by Dennis Elder
“I’ll make my speech short,” started Mark. That got a few claps from the group.
“Yea, Yea,” responded Mark. Then things got quiet.
“We have no idea what’s ahead of us. It’s over 750 miles to our destination. We already know the struggles of flat tires. Making 40 miles a day was a pipe dream. As long as we’re in LA, I’ll be happy if we make 15 miles each day.”
So far Mark’s comments were not encouraging.
“What I do know is we are very lucky people,” he continued. “First of all, we survived this thing in one piece. And we seem to have good health so far. We also have our military training. That training will be our greatest advantage during our journey.
“Hoo, Rah!” barked Randy.
“Hoo Rah,” responded Mark.
Then Mark got really serious. “We stick to our plan. We don’t take chances. Every day, at four pm, we find cover. No exceptions. Everybody is responsible for everybody else. All for one and one for all. If and when we run into armed trouble we run for cover.”
Then Mark turned to Jake. He held up a small hand-held radio.
“Jake you are scout of the day. Luckily, we found two good portable radios that were still working. The scout gets one and the group the other. The group keeps a minimum 100-yard distance from the scout at all times. As agreed we all rotate the scout assignment daily, so everybody gets an even turn. So, let’s mount up and get moving, and keep an eye out for glass.”
Jake took off first. He was the only one wearing a Kevlar combat helmet. Whoever was scout for the day would wear the helmet – another of Mark’s detested rules. Mark was convinced the extra protection was worth the extra weight.
The extra weight packed on their bikes and in their bike trailers added about sixty five pounds to each set up. Taking off was harder with all that weight, but the earlier practice had paid off. Nobody fell as everyone moved forward in a single file line and began advancing up through the bike’s gears.
They’d agreed to take it easy for the first few days as they gradually got use to the bikes and their muscles grew stronger.
“Heavy,” said Boon. “Lot of weight,”
“10-4 to that,” said Frank.
The group took on a caterpillar like look as they crawled along at four miles an hour. The muzzles of their combat rifles stuck up from their backs and added a strange insect-like appearance to the formation.
After 45 minutes the group noticed the old Santa Ana River to their right. There wasn’t much water in it. Most people don’t realize how dry the Southern California climate can be.
While Junior was commenting on the river level, they experienced their first flat. It was Mark’s bike. Frank was right behind Mark and noticed it first.
“Got a flat here… on Mark’s bike!” shouted Frank.
“The group quickly came to a halt. Mark raised his radio and said, “Jake, we’ve got a flat. Take a break and we’ll call you when were operational again.”
Everyone got off their bikes and carefully balanced them against the retaining wall that separated the Orange Freeway’s south and north bound lanes. A hundred and fifty yards ahead, Jake the scout pulled over and sat down to rest. Every bike had a two-person team assigned for bike repairs. They’d learned that two people provided just the right number to efficiently fix a flat. With three you just got in the way of the other guys. Mark and Frank made up one flat team. Frank grabbed the toolbox as Mark pulled off his back rim. Susan had taught them well, but they were still perfecting their repair techniques, including getting the tire off the rim, making sure glass or thorns were completely out of the tire and the tube, finding the hole by using a bit of spit on a finger, patching and testing the hole, reassembling everything and finally pumping up the tire. SOP required everybody else to stand guard with weapons cocked and ready. Frank and Mark did well and finished the entire procedure in twelve minutes. Except for Susan, that was faster than any of the other teams had done it during their test runs. They had even developed a little informal competition on how fast it could be done. But Susan was the rocket scientist when it came to flat repairs. Her record was three minutes and fifty seconds. It would be a long time before anyone came close to beating that.
After Mark’s flat was fixed, the group got on their bikes again. Mark raised his radio to his mouth and told Jake they were ready to move. Up ahead Jake stood, got on his bike and moved forward. The other nine moved forward as well. They accelerated and settled in for a long day in the saddle.
Forty five minutes later everyone had worked up a good sweat. They were approaching East Lincoln Avenue. It ran east and west and crossed over the Orange freeway. Jake was about two hundred yards from the overpass. The group was another hundred and fifty yards behind Jake.
First in the main group rode Mark. He was just plodding along trying to keep an even pace and keep a consistent distance between the group and Jake. He kept is eye fixed on Jake.
Suddenly Mark saw Jake fall off the back of his bike, a split second before he heard the shot. Bullets fly faster than sound over long distances. So, at extreme distances a bullet will strike its target before the sound can catch up.
Instinctively everyone stopped, jumped off their bikes and ran to their right and towards the freeway’s far right shoulder. This was their agreed to standard procedure if they ever took fire while riding. As they ran a bullet ricocheted off the concrete by Randy’s feet. A second before Sam made it to the roadside, a second shot hit him and spun him around. The bullet just missed his vest and so it tore a neat hole in his shoulder, just above his bicep. It was a through and through, but it hurt like hell and he was bleeding. Sam went down, sliding on the pavement just short of the dirt and protection of the embankment. Tyrone reached back with his meaty hand and pulled Sam down the embankment to cover.
