by S L Shelton
There was a long pause.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench. We have the bikes. We’ll meet up on Charlie’s backtrail,” I said, trying to nudge him into making the right decision though tension was already filling my chest at the thought of being separated from the main fighting force—and yeah, I was pretty excited as well.
Another long pause.
“Spartan. Go,” John said.
“Roger. Oscar Mike to extraction site. Spartan out,” he said. The anguish in his voice was clear.
“Let’s get those bikes fired up,” Peepers said, turning the corner on the farmhouse.
Below us, we could see two other vehicles bouncing up the rough washboard road toward us. They were about a half-mile away.
I kicked my bike to life and pulled my night vision goggles into place over my eyes. Peepers slung his big rifle over his shoulder and then did the same.
We peeled out, kicking gravel and dust into the air as we sped across the property to the dirt road. After a few moments of running along the road, I saw the telltale shadow cast from the headlights at the rear. I looked back.
There was a line of three vehicles moving quickly, closing the distance between us.
“Peepers, we need to get off the road. They’re catching up,” I said.
He nodded and we peeled off to the left, heading into the rough terrain of the open desert. One of the vehicles followed us, but two stayed on the road and continued toward the other Delta members, who were probably miles ahead by then.
We continued our frantic evasion, trying to put more distance between us and our pursuer. I couldn’t tell if it was one of the big, three-axle heavy trucks or the remaining SUV.
“Any idea what’s following us?” I asked, certain that our radios were simply intercoms at that point, being so far away from the squad box.
Peepers turned his head and looked behind him. When he refocused his attention on the ground in front, he had to swerve to miss a boulder.
“I think it’s one of the deuces,” he said, referring to a two-and-a-half-ton truck.
“I didn’t notice tracks on the rear when it was down the hill. Will it be able to keep up at this pace?” I asked.
“If we don’t find some way to lose ‘em, they’ll catch up pretty soon,” he replied.
I suddenly remembered the dry irrigation ditch. “There’s a dry canal just up ahead. I fell into it on the way in.”
“How far?” Peepers asked.
“About another mile.”
He looked back again. “It’s gonna be close.”
“Unless you can pull that thing off and fire it while riding, I don’t think we have any choice,” I said, referring to his big sniper rifle.
“Okay. Warn me before we get to it,” he said.
“If I can find it,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“No problem,” I lied.
I throttled up a little more and got ahead of Peepers so he would have some warning. Several long seconds passed, and I saw a straight line of shadow in front of me.
“This is it!” I yelled. “Stay on my ass, we’re going to jump it.”
“Oh shit,” Peepers exclaimed.
I frantically searched the edge as we approached it, looking for a run up we could use as a ramp to make the jump. We were within twenty feet when I spotted a lip of dirt. Not perfect, but it would have to do.
“Gun it!” Peepers yelled.
I gunned the engine and hit the lip of dirt, launching myself through the air. The hang time was longer than I had calculated, and I began to feel disoriented. I started to wonder if I was still going up or if I had started my descent yet.
That question was answered with a bone-jarring impact that sent my tail wobbling. Then, the whole bike skidded sideways in the dry dirt. I laid it down and prayed my foot would not find an outcropping of rock as I slid.
Peepers's impact was a second behind my own, but he had the advantage of being able to see me coming down as a reference and was able to maintain control of his landing.
He skidded to a halt, laying his bike down and pulling the Accuracy International Rifle from his back. I extracted my leg from under the bike and hopped to my feet.
Less than five seconds later we watched as the headlights of the big truck dropped out of sight, accompanied by the sound of a massive collision.
We ran to the edge of the canal and began firing at anything that moved. Shots zipped past us from the bottom of the deep ditch and we dove to the side. As we hit the ground, Peepers pulled two grenades from his tactical vest before thumbing the rings out and dropping them into the ditch. At least one of them set off the diesel tank when it went off—a bloom of dense flame shot out of the trench.
When the dust settled, the only sound was that of creaking metal being warped in the flame.
“Let’s try to catch up with the rest of the team before they get extracted,” he said, re-slinging his rifle.
It was a long shot at that point, but I didn’t relish the idea of a return trip on the bike with gunmen on my ass.
“Let's hope we don't run into any more of these guys… I'm fresh out of irrigation canals,” I said as I righted my machine.
“Roger that, brother,” he said as we started off in their direction.
We pushed the bikes hard until we came to fresh tracks in the sand. There were fine particles of dust in the air, reflecting the ambient light in my night vision, making the journey suddenly feel like a trip through fairy land.
“We’re on the right track,” he said.
“Unless we’re just behind the bad guys,” I replied.
“Or that.”
The dust was getting thicker, so Peepers pulled his headscarf around his face. I reached up and tucked the edge of my shemagh under the headband of my night-vision goggles, cutting down most of the dust in my face.
Suddenly, in the far distance, we saw a fireball rise up into the sky.
“That wasn’t a truck,” Peepers said.
“Well, it wasn’t a nuke either.”
“I’m thinking rocket fire on a helo,” he said.
