by Nathan Combs
“We left to cover you when you arrived at the bridge, Dad. Almost there.”
“Roger.”
Thirty seconds later, the Apache howled in off Lake Okeechobee and loosed a Hellfire missile at the lead Stryker. It disappeared in a black-and-orange fireball. The Bradley attempted to reverse but was blocked by the armor behind it. A second Hellfire missile from the Apache blew off a track, stopping the Bradley. Smoke poured from the top hatch, and men jumped out and ran for safety. The remainder of the column backed up and sought cover.
Randal could see Wade prone in the ditch and hovered nearby. With the Apache’s guns trained on the scattered enemy armor, the copilot jumped out and helped Wade into the bird, and seconds later, the chopper was on its way back to the Fort.
Randal called Maggie. “Wade’s been injured. I’m inbound. ETA eight minutes.”
“How bad?”
“Cuts, bumps, and bruises. Maybe a broken wing. Nothing serious. Wade maintains he’s fine, but I want him looked at.”
“I’ll grab my bag. Take him to the command center.”
Fifteen minutes later, Maggie’s haggard face showed her concern as she tended Wade’s injuries. “You won’t be using that arm for a while.”
“I’ll make do. What’s going on with the bug?”
“You need to concentrate on repelling the invasion. I’ll take care of the bug. I’m going to medical.”
Wade took her arm. “No, Mags, you’re going back to the safe area.”
“But, Wade.”
“No buts.”
He hugged her, and she clung to him. “Wade, I’m scared.”
He gently removed her arms. “I am too, Maggie. Protect our boy.”
While Maggie was tending to Wade, Randal monitored the battlefield, and after she hurried away, he provided an update. “The leading edge of their armor is approaching Cole’s position. Contact in ten. Tyler confirms the Kissimmee River column is heading toward Clewiston. I’ve notified Bill. Still nothing on their birds.”
“Well, the Apache is no longer a surprise.”
“Couldn’t be helped, Dad.”
Wilcox sat in his Bradley waiting for the order to execute the attack, thinking, The only thing you can expect in combat is the unexpected.
The fact that the Floridians had an Apache sent shivers down his spine. It canceled out the advantage he had with the Blackhawks and the Little Bird.
Definitely dropped the ball on that one.
Almost as damaging was the seventy-plus mile detour the Highway 78 column suffered by having to divert around the lake.
He called Foster. “We have to change the order of battle.”
“No, shit, Sherlock. I’m open to suggestions.”
“How long before you hit Highway 27?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Hold where you are and send up a drone. Call me with the intel.”
“Why?”
“Why? They have a fucking Apache, that’s why. Kirilov’s intel was faulty. You may be heading into an ambush.”
Wilcox liked Foster, but he had no combat experience. The Master Sergeant considered the possibility that the battle was lost before it had begun.
In Okeechobee, Shelton sat in his pickup with the driver’s door opened, his feet on the ground. He was watching the citizens of Texas Nation setting up grills, tables, and awnings.
Are they gonna tailgate? He shook his head at the bizarre behavior of the bourgeois, then called Foster on the sat phone.
There was no answer.
He pondered the possibility that the man couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pick up, then mulled over which was worse, couldn’t or wouldn’t. He was getting pissed. He jumped up, kicked the front tire of his pickup, and swore.
He turned and looked at the bourgeois again. They were definitely tailgating. A fat Mexican guy wearing an oversized chef’s hat and an apron that said Mucho Grillin’ Hombre stood over a Weber Kettle with a stainless-steel spatula in one hand and the cheek of a girl’s ass in the other. Any second he expected the Miami Dolphins—no wait, not Miami…they sucked. The Packers. Yeah. The Pack. Any second he expected the Packers to run out onto the field.
At that moment, his favorite señorita caught his eye. Maria wore a big smile but little else.
