Man of War

by Sean Parnell

With no other option, she jammed the trigger down and fired head-on into the jeep.

  Chapter 57

  “Watch out!” West yelled, catching sight of the muzzle flash fifty feet in front of the speeding jeep. The rounds punched through the engine block and the SUV sputtered, as fluid splashed over the windshield. The dashboard sparked, bullets zipping through the hole and activating the airbag.

  The interior filled with the acrid stench of the airbag’s propellant mixed with blood and antifreeze. Something was warm on West’s face and when he saw his driver slump against the window he knew it was blood.

  He grabbed the wheel and fought to center the bumper on the gunner. The front tires exploded, jerking the wheel free from his hand. He saw a small ditch coming up and without hesitation shoved the door open and threw himself from the jeep.

  Chapter 58

  The flare burned with the power of 90,000 candles, and Steele didn’t need night vision to see the point man freeze. All he had to do was center the reticle on the man’s leg and fire. The suppressor spat and Steele’s target went down, a gaping hole in the back of his thigh.

  This was how the insurgent fought, shooting to wound instead of kill, because to evac a comrade took three men out of the fight. One wounded and two to carry their brother.

  Brrrrrrp. Brrrrrrrrrrp. The 240 Bravo thundered to life, spiking Steele with a shot of adrenaline. Before becoming a Green Beret, he had been a machine gunner with the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum, and like any infantryman he loved the staccato cadence of the heavy machine gun.

  He settled behind the glass and lined up his next shot. The recon team had four men—one was wounded—and just as he pulled the trigger one of them looked directly at the window.

  The round hit him low in the hip and knocked him on his ass. Steele saw him pointing at the window. Shit. He sent the second round through his throat, but it was too late.

  “Shooter in the second story of the house.”

  Steele rolled off the chest a moment before a burst of automatic rifle fire chewed up the desk. He clutched the SCAR tight against him, ignoring the wood and glass splintering through the room, and dashed to the other window. He scooped the grenade launcher off the ground and stuffed 40mm grenades into his pocket.

  Out in the hall he snapped the breech open, extracting the husks of the fired grenades, and threw them on the floor. He had one HE left in the launcher, plus two more in his pocket. Everything else was nonlethal: a flare and three CS gas canisters.

  He kept the flare in his pocket and loaded the HE, followed by the CS gas, and moved to find a better position. He could tell he was taking fire from two sides and needed to think about getting out. If he couldn’t kill West and his men he was going to have to get Bassar and his family out of the house.

  “Meg, how’s it looking?” he asked, running to the end of the hall.

  “One of the jeeps hit the gun, it’s offline.”

  “Are you good?”

  “Yeah, I got the first two vehicles, not sure on—”

  Whatever she was about to say was cut off by the sound of bullets shrieking through metal.

  “Meg! Meg, do you copy?”

  Chapter 59

  Nathaniel West didn’t have time to tuck and roll. He hit the ground awkwardly, skidding ass over end until finally coming to a halt on the lip of the ditch. He snatched the pistol from his holster and pushed himself to a knee, his profile illuminated by the burning truck to his right.

  He limped over to the machine gunner, ready to put him down in case the jeep hadn’t killed him.

  What the hell is this?

  The SWORD lay mangled at his feet, tracks hanging off the robot drone like unused rubber bands. West knelt down to inspect the 240 Bravo. The machine gun appeared undamaged, and he unbolted it from the mount, pulling the belt of 7.62 free of the ammo can.

  From the looks of the burning jeep he concluded that his men, including Villars, were either dead or too messed up to be useful. His vehicle had continued rolling down the hill, smoke emanating from the hood and the horn blaring long and loud through the night.

  It was a shit show. A year of planning and hundreds of thousands of dollars wasted. West scrambled up the hill and was fumbling with his radio when he noticed a van a hundred yards away. He knew from the antenna array that it had controlled the robot.

  Eric.

