by Vince Milam
She’d lifted her head at the grenade blasts but remained curled. While the cage allowed for little movement, her minimal reaction spelled bad news. On her final reserves, beaten and abused. If she couldn’t walk, I’d carry her.
The primitive cage was wired together. A simple door with crude hinges, and a large padlock dangled. I slid to a stop, laid a hand on her through one of the cage openings.
“No!” She flinched, shuddered, twisted away.
“Abbie, it’s me. Case.”
AK-47s rattled fire close, too close. Utter chaos as men scurried, screamed, and yelled. Bo, for the moment, their target. A quick glance caught my redheaded brother unleashing hell, firing multiple directions. Catch’s weapon sounded three-round bursts from a different firing angle. He’d eliminated the men lying in wait and now aimed into the camp, helped Bo. But bullets flew from the enemy nonstop, their numbers greater, and our deaths a swift lack of luck away.
I fired a short burst, the padlock fell, the cage door ripped open.
“Abbie. It’s Case. We gotta move, Abbie. Now.” I held my voice low, maintained a semblance of reassurance.
Her face turned toward me—beaten, filthy, swollen. Her body remained balled and eyes failed to recognize, absorb. No time. I slung my weapon across my back and inserted my torso. Held suspended above her, I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll carry you, Abbie. It’s Case. Don’t fight me. Please.”
I lifted the clenched bundle that was Abbie Rice, cradled her, and ran like hell. There were screamed instructions at my back—the enemy had spotted me. Bullets kicked dirt around us, others zinged past. I hit the streambed bank at full speed and flew down the side. Bullets popped the embankment over my head.
“Abbie! Can you hear me?”
She responded with a quizzical look.
“I’ve got her!” I said into the radio mike. “Clear! Clear!”
Time to pull out, objective accomplished. Time to move, vanish.
“Too hot for extraction,” Bo said over the radio, voice tight, slamming home a fresh magazine as he spoke. Bo was pinned. Multiple automatic weapons focused fire on his position.
I placed Abbie on a dry section of the streambed and glanced over the rim. The enemy fought among the crates, popped up, fired rips of lead Bo’s way. Catch picked off visible targets, but it wasn’t enough. Bo tossed his last couple of grenades far too close as the enemy, enraged, encroached even further on his position.
“Circling west,” Catch said. He’d dash, change position, obtain a better firing angle. I shouldered my weapon, sought targets, killed two. The new and immediate goal—extract Bo.
The first blasts from above set off screeching alarms, the battle picture altered. The Alamo. JI men had hidden on the back side, out of sight. They crawled onto the Alamo at our attack and held a perfect firing position toward the camp. Hot rounds poured from above. Chunks from the wooden crates around Bo flew and tumbled through the air.
Catch’s angle of fire changed again as he engaged the men on the overlooking hill. Several of them acquired him as a target, firing nonstop.
“Abbie, you stay here!” Bullets continued popping dirt above our heads. “I’ve gotta go for just a minute. I’ll be back. Promise!”
She remained curled on streambed rocks. At my statement, she looked in my face. And closed her eyes. Those bastards. I leapt over her and dashed along the streambed, toward the back side of the Alamo. I’d scale the hill, attack from the rear.
Gotta go, gotta move. Bo and Catch wouldn’t last long with this much firepower targeting them. Hot lead rained from above. Fast, fast, gotta move fast. No hesitation, no fear.
Gunfire every direction, earsplitting. Calls and screams and yelled commands. My feet splashed through water, dashing. I hurdled up the stream bank long before reaching the back side of the hill. Made better time, better footing.
Then one of those weird battle silences. Men reloaded, re-aimed, repositioned. A respite of one second, maybe two. And within that relative silence, the unmistakable universal noise of a shotgun’s slide mechanism. A live round chambered. In the midst of the collected enemy above us. Luke.
The first shotgun blast boomed, the manual slide mechanism clacked, another blast. Total bedlam ensued. Hilltop AK-47 fire turned inward. More shotgun blasts. No time for circling the hill. Straight up. Attack. Drive right into those bastards. Luke was getting hammered.
