Captain Galloway said, “I don’t see anything, but there is at least one armed man in there. Open up this clunker as hard as it will go so that we hit the narrow part flat out. It someone shoots, we’ll be harder to hit.”
The driver liked that kind of decision, and he floored the accelerator and aimed straight down the middle. The road had been too long ungraded and had endured the savaging of heavy trucks and occasional track vehicles. The Humvee was no sprint car. It lurched and bucked, but speed built up, and they would be a difficult target.
Galloway watched almost without blinking, but there was no change. The buildings flying by.
Although not entirely unexpected the roadside explosion was so powerful that Galloway was not sure that he heard it. A tremendous shock wave struck Galloway’s side of the vehicle removing his door, lifting wheels, and sliding the heavy truck sideward. A wall of blasted dirt and gravel enveloped the struggling Humvee blinding the driver and stunning the vehicle’s occupants.
The power of the blast hurled Galloway against his driver who instinctively swerved to the left. Still traveling swiftly, the battered truck struck the road edge, lurched onto its left side, and slid into the drainage ditch bordering the road. It smashed to a stop, its engine lodged in the gully’s far bank. Steam spouted from a ruptured radiator, and Shooter Galloway’s sight and hearing began returning.
They had been bombed or rocketed, Galloway was sure of that. Something under him was squirming about, and he realized he was lying on top of his driver. Struggling to get his weight off his soldier, Shooter became aware of pain on his right side—the bombed side. He was moving, if a bit clumsily, so Galloway judged he was not seriously hurt.
There was a hell of a banging and clanging going on at the Humvee’s rear, and Shooter’s still fuzzy thinking recognized the sound of bullets striking metal. Someone was shooting the truck’s rear end. Why the rear? There was nothing back there, unless the target was the fuel tank. Galloway figured it out even as he got erect and was about to scramble over the high side of the vehicle.
The Humvee was on its left side, nosed down into a ditch, and all that was protruding was the rear end. The enemy was shooting the hell out of what they could see.
Beneath him, the driver was still struggling, but Shooter had to organize before he launched himself from even the meager protection of the wrecked truck.
First his rifle. Galloway found it in his hand. He wondered if he should try to remove the silencer. He did not need a suppressed weapon for this melee. There was no time. Whoever was shooting would be coming. He shook his mind into action.
Shooter straightened enough to see over the edge of the gully, and there were four men crossing the road, but still about fifty yards out—coming fast with their rifles ready. Four of them! He would have to be swift. Bullets were still flying, and they were kicking up dust around the attacking enemy. Coming from where? Shooter did not have time to decide.
The Rock rifle came up smoothly, but Galloway found his shooting eye watering badly. He swiped at it, hearing an Iraqi voice calling in excitement. The eye cleared, and he saw one of the figures in his crosshair. The enemy’s rifle bucked on full automatic and recoiled upward. Bullets snapped overhead, and Galloway shot him in the chest.
His swing to the second enemy was as smooth as he could have expected, and the man was not even looking at him. Shooter put his .308 round under the running man’s chin. The sprinter sprawled and his rifle went flying.
The two survivors slowed and looked curiously at their companions. As Shooter worked his bolt, one of them began waving frantically at something beyond the wrecked Humvee. Galloway shot him in the chest and picked up the remaining Iraqi in his sight. Too late, the man saw him. Through his scope, Galloway saw the enemy’s mouth draw tight, and the Iraqi’s Kalashnikov rose. Galloway’s bullet struck him in the face, and there was no one else in view.
Buzzy was still struggling beneath him, and Shooter tried to give him more room as he reloaded.
Bolt-action rifles took time to reload. Some sniper rifles favored removable box magazines, the theory being that a rifleman simply dropped the empty and shoved in a loaded magazine. Good theory, but in practice, especially during the heat of battle, magazines got dropped or bent. Men fumbled clumsily during combat, and Rock rifles avoided magazine loading. Galloway had four rounds to insert, by the time he finished, shooting had stopped—at least he heard no more, and bullets no longer tore up ground around the dead Iraqis.
Galloway attempted to reason through what had happened and was still happening. His entire right side seemed afire—from the bomb blast, Shooter believed. It appeared that most of the gunfire tearing into the Humvee had come from the cement plant, and with that realization, Galloway knew why the third Iraqi he shot had stopped and frantically waved his arms.
That Iraqi had believed his companions were being hit by friendly fire from beyond the wreck, and he had been trying to stop it. Only the fourth man had discovered Galloway firing from the ruined truck, and he had been too late.
So why had that drumfire of shooting ended? Galloway experienced an all-consuming fear that he had already wasted too much time.
A glance toward the rear of the blasted vehicle showed fuel spilling from a punctured tank or perhaps a spare fuel can. They should get clear of the wreck because liquids ran downhill—which was where he and the driver huddled—but Shooter knew there were enemy riflemen waiting, and judging the volume of fire that had poured into the Humvee, there were a lot of them.