Shelton got out of his truck, snatched a lawn chair from the bed and set it up, then sat and watched Maria mingle with his people. Moments later she started walking toward him, her ridiculously huge tatas bouncing around under her blouse like kittens playing in a pillowcase. Mesmerized, he stared and licked his lips. When Maria noticed him noticing, she increased the motion of her hips from east to west. She balanced a plate of burgers and beans in one hand and carried a glass of liquid in the other. But Shelton wasn’t aware she carried anything. Her chest hypnotized him, and he decided a ten-minute respite from the rigors of battle was in order.
When she squatted next to him and asked if he would like her to feed him, his nose did the job his eyes were incapable of. He smelled the food, his belly growled, and he realized he was hungry.
Without taking his eyes from her bosom, he intended to say, “I can eat later,” but instead he said, “I need an appetizer before my meal, Maria.”
He stood, jerked her to her feet, opened the rear door of the F-150, and pulled her inside the truck.
Foster called Wilcox to deliver the bad news. “You were right, Ray. The drone shows hundreds of troops around the intersection of Highway 27 and 70. Suggestions?”
“We have three options. We attack now, wait until unit two makes it around the lake before we attack, or we surrender.”
“Surrender? We can’t surrender, Ray. Shelton will have us killed.”
Foster didn’t respond.
Wilcox said, “You need to make a decision, Robert.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We’re probably dead either way. I doubt the Floridians will be benevolent. If I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t be.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?”
“Leave no enemy behind. They’re not going to let us live.”
“Well, that sucks.”
Foster held the phone to his ear for a long moment. “You’re probably right, Ray. Let’s fight.”
“Hold there. We’ll give unit two time to get to Clewiston.”
Cole called Randal. “They’re stopped five miles out on highway 70. They sent up a drone.”
“They made me. Probably waiting for the other column to make it around the lake.”
“Roger. Any sign of the choppers?”
“No, sir.”
“Keep me posted.”
The pain pills Maggie had forced Wade to swallow worked their magic, and he dozed fitfully in his chair. The Apache was just outside the entrance to the CC. The Hellfire missiles were replenished, the bird was topped off, and the copilot was in his seat.
Randal walked to the window of the command center and looked out at nothing in particular. Few things in life threw him off his game, but the eerie silence of the post-apocalyptic world always unnerved him. He watched clouds building slowly over the coast and knew the requisite afternoon storm would make an appearance in a few hours. It was a typical, peaceful Florida day, but one that would be filled with death and destruction before the sun set.
The human race sucks.
He turned from the window and shook his father awake. “Dad, have you heard from Chris?”
Wade was groggy and shook his head. “Huh?”
“Has Chris called in?”
He attempted to focus. “Not since…” He shook his head again. “No. Not for a while.”
When the diverted column entered Clewiston, Foster issued the strike order.
Wilcox acknowledged and sent the Little Bird and one Blackhawk, with fifteen crack troops aboard, to atta
ck the enemy compound. He sent the other Blackhawk containing sixteen special operators west. They would insert behind the Floridians at Highway 27. Then he ordered his armor toward Labelle at top speed.
On Highway 70, Foster closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ordered his men to advance.
Chris was glassing the western horizon when the ringing of the sat phone startled him. He punched the answer button.
“Chris.”
“Hey, brother, anything?”
“No. It’s quiet, Randal. In fact, it’s too damned quiet for— Wait.” He repositioned the binoculars north. “I have movement two clicks north of Labelle. It’s the Little Bird. Flying ground level. Heading northeast.”
Charlie Young, the spotter who accompanied Chris, grabbed his boss’s shoulder and pointed to the south.
Chris continued transmitting, “And there’s a Blackhawk heading southeast. They’re both coming your way.”
Suddenly, Chris’s attention was diverted by the faint yet unmistakable rumble of distant thunder, and seconds later, the thunder morphed into the resonance of powerful engines. He swung the binoculars west.
Chris said, “There’s also a column of armor heading my way. Two Bradleys and—hang on—eight Strykers and support vehicles. They’re moving fast.”
