by John O'Brien
Dropping the arm to the floor, the soldier rips off his shirt and stuffs it into the wound, holding it tightly against the injury as others scramble to help.
Greg turns the turret to the second Humvee but, with their surge ahead, its gunner is lost from view. Instead, he sends high-speed, heavy projectiles into the front of the vehicle. Steam billows upward from the punctured radiator. Rounds punch into the hood sending a spray of oil upward as a line is severed. The windscreen shatters as the rounds continue arcing across the Humvee.
The rest is lost from view as the Stryker collides with the wooden sides of the school building. A clamor of boards and glass breaking covers all other sounds as the heavy vehicle punches through the wall. The Stryker tilts as it barrels its way through what once was a classroom filled with the town’s youth.
Portions of the roof collapse as the heavily armored vehicle thunders through the side walls. The Stryker emerges from the other side, leaving a trail of timbers, siding, insulation, and pipes. As it exits, the entire part of the damaged building falls in on itself with a crash.
Turning down the street toward the main highway, with broken boards sliding off the sides, the Stryker accelerates past the disabled Humvee. The shredded remains of the Humvee’s gunner lies half out of the open gunner’s position, draped across the roof. Streams of blood flow down what is left of the windshield and side window.
Passing the road in front of the main school building, Greg sees the core of the opposing armored column about to enter into the courtyard he just exited. Led by one of the other Strykers, he sees the turret swing in his direction.
“Punch it,” Greg bellows.
Making it past the street opening, Greg hears a thunderous roar. A house on the corner erupts in a billowing column of smoke and flame. The snapshot made by the opposing Stryker narrowly missed. Boards and siding are thrown high into the air and tossed outward, fanning across the dead lawn and the road.
They must have had a high explosive round loaded rather than an anti-armor Sabot round, Greg thinks.
The rounds may not penetrate the armored side of the Stryker, but it could tip it on its side. That’s something Greg would very much like to avoid. The column disappears from view as the Stryker continues down the street, picking up speed. Greg has the driver turn down several streets in order to keep them from a direct line-of-sight.
Reaching the intersection of highways, Greg discharges another smoke cloud. The Stryker soon crosses over a bridge spanning a river that divides the connecting townships. Again, Greg wishes for more firepower. Not for holding out against their antagonists, as he knows they wouldn’t last long in a slugging match, but more so that they could damage the bridge enough to slow down the pursuit. Highly suspecting that they are now fighting against an enemy that has airborne surveillance capabilities, he knows that they won’t lose their tail for long. All he can hope for is to create some separation.
While not getting the fuel load he wanted, Greg is at least satisfied that they have enough to make Albuquerque and to maneuver should the need arise. The road connects with another highway and, after motoring through an industrial area on the outskirts of San Pedro, it swings southeast and then south toward Santa Fe.
As the sun continues its upward trek, the shadows from the mountains slowly edge their way across the valley floor. Standing in one of the open hatches, Greg focuses his binoculars behind. Not able to see far because of intervening buildings, he does make out occasional glimpses of armor crossing the bridges. Not knowing how or why they were able to gain any separation, he is thankful. They aren’t out of the fire by a long shot, and picking up fuel down the road will be perilous if the last two instances are any indication.
Back inside, Greg notes a group of soldiers crowding around one of the passengers. With shock, he sees the splatter of blood on the equipment across from them. Blood drips off the bench seat to a gathering pool on the metal floor. So intent was he on the escape, he had no idea they had sustained an injury. One of the soldiers has an IV bag held high. Positions shift as they are administering first aid and, through a gap of bodies, Greg sees the head of the boy they rescued leaning to the side, his eyes closed. Gathering the attention of one of the soldiers, Greg raises an eyebrow asking after the boy’s well-being. The soldier shakes his head and continues with his treatment.
