Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  Then a group of banditos called the 711s heard about the refinery, swept in, and took control. The locals attempted to take the refinery back, failed, and hired the newly arrived Marauders to handle the task for them. Now, after a week of planning, the attack was about to begin. “Damn it!” Ralston said. “The bastards are early!”

  First Sergeant Norman Ralston was stretched out to Mac’s left. Unlike most company sergeants, he rarely swore. So the “damn it” was strong stuff coming from him. Mac turned her binoculars north and saw why Ralston was angry.

  The Marauders were supposed to enter the valley from the south. Then, if the 711s were smart, they’d flee north in an effort to escape. But just before they reached the exit point, the locals were supposed to block their path with a couple of graders. And that’s when the Strykers would hit them from behind. Except that the goddamned civilians were early!

  And as Mac swung her glasses back to the refinery, she saw that the banditos were boiling out of their shipping containers and taking up positions behind the ten-foot-high berm that surrounded the refinery. Sparks Munroe was lying next to her. Mac spoke out of the right side of her mouth. “Tell Strike Force Hammer to . . .”

  But it was too late. The trucks were already nosing their way into the valley, and the Stryker crews couldn’t kill the defenders without destroying the very thing they’d been sent to recapture, and that was the refinery.

  “Tell the Strykers to withdraw,” Mac said. “Then I want you to call Mr. Hanson and tell him to meet me at the FOB.”

  Sparks said, “Got it,” and was still on the radio as Mac turned to Ralston. “We’ll use the drones to keep an eye on the situation—but let’s leave some observers here as well.”

  Ralston nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The forward operating base was a temporary affair, located on a ranch six miles from the canyon. What had once been a house was little more than a pile of charred wreckage. But the forty-two-foot-by-sixty-foot metal shed was intact and being put to good use. It stood on a rise guarded by two Strykers and was surrounded by a dozen well-dug fighting positions.

  As the Humvee followed the curving driveway up to the building—Mac could see that Hanson’s mud-splattered Ford pickup was already there. As she got out, the civilian hurried over to confront her. Hanson was short, stocky, and overdue for a haircut. Spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. “You ran! We want our deposit back.”

  What happened next surprised Mac and the soldiers close enough to witness the incident. She was angry, and the pistol seemed to draw itself. Then, with the barrel touching the center of Hanson’s forehead, she pulled the hammer back. “Listen, asshole . . . Don’t ever talk to me like that again . . . If you do, I’ll blow your brains out. Understood?”

  Hanson’s eyes were huge. He nodded.

  “Good,” Mac said as she eased the hammer down. “Your people arrived early, tipped the banditos off, and blocked their exit. That left us with two options. We could destroy the refinery or withdraw . . . It was my understanding that option one was unacceptable. If I have that wrong, just say the word, and we’ll turn that sucker into a pool of burning sludge by lunchtime.”

  Hanson’s eyes tracked the pistol as it slid back into its holster. “Sorry,” he said. “We want to recapture the refinery intact.”

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Mac replied. “We can seal the canyon off and starve them out.”

  “Maybe,” Hanson allowed. “But that could take weeks . . . And we can’t afford to have you sit here for that long.”

  “Okay,” Mac said as she placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go inside. We’ll have a couple of drinks and work on a new plan.”

  That appealed to Hanson, who allowed Mac to steer him up the slope and into the metal building. What followed was a two-hour session during which Hanson had three stiff drinks, and Mac took a few sips. And by the time it was over, Operation Fourth of July had been born.

  The display of fireworks began at precisely 12:01 A.M. and consisted of illumination rounds fired from an 81mm mortar located a hundred yards behind Mac’s position. Mac heard a muffled bang, followed by a short period of silence. Then came a pop as a miniature sun appeared over the canyon and fell trailing smoke as it did so. Harsh light strobed the ground and threw shifting shadows back and forth. And, because the banditos assumed that an infantry attack was under way, they opened fire.

