Daniel burst forward from his spot, his coiled leg propelling him into the man. He lowered his shoulder and slammed it into the man’s midsection. The gun went off suddenly, sending a bullet into the window, narrowly missing Willey, whose blood-soaked form stood at his side, wobbling on unsteady legs.
The impact of Daniel’s tackle sent both men backwards in the chair, causing its wheels to come out from under them. Juarez’s head and shoulders slammed into the tiled floor, jarring the soldering iron loose from his neck and causing him to lose his grip on the gun. Both clattered away, the weapon spinning out of reach. Above him, Daniel caught one of the chair’s wheels firmly in his crotch, driving the wind out of him. He fell to the side, unable to do anything else as waves of sickening pain flooded his senses. Lying on his side, he could only watch as Juarez flipped onto his stomach and slapped his hand against the wound in his neck.
All plans for interrogation left Juarez. He rose from the floor and lunged towards the counter, grabbing it to steady himself, focused only on survival. Serafina leapt forward, reaching for the gun as the man pushed past the counter, heading for the door.
He glanced back once, praying he wouldn’t see the barrel of the gun pointing at him. Seeing nothing, he turned forward - and caught General Armstead’s massive left fist squarely in the center of his face. His nose gave way as his head snapped back, jarring his neck and sending him into unconsciousness. He fell backwards, his legs crumpling underneath him as his mind lost track of which commands to send.
Still holding his crotch, Daniel made it to his feet, bringing his arm up to rest it on the counter. “General,” he began weakly, “thank God you’re here.”
“No doubt,” the big man grumbled, staring down at Juarez’s prone form.
A heavy thump came from behind Daniel, making him turn.
“Oh, no!” Serafina cried out. She rushed to where Willey had collapsed, grabbing the man’s jacket from the back of a nearby chair as she did. Kneeling next to him, she pressed the wadded up jacket against the wound in the side of the man’s head.
“General, we need a medic!” Daniel added, forgetting the pain in his groin as he rushed over to where the man that saved their lives lay. Reaching down, he placed two fingers against the man’s neck. The pulse was there, but weak. He needed help immediately.
Without taking his eyes off of Juarez, Armstead moved to the phone on the counter and pressed a series of digits. Seconds later, his voice boomed through the building’s PA system.
“THIS IS GENERAL ARMSTEAD. I NEED EMERGENCY MEDICAL PERSONNEL AND THE DUTY MP’S IN ELECTRONICS ISSUE ASAP.
IF YOU ARE NOT PART OF EITHER DETAIL, REMAIN CLEAR OF THE SPACE.”
Within minutes, a team of four medical personnel were on the scene, quickly bandaging Willey’s head as they stabilized his condition. Daniel and Serafina remained close by, both of them worried as they silently prayed for his well-being.
The same trio Daniel and Serafina had passed in the hallway returned to the space to take Juarez into custody. He remained unconscious as he was checked for weapons (a knife and second handgun were both found and confiscated) then bound at his wrists and ankles.
“I want a full report,” General Armstead ordered. “I’ll give my statement as soon as you’re ready.”
“Sir?” One of the Military Police, a young black woman, asked.
“What’s wrong, soldier?” he asked, his voice taking on a calmness that was surprising, given what had occurred.
“I mean,” the soldier began, nervousness in her voice, “if you say he’s a criminal and needs to be taken into custody, that’s good enough for us, Sir.”
Armstead nodded understandingly. “I know, Specialist Rice, and I appreciate that, but we can’t operate that way, not even under these circumstances.
“It’s true that my position as the Commanding General provides me with a certain level of trust, and yes, that trust can be relied on implicitly, but now, maybe more than ever, it’s important that we document things accordingly. When it comes to justice, we must do everything by the book, no matter how obvious things seem.
“Remember: when you do things the right way, you don’t have to worry about audits, inspections, or investigations. You welcome them. You welcome a second look into the circumstances and the decisions you made, because you know your reasoning was sound.
“Think of times when you were in school and you solved a particularly hard mathematical equation. You sat back and looked at your work, and you felt confident in it. Then, when the teacher examined your work and proclaimed it to be correct, what did you say?”
He paused, looking at the woman and waiting for her response.
“Uh...thank you?”
Armstead smiled. “Sure. Out loud you said that, but what did you say inside? You said, ‘you’re damn right that’s correct.’”
Specialist Rice smiled.
Armstead went on. “That’s what we need to have here,” he said, pointing towards Juarez’s limp form. “No opportunities for this bastard to talk his way out of it. We do everything here by the book, because I’ll be damned if this son of a bitch is gonna get off on some technicality.”
Taking a deep breath, he looked towards the door as he spoke. “In a few minutes, I’m going back to my office, where I’ll contact the President and let her know what happened here.
“My intention is to court martial this man for treason, and I’m going to push for the punishment to be public execution.
“President Martinez is known to be compassionate and caring, but she’s also a born leader, and good leaders understand that proper punishment - when indisputably warranted - is imperative.