Mark looked over the group to access the damage.
“Anybody hit?” shouted Doc.
“Randy caught one in the shoulder,” said Tyrone, as he was holding his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding.
Doc shuffled over toward Randy and took over. He had a medic bag on his shoulder and was pulling out a bottle of QuickCoag and bandages as Mark continued his assessment.
“I don’t think I need to tell anyone that we’ve got somebody ahead who thinks he’s a sharpshooter,” said Mark. “So, keep you heads down.”
Mark shuffled forward and positioned himself behind the round concrete base of a metal signpost. It provided decent cover. He positioned his Bushmaster combat rifle close to the base and popped open his SmartScope. The SmartScope had two distance settings. One was for regular distance combat shooting - one hundred to two hundred yards. But it also featured a double lens. Mark flipped the double latch and suddenly he could see twice as far.
As he placed his sights on the horizon just as another bullet struck the ground in front of the sign. Mark didn’t even flinch. He’d been in enough firefights during his career to not panic.
“Find the target,” Mark said to himself. “Just find the target and assess.”
There were definitely two of them. They were perched in the middle of the overpass just behind one of those thick concrete dividers that are wider at the base than at the top. Each shooter had taken up a position between the cracks of two other dividers. From that distance Mark had no shot, and the shooters were too well protected. Mark quickly backed up and down the embankment toward the others. Another shot ricocheted off the signpost.
“There are two of them,” said Mark. They’re protected behind concrete road dividers. We’re going to have to flank them.”
Suddenly Mark’s radio hissed. Then Jake’s voice came across the speaker.
“Attention K-Mart Shoppers,” we’ve got a spill on aisle five. Requesting cleanup crew.”
The group couldn’t believe it. But Jake was one of those nine lives guys.
Mark quickly grabbed his radio. “Jake, Jake… what’s your status, brother,” responded Mark.
“Hit
in chest, wind knocked out of me,” responded Jake in a whisper. “Good thing I demanded we wear these bullet proof vests.”
“We thought they got you partner,” said Mark.
“Just playing dead,” said Jake. “Going offline for now. Will wait on rescue.” Then the radio went dead.
Mark turned to the group. Doc, you, Susan stay with Randy. Sam, you get behind that metal post up there and put a few sporadic rounds on those guys. It’s a long shot from there anyway, but don’t do anything to spook them off. I want to interview at least one of those creeps before we take ‘um out.
“Tyrone, you and Junior are with me. We’ll drop down the embankment, cut through the fence and work our way up and around their left flank.”
By the time Sam had worked his way up to the signpost and centered his gun site on the overpass, Mark, Tyrone and Junior were already through the fence and into the neighborhood street that paralleled the Orange freeway. Everyone with Mark knew it was only a matter of time before the two shooters decided to put an “insurance” bullet into Jake. So, they ran as fast as they could. It was about 300 yards to Rio Vista Street and another 400 yards up Rio Vista until they stood on East Lincoln. The same road the two shooters were perched on the overpass.
Sam was plinking away at the two shooters. He’d fired ten times so far. But only two of his shots had even hit the concrete barriers. It was just too far for the Bushmaster. If they had the fifty caliber Mac with them, Sam could have given those two a real scare. But the Mac was up front with Jake. And, as Mark instructed, Sam wasn’t supposed to drive the shooters off.
When Mark, Tyrone and Junior reached East Lincoln, Mark motioned to Tyrone and Junior to cross the intersection. That way they could advance on the shooters from both sides of the road. It was about 300 more yards to the targets now and the closer they got to the bridge, the more cautiously they moved. They all had learned to be careful when flushing out snipers.
They stayed close to the buildings as they advanced. It was a business district and there were lots of small buildings with separate entrances that offered good protection. Mark ran along the more protected on his side of the road, keeping pace with the other to two men as they advanced. The sounds of the shooter’s rifles were growing louder.
Special forces used hand signals to communicate. When Junior and Tyrone were close enough and had clean shots at both shooters, they signaled their status to Mark.
Now it was Mark’s turn. He’d get as close as possible to the shooters and surprise them. Hopefully at least one of the shooters would surrender.
Mark got within 20 yards of the shooters without being seen. They were both males - young men from the looks of it. They were laughing to each other after each shoot. Mark raised his bushmaster and centered it on the head of the young man closest to him.
“Police, Freeze!” shouted Mark, keeping this scope targeted on the head of the man.
The man closest to Mark froze instantly. He didn’t move a muscle. But his partner tried to swing his hunting rifle around toward Mark. The rifle never came all the way around. Tyrone shot the man through the head with one bullet as the other side of his head exploded.