Rolling toward Santa Fe, the valley narrows as the mountain chains on either side close in. Hundreds of thin ridgelines reach out into the valley looking like fingers trying to take root or pull the valley in toward the mighty peaks. Ravines cut deeply into the ridges, created during the massive runoff from the spring thaws.
More worried about keeping the distance from the armored forces behind than about fuel consumption, Greg has the Stryker racing as fast as the road will allow. In some areas, only a slight rise of the ground denotes where the road is. The dirt of the plains, covered only with scant scrub brush and the occasional stunted tree, has swept over large portions of the pavement. As they speed toward Santa Fe, Greg wonders just how long it will be until the highway completely vanishes.
It won’t be much longer, he thinks as the northern approaches to the city become visible.
Just before entering the massive residential district that covers the northern part of the metropolis, Greg orders the Stryker onto a highway that fully skirts the town to the west. Passing the airport serving the town, the team connects with the interstate leading toward Albuquerque. The vast chain of mountains they were following ends as they enter the flatter terrain.
To the rear, Greg sees a dust cloud from their pursuers rising into the thin air. With them so close, he ponders how they are going to refuel the Stryker as they approach Albuquerque. They’ll be running short by the time they arrive.
Maybe it’s time we abandon the Stryker and find vehicles that will give us more speed, he thinks, knowing the firepower they are carrying is useless and the distance they can keep is their only defense. We’ll save on gas and have to refuel less often.
Several miles down the road, as he is going through a plan to quickly transfer to working vehicles, a glimmer catches his attention. He increases the zoom level on the camera for a better look.
Ahead, stretched across the road and out to the sides, armored vehicles are spread in a line. Greg instantly recognizes the distinct outlines of several Strykers and Humvees. He’s found the second group, and the distance between him and this second group is closing quickly.
“Driver, off the road, now! Head northwest,” Greg shouts.
Slowing only a touch, the Stryker turns. Pulled from their focus on the boy, all heads turn toward Greg. Concentrating on the situation, Greg ignores the looks of anxiety, telling them that an armored column is on the road ahead.
Their only escape is to make for the hills. If they can gain the terrain which lies to the northwest, land which will invalidate the use of armor, they may stand a minimal chance on foot. He’ll worry about where they’ll go afterward, but right now, they have to extricate themselves from the killing ground they’ve stumbled into. Greg should have guessed the other force would come against them like this. In the back of his mind, he thought this might be a possibility once he determined the others had the use of airborne surveillance. He just hoped he could outrun it.
The Stryker jostles as it races across undulations in the land. On this section of the plateau, there isn’t a single bush to hide behind. Their only chance is to keep their speed up and, with the angle of their flight, hope that will throw the gunner’s aim off. A thunderous roar lifts the Stryker, canting it sideways and throwing everyone inside against each other. It settles back with a hard bounce. The wheels grip the soft soil and the armored vehicle surges forward once again.
“Fuck!” Greg hears through the ringing in his ears.
He wants to see what the shout was about, but the dire situation they are in commands his full attention. Greg looks for a gully or some large crease in the terrain which will give them a measure o
f cover. There’s nothing he can see in the immediate area. Their only hope is what appears to be a drop off in the distance.
Another near miss rocks the Stryker. This is followed immediately by a loud clang which throws the heavy vehicle to the side. Violently tossed against the interior wall, Greg feels like his ears are bleeding from the concussive blast. Stunned, he retains enough consciousness to know the vehicle is still mobile.
Another blast crashes into the side, slewing the Stryker. As the vehicle slams back down, Greg feels it settle lower than normal.
“That does it for us, sir,” the driver calls. “The Stryker is done for.”
“Everyone out!” Greg orders. “There’s a drop off to our front. Make for it.”
Greg clambers across a tilted deck strewn with equipment. One of the soldiers is standing next to the wounded boy. With the others clear, Greg can now see the extent of his injury. He is slumped over the bench seat, his face pale and clammy. Bloodied bandages litter the seat and floor. The boy’s arm lies on the seat next to his hip.
