Project Terminus: Destiny

by Nathan Combs

  A mile from NFT, Randal saw the UH-60 pop off the deck and sight on the command center. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed the throttle to full. The Apache was low to the ground and behind the Blackhawk, and it leaped forward at 200-plus mph.

  Wade was engaged in repelling the enemy ground assault when the din of the firefight was revoked by the sounds of multiple rotor blades echoing off the walls of the buildings.

  Seconds later, he located the birds and watched helplessly as the Apache smashed into the Blackhawk less than 500 hundred yards away. The collision was dramatic and final. Both choppers exploded in a massive fireball and dropped in multiple pieces to the ground.

  Wade stared in horror.

  His mind snapped.

  Exiting concealment, he turned his fury on the attacking force, firing his M4 with his good arm.

  Jerry Johnson tackled Wade before he went two feet and fell on top of him. “Stay down, boss.”

  Wade screamed, “Get the fuck off me, Jer!”

  “That won’t help, Wade. I get it, but you gotta stay down.”

  Wade tried to push Jerry off, but with his broken wing, the man’s weight was too much. Jerry started to say something else, but his words were cut short by a 5.57 round hitting the side of his head. Hot blood and brain matter splattered Wade’s face, and Jerry’s head flopped next to Wade’s, his lifeless eyes staring blankly.

  For a few seconds, Wade didn’t move. He shuddered. Then a spark ignited deep in his brain. He shook his head. His senses returned. Pushing Jerry gently to the side, Wade crawled for the cover of a clump of bushes, then looked back at the entrance to the command center. The doors were shattered, but his men were firing from the inside and his Stryker was lighting up the enemy line. To his left, others were engaging the attackers from the corner of the building, and to his right, Noah and half of his men had broken protocol, left the safe area, and were counterattacking.

  In Clewiston, Bill’s Raven drone showed two Bradleys and six Strykers five miles out and closing. He redeployed his assets. Two Javelin teams would take out the Bradleys, and the remaining two would engage two of the Strykers. Bill and his Bradley would tackle the four remaining AFVs. When they were eliminated, he’d deal with the troop trucks and support vehicles.

  He waited.

  As the column drew closer, the howling of the armored column’s engines and tracks drowned out the distant sounds of battle to the north. They were running at top speed, close together, and when the first Bradley exploded, the second Bradley ran into the wreckage and slewed sideways, then erupted in a black-and-red fireball. The Texas Nation armor never had a chance. Within minutes, it was over. The blackened, lifeless hulks of Bradleys and Strykers burned on the roadway.

  A brief firefight ensued with the troop transport ground pounders, but they quickly threw down their arms and surrendered.

  Bill tasked his men to check for wounded, secure the prisoners, and police the battlefield. Then he called Wade for an update.

  With the sound of a raging firefight in the background, Wade informed him enemy troops were storming the command center.

  “We’re done here. Hold on. I’m coming.”

  The leader of the Texas Nation assault force, Zak Prescott, an ex-Marine Recon sergeant, realized he had been outmaneuvered and was now outnumbered. He also knew the intel he had been given was faulty. He and his men were in serious trouble. The volume of enemy fire on his exposed right flank intensified. Two grenades exploded several yards from him, and two of his men screamed. In the distance, the distinct growl of approaching Strykers running at full throttle echoed off the compound walls. He doubted they were his.

  He looked to the south. He estimated he had less than three minutes.

  Since he wasn’t a fanatic, he made a logical decision and ordered his men to cease fire.

  Foster positioned the tankers and support vehicles to his rear and ordered his combat force to advance toward the intersection of Highway 70 and US-27. Five hundred yards from their destination, they came under heavy fire. Javelin missiles took out two of his Strykers. The smoke from their burning tires sent a column of black, oily smoke drifting slowly over the battlefield.