I scrambled, aware of continued gunfire below. Bo still under desperate siege. Frantic climbing, feet slipped, harsh breath combined with a battle cry. Firing before I hit the top. Firing as I entered their perimeter. Took out the nearest two men who still aimed downhill. And captured Luke’s last moments on earth.
He stood among them, legs spread. Bullets ripped into him. He chambered a final round, slapped the trigger, killed another. Blood gushed from multiple holes. In his final moment, he dropped the shotgun and unsheathed the machete. A half-second lock-stare with me, eyes fiery, a battle scream on his bloody lips. He stumbled forward, attacked again. They mowed him down.
Two-shot bursts, double taps, aimed as I moved. Killed one after the next. Swung past a target when one of Catch’s shots exploded their head. A walking advance, delivering death. Shoot, aim, shoot. Four, five, six of them. Their return fire was panicked. Angry whistling buzzes cut the air past me. Eject an empty magazine, slam a new one home. Double tap, death, seek the next target. Kill them. Kill them all.
Chapter 39
I sought signs of remaining life. A moment, a final check. Still death littered the hilltop. I took aim toward the camp below. Single-shot, careful aim, a dead man every trigger squeeze. Pick the bastards off. Catch joined my intent and their numbers dwindled. Bo, huddled and hurt among wooden crates, still returned fire. Bodies strewn across the killing floor. More added by the second. Remorseless, advantage ours, finish them off. The remaining few, imminent death acknowledged, ran. They leapt battle debris and dashed away into the jungle. One of them flew down the streambed bank near Abbie, never hesitated, and scrambled up the other side. Where he died. Catch.
I slid down the hillside, reloaded as I descended. Ran to Bo. Catch joined us.
Quiet. Quiet except for our harsh breath and the moans of dying men. But Spetsnaz operators lurked, unseen. Crosshairs of their weapons sighting us a present danger.
Bo slumped against one of the crates. Blood, his blood, soaked his fatigues and smeared a pattern across the crate’s side.
“How bad?” I asked, kneeling, hand behind his neck.
He returned the grip, pulled me close. “A relative question, my brother. Rife with possibilities.”
“Stow the horseshit,” Catch said as he squatted. “You gonna live?”
“Yes.” Bo shifted and grunted in pain. “And die. But not at the moment.”
Catch straightened. Blood poured from his left hand. A dark blotch showed viscous at the top of his right shoulder. “Get him to the spook. Field patch both. I’ll recon.”
The Russians. They were here, somewhere. I was surprised they hadn’t hit us already.
“You need patching too,” I said, chin lifted toward his shoulder.
“No time. We gotta move. This ain’t over.” He bear-jogged into the jungle and disappeared.
“Where’s Luke?” Bo asked, using a crate to push himself upright.
“Gone.”
Bo’s upward progression halted, then continued.
“He took on the entire hilltop,” I added.
Bo shook his head and took a halting step toward the riverbed. He stopped and exchanged a heart-to-heart look. “A warrior. Brave and true.”
“Every bit of that.”
Bo limped, his movement too slow. I swept him up, a fireman’s carry, and hauled ass toward the streambed. Toward Abbie. The biting sting caught up with me. I’d been shot. Twice. Left side, rib cage. Right outside thigh. Son of a bitch. But neither debilitated, threatened life. At least not now. Russian operators, nearby. Gotta m
ove.
Abbie had shifted to her knees, upright. A great sign. I flung myself over the streambed embankment, held Bo off the ground. She displayed the slightest of eye crinkles. Another positive sign.
“Case.”
“Abbie. Good to see you’re up. We’ve gotta go. Russians.”
I released Bo. His first action was to limp down the streambed, weapon shouldered, scanning.
“Russians.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. The beginning light of relief left her face, replaced with cold acknowledgment.
“Yeah. We’ve taken care of JI.”
“JI.”
“Yes. Don’t worry about them anymore. Gone.”
“Gone.”
“But Spetsnaz operators are around. We have to get to the boat. Go home, Abbie. Home.”
A quizzical look as she absorbed the concept. Then with a stunning display of character, she said, “You’re hurt. Bleeding.”
Bo returned and joined us. He smiled wide at Abbie, took one of her hands. And kissed it. “Hey. I’m Bo.”