Knowing the answer already by the lack of blood flowing from the wound, Greg asks anyway, “How is he?”
“He died a few minutes ago, sir.”
“Leave him,” Greg states, knowing that it’s only a matter of seconds before another shell slams into the Stryker to finish them off.
They hustle out, setting foot on the dusty plain. Turning toward the drop off, the others are running across the flats, the soldiers in the back with the rest ahead. Greg and the soldier run after them, looking to get as much distance from the disabled vehicle as possible. The chatter of heavy machine gun fire erupts in the distance.
Turning toward the sound, Greg sees tracers reach out across barren land. The red streaks converge around the others racing ahead. Heavy slugs rip into the ground sending showers of dirt into the air, obliterating any view of the rest of his team and those they rescued. The dust slowly settles to the ground, allowing Greg the ability to see through the maelstrom. Of the nine who were running for the drop off, there’s not a single one standing. Greg skids to a stop as the tracers halt momentarily and then, start firing in his direction.
“Back to the Stryker!” Greg yells, fear sending a jolt of electricity through his body. The armor of the vehicle will give them more cover from the heavy slugs ripping through the air.
Greg can feel the large caliber rounds slam into the soil as he runs through the soft dirt. The air is filled with dust thrown up by the impacts, obscuring his vision. As he and his teammate race down the side of the Stryker, sparks flash off the sides accompanied by heavy, metallic thuds. In the noise, confusion, and fear, Greg’s thoughts have been reduced down to a single one, get into the cover afforded by the Stryker.
He feels several tugs against his pant legs and vest as some of the rounds narrowly miss. A burning sensation across his back makes its way to his consciousness. As he nears the rear of the vehicle, surrounding by swirling dust and the close impact of rounds, Greg observes, with a form of disassociation, as if he is a mere spectator, a splash of blood wash across the side of the Stryker. He knows, with the same disassociation, that his teammate has been hit. Rounding the corner of the vehicle, he throws himself into the opening.
Landing amongst a clutter of objects lying on the floor, he hears heavy impacts slamming into the sides. Breathing hard, his heart thudding, he looks up. The boy they rescued stares blankly only inches away from Greg. He’s been in a lot of tricky situations, but he has no idea how he’ll extricate himself from this one. The ones firing seem intent on eliminating every last one of them.
A crashing explosion rocks the Stryker. Greg is lifted and thrown against the far wall. He only registers the hard impact before darkness descends.
* * * * * *
Bird of Prey
Having met with Leonard and relaying what we have found out, I feel better and am glad for the arrangement of working together should there be the need. He still has his search to do, and it may be a while before we see each other again. Although we came to an understanding, I don’t get the feeling that he will be joining our compound soon. After all, he has a fuel supply that will last him for years and, provided he doesn’t experience any severe mechanical breakdowns, he’ll be able to travel anywhere with a degree of safety. All in all, he may be better off than we are up north.
However relieved I feel about our working together, there is still a tremendous amount of anxiety. One, Greg is out there and we need to locate him. There is also this other group and the issue of how we are going to deal with them. Then, there are the night runners that are moving out of Seattle and appear to be approaching our sanctuary.
It’s almost too much, I think, as the gear settles into the wheel well with a clunk.
Gaining altitude, we turn east, heading to locate and pick up Greg. Our first stop will be Cannon AFB to pick up another Spooky given that the other one might be damaged. Other than our own minds and teamwork, the aircraft remains our greatest asset as we try to survive. We’ll need to be a lot farther along than we are now if we’re to make it once the Spooky is grounded. We may be able to keep the other vehicles running if Bannerman has some success with the bio-fuels, but as far as flying goes, that will come to an end.