  The troops from the Strykers exited on either side of the highway and merged with the infantry. Foster looked at his men in the ditch and decided the only chance they had was to attack using the ditches for cover. On a whim, he decided he couldn’t afford to lose the tankers and support vehicles, so he ordered two of the Strykers back to guard them and for his infantry to press on.

  After advancing west 100 yards, Foster’s gunner said their fuel was almost gone, and he had no choice but to order the driver back to the support vehicles to replenish.

  On US-27, two miles west of Foster’s location, the commander of the Texas Nation insertion team, Mother to his men, reminded his squad of their orders. “Locate and eliminate enemy command and control.”

  The team consisted of well-trained combat veterans of the Iraq and Afghan wars, and they split into four groups of four, fanned out, and moved stealthily east toward the Floridians’ blocking force, which consisted of Cole’s and Horst’s troops.

  Fifteen minutes later, in a driving rain, Mother’s team eyeballed a group of enemy soldiers surrounding an apparent officer giving orders through a headset. Mother tossed a grenade, and his men dove for cover. The grenade landed in the middle of the group and bounced once. A skinny guy hesitated for a nanosecond, yelled “grenade,” and covered it with his torso. There was a muffled whomp, and the man’s body lifted six inches into the air. Before the body settled to Earth, Mother and his men exited cover and stormed the position.

  The men in the clearing had grabbed a patch of dirt before Ransom ate the grenade, but the volley of 5.57 bullets from Mother’s team ensured three of them, including the officer, never got up.

  Unfortunately for Mother and his men, the rain concealed Rogue and four of Horst’s men 100 feet to their left. Nor did they see Cole and four ex-Rangers on their right flank. Team One never made it across the small opening in the woods. A volley of devastating fire from their left flank took them down. Mother’s men were killed immediately, and Mother took a bullet to the shoulder and crashed to the ground. Within seconds, he was eating the barrel of an M4. He swallowed his upper front teeth, stopped moving, and closed his eyes.

  Cole looked at Rogue, whose gun barrel was still performing unauthorized dental work on Mother’s mouth. Cole asked, “Where’s Horst?”

  Rogue answered, “Over there.” He nodded to his right. “This fucker shot him.”

  Horst was struggling to breathe and bleeding heavily from two chest wounds.

  “Hang on, Horst, I’ll get a medic.”

  Horst grabbed Cole’s hand and tried to grin but grimaced instead. “Don’t…waste…your time…Cole. Get…these…fuckers.” He gagged. Thick, black blood seeped from his mouth, he gurgled, his eyes opened wide, and his head dropped to the side.

  Cole rose and radioed the troops that they had infiltrators in their midst. “They’re dressed in black. Teams of four.”

  He called Wade.

  Bill answered the phone. “Go for Bill.”

  “This is Cole. I’m estimating 2,000 hostiles. We’re gonna be overwhelmed soon. Operators have been inserted into our rear, and they’ve infiltrated our ranks. Horst is dead.”

  “We’re secure here. I’m sending you everything we have. Can you hold?”

  “Yeah.”

  Twelve minutes later, Bill was two minutes out in the lead Stryker. He carried six men, two mortars, and his two remaining Javelins. He led five other Strykers with forty men aboard and six pickups with eighty troops. Two Bradleys slower by 20 mph trailed behind.

  Bill radioed Cole. “ETA one minute. Where do you want us?”

  “They’re in a ragged line 500 yards east of the intersection.”

  The t
roops in the pickups jumped out, and the Stryker troops exited, fell in with Cole, and took up positions as ordered.

  Bill conferred with Cole for thirty seconds, then sent three of the Strykers north on US-27 for one mile, then east, off road, a half-mile. They stopped and the troops inside exited, set up mortars, and began dropping high-explosive rounds into the enemy line. Cole ordered Bill and his Stryker to remain with him, then sent the other two Strykers south, then east.

  Minutes later, the two Bradleys arrived and headed toward Foster’s troops at full speed, their 25mm cannons opening a gaping hole in the Texas Nation battle line. After punching through, they peeled left and right, then turned their guns on the enemy’s rear.