Buzzy was finally free and crouched beside his Captain. Galloway said, “Crawl out through the front, and stay low. It looks like they can only see the rear end so we’ve got some cover in this ditch. Get out and keep going. I’ll be right behind you.”
The driver had his M16, and he did not delay. The windshield was long gone, and he clambered outside, crawling swiftly, and was out of Galloway’s sight.
There was excited calling in a foreign tongue. The voice was distant, but it was answered by someone much closer. Shooter swore. The enemy was coming.
Galloway doubted that he had time to crawl up the ditch. If he were caught in there by someone looking over the edge—especially someone firing on full automatic, the way every damned Iraqi in the desert did, he would be dead meat.
Shooter took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. He faced away from the road and stood straight up so that he could see over the gully edge—his rifle already pointing in the direction of the two-story cement plant.
Two figures were hurrying toward him. Only two? Galloway was almost relieved. His crosshair passed over their struggling forms to center on someone atop the cement plant who was gesturing and giving directions. The leader? Galloway did not question, and he fired even as he recognized a whole row of turbaned heads lined above the flat roof of the plant.
There was no time to analyze, Galloway swung back on the two attackers, and caught them still coming on. A part of his mind said, “They cannot hear the shot, and they do not hardly know I am here.” Too bad! Shooter squeezed on the closest, and worked his bolt.
A tremendous blow against his helmet rocked Galloway, and he lost sight of the second Iraqi. Something, probably a bullet had whacked his helmet. He ignored a sudden smarting along his skull and sought the second man, Shooter found him attempting to gain cover behind a dirt lump. Galloway shot through the lump, and the Iraqi collapsed.
Galloway’s concentration bubble collapsed as abruptly, and he became acutely aware of the smash and clang of bullets all around him. He dropped straight down and out of the enemy’s view, but the barrage continued, and Shooter decided that it was more than time to abandon the wreck of their Humvee. He followed his driver’s route and crawled rapidly along the gully.
Why was he panting so hard? Why was he so physically worn out? Shooter knew why. Hard battle did that, but he still marveled at his sudden weakness. If measured by any normal standards, he had not expended much effort, but he was pooped. He d
oubted he could crawl more than a little further. He knew he could not summon the strength and will to re-engage the cement plant shooters. Hell, he barely managed to keep crawling ahead.
The driver had not gone far. He was crouched where the ditch had a broad open drain that headed toward the cement plant.
Galloway understood why Buzzy waited. If anyone firing at them suspected they were escaping through the ditch, they could have rifles pointing at the gap created by the side ditch. Crossing that opening could be extremely hazardous.
Panting as if he had run a long way, Shooter leaned against the steep ditch side and thought about it. Even the moment’s relaxation returned a hint of strength and purpose. The fact was, the first man through would probably be passed before riflemen could get on him, but the gunners would be ready with their triggers tight waiting for a second man.
Could they dash across together? Probably, but returning vigor allowed Galloway to question his direction.
As sure as they had been road-side bombed, a powerful American reactionary team was already massed in their compound only a half-mile further. Galloway was mildly surprised that artillery, maybe flat-firing tank guns, were not already pounding the cement plant and every abandoned shop along the way. It was improbable that the compound’s defensive plans did not include prepared mortar and artillery barrages that could flatten every building out there. That, he could believe, was why ambushers had never before used The Chute.
So, where were they?
Buzzy diverted Galloway’s thoughts. “Jesus, Captain, are you all right? You’re helmet’s got a huge gouge in it.”
Shooter remembered the terrific blow to his helmet. His head did sting a little, but he guessed he was all right. He was functioning, wasn’t he?
“Yeah, Buzzy, I’m all right.”
Galloway made his decision. “When we get ready, you will dash across this gap as if the Devil was chasing you.
“I figure they will be waiting. They’ll try for you, but unless you are really slow, they’ll be too late. The bastards will be looking at you, and I will get a shot or two.”
Shooter supposed his grin was a bit ghastly. He said, “We’re not through with them, yet, soldier.”
Buzzy’s eyes looked like headlights. He watched his Captain reloading the suppressed rifle and shook his head. “I figure you’ve killed a bunch of them already, haven’t you, Captain?”
Buzzy saw Galloway’s grim smile become a snarl. “Not enough of them, soldier. Not nearly enough of them.”
The driver wanted only to get as far from all of this as he could. When he ran the gap, and he was anxious to get going, he would sprint all the way to the compound. He, too, wondered where everybody was. Help should be here by now.
Shooter was ready. There was a dirt pile created when the side ditch had been dug, and he intended to use it for at least partial concealment. He would judge how much he could shoot when he came up for his first shot. Make that first one perfect, Galloway told himself. Worry about more after that.
Captain Galloway asked, “You ready, Buzzy?”
Buzzy said, “I’m ready. You say go, and I’ll be gone.” As an afterthought he said, “Be careful, Captain.” Galloway did not answer.