“Drop your weapon and crawl on your hands and knees back into the middle of the street,” commanded Mark. The man didn’t move. He was either scared or thinking of a way to shoot back at Mark.
“Don’t even think about it asswipe,” shouted Mark again. “There are three of us and we all have your butt ugly head dead centered in our scopes.”
The man set his rifle down on the ground and slowly crawled backwards from the barrier until he got to the center of the street.
“Put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers,” continued Mark. The man did as he was told. Mark kept his rifle centered on the man’s head as Tyrone and junior sprinted forward and pushed the man flat on the ground.
“Hands behind your back,” said Tyrone. The man obeyed and Tyrone took a long plastic twist tie from this pocket and handcuffed him. Tyrone kept his knee in the man’s back as Junior went through his pockets.
Junior found a Glock handgun during the search. He removed the magazine with a quick motion and pulled the gun apart into several pieces. He quickly set the bar mechanism against the curb and with the full weight of his 200 pounds stomped on the metal until it was bent and useless. His Afghanistan company did this regularly whenever they confiscated weapons. The search was complete and the gun was destroyed before Mark came to stand over the man.
It was interrogation time now.
“Flip him over on his back,” said Mark.
Tyrone and Junior flipped the guy over with ease. He landed roughly and let out a grunt. “Easy,” said the young man.
“Easy?” replied Mark. “You want easy when you just shot down one of my best friends.”
“We didn’t mean no harm,” said the young man.
Mark turned to Junior, gave him the radio and whispered, “Let Jake know were all clear up here. And to wave up the rest of the group.”
Then Mark turned back to the guy on the ground.
“What’s your name boy?” commanded Mark. But the kid didn’t say anything.
“Better talk to him son,” suggested Tyrone as he stood up fully and starred down at the man.
The young man attempted to spit up at Tyrone and shouted, “I ain’t your son, fool.”
“I fact I’m very proud off,” responded Tyrone without emotion. “But you should still answer the man. He gets cranky when people shoot at his friends.”
Mark pulled his Beretta handgun from its holster. He pulled back the receiver and let it go. A forty caliber hollow point bullet entered the chamber. Then he put the full weight of his knee across the man’s thighs and pointed the Beretta at one of the young man’s feet.
“I’ll only ask one more time,” said Mark. “What were you two morons doing out here?”
“None of your damn business!” barked the young man with a look of pure defiance.
A shot rang out. The bullet entered the center of the man’s foot two inches above his big toe. A normal forty-caliber bullet is very powerful. But the hollow point bullet that ripped through the man’s foot cleanly blew off three of the guy’s toes and the tip of his expensive basketball shoe was gone. Smoke hung in the air around the remainder of his mangled foot.
The guy screamed out in pain. He reactively sat up but Mark was ready and firmly planted an elbow into the man’s solar plexus knocking him backwards to the asphalt. He tried to scream again but there wasn’t much air in his lungs. Blood poured from the man’s foot.
Mark gave the guy a few seconds to collect himself and then slapped him in the face to get his full attention.
“Maybe we should have started with an easier question,” said Mark as he looked down on the shooter. “What’s your name?”
The man’s face with a constricted in pain.
“Shane,” blurted the man on the ground.
“Shane. Thank you for telling us your name,” continued Mark. “We appreciate your cooperation. Now, tell us what you’re were doing out here?”
But Shane was trying to be tough. He was definitely protecting something or someone.
“We’re on our own,” said Shane through anguished grasps for breath. “Just me and Henry.”
“All by yourself?” asked Mark.
“Yea!” rasped Shane in reply.
“Where did you get these rifles?” asked Mark. “Where did you learn to shoot?”
Shane hesitated a moment. Mark had interrogated hundreds of Al Qaeda prisoners and he knew the signs of a lie.
“We found um and we been practicing on our own,” responded Shane.
“You found them?” said Mark.
“Yes, by the side of the road,” responded Shane.
A few moments went by before Mark continued.
“I don’t think so. You’re lying to us,” said Mark. “Why are you lying to us?”
“I’m not lying. I swear we’re
alone,” replied Shane.
By this time Jake had pushed his bike and trailer up the off ramp and was within hearing distance of Mark’s interrogation.
“I still don’t believe you,” said Mark with indifference in his voice. He looked up at Tyrone and Junior. “You guys believe him?”
“Na, I don’t believe him,” said Junior.
“Me neither,” said Tyrone.
Mark made a disapproving face and looked back down at Shane. “Oooh, that’s three out of three who don’t believe you,” said Mark, as he put his Beretta next to Shane’s knee. The guy sensed what was coming, began to whimper and tried to struggle, but Mark still had most of his weight on his thighs, so the guy wasn’t going anywhere.
“No, that’s four out of four,” barked Jake as he rushed toward Shane with his own Beretta pointed at the man on the ground.