“I believe she will agree with my recommendation, but it’s my job - our job - to ensure that she can do so comfortably, knowing that the evidence supports the case. I want to be sure I provide her with all the information she needs so that she can approve the execution without any reservation.
“This is still America, and we will continue to uphold the values of the Constitution. Understand?”
Specialist Rice, along with the other members of the Roving Patrol, nodded. “Yes, Sir,” they replied, nearly in unison.
“Good,” Armstead said, nodding. “Now, let me sit down before I give you my statement. All this excitement got me a little flushed.”
Watching the entire exchange, Daniel smiled before turning back to the medics. They had just finished administering aid to Willey and were loading him onto a stretcher. Frowning, Daniel looked at the bandages on the man’s head, then turned to one of the medics.
“So, how the hell did he survive a shot to the head?” he asked.
Looking down at Willey, the medic shook his head. “Aside from a whole lot of luck?” Turning to look at Daniel he nodded solemnly.
“A titanium plate in his head.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
East of Sayre, Oklahoma
Day 5
“How could you do this?” Captain Sean Fitzgerald asked the man seated behind him. The Warrant Officer looked as if he had been stuffed into the seat, which simply wasn’t made for a person of his size. He was barely able to move his torso and his shoulder harnesses were so snug, they were visibly compressing the muscles on his chest.
“No choice,” O’Sullivan replied, looking down towards the road below, guiding the stream of bullets towards the lead Humvee.
“What are you talking about? They don’t have your family!”
The big man released the trigger as they flew past the first vehicle. The instructions had been clear: don’t fire upon the Stryker. “They have yours,” he answered, before pressing the button to release a second Hellfire missile.
Guiding the helicopter past the Stryker, Fitzgerald’s mind raced. The other man was doing this for his family? Why? The two of them were acquaintances at best.
Looking down, he watched as the second Humvee was blown forward and sideways by the blast from the missile.
‘Weird that i
t missed,’ he thought. ‘That thing should’ve obliterated their vehicle.’
The Humvee landed on the edge of the road, stuck atop the railing. The gun spun up once more.
“May God have mercy,” O’Sullivan muttered under his breath, as he guided the stream of bullets towards the suspended vehicle.
‘Jesus Christ…’ Serrano thought, squeezing his eyes shut before trying to force them open once more. Still stunned from the blast, he tried to focus, but his vision was not just blurred, but doubled as well. Compounding the issue, his ears were ringing, his brain felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his skull, and he felt like he was floating as equilibrium tried to recalibrate itself.
Forcing his eyes open, he saw no signs of the road ahead of them.
Weird…
Where was he?
Where were they?
Were they dead?
A drilling sound came from off to his left. Struggling to find control of his movements, he used every bit of his focus to move his head and managed to look in the direction of the sound. Chunks of concrete were being thrown into the air in a line that was steadily closing in on their position.
What the hell?
Get down.
“Gut duhn…” he managed, before forcing his body to slump to his right, away from the approaching rain of bullets. Through the haze, he saw Phillip’s head and shoulders slumped towards the center of the vehicle’s interior, and he managed to shove him away just as the heavy rounds began to strike the front of the Humvee.
A thunderous roar erupted inside the vehicle as the 30 mm rounds tore through the engine compartment, each one rocking the vehicle like a blow from a sledge hammer as it ripped through metal and rubber. Almost immediately, the sound of metal scraping on metal accompanied the sound of the pounding impacts as the vehicle was driven sideways by the force of the rounds.
Inside the Humvee, Serrano could only manage to bring an arm up as he tried to provide additional shielding to his head while holding his helmet in place. The hammering sound overpowered his senses, making it impossible to think of anything else.
A split second later, the rounds rose slightly in pitch, followed by a loud, wrenching, metal-tearing sound.
The vehicle lurched.
The sounds faded away.
Wind rushed through the broken windows of the vehicle as they were suddenly weightless, falling.
While the Humvee’s design has a higher center of gravity and is more balanced than most large, off-road capable vehicles, the front end is still the heaviest part. During the two seconds it took for them to descend from the bridge to the river below, the front end swung around, facing downward.
The Humvee hit the water hard, barely slowing before the front end struck the river’s bottom twenty feet below the surface. Those inside the vehicle were thrown forward at the sudden impact, barely held in place by their seatbelts, before being thrown back against their seats.
With the windows on the driver’s side gone, shattered by the missile blast, the water rushed into the Humvee, quickly flooding the cabin of the vehicle.
Staff Sergeant Mason slammed on the brakes, bringing the massive vehicle to a stop.
Shit.
Behind him, Isabella screamed in fear.
A pair of military Humvees, much like those that had accompanied the vehicle he drove, were rapidly approaching, closing the gap between their respective positions. They’d already driven onto the bridge, blocking that exit.
Turn around? Still not an option.
Fight? Nope. While the Stryker was heavily armored, its weapons were limited to machine guns, and aside from him, no one was in position to use one.
Continue ahead at full speed? Try to force our way through?