  Mac was lying on the same ridge as before, with Ralston on her left and Sparks on her right. She smiled. The more ammo the bozos burned, the better. The plan was to keep the bastards awake, scare the crap out of them, and force a bloodless surrender.

  The 711s weren’t stupid, however . . . When the attack failed to materialize, they stopped firing. Mac turned to Munroe. “Give Hadley permission to fire.”

  He did so. But a full five minutes passed before the sniper squeezed his trigger. Mac knew that Hadley and his spotter were on the opposite ridge—and that the marksman was using a rifle equipped with a night-vision device. “Target down,” Munroe said, as he relayed the report. “He’s lining up on another.”

  “Good,” Mac replied. “Tell the special effects team to turn their lights on.”

  Once Munroe passed the order along, it was only a matter of seconds before white lights appeared along both sides of the canyon. That gave the impression that soldiers occupied both slopes and were looking down on the refinery. The banditos fired at the lights until someone ordered them to stop. That was when another pair of illumination rounds went off.

  Once that display was over, Mac gave the 711s half an hour to marinate in their own juices before ordering the flyover. The Apache arrived ten minutes later, entered the canyon from the south, and passed over the refinery at an extremely low altitude. The roar generated by the gunship’s General Electric T700 turboshaft engines bounced off both sides of the valley and made a deafening statement. “Okay,” Mac said, “I think we have their attention. Tell Kho to deliver the offer.”

  Forward Observer Lin Kho and Private Brown had worked their way in close by then. Kho had a megaphone. “Listen up!” she said. “You are surrounded. We don’t want to kill you . . . But if you refuse to surrender, we will. So put your weapons down and come out with your hands on your heads. You will be escorted out of the valley and allowed to go wherever you wish.”

  Part of that was true—and part wasn’t. The Marauders couldn’t kill all of the banditos. Not without destroying the refinery. But they did intend to turn the 711s loose if they surrendered. Would they try to return? Quite possibly. But once the locals had control of the facility, and the high ground, the banditos wouldn’t be able to roll over the refinery the way they had before.

  Having received no reply, Kho repeated the offer, told the defenders which frequency to use, and gave them an ultimatum: They were to respond within half an hour or suffer the consequences. Mac was thinking about the potential cost of an infantry assault when Munroe interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve got a guy named Pasquel on the horn, ma’am. He wants to talk.”

  Mac felt a tremendous sense of relief. Thank God! The plan was working. The next fifteen minutes were spent talking to Pasquel over the radio. The bandito said that he and his people were willing to surrender, but not until the sun rose, and they could see their surroundings. Then, if everything looked good, the 711s would walk north. Mac didn’t like that but was forced to accept it, and an uneasy truce was born.

  But it wasn’t long before Mac’s initial sense of joy gave way to serious misgivings. In retrospect, the “surrender” seemed too easy. And, according to Munroe, scrambled radio messages were flying back and forth between what he assumed to be the 711s—and some other party. The questions being who? And why?

  Mac wanted to confide in someone. But there was no one other than Evans that she could share her doubts with, and
her XO was back in Superior, literally holding the fort. Besides, commanding officers were supposed to be strong, silent types similar to her father.

  So all Mac could do was to make sure that the Marauders remained on high alert and wait for the sun to rise. The hours seemed to crawl by. But finally, as a pus-colored sun rose to backlight the clouds, Mac was free to act. She planned to push the 711s out through the north end of the canyon and bring her forces in from the south. To that end, four Strykers were ready to enter the valley on her command. “All right,” she said. “Tell Kho to order them out.”

  Mac kept her binoculars focused on the refinery as Kho spoke. She and her assistant were in a well-dug fighting position behind a pile of rocks. “We kept our part of the bargain,” Kho said over the loudspeaker. “That means it’s time for you to do likewise. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your heads.”

  That was when the thunder of aircraft engines was heard, an ancient Douglas AC-47 swept in from the north, and two door-mounted 3-by-7.62mm General Electric miniguns went to work. The weapons could fire two thousand rounds per minute, and they were devastating.