“How many extraction aircraft would there have been?” I asked.
“Two,” he said. “If one of them bought the farm, some of us are gonna be walking home. Since we’re pulling up the rear, I’ll let you guess who’s on that list.”
Great, I thought as I leaned forward, trying to milk more speed from the tired motorcycle.
We pushed our bikes a little harder, reaching dangerous speeds as we crossed the rough terrain. I nearly wiped out twice before we got to the top of the rise a few minutes later.
Below us, still a good distance away—not quite a mile—we saw the three Delta transport vehicles and a Black Hawk on the ground. Between the Delta team and us were the two-and-a-half-ton truck and the SUV that had followed them. The vehicles were stopped and in a defensive configuration. Men were firing over the hoods. On the far ridge, I could see the burning wreckage of a Black Hawk.
From our vantage point, we could see things the Delta team wouldn’t be able to—such as the four-man group that was moving around to our left to flank the Delta team members. It dawned on me that we should be within range of the squad box if it was still in operation.
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench.”
I heard static.
“Spartan, Monkey Wrench,” I repeated.
“The squad radio may be in one of those burning vehicles,” Peepers said.
Just then our earpieces filled with the sound of gunfire.
“Monkey Wrench, clear the area. If you are close enough to be in range of this radio, you are too close.” Nick’s voice cracked across my earpiece.
I looked at the bad guys who were trying to flank the Delta Team position.
“Spartan, there are four or five bad guys trying to flank you to your right. They are about one hundred yards out from their vehicles. Over,” I said into my mic.
There was a short pause.
“Peepers, are you with Monkey Wrench?” Nick asked.
“Affirmative,” Peepers replied.
I could tell he was struggling with a choice: Get Peepers to provide cover fire while they loaded the nukes on the remaining helicopter, exposing our position, or have him take me away from the fight. I already knew what the answer had to be.
“We can be off the ground in two mikes if you can keep them off our backs,” Nick said. “There’s another bird inbound. If we can get off the ground, we can provide cover for you until it arrives.”
That didn’t sound realistic to me. The other Black Hawk might be inbound, but Langley would never let Nick hover around providing cover if the nukes were airborne. I was almost certain they’d wait until the nukes were off the ground before telling him that, though—I know I would.
“Roger, Spartan,” Peepers said.
The look on Peepers’s face as he unslung his rifle told me he knew Nick was being far too optimistic about hanging around.
He lay down on the ground and rested the bi-pod of his rifle in a notch between some rocks. I squatted down next to him and watched the scene below.
I heard him as he took his deep breath and relaxed into his shot.
BANG!
The shock didn’t seem as severe as it had been back at the farmhouse. It was likely a matter of expectation this time.
One of the men in the gully crumpled to the ground. I couldn’t see him well from the distance, but it seemed he was split in two.
Peepers looked at me. “When I fire again, expect it to get hot up here,” he said.
I nodded my understanding; the first shot makes them aware, the second shot lets them pinpoint your location.
He shifted his aim to the SUV, took his breath, and then squeezed off another round.
BANG!
The rear of the SUV exploded into flames, knocking several of the bad guys to the ground. A good many of them were dead, I was certain.
Bullets began pelting the rocks around us, and we lowered ourselves to be well out of the way of the incoming fire.
“What kind of rounds are those?” I asked casually as bullets ricocheted around us, impacting safely on the other side of the rock.
“Incendiary,” he replied. “I’ve got armor-piercing incendiaries on me as well, but I’m saving those for the deuce.”
He pulled the rifle back and toward him. “Wanna move?”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
We crouched low behind the top of the ridge and moved to the right a few dozen yards or so before finding another suitable place to set up. Our previous location was still under heavy fire.
He set up his rifle again and took aim at one of the remaining men who were trying to flank the Delta Team position. The Delta defenders had located them and were keeping them pinned down. That was bad for at least one of them—their backs were to us.
BANG!
The .338 Lapua Magnum went off, dropping another one of the flanking bad guys.
We ducked back behind the rocks again as small arms rounds started to pepper our new position.
“How far was that, do you think?” I asked.
“Only twelve hundred meters,” he replied with a grin.
I whistled. “Only.”
“I’ve struck gold at almost twice that distance,” he said, pride beaming from his broad grin. “I switched to this baby after Craig Harrison took the record with one.”
“I’m impressed,” I said sincerely though I had no idea who Craig Harrison was.
He turned and looked over the rocks briefly before dropping back down next to me.
“Let’s move back to our first position. I’ll try and take out the deuce,” he said. “If we can cripple all their transport, it won’t matter if some of us have to get out on the ground, they won’t be able to catch up on foot.”
I nodded and started back toward the bikes, but before Peepers could get a handle on his rifle, gunfire exploded on us from the right.
Peepers fell to the ground as I pulled out my Glock and began to fire on the attacker. He had a pistol in each hand and as his muzzle flashes lit up his face… I recognized him as the son-of-a-bitch who tried to kill John and me in the alleyway in Burbank.