“Bo.”
“A fine and pleasant making of your acquaintance under these conditions. Now, we should skedaddle.”
“Coming in,” filled our earpieces. Catch turned a corner of the streambed, approached, eyes scanning.
“Abbie. That’s Catch,” I said.
She turned her head, slow, and acknowledged his presence. She looked back at me.
“Home.”
“Yes. Soon.” I addressed my teammates. “Quick patch job. Stay mobile. Several miles of hostile terrain to cover.”
“We can take some time,” Catch said. He rested his weapon against the embankment and pulled a field medical kit.
It was so unlike him, so strange. Bo and I both stared as he pulled off his webbed vest and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Take some time? What?” I asked.
“Let’s doctor up. Strip.”
“Russians,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Not an issue at the moment. Maybe down the trail, but not here, now.”
“What?”
My head refused acceptance. It made no sense. None.
“I’ll show you later. C’mon, strip. Pull your med kits. This ain’t tea time, morons.”
The bear of a man paused and placed a hand on Abbie’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be all right. Any wounds that need tending?”
She stared into his face.
“It’s all right,” he said, and bent over. His voice carried a soft gentleness, filled with surety. “We’ll get you out of here. Promise.” And he winked.
Abbie half smiled, nodded, said, “I’m okay.”
She wasn’t, but showed signs of returning.
“Saw what happened to Luke,” Catch said, unbuttoning. “One hell of a fighter.”
“Amen.”
Rain began falling, steady and cool. Three field medical kits appeared. Three men stripped off shirts and dropped trousers. We started with Bo. He held on to his weapon, covered us as Catch and I stanched bleeding and assessed wounds. Rain splattered on exposed skin, turning flows of bright crimson into watered-down red.
Two grenade fragments had pierced Bo’s flesh. One in his upper arm, one in the back. Skin puckered around the entrance holes.
“You tossed those too close,” I said, recalling his hand grenade lobs among the wooden crates.
“They were too close. You ever read Jung?”
“No. Let’s not dig for those, Catch. Patch and move on.” The grenade fragments required a doctor.
“In all chaos there is a cosmos.”
“Hold still, you mullet,” Catch said as he squirted wound wash into each hole.
“In all disorder, a secret order.”
“Fine, Bo. Fine.”
Wet gauze and tape applied, we moved to his side. Under his right arm, the latissimus dorsi muscle held a clean entry and exit wound. No bones or vital organs hit. Lots of blood. Wound wash, gauze shoved into the holes, tape across the gauze and wrapped around his chest as added pressure.
A bullet from the Alamo had entered the top of his left butt cheek. It exited close by.
“Gotta shove packing into those holes, Bo,” I said. “The only way. I speak from experience.”
“I wonder if it was purposeful. The shot.”
“Of course it was purposeful. They tried to kill you.”
“No, I mean the exact placement. My butt. A signifier, a statement?”
“I swear there’s something wrong with you,” Catch said. “I mean it.”
Blood collected at the wet bandages, but controlled, stanched. A knife blade was used to scrape off several leeches, small, recently attached.
We started on Catch. Bo passed him the weapon. Cover us.
“You sure about the Russians?” I asked. “We’re sitting vulnerable at this streamside triage party.”
“I’m sure,” Catch said. “For the moment.”
A bullet had blown the webbing between thumb and forefinger on his left hand. We wrapped it with gobs of gauze and tape. At the top of his shoulder, a furrow punched through thick muscle above the collarbone. Wound wash, gauze, adhesive tape. Patch, finger in the dyke. Sufficient for mobility.
The weapon passed into my hands. I’d noticed several holes in my fatigues where bullets pierced cloth, missing flesh. A couple didn’t. A chunk of flesh missing from my left rib cage. The bullet may have glanced off the bone, but the remnant wound allowed movement. Hurt like sizzling fire—more so as the adrenaline pump setting reduced—but I could move. And a neat plug of flesh missing on my right outside thigh. No bone hit, no major arteries affected. Wash, plug, patch. Wrap tight, a final check and ensure it would remain in place. Make the Sally. Get home.