  Mac knew that ships like it had been used during the Vietnam War to provide close air support—and had been responsible for saving a lot of American lives in situations where units were surrounded by enemy forces. The modern version of the so-called Spooky was the Lockheed AC-130, but some third-world countries were still using the old AC-47s. And the 711s had one of them.

  Gunfire raked the top of the ridge as the miniguns opened fire. That forced the Marauders to turn and slide down the opposite side of the hill as the steel rain swept toward them. Mac shouted into her mike. “This is Six actual! All vehicles will disperse . . . All dismounted personnel will take cover! Over.”

  It was the best she could do. Except for the machine guns mounted on the Strykers, the group didn’t have any antiaircraft weapons to call on. And that, Mac realized, was her fault. Because rather than consider all the possibilities, she’d been stupid enough to believe Hanson when he described the 711s as “a pathetic street gang.”

  Now it was clear that the banditos had a backer with a lot of resources and a need for fuel. A Mexican drug lord, perhaps . . . Not that it mattered. All Mac could do was withdraw and hope to avoid casualties. The AC-47 roared past on its way to the south end of the canyon, where the Strykers had been waiting. Mac could hear the rattle of machine guns as the top gunners fired on the plane and could imagine the rooster tails of snow and mud the vehicles would throw up as the truck commanders put their accelerators to the floor.

  Mac’s heart was pounding as she scrambled back up the hill to the top of the ridge. As her eyes swept the valley, she could see that the banditos stationed inside the berm were pouring out. That didn’t make sense at first. The 711s were winning . . . So why would they run? Then it came to her. The banditos were afraid that the Marauders would destroy the refinery! And that was a very real danger since her snipers were hard at work. “Watch your aim!” Mac said sternly. “Don’t hit the refinery . . . It could blow.”

  Rifles cracked, gang members fell, and the AC-47 circled back. Had the gunship been summoned by one of the 711s? That seemed likely. And if the Spooky managed to kill the snipers, the battle would be over. “This is Six,” Mac yelled. “Take cover! The gunship is going to make another run!”

  The words were barely out of Mac’s mouth when the plane arrived over the south end of the valley and opened fire. The pilot was unlikely to know where the snipers were—but could hose the slopes down and hope to get lucky. Columns of snow and mud shot into the air as the miniguns went to work. Then something unexpected occurred.

  The sound of the Apache’s engines was obscured by the noise the Spooky was making. As the helicopter rose from beyond the east wall of the canyon, it was swiveling to the right. That was necessary because the gunship was carrying point-and-shoot rockets.

  Mac watched in openmouthed amazement as Peters fired six of them. Not at the AC-47, but ahead of it, the way a hunter leads a duck.

  Two of the missiles hit the starboard side of the plane. The fixed-wing aircraft exploded into a ball of flame, causing pieces of fiery wreckage to fall everywhere, the refinery included. That triggered a secondary explosion and a geyser of billowing flame. “Holy shit,” Munroe said as he looked out over the valley. “Did you plan that?”

  “Hell, no,” Mac said, as a column of smoke poured up into the sky. “I wish I had.”

  Roughly four hours later, Mac was sitting in the FOB on the other side of a makeshift table from Hanson and two of his cronies. They were pissed, and Mac understood why. The Marauders had been hired to capture the refinery, not destroy it. So she let them vent.

  Finally, after the men ran out of gas, Mac offered her side of it. “Look,” she began, “here’s the deal. I’m sorry about the way things turned out. We did our best to recapture the refinery and, if it hadn’t been for the AC-47, I think we would have done so. And oh, by the way . . . you folks told us that the 711s were nothing more than a street gang!”

  Hanson scowled and was about to respond when Mac raised a hand. “Hear me out . . . Both sides signed a contract. It provides for a per diem charge plus a bonus for capturing the refinery. We failed to accomplish the primary mission, so you’re off the hook there . . . But you still owe us three ounces of gold per day for twelve days. So pay up.”