The moment Chris had said, “Wait,” Randal had headed for the Apache. He motioned for the copilot to crank it up and, still talking to Chris, he strapped in. Ninety seconds later, they were airborne. “Chris, you can’t go up against armor with M4s. Stand down.”
While the Apache was spinning up, Randal passed the Labelle intel on to Wade, who began reorganizing the NFT defenses. Two Stinger operators moved to the west and south sides of the command center and scanned the horizon, searching for targets.
Screaming across the savannah, the Little Bird flew as close to the ground as the pilot dared. A half-mile from NFT, it gained a few feet of altitude and hovered while the pilot scanned the complex. The intelligence he had been given placed the command center in the western-most building.
After gaining a visual, he began his run. Finger on the trigger, he was ready to fire his Hydra Rockets when a Hellfire from the Apache hit his tail rotor and he lost control. The Little Bird skewed left, and its nose dipped and plowed into the Florida turf. It flipped high into the air and landed upside down, its rotor blades chewing up large chunks of earth. Two seconds later it exploded, killing the pilot and copilot instantly.
Randal toggled the stick right and looked for the Blackhawk. The MH-60 was two miles south of Labelle, flying west. Immediately below New Fort Terminus, it turned north on a vector that would allow a straight-line approach.
Armed with two M2 .50-caliber machine guns and grenade launchers, the pilot ordered weapons free, and using the ground as cover, flew just off the deck.
His mission was to insert special operators just outside the target complex. Those troops were to storm and hold the compound while he provided air support.
As he neared the insertion point, his missile warning system lit up and discharged flares. He yanked the stick right, rose fifty feet, and increased his speed. Two seconds later, he jerked the stick left and dove back to the deck. The Stinger missile from the Apache went for the flare, but the explosion rocked the Blackhawk and the pilot cranked his head around to see what was attacking him. He assumed it was the Apache and blanched, but he had arrived at the insertion point and hovered three feet off the ground, ten yards from a grove of trees. The troops jumped out, hit the ground, and ran toward the compound fence, twenty yards away.
When he was sure they were clear, he jerked the stick right and lifted off.
He went fifty yards. The missile warning system lit up again, discharged flares, and he yanked the stick violently left. The first Hellfire missile from the Apache went for the decoys, but the second hit the tail-rotor.
Seconds later the cockpit was demolished by the Apache’s 30mm cannon, and the Blackhawk fell from the sky.
An assault from the west would have to cross the Highway 29 bridge over the Caloosahatchee River in Labelle before proceeding east on Highway 78. It was the only direct approach to New Fort Terminus from the west. Chris had placed four snipers on the west side of the river, and the rest of his men on the east side were concealed in fortified positions near the bridge. They were prepared to fight ground troops, but as Randal said, they couldn’t go up against an armored force.
A wild three-minute ride from the observation point to the Okeechobee River bridge ended with Chris jumping out of the truck before it stopped. Seizing the Javelin from the missile team, he issued orders as he ran. “Stay covered. Hold fire.”
With the Javelin missile launcher in hand, he hustled to the second floor of the old Labelle Auction Company building just to the south of the bridge, opened a window, and waited.
Five minutes later, the armored column, followed by tankers and support vehicles, rumbled up Bridge Street and approached the drawbridge. Forced to slow, the armored force formed a single line led by the Bradley.
Pulse racing, heart beating wildly, Chris told himself to calm down. He risked a peek over the windowsill. His men remained hidden and the lead Bradley, top hatch open, commander visible, was nearing the drawbridge. When the Bradley’s track touched the bridge-roadway joint, he took a deep breath and took aim. The Javelin’s thermal imagining component showed a lock, and when the Bradley was in the center of the grated lift section of the span, he fired the missile, dropped the launcher, and dove for cover.