‘What else is there?’ he asked himself, before jamming his foot down on the gas. The Stryker‘s big, 350 horsepower diesel engine responded immediately, roaring loudly as the 18-ton vehicle lurched forward. Strapped into their center-facing seats, the passengers in the back were pulled sideways, towards the rear of the vehicle, and each of them grabbed onto something to keep from being pulled off their seats. On the floor of the compartment, the crate that held Steight slid backward before Reed stopped it with his foot. The dog whined as she crouched low inside the carrier.
Ahead, the two approaching Humvees slowed, swung out wide in either direction, then closed in on each other, forming a roadblock in the middle of the highway. Armed men jumped out of each vehicle and took up positions behind and beside it, aiming their rifles at oncoming Stryker.
‘We’re not stopping now…’ Mason thought to himself, leaning forward, he tensed up, feeling his muscles flex as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. There was no stopping. Their attacker had already killed and/or maimed the men and women in the escort vehicles, and there was no reason to expect anything different if they were caught.
“Hold on back there!” Mason yelled, pressing his foot down as far as it would go on the gas pedal, willing the big, heavy vehicle to give them more speed.
At 500 yards, the men behind the roadblock realized the Stryker’s driver had no intention of stopping, and they began shooting at the rapidly approaching vehicle. ‘Idiots,’ Mason thought, smiling as the bullets pinged off the Stryker’s armor.
Logan’s voice yelled from the back area of the ICV. “What’s happening up there?”
Not bothering to look back at the Combat Medic, A.J. raised his voice so he could be heard over the roaring diesel engine. “Pretty sure they killed Nicholson and his squad. Not sure about Serrano and his group, but they took fire as well!”
“What? Who the hell is attacking us?”
“Military! They’ve got a Goddamn helicopter!”
Logan recoiled, stunned and confused. Had another country attacked them? “Which military?” he asked.
“Ours!” Mason responded, as the bullets continued to bounce off the Stryker’s armor.
The men continued to fire, unwilling or unable to realize that their efforts were futile against rapidly approaching behemoth. They tried shooting at the tires, but the massive, thick rubber was impervious to the small caliber rounds they were using.
‘Sons of bitches….’ A.J. said to himself, as the Stryker closed in on their attackers. Pulling the steering wheel to the right, he aimed for the back end of the Humvee on that side of the road. “Brace yourselves!” he yelled.
The impact rocked them violently inside the Stryker, jostling them in their seats, as the bigger vehicle slammed into the Humvee’s rear. The Humvee was thrown aside, sending two of the men that had been positioned behind it flying backwards, their rifles still firing as they fell. A third man fell underneath the oncoming Stryker and was crushed as the four tires on the left side of the vehicle drove over him.
Though the Stryker fared better in the collision, the impact was still a violent one, and the steering wheel spun out of Mason’s hand, causing him to lose control of the vehicle momentarily. The ICV slammed into the wall, jostling them once more, before he was able to regain control, pulling the vehicle back to the left and onto the road.
The end of the bridge was a mere hundred yards away. If they could make it there, maybe they could...
Boom!
The vehicle was rocked once more as something exploded underneath them, sending the Stryker slightly upward. Armored and designed to protect those within, the vehicle wasn’t impervious to damage, and the grenade’s shrapnel made quick work of three of the four ‘run flat’ tires on the left side, tearing away large chunks of rubber and sending it flying out and away from the vehicle. The back end on that side crashed down as the tires gave way, the remnants of what had been tires no longer able to support their share of the heavy vehicle.
In the personnel compartment, an equipment box stored in the overhead broke loose of its retaining straps and fell, striking Paul on top of his head and knocking him out. He slumped forward in his seat, held in place solely by the straps of his v-shaped seat belt restrai
nts.
Looking at him from the seat opposite his, Doctor Reed noticed blood beginning to flow from his nose. Was a lump forming on the young man’s head. If so, that was good. If not, that meant the swelling was happening inside the skull, which was bad. Very bad.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, unfastening his seatbelt and moving forward to check on the young man.
Still desperate to get away, Mason kept his foot down on the gas, forcing the drivetrain to transfer more of the engine’s power to the axles. Sparks flew as the rims were ground against the road, but with the awkward angle at which the Stryker was canted, little progress was being made.
The end of the bridge was a mere 75 yards away at this point, and though a rational person would realize that the manner in which the vehicle was essentially dragging its left rear end meant that leaving the bridge wouldn’t accomplish much, at that moment all Mason could do was to remain focused on the original objective. He kept the gas pedal firmly planted against the floorboard, forcing the engine to give everything it had as it fought to move on metal rims that were getting more and more destroyed with each revolution.
Boom!
The Stryker was rocked from underneath again, sending the passengers in the rear compartment a few inches into the air before returning to the thin, pleather-covered cushions designed to make their rides ‘comfortable.’ Reed had just removed Paul’s seatbelt so that he could bring his body forward in an effort to check his skull when the blast knocked him off-balance. He fell backwards and sideways, landing on the deck of the passenger compartment hard, bruising his hip and smacking his own head hard enough to make him see stars. Paul slid off his seat and the floor, his body landing between the edge of his seat and the one of the equipment cages near the front of the compartment.
Surviving Rage | Book 5 Page 38