He moved to his side, anticipating my fire, so I led him a little, catching his left arm with a bullet. He dropped that weapon.
I dove to the ground next to Peepers as the bad guy continued firing with his good arm, jumping behind the rocks to our rear.
“Are you alive?” I asked Peepers.
“Yeah. Just knocked the wind out of me,” he replied grunting.
I put my hand up to the top of his body armor and discovered his lie. My fingers dipped into a warm, sticky fluid forming at the top of his collar.
“Did that go through the armor?” I asked.
“Oh shit,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Yeah. I think it did.”
I pulled his sidearm out of its holster and wrapped his fingers around it.
“I’m going around that side,” I said, pointing at the rocks. “If that rabbit pops his head up over there, shoot it.”
Peepers nodded and aimed in that direction.
I dropped my nearly empty magazine and popped in a fresh one. As I took the two remaining rounds out of the ejected mag and stuffed them into my pocket, my fingers brushed the grenade Gopher had given me.
Use it now or hold on to it? I thought.
I ran forward, crouched low, my Glock raised in front of me. As I moved around the edge of the rock, he fired, the ricochet sounding just like it did in the movies. I ducked back quickly, my back pressed against the boulder and my breath coming in short gasps from the close call.
Time for a new tactic.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you remember me?”
No response.
“We’ve met before,” I said as I eased the grenade out of my cargo pocket.
“Yeah?” he yelled back. “I don’t recognize the voice. Why don’t you poke your head around the corner so I can see if I remember your face?”
Two more shots struck the corner of the rock.
“No. I’m fine here,” I replied casually.
Just then, the Black Hawk took off, banking sharply away from the fire fight. The intensity of ground fire increased as it lifted away from the ground, showing them its armored belly. The nukes would be safe.
“Looks like your guys missed the bus,” I yelled.
“It’s not going to save you and your friend,” he yelled back with an almost-friendly tone.
“We’ll be fine. Your guys are bugging out,” I lied.
There was a brief pause and I heard mumbling. “Nice try,” he said.
Shit! They are on their way up to us. I thought to myself. I’d better save the grenade.
“So where do I know you from?” he asked, still with a friendly tone.
He was using our conversation as a stall. I had to get this guy out of the way so I could grab Peepers and get the hell out of there.
I tucked my grenade back into my pocket and picked up a rock…about the same size as the grenade.
“Well. It was about a month ago,” I said. “In Burbank.”
“Really?!” he asked amusement in his tone. “Which one are you?”
I tossed the rock to the other side of his hiding space, listening for it to hit before I moved. “I was the one who almost—” clunk “—killed you with my bare hands,” I said whipping around the edge of the boulders before squeezing my trigger.
POP, POP.
He fell to his side with two new holes in his head. I found it remarkable how calm I was as I ran to his limp body and grabbed his radio and handgun. After harvesting my prizes, I rolled him over and pulled the rifle off his back before running back to Peepers.
Peepers wasn’t moving. When I arrived at his side, his eyes were closed and his pistol was lying on the ground next to him. I checked his pulse—he was dead.
“God damn it!” I muttered.
I heard a
voice and it took me a second to realize it was coming from the radio I had just stripped from the bad guy—not from my head. I put the speaker to my ear, noting that it was a different type than what Delta was using. It was a headset with a boom mic rather than an ear bud and throat mic.
“Grumman. Where are you?” came the voice on the other end.
Grumman. That should help us ID him.
I peeked over the rock and saw three men cautiously walking up the slope. Below us the big truck started up and the handful of the remaining bad guys were climbing into the back.
I popped the magazine out of the stolen handgun and then, satisfied it was pretty full, slid it back in with a click. I hefted his heavier weapon in my right hand and picked up a rock with my left.
I tossed it about twenty feet away and then clicked the ‘speak’ button before it landed.
“Over here,” I whispered hoarsely into the dead man’s radio.
When the rock landed, they all turned toward the noise, and I popped up from my hiding spot. With the dead man’s gun in my right hand and mine in my left, I began firing at the three bad guys gangster style—left, right, left, right.
Two fell before anyone could respond, but the third dropped to his side and started firing his rifle. Angry hornets whipped past my ears as I dropped behind my boulder.
I clicked the speak button again. “I’m down,” I muttered harshly into the mic.
“I think you will find our Mr. Grumman is dead, and you are being played,” came a deep voice through the stolen headset. It almost sounded like a fake voice, it was so filled with bass.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I picked up the rifle and sprung up long enough to fire several rounds, shaking the third man from his position. He popped up to move to better cover, but once he was moving I took my breath and aimed, squeezing the trigger as I reached the bottom. His body fell limply to the ground.
“I have to congratulate you and your team on the skillful manner in which you stole our warheads,” the deep-voiced man boomed into my ear.
The giant. His voice sent a chill down my back.
I listened as I gathered up my stash of weapons and grabbed the heavy sniper rifle, which was still lying next to Peepers’s body. Crouching low, I moved back toward the motorcycles as he tried to engage me in a conversation.