  That set off a round of recrimination that lasted for fifteen minutes. But the outcome was never in doubt. The mercenaries could waste Miami, Arizona, so the locals paid.

  Mac spent the trip back to Superior brooding. Once again, she’d been tested, and once again, she’d been found wanting. Or so it seemed to her. What if Peters hadn’t taken it upon himself to attack the AC-47 gunship? Would the idea of using his helicopter to attack a plane have occurred to her? Mac didn’t think so. But all of your people are still alive, the voice told her.

  Because I got lucky, Mac replied. What about next time?

  The question went unanswered as the column entered Superior. It was a small town of about fifteen hundred residents. As Mac’s Humvee led the rest of the column east along Main Street, there was very little to see other than some old, flat-roofed buildings and vertical cliffs in the distance. Historically, the town was known for two things. The first was its popularity as a location for movies like How the West Was Won, Skinwalkers, and The Gauntlet.

  The second was the town’s proximity to a major copper mine, which, because of the meteor strikes, was no longer in operation. And that had everything to do with why Mac had chosen Superior as the unit’s home. She figured the mine would make a good base . . . And the fact that there was a town, no matter how small, helped, too. Because Superior could provide much-needed shopping for the troops and their dependents.

  As for Superior’s citizens, they were thrilled to host the unit since the mercenaries would have to protect them in order to protect themselves. Not to mention the much-needed cash that the soldiers would spend. So people waved as the vehicles passed by, and that included a squad of Marauders who were out on patrol. Their presence was a sure sign that Evans was doing his job, which consisted of security, maintenance, and training. The latter was of particular importance as new people continued to join the unit.

  A short drive took them to the mine. Two A-shaped steel structures marked the entrances to shafts nine and ten. A water tank was perched on a rise, outbuildings sat here and there, and a pile of slush-covered scrap loomed on Mac’s left.

  Meanwhile, some of the mining company’s heavy equipment was being employed to excavate what was to become a subsurface vehicle park and maintenance facility. The company’s living quarters were already underground—and impervious to anything less than bunker-buster bombs. And that was important since the unit was large enough to make a tempting takeover target for a warlord.

  The company’s vehicles were parked in walled revet
ments where they would be safe from anything other than a direct hit—and that included support vehicles like the fuelers, six-by-sixes, and gun trucks.

  Evans was not only expecting the detachment but was there to greet it. He came to attention and tossed a salute as Mac’s Humvee came to a stop, and she got out. “Welcome home, Captain.”

  Mac returned the salute. “Captain? Since when?”

  “Since you were promoted,” Evans said with a smile. “Some potential customers are waiting to meet you—and how many lieutenants command an outfit the size of this one?”

  “That makes sense, I guess,” Mac said, “although we’ll need to chew it over with the troops. But if I’m a captain, then you’re a lieutenant. Congratulations, butter bar! You’re overdue for a bump. Who are these people anyway?”

  “They claim to work for the new president . . . A guy named Sloan. He was Secretary of Agriculture or something.”

  “There is no government.”

  “They claim there is,” Evans countered. “And they’re here to recruit us.”

  “For what?”

  “To put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

  Mac wasn’t sure how she felt about that. That could be good, if it was for real, but what if Sloan was little more than a warlord? That would mean another step backwards. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take a shower and find a clean uniform. Can we invite them to dinner?”

  “I’ll pull something together,” Evans promised.

  Mac was ready to meet with the government representatives an hour later. The delegation consisted of Interim Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison and an army major named McKinney. He had piercing blue eyes . . . And Mac feared that he’d see her for what she truly was: a lieutenant, masquerading as a company commander. But it couldn’t be helped. All she could do was play the part and hope for the best.

  The meeting took place in what had been the mine supervisor’s office. A conference table dominated the center of the room, a makeshift bar occupied a wall, and a space heater purred in a corner. Evans was present . . . And wearing the bars Mac had given to him.