  The Texas Nation force was surrounded.

  Moments after arriving at the support column, Foster’s Bradley sputtered, shut down, and wouldn’t restart, forcing him to take over a Stryker to direct the battle.

  The Floridan shooters were at Foster’s back door. Their continued sniping forced him to stay buttoned up, and he had to view the battlefield and direct the operation through the Stryker’s periscope. He called both Wilcox and the commander of the diverted column several times, but there was no answer.

  He watched helplessly as three Strykers positioned themselves north of his troops and began dropping mortar rounds. He shook his head, concerned.

  When two other Strykers and troops began firing on his left flank, he shook his head again, worried.

  When the Bradleys punched through the line, he bowed his head. It was over.

  He considered his options for ten seconds. Fight and die, or surrender and probably die.

  He ordered his troops to surrender. Muttering an expletive, he exited his Stryker and stood with his men, hands behind their heads, in the pouring rain, and waited.

  Sniper teams quickly moved in and secured the prisoners.

  The battle for Moore Haven had ended.

  Tyler called Bill. “I have their commander.”

  “I’ll be there in three.”

  Five minutes later, Bill stood malevolently above the Texas Nation commander kneeling on the ground with his hands flex cuffed behind him, guarded by Tyler. He looked down at the man in disgust and said, “What’s your name, asshole?”

  “Foster.”

  “Look at me when I talk to you.”

  When their eyes met, Bill grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up. “Let’s go.”

  Bill looked briefly at Tyler’s sniper teams securing the prisoners, who were lying face down, spread-eagled in the center of the highway, and turned to Cole. “Mop up. Police the battlefield and secure the tankers and support vehicles.”

  “Already started. We’re performing triage on our men first. I’ll have the critically wounded transferred to the medical center.”

  Pushing Foster ahead of him, Bill muttered, “You drive, Ty.”

  Bill and Tyler arrived at the command center in twenty minutes and entered to find it relatively unharmed, although Chief Full-of-Shit had taken a bullet to his forehead, knocking the cigar from his mouth.

  Bill pushed Foster onto a chair. “If he even opens his mouth, Tyler…”

  Stooping, he picked up the cigar minus the ash, jammed it back into the chief’s mouth, and left the room in search of Wade. He beelined it to the Citrus Plant safe area and opened the door. Stepping into the darkened interior, he was greeted with a scene that turned his blood to ice water.

  As he moved closer, his mouth opened and closed as he watched Maggie and Wade, Chris’s wife Sara and their daughter Becky, and Randal’s wife Carol locked in a grim group-hug. Noah and Anna hugged them from the rear. The sound of their collective sobs pierced his heart and tears welled in his eyes. He stared, open-mouthed, for what seemed an eternity, then he went numb. This was his family. He loved them all.

  He stood helpless, watching them grieve. He shuddered, and a dark blackness seeped into his soul. His face turned to stone and he stood for a few more seconds in stoic silence, feeling their hurt, before returning to the Powwow Room.

  He grabbed Foster by the throat and went nose to nose. “You’re responsible for killing people I love, motherfucker. You have one chance, and one chance only. Talk, talk fast, and tell the truth. If I even suspect you’re lying, or omitting intel, I will slit your worthless throat right here, right now.”

  Foster nodded meekly. “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Final Countdown

  Bill did his thing, and Foster spilled his guts. In his eagerness to get it all out, Bill had to tell him to slow down and breathe. Foster ended by saying he had no voice in the decision-making and reiterated that his dead boss, General Kirilov, had been against an invasion and that he was too.

  Bill grabbed Foster’s collar and pulled him to within inches of his face. “I want Shelton, you miserable puke, but unlike you, I won’t kill a bunch of civilians to get him. You’re gonna call him. You’re gonna tell him you won the battle, but because there are still hostiles in the area, you don’t want him to drive down alone. You tell him you’re coming to get him and that you’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  Foster nodded. “No problem.” Then he asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

  Bill pushed Foster’s sat phone into his hand. “Make the call.”