Shooter Galloway was afraid. Of course, he feared being shot into rags. Who wouldn’t be? Just as powerfully, he was afraid that he could not summon the will to stick his head and rifle over the ditch edge into what would surely be an onslaught of automatic rifle fire—not aimed directly at him, but oh so close, and so quickly re-adjusted.
He made himself remember the Marines at Tarawa who had been pinned flat on their bellies at the water’s edge but had gotten up, charged the enemy, and killed all but a few. Soldiers had done the same at D-day in France and in every war before and since. He remembered the drill-field-straight lines of American soldiers in the older wars who had marched shoulder to shoulder into enemy muskets and rifles. Confederates at Gettysburg. Union at Fredricksburg’s stone wall. Men with heart did what they should do, and sometimes they lived to remember it.
Allowing his mind to wander helped as much as the examples, and Shooter looked over at Buzzy—whatever his name was.
“You ready?”
“I’m ready, Captain.”
Galloway’s voice was not overly loud. He said, “Go,” and his driver went.
Shooter did not look Buzzy’s way. He slid his rifle across the lip of the draw and fitted himself behind it.
The blast of a dozen automatic rifles almost forced him into ducking, but he sighted through the thunderous volley, saw heads aligned on the factory roof, and began working on them.
Shooter Galloway had only five shots. All of his training and experience told him to shoot once and change positions. In a battle like this, with one bolt gun against a platoon of automatic rifles, his efforts would be puny, but Galloway quite suddenly did not care. He saw the enemy, and he again began to kill them.
With his first shot, doubts and fears vanished, and there was nothing but the next target. He squeezed and swung his crosshair to the right. There was number two, still firing at the empty space. Galloway shot and swung, and shot and swung. At one hundred yards, adjustment to the next silhouetted head was miniscule. His bolt throw with the short-actioned Remington was slick and quick. His eye stayed behind the scope, and as suddenly as he had begun, he had counted to five, and his rifle was empty.
Astonished at the brevity of his firing, Shooter slid down the bank of his ditch and began to reload. Belatedly, the edge of the gully above him exploded. Dirt flew from bullet impacts, and dozens of rounds hammered the opposite bank, many whining away as deadly ricochets.
Galloway judged he was not going to empty another magazine at that crowd. They were shooting like madmen, hitting nothing alive, and Shooter’s mind wondered if he might not wait only a little longer and the whole crowd would be empty. He might be the only guy with a loaded gun.
It was fanciful imagining, but Galloway’s musings were interrupted by something powerful and far more satisfying.
Engines roared and a 25-millimeter cannon began its pounding fire. There were more engines, big diesels, Shooter judged, and a tank cannon boomed like close-in thunder. Help had arrived, and it came in heavy.
Captain Galloway stayed in his ditch and listened to the uproar. Machine guns joined in— some distant, others pretty close—and Galloway understood the delay in arrival.
The Chute was completely surrounded. The response team had taken the time to place maneuver elements along the escape routes. Now, it was only a matter of taking down resistance until the few alive came out with their hands high or, if they did not, leveling the buildings on top of them.
Galloway peered over the edge of his gully and guarded the ground between him and the insurgents. It was not impossible that someone desperate might try the unexpected and move forward.
Shooter was not intent on killing more enemy right now. He hurt from a multitude of aches and abrasions. His hearing was partly blocked on the right side, and the left side of his head itched as if ants were biting him. Exhaustion was again sneaking in, but he did not want to look up and discover an Iraqi fanatic with a Kalashnikov rifle grinning at him.
American warriors swarmed. Field grade officers appeared to command and organize. A pathetic trio of fragile, already wounded and fearful, Iraqi captives were frisked within Galloway’s view and marched away.
A medic was directed to treat Captain Galloway’s wounds, and Shooter discovered there were more than a few.
Until a medic began his examination, Galloway had believed himself merely scraped up and worn down, but the list of injuries grew, and Captain Gabriel Galloway was re-examined by a doctor, then transferred to their field hospital.
Shooter was certain that the attention was unnecessary but once in the clutches of the Medical Corps, it could be tough to break free. Within a few hours, he was air-evacuated to Germany for further treatment. Then, to his astonishment and over his complaint
s, it was announced that Captain Galloway would be further evacuated to Walter Reed Medical Center near Washington, DC for further evaluation, and Gabriel had no say in the matter.
If he needed further examining, DC was not far from home. Shooter figured he could live with that.
Captain Galloway had managed to have his Rock rifle sent to his second in command, now the Acting S3, for safekeeping. He succeeded in little else, and left Europe as a patient, still wondering what all of the fuss was about.
Before enplaning for the states, Captain Gabriel Galloway was informed that it was his head wound that had them worried. His head was heavily bandaged and he was fitted with a football-like protective helmet. He traveled flat on his back rising only for nature’s needs. Monitors blinked above him, and fluids drained into him. At times, Gabriel wondered if he were in the hands of mad scientists.
Shooter Galloway Page 30