  At fifty yards West thought he could hear someone talking. The voice was coming from the van. “Fuckers,” he yelled, bracing the machine gun against his hip and holding down the trigger.

  The 240 bucked in his hand, the muzzle rising skyward, turning the back of the van into Swiss cheese. West let off the trigger after a five-second burst, angling to the left. His ears were ringing, but he heard something thump against the metal and yanked the trigger to the rear, leaning all his weight into the gun to keep the rounds on target.

  Chapter 60

  Meg recognized the 240 Bravo by the sound and knew she was in trouble. The van’s thin skin wouldn’t save her from the 7.62 rounds the machine gun fired. The bullets tore through the vehicle, shattering the computer she had just been sitting in front of. The cramped confines of the Ford filled with a fog of upholstery, bits of plastic, and padding. Meg grabbed the controller, threw it at the back wall, and scrambled toward the front, protecting her eyes from the shattering glass.

  The shooter reacted to the sound and started working over the back of the van.

  Meg thought her eardrums were going to rupture. She wanted to curl up into a ball and pray everything would just go away. Instead, she pushed through the fear, blocking out the bullets digging ragged stars in the metal and buffeting the van on its springs.

  The firing stopped as suddenly as it started.

  He’s out of ammo.

  She grabbed the shotgun lying next to her head and waited, blood hammering in her ears. She racked the slide, the sound impossibly loud inside the van. A pistol snapped nearby, the shooter firing at the sound. The bullet hit her in the shoulder and Meg bit down on the pain.

  It shoved the air out of her lungs and brought tears to her eyes. She held them shut, wanting to cry out, but she knew what would happen if she did. Her hands shook on the shotgun when she lowered it, sighting over the barrel.

  She could hear footsteps outside, crunching the glass and bits of metal torn off the van. A light washed over the exterior, filtering in through the holes.

  “Eric, come out or I will burn you out.”

  The sound of West’s voice sent a trembling up Meg’s spine. The shotgun wavered in her hands, tears burning hot down her cheeks. Her shoulder sparked with white-hot pain, but she knew to move or speak was to die.

  “Have it your way.”

  Meg caught movement, a flitter of a shadow through the bullet hole and the whisper of metal on nylon. She could see him, pulling a frag from his vest.

  Now.

  The shotgun bucked in her hands, a guttural shot that echoed for an eternity in the metal confines of the van. Meg worked the pump and fired again. The buckshot blew a hole the size of a dinner plate in the skin on the van, and Meg racked the slide, sending the empty shotgun husk flipping through the air. There was a grunt of pain.

  I hit him.

  She was lining up her next shot when the van bucked upward, filling the interior with black smoke. The concussion hit Meg like a baseball bat to the head, shoving her against the wall of the cargo compartment. She lost the shotgun and her ears rang from the blast, but there was no time to regroup. She smelled the distinctive odor of leaking gasoline, followed by orange flames clawing up the hood.

  She searched for the shotgun, holding her breath against the black smoke pouring through the shattered windshield. The heat was unbearable, and even though she had no idea if West was out of the fight or simply waiting for her to show herself, she had to get out of the van or she was going to burn to death.

  Chapter 61

  Eric Steele slipped through the kitchen and found himself in a t
idy dining room. He was looking for the stairs and still trying to raise Meg on the radio when headlights played across the wall. He glanced through the open window and saw a jeep bouncing toward the house with a man hunched over the roll bar.

  “Pop smoke . . . !” a voice screamed, the rest of his transmission cut out by the gunner, who opened up on the second floor of the house.

  The stream of high-velocity lead cut through the outer wall and into the bedroom. Little puffs of white dust began sprouting all around him, but it wasn’t until he felt a stream of air past his face that Steele realized that the bullets were coming into the hall. He threw himself to the ground a moment before a line of neat black holes appeared over his head. Masonry dust and insulation rained down on him and the only thing he could do was grab carpet.