  “Shelton’s completely off the rails. He’s as crazy as a shithouse rat.”

  Bill removed his knife. “Put it on speaker.”

  Shelton was as nervous as a nun at a porn shoot. He hated suspense. And he particularly hated not knowing what had happened. It was eating him up. He was relieving himself when his sat phone rang. It startled him, and he peed on his leg.

  “This better be good, General,” he answered.

  “It is, sir,” Foster said.

  “Well, are you going to tell me, or not?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. The battle’s over, but it’s not safe here yet. There are still hostiles in the area. For your own protection, I’m coming to get you in a Stryker.”

  “How many prisoners did you take?”

  “I don’t have an exact count yet, sir. Somewhere around a hundred.”

  “And the civilians?”

  “Ahh…we have them locked down.”

  “Well, how many are there, Foster?”

  Foster looked at Bill and spread his hands upward.

  Bill mouthed, “Five hundred.”

  “Around 500, sir.”

  Shelton didn’t respond.

  “Sir?”

  “Kill everyone except the young women.”

  “Sir?”

  “Did I stutter, General? Kill everyone except the young women.”

  “The children too?”

  “What part of everyone except the young females didn’t you understand? And I want their bodies removed before I get there.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, sir.”

  Foster handed the phone back to Bill. “Like I said, he’s nuts.” He looked at the floor, then up at Bill. “I have one request.”

  Bill raised his eyebrows.

  “I’d like to watch.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Shelton stood at the edge of the civilian encampment, hands on hips, head up, chin out, attempting to project the pose of a conquering commander after a great victory. He imagined his people thought he looked like Napoleon before Waterloo.

  No—wait. Napoleon was a fucking midget. More like Patton returning to the Philippines. Or was that McArthur? Whatever. Him.

  Maria held a University of Texas umbrella over his head to shield him from the constant drizzle that fell from a low, gray sky, which he thought was a nice touch.

  Along with several hundred of the bourgeois, Shelton first heard and then saw the headlights of approaching vehicles. Moments later, thr
ee Strykers stopped thirty feet away, and Shelton froze in his selected Patton/McArthur pose.

  Feeble light from the civilian bonfires cast long dancing shadows on the armed troops, who deployed from the Strykers and formed a skirmish line in front of the idling vehicles. From the dimness behind and into the headlight beams, Foster, Bill, and Tyler strode toward the posing Shelton.

  “It’s about time, General. What are—?” Not recognizing the uniforms of two of the men, a confused look spread over his face. “Who are these men, General?”

  With his 250 pounds behind the punch, Bill’s fist said hello to Shelton’s jaw, and he fell backward, banging his head on the turf.

  Maria dropped the umbrella and said, “Oh,” and the handle hit Shelton dead center in his right eye.

  He screamed and stared up at the hulk, backlighted by the headlights of the Strykers—except he wasn’t green.

  The creature’s mouth opened, and claws reached down, grabbed Shelton’s collar, picked him up, and shouted, “I’m your worst nightmare, you little prick.”

  A phantom hand removed Shelton’s pearl handled Colt .45 from his shoulder holster, then patted him down.

  Blood trickled slowly from Sir Shelton’s mouth, and he spat out a tooth. His right eye was half shut, and he whined, “Wait. What the— Who the hell do you think you—”

  The monster put his nose directly on Shelton’s. “Shut up.”

  The reality of his predicament came slowly, but it nonetheless arrived. His face blanched and he sputtered, “But…but…I… You…”

  Bill smirked. “I told you to shut the fuck up.”

  “You…you can’t touch me. The Geneva convention clearly states—”

  Bill headbutted him and grabbed his throat before he fell. “Someone else said that to me not too long ago. I’ll tell you the same thing I told that asshole. There is no Geneva convention. There is no Geneva. You’re goin’ for a short ride, you sick little fuck, and at the end of it, I’m gonna kill you.”