The shaped charge penetrated the Bradley’s armor and hit the magazine. The force of the explosion destroyed the south end of the bridge, and what was left of the Bradley and Wilcox plummeted into the Caloosahatchee River.
The response was instantaneous. The cannon from the second Bradley and the .50 on the lead Stryker raked the Auction Building’s second floor. Troops poured out of the rear of the armored vehicles and set defensive positions while a six-man team tossed grenades and stormed the building.
From their concealed positions, Chris’s men opened fire on the exposed enemy troops. Ten died instantly, and another six were down. The remainder of the enemy force secured cover and returned fire.
As the Strykers’ gunners sought targets, the sound of the Apache’s powerful rotor blades preceded its appearance by seconds. Hovering over the collapsed bridge, Randal shot two Hellfires into the remaining Bradley, then loosed Hydra rockets at the formation of Strykers.
The Bradley died instantly, and the thin-skinned armor of the Strykers was no match for the Apache’s Hydras. In seconds, two of the AFVs exploded in orange-and-yellow fireballs, two burned on the roadway, and smoke poured from the top hatches of two others.
The Apache was out of missiles, and the copilot switched to the 30mm air-cooled canon and chewed up the last two Strykers. Their engines blew out, their top hatches opened, and the men inside exited and ran for cover.
The remainder of the enemy troops were in a standoff firefight with Chris’s men, and at 325 rounds per minute, the big bullets from the Apache’s canon chewed up chunks of blacktop and decimated their cover. The battlefield air filled with a cacophony of explosions, gunfire, dust, smoke, pieces of debris, and screams. For the enemy, it was four minutes of chaos and soul-crushing horror. Some attempted to flee. Some lay in terror. All died.
Smoke from the battle reduced visibility, and Randal repositioned the Apache to hover in front of the lead support vehicle, its cannon menacingly quiet. Other than an occasional round cooking off from the burning Strykers, the battlefield was silent, and he refocused his attention to the support vehicle drivers who had exited their trucks and were now cowering behind what little cover was available. As Chris’s troops approached, those men stood with their hands raised.
The battle of Labelle was over.
When the area was secure, Randal landed the Apache and shut it down. He rushed
to the nearest friendly and demanded, “Where’s Chris?’’
A grim-faced trooper nodded toward the demolished Auction Building. “He took out the lead Bradley and the bridge with the Javelin. The guys are searching now.”
Randal turned and ran through what remained of the entrance door and climbed to the top of the rubble heap that was the second floor. Moments later, he cradled his dead brother’s bloodied head in his lap. He allowed a brief moment of anguish, then wiped away the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks. He picked up Chris’s body, went down the still intact rear stairway, and laid him reverently in the Apache.
He turned to his copilot. “She’s out of rockets and ammo, Rob. Stay here and help out. I’m taking Chris home and replenish. I’ll come back to get you.”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, Captain.”
Randal’s face was grim as he nodded and cranked up the Apache.
The second Blackhawk, piloted by a seasoned Iraqi war army captain, Emile Young, landed 500 yards behind Cole’s position on US-27, and the special operators exited and headed toward the concealed Florida troops. After the last soldier hit the ground, the pilot took off, and flying low to the ground, went west one mile and called Wilcox for instructions.
“I’m crossing the bridge in Labelle now, Emile. New orders. Attack the…” The transmission ended abruptly and Young hesitated, then called Wilcox back. “Ray, say again.”
After several attempts with no response, he radioed Foster. “I’m not certain, but I think Wilcox was ordering me to attack the command center. I can’t raise him to confirm.”
Foster hesitated for five seconds. “Okay, Emile…do it.”
Ten minutes later, Young’s Blackhawk hovered low in the sky, scoping out New Fort Terminus from a distance of 1,000 yards. He knew troops had been inserted into the southwestern portion of the target, and he moved forward at an altitude of 100 feet well outside the perimeter to ensure those men would be clear of his missiles. He sighted on the command center, ordered his gunners hot, and began his run.