  The MGL took a round to the stock, knocking it from his hand. Steele caught sight of it tumbling down the stairs but was in no position to retrieve it. Hope the safety’s on. The thought of an HE round going off in the house was not how he wanted to end the night.

  He took a moment to ponder the situation. He knew how he reacted would be the difference between life and death. Worst case, Meg is dead and I’m cut off. Either way I have to get the hell out of here. Steele had no idea how well constructed Bassar’s safe room was, and swore at himself for not taking more time to find out. Once again he found himself faced with the choice of who lived or died.

  Across the hall he saw the window where he had set up his first position. A salvo of lead came diving through the window and Steele realized the gunner was using plunging fire, letting gravity carry on an arc into the room in hopes of hitting anyone on the floor. A tracer round came in too low, hit the windowsill, and flashed toward the ceiling in a line of orange. Balls of insulation drifted down from the hole, and Steele thought he saw a tendril of smoke.

  Well, that settles that.

  He pushed with his toes and reached out for a handful of carpet. As he dragged his belly across the ground he felt one of his stiches tear. By the time the gunner stopped to reload, Steele smelled the acrid scent of burning insulation and knew that in minutes the attic would be on fire.

  For some reason Rock Master Scott’s classic “The Roof Is On Fire” popped into his head, and when he jumped to his feet he realized he was humming the chorus.

  The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.

  He took the stairs two at a time, stopping only to snatch the MGL from the ground and rub his hand over the gouge in the plastic. Not only was the launcher functional, but the safety was still on. That’s what I’m talking about. Can’t put a price on good gear.

  He jogged to the kitchen, the SCAR bumping against his leg, and when he rounded the corner he saw the silhouette of a man with a rifle at the window. Experience told him that he was good to go, so he thumped a 40 mike-mike HE through the glass and was already turning the corner when it hit his target and exploded.

  Steele found the safe room door and hammered on it with the ball of his fist.

  “Alamo, Bassar, Alamo!” he yelled, giving the signal that the Iranian needed to hurry his ass up.

  The door cracked open and the doctor looked out. Behind him, his terrified wife clutched their daughter to her chest.

  “Do you have gas masks?” Steele demanded.

  The smoke was thicker now, and he looked over his shoulders to see gray fingers clawing across the ceiling.

  “Here,” Bassar’s wife shouted, reaching for a panel with her free hand. The panel hinged open, revealing one child-sized and two adult masks.

  “Put them on, we have to go.”

  Steele went to the door leading out to the garage, snatching the keys of the Peugeot off the ring. He threw the driver’s-side door open and started the car without getting in.

  “C’mon,” he yelled, heading back inside.

  Bassar had the mask on his daughter, but she was fighting to pull it off. “No, you must keep it on.”

  “She cannot breathe,” his wife said in Arabic.

  Steele pushed Bassar out of the way and stepped closer. His daughter’s eyes were wide with fear and the mask was collapsing around her face. She wasn’t getting any air. Steele immediately saw the problem and remedied it by tearing the shipping cap off the end of the filter. Immediately it ballooned back to normal and the little girl took a long breath.

  “Is that better?” he asked with a smile.

  She nodded.

  “A lot of good that would have done,” he snapped, yanking Bassar’s mask over his head. “You are the father, it is your job to protect your family.” He could tell the doctor was too freaked out to understand that he had almost suffocated his child.

  Steele knew how he appeared to them, incredibly calm and in control, but inside his mind was whirring. He needed to get them out and then go after Meg, all without collecting any additional holes.

  He grabbed Bassar by the shoulder, hustled him to the car, and pushed him behind the wheel. He snatched the garage door opener off the visor. “I am going to cover you. When I open the door, you go.”

  Bassar reached for the car door handle and Steele stopped him, making sure he understood what was going on.

  “I open the garage door, you go, do you understand?”

  “Yes . . .” Bassar said, trying to take the mask off.

  Steele slapped his hand away and leaned in. “You are going to need that. Don’t stop for anyone. They”—he pointed to his wife and child—“are counting on you.”

