached over and grabbed his wrist, shaking his head. Price frowned, then shoved the frag back down with what might have been a sheepish expression.

  The walls were way too thin. If he’d tossed that grenade, he would have fragged all of them, too.

  With Bianco on his heels, Wade kicked the last door open plunged into the next room. Brannigan and Price hurried to flow in behind them, flooding the room with men and rifles.

  The gear room was deserted. The last of the men gathered at the team room had held at the planning room and the rec room, apparently. Brannigan could imagine that, if these guys had the background he suspected, anyone retreating to the last room would have been berated as a coward, at the least.

  Given what he’d seen of the Humanity Front’s shooters, it wouldn’t have surprised him if they’d been shot, instead.

  “Fucking jackpot,” Wade said, lowering his rifle. He pointed. There was a crate at the far end of the room, stacked with what looked like Carl Gustaf recoilless rifles and the 84mm rounds they fired. “Now we can have something waiting if the convoy gets back.”

  “Find some explosives and incendiaries, too,” Brannigan said. “The more of this place we can wreck on the way out, the better.” He looked around, then walked back to the darkened, smoke-laden planning room, Price right behind him.

  “We’ve got to clear the guard posts,” he said, pointing to the half-shredded overhead chart of the FOB. “We could do it the hard way, but with those Carl Gustafs, I’d say we just blast ‘em.”

  Price nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said. “Though it will leave us without firing points if those gun trucks come back.”

  “Set up inside the perimeter, with firing lanes at angles to the gate,” Brannigan said. “Move a couple of their vehicles as cover and concealment, if they’re still running. We don’t have to defend this place for long. Just long enough to smash it.”

  “Agreed,” Price said. “I’ll get my guys on it.”

  Brannigan looked up as Bianco and Wade headed past them for the door, each with a Carl G shouldered, rounds dangling from hands, their rifles slung. “Tell ‘em to hurry up,” he said. “My boys are going to clean up without ‘em, otherwise.”

  ***

  It had been a long time since Bianco had been able to fire a Carl Gustaf. They’d just been introduced into the Marine Corps’ inventory before he’d gotten out, so he’d only gotten a couple of goes. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t quite suppress the gleeful anticipation of getting to use the weapon system for real.

  Wade led the way out, moving toward the inside corner of the team room trailer. “You jarheads ever get a chance to use these?” he asked as he took a knee behind the corner, scanning their surroundings to make sure they weren’t about to get shot from one of the towers that they hadn’t noticed. At the moment, they appeared to be in adequate cover.

  “Once or twice,” Bianco replied, lowering his own ammunition to the ground. The storm seemed to be calming down somewhat, though he knew that might just be a wave in the storm itself; haboobs usually lasted longer. Though he realized he wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed since the storm had hit. He’d been a little busy.

  “You remember how to work it?” Wade asked, as he set his own Carl G down, unslung his rifle, and leaned it against the side of the trailer.

  “Mostly,” Bianco replied, as he followed suit, checking the launcher. Grip, safety, trigger, iron sights, optic. He remembered that the cone-shaped venturi had to be unlocked and swung aside to load it, and that the round had to be locked in when loading.

  “Load me first,” Wade said. “It’ll get you back up to speed. I’ve fired this thing more times than I can remember.” He hefted his own launcher to his shoulder.

  Bianco set his down, then pulled one of the rounds out of its case, swung open the venturi, and shoved the HEDP round in and twisted the locking mechanism before swinging the venturi shut and locking it in place. “Loaded. Backblast area clear.” He glanced over his shoulder as he said it, just to make sure.

  Wade leaned out around the corner, searching for his target, then adjusted his stance, called out, “Firing,” and squeezed the trigger.

  The shockwave out the venturi momenta
rily cleared the dust and slapped Bianco’s clothing against him harder than the wind had already been doing. The report was an echoing boom that resounded even over the noise of the storm.

  Bianco had craned his neck to peek around the corner. It was a very “boot” thing to do, but he really wanted to see the round hit.

  He was rewarded with the sight of the boxy guard post momentarily disappearing in a puff of black smoke, as the earth-shaking thud of the detonation washed over them.

  A hand clasped Bianco’s shoulder. “We’ll load you,” one of Price’s guys, a short Hispanic whom Bianco thought was named Carlos, said.

  Bianco nodded and grabbed his own launcher. “Take the south side,” Wade said. “I’ve got the north.”

  “Roger,” Bianco replied, looking around before he moved. Carlos already had his rounds, plus another cased pair, in his hand, with his SCAR 16 in the other. He nodded toward the back of the headquarters trailers, and Bianco nodded in turn. That side was cleared, as far as they knew. Running around the other side would be a good way to get shot.

  Another one of Price’s contractors, unburdened by 84mm recoilless rifle rounds, took point, dashing for the trailers. A bullet chased him to cover, kicking grit off the ground just past him with a harsh crack. Bianco and Carlos ducked back behind the security trailers as Wade cursed, adjusting his position and yelling, “Backblast!”

  Bianco realized that he was uncomfortably close to looking that venturi straight in the eye. He scrambled farther back, pulling Carlos with him, just as Wade yelled, “Firing!”

  The blast rocked Bianco. He felt his hearing deaden from the report, but after a moment he realized that Wade was yelling at him to move. The smoke was rapidly being whipped away from the wreckage of Wade’s target by the wind, but he could see that the round had hit. He dashed across the open space to the next trailers.

  He ran past the knot of Price’s shooters who were covering down on the gap leading toward the gate, and then continued on, following Carlos toward the other group on the far end. Those guys weren’t just hanging out, either. Even as he closed the distance, he saw one of the Shrike gunners lean out and fire a long burst down the wall, followed up by another man who leaned out above the machinegunner’s head and launched a grenade with a loud pop. The faint thud of the detonation was almost drowned out by the reverberating boom as Wade fired his Carl G again.