As we climb, the dirty brown line we saw before hangs on the horizon to the south. My first thought is that it’s an inversion but, reaching an altitude level with the top, I don’t see the linear line of separation that is usually prevalent with that kind of weather system. The color is reminiscent of smog, the look and kind that used to be a constant fixture over Los Angeles. That, however, has since cleared out without any further poisons being introduced into the atmosphere. It’s entirely possible that the smog has merely shifted and some atmospheric phenomenon is holding it. It could also be from fires, either from a city or from brush fires burning out of control. Whatever its source, it stretches for some distance to the east. We don’t have time to investigate, for whatever good that might do, since I want to hurry to Cannon AFB. I want to have both aircraft prepped and refueled for an early morning flight. Getting Greg back into the fold is the highest priority.
The line of smog packs against the mountains to the east, but the top drifts over the peaks. As we fly almost due east, the smog thins and finally ends near the California border at Yuma. Transiting a line between Flagstaff and Phoenix, I begin making calls hoping to reach Greg. If we can locate him on our flight to Cannon AFB, we’ll arrange for a pickup and continue on with getting another Spooky and conducting our flyover of the opposing bunker complex.
By the time we descend and line up for runway at Cannon AFB, I haven’t heard a word from Greg responding to our calls. That adds to my already extensive list of worries. We have transited a major portion of the route that Greg was to follow. He should have heard us.
After circling to be relatively sure that no one has settled into the area since our last visit, we touch down on the grit-covered main runway. A thin line of dust billows toward the front when we bring the engines into reverse thrust and we use the throttles to stay in front of it. Exiting the runway, we pull onto the ramp and park in the same location that we did before. We remain in place with the engines turning, waiting to see if someone we missed on our overflight shows up. Seeing no one arrive, we shut down.
Reasonably assured that no one else is around, I assign some of Red Team to start the tedious task of refueling. Taking the others, we look over one of the Spookys sitting on the ramp nearby. Opening the crew door, stale air pours out. A check of the maintenance records and cursory pre-flight check shows the aircraft to be airworthy. It’s been sitting on the ramp for a while so we’ll run the engines to check for any fuel contamination. A run-up shows that the decontamination filters in place are still functioning. The others systems check out and we shut it down.
With the late afternoon sun drifting toward the horizon and both aircraft refueled, Red Team locates a transportation vehicle near the ramp. Gathering several ba
tteries from other vehicles and hooking them up in a relay, it takes a few attempts to get it started. When it is successfully running, the team heads over to the bunker complex and begins emptying it of ammo for the Spooky. We fill the ammunition storage on board and crate what we can, filling the remaining space around the Stryker in the 130.
The task is finished by the time twilight settles in. I’m worried that we weren’t able to contact Greg on the flight over. That weighs on me as all of us, Red Team, Lynn, and the ammunition handlers have a bite to eat on the ramp near the back of the 130. We sit on the hard surface, watching the last of the day’s light fade toward nighttime. A chilly breeze picks up, swirling sand across the wide path we cleared as we taxied across the tarmac. Without a word spoken, we finish our MREs and gather inside, closing the ramp and crew doors, sealing them against the night. We’ll stay the night in the 130.
With the blackout panels placed on the windows, I turn on the red interior light. The others gather around as I unfold several maps showing Greg’s proposed route.
“What’s the plan?” Lynn asks, looking over my shoulder.
“Greg should have been somewhere near Luke AFB according the plan we came up with,” I say, pointing to the location on one of the maps. “He should have been able to hear our radio calls and that has me worried.”
“I agree that’s a cause for concern, but that didn’t really answer shit,” Lynn states.
“Well, we all know how plans go, so I figure we’ll head north to Albuquerque and backtrack to Petersen AFB, making calls along the way. If we don’t find him along that route, we’ll head east toward McConnell AFB,” I reply, tracing the routes with my finger.
“And if we don’t find him there?”
“Then we’ll make for Luke and search outward. Unless something drastic has happened, he’ll be somewhere along that route. Even if he had to take a different course, our radios will reach a far distance from the air. We should be able to get into communication, determine his location, rendezvous, and pick him up.”