  He slammed the car door and headed back inside the house. Visibility was starting to get worse and the air was thick and gray. He could hear the machine gun going off and even though it seemed like forever since he had come downstairs, he was sure it hadn’t even been five minutes.

  Steele inspected the ceiling for any signs of flame. So far the only sign of fire was the smoke, but he was about to change all of that. He wrenched the stove from the wall, pulling it back far enough so he could hammer the gas line free, and then took the flare from his pocket. He set it in the center of the microwave, turned the power to high, and pressed the button that looked like a turkey. He left the 40mm round revolving on the glass turntable and stepped out into the hall.

  The layout was simple and he followed the hall to the master bedroom. From the doorway he aimed at the top of the window, where the frame was reinforced with brick, lined up the shot and fired. Steele had deflected bullets before, but had never tried it with a grenade. Before the analytical side of his brain could talk him out of the plan, he fired.

  He shot was on the money. The grenade hit the mark, ricocheted off the frame, and popped through the glass like a line drive in backyard baseball. Steele tensed, opening his mouth and turning his head in preparation for the explosion.

  Cruuump.

  The grenade hit close enough to blow the entire frame from the wall, creating a perfect breach. Steele switched the MGL to his left hand and lifted the SCAR. He fired the first CS gas grenade through the smoke, and sprinted after it. He cannonballed out of the house, right in the middle of a firefight.

  Blindly Steele snapped the final CS canisters to his left, sending them in the general direction of the driveway. He dropped the MGL and with both hands on the SCAR engaged the man to his left, firing a center shot while sidestepping behind a tree and dropping to a knee. Leaning out, he sent a second round before pivoting for a headshot on another shooter.

  Backing around the house, Steele unloaded half the mag into the jeep as fast as he could pull the trigger and ducked out of sight. Changing magazines on the run, he was planning to cut wide, avoiding the CS gas, and after he was sure it was clear hit the garage. But Bassar had other ideas. No sooner was Steele to the driveway than he saw the Peugeot backing out.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Bassar had obviously panicked and was leaving without him.

  Steele took a deep breath and charged straight into the gas, his only thought getting to Meg.

  Chapter 62

  Meg pulle
d the pin on the grenade taped to the computer and clawed at the door handle, needing to get out of the van before it exploded. Her left arm was useless, and even with the adrenaline rushing through her veins and the strength that came with wanting to stay alive, it was hard to manipulate the handle.

  Her fingers slipped off the plastic, leaving crimson streaks on the metal. Another shot from outside accompanied the spoon clattering against the floor. West was screaming at the top of his lungs, threatening to flay the skin from her body, and finally the door slid open. Meg jumped from the van, clutching the Glock in her right hand, running hard. Headlights bumped across the uneven ground, playing across her face, and Meg blindly fired at the vehicle that was angling to the east.

  Beneath her feet the ground began to rise, another small hill she hadn’t known was there. Her leaden thighs strained while she fired at the jeep, and then she was at the apex, looking down at the house. It was on fire, smoke billowing from beneath the eaves, orange flames leaping and falling in the night.

  A machine gun opened up, and bullets cut across her path, kicking up dirt and grass. Meg knew that she was about to die. The Glock locked back on the empty magazine, but she kept running, and then the van Meg had just been in exploded behind her.

  Chapter 63

  The gas burned Steele’s eyes and was seeping into his pores. His face was on fire, but he pushed through the pain, his heart thundering in his chest as he held his breath. To his left Bassar’s car shot up the drive, the back end fishtailing on the gravel.

  He had to get to Meg—the thought was as loud and undeniable as his need to take a breath. A man appeared out of the gas haze, hacking and spitting against the CS. Steele didn’t have time to do anything but lower his shoulder. He bulldozed the fighter off his feet, slamming him hard to the ground. His momentum sent him rolling, the SCAR ripped from his grasp and knocked the air out of his lungs.