As Bo worked my side, fingers fast and efficient, a bruised filthy arm slid past him and helped press a wad of bloody gauze. Abbie. Rejoining the world, doing her bit. Coming back to life. Thank God.
A strange sanctuary. A New Guinea streambed, a band of four wounded people, death and near-death scattered at the perimeter. But a moment, a respite. An emotional recharge of still-standing celebration and buckle up for the next round. A solid moment, needed. Rain continued, cleansed, and covered our quiet conversation.
Fatigues on, battle vests donned, weapons checked. A motley crew, walking wounded, facing a serious trek through hostile jungle. Russian operators. New Guinea tribesmen. It wasn’t over by a long shot. I led, and paused once we’d climbed from the streambed. Another collection point. Bo’s wounds concerned me the most.
“No BS. Can you walk?”
“Each step a way forward.”
Half smiles, tight nods, hard commitment, and the trek began. Catch held back, followed a dozen steps behind. Abbie sandwiched between me and Bo. The rain eased, stifling heat and humidity returned.
A hundred yards later Catch’s radio whispered, “Hold up.”
We turned and shot him questioning expressions. He indicated direction with a head nod and a have-a-gander look. We did. Catch halted Abbie and asked her to stay with him.
Bo and I saw the feet first, a body tucked into thick brush, one leg flopped to the side. I eased aside limbs and leaves, took a closer look. Three long arrows remained embedded. One of the shafts pointed skyward, its feather fletching black, dull. Russian Special Forces weapons remained with the body. The head did not. Flies collected and crawled at the open neck. Bo and I exchanged knowing looks.
“I found two others,” Catch said over the radio. “Same condition.”
Moving back to the lead position, I stopped next to Abbie.
“Stay close. Please. Almost there.”
A lie, a returned small nod, and we headed out. Traversing a dark, hostile land, senses kicked into battle overdrive once again.
Chapter 40
A steady pace, pain shunted aside, wariness at each step. Abbie kept up the first half mile, stumbled, and grabbed the back of my battle vest for support.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay
. Take a grip if it helps.”
We paused, and she drank from my soft-sided water bottle. Her eyes remained distant. Trauma still ruled, and our movement may not have been the proper medicine, but options were limited. Her physical training and mental toughness shone once she sated her thirst. A nod, a hard face set, and, “Let’s go.” Rather than grab my vest, she gave my back a light shove forward.
We remained off trail. I side-hilled rises, focused on less-dense jungle. Spetsnaz operators were still a concern, but immediate threats manifested as tribal warriors. And they required close proximity for their arrows. The less dense the floor foliage the better. Birds rustled and called overhead, sweat dripped, wounds stung. An incessant scan and rapid steps the moment’s rhythm. Bo limped, bad, but had clearly relegated his wounds to a distant realm. Not of the here and now. We moved less silent than I would have liked, but speed was a prime consideration. Move. Move and eat distance.
Two miles along we came off a hummock to maintain a southwest direction and crossed a dry ravine. Trees and ferns and head-high bushes littered the area. I paused again for Abbie’s sake, and Catch’s words through my earpiece caused mild alarm bells.
“Bad spot. Let’s get up the hillside.”
We did. And paused near a massive flared-trunk tree. It stood ten feet in diameter, air roots as fins on a rocket ship. We positioned around it and continued scanning as Abbie took a knee and drank water.
“So he’s followed us for half a mile.”
Catch’s words rang the alarms loud.
“You want to elaborate on that, bud?” I asked.
“Tribesman. Bow. And long arrows that would look right at home in a Russian operator.”
The three of us huddled around Abbie, kept an eye on our back trail.
“No sign he wants a piece of us,” Catch continued.
A tribal warrior tailed us. No aggressive actions or signals, yet. And I dreaded escalation. We’d spotted one. The ones we hadn’t spotted worried me more. They were out there.
“They would appear to have an affinity for Russian heads,” Bo said. “An activity I’d suggest we encourage.”
His under-arm wound still bled—fresh, wet blood soaked the area. Catch’s hand oozed and dripped red along his thumb. And although sweat rolled down my torso, a slower sticky flow from my side wound joined the parade. We’d take on the demons of hell if required, right here and right now. But prudence dictated leave well enough alone.
