Harden

by D. J. Molles

  If it hadn’t been for that transmission, Lee wouldn’t have scanned to his right, back to the big door, back to the side of Building Four.

  If he hadn’t scanned over to Building Four, he wouldn’t have seen something there that he hadn’t seen before.

  A slim line, just barely protruding from a high window on the side of Building Four.

  Angled down into the woods.

  That’s a rifle barrel…

  Lee didn’t have time to consider the consequences.

  The second he realized what it was, he slapped his PTT: “Carl! Cover!”

  At the same instant, he put his reticle on the side of the building, superimposed to where he thought a body might be holding that rifle, and—he had no choice—he took the shot.

  The rifle boomed, and a second later, the sound of the bullet striking the metal siding of the building was clearly audible. He fired twice more in quick succession to the first shot, squeezing the rounds off as soon as his reticle settled back into place.

  The rifle barrel disappeared into the building.

  “Shots fired!” Lee transmitted.

  He swung his rifle towards the truck with the M60.

  The gunner was already swiveling the machine gun to bear in Lee’s direction.

  Lee fired. The gunner jolted, crumpled over the M60.

  Lee was reaching for his PTT to call an abort when Carl transmitted: “Tankers confirmed! Tankers confirmed! Hit it! Move!”

  The second man in the truck bed grabbed his buddy’s corpse and shoved it off of the machine gun. Through the rifle scope, Lee saw the man’s wide eyes, and they seemed to be looking right back at Lee.

  Then the truck exploded.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ─▬▬▬─

  THE AIRPORT

  The first grenade from Mitch’s launcher took the truck right below the hood and launched the whole vehicle about a foot in the air in a plume of white smoke and concrete dust.

  His second grenade hit the cab, and shattered the structure of the vehicle. Fire flashed out of the windows and windshield, the doors came off like they were held there by nothing more than tape, and body parts scattered.

  Mitch took two bounding steps to his left. Exposed in the middle of the road. The gated entrance to the airport dead ahead.

  He hit the pavement on his belly and sighted through the optic on the grenade launcher, unleashing another grenade with a shoulder-pounding thump.

  The round hit the concrete at the base of the gate and went off with an ear-punching BOOM.

  The gate blasted open.

  Mitch put his face over his shoulder and shouted: “MOVE!”

  Abe was already on the road, rifle up, moving swiftly towards the breached gate. Rudy, Morrow, Blake, Logan, and Julia stacked up behind him.

  Mitch scrambled to his feet and took up the rear, behind Julia.

  Mitch felt his mouth going dry and his blood singing in his ears, but it never touched his mind—the body fears, but the mind is cold.

  The gate was a natural bottleneck, with woods on either side. Beyond it, there was about thirty yards of open space between them and the smoking ruins of the truck.

  Which was their first point of cover inside the compound.

  Abe went to his knees inside the gate and held his position, rifle oriented to the right to cover Buildings Three and Four. Rudy posted over top of Abe, covering Buildings One and Two.

  Morrow paused behind Abe and Rudy.

  “Moving!” he called, then hesitated.

  Two shapes appeared around the corner of Building Two. They were both armed, but they weren’t ready.

  Rudy and Morrow fired at the same time, a burst of three shots from each.

  One man wilted to the ground, dead.

  The other’s legs went out from under him and he rolled back into cover.

  “Move!” Rudy commanded, and Morrow broke for the ruins of the truck like a racehorse coming out of its gate. He sprinted across the pavement and slid into cover at the front of the crumpled hood of the truck.

  Mitch shuffled up behind Julia, smacked her shoulder to let her know he was there, then decided that now might be his only chance to reload the launcher in his arms. He broke it open, swiped his fingers across his tongue, and yanked the still-scalding 40mm shells from their ports, the spit on his fingers sizzling.

  He shucked three replacements out, filled the empty ports, and snapped the launcher closed just as Blake hauled ass across to the truck, lugging the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. Morrow saw him coming, shuffled to make room. Blake hit the ground, the bipod on the SAW already extended, and plopped the machine gun onto the ground, creating a base of fire for the rest of them.

  With Morrow and Blake’s base of fire now covering the left and right, Abe jolted to his feet and pointed a firm knife-hand at the side of Building Three, dead ahead of them. “Everyone on my ass!”

  Mitch squeezed Julia’s shoulder. “You good, Doc?”

  “I’m good.”

  “’Cause shit’s aboutta get spicy.”

  “Moving!” Abe bellowed over to Morrow and Blake.

  Blake shouted back: “Move!”

  Then the assault team sprinted for Building Three.

  ***

  The worst thing about hiding was the shakes.

  When Carl was in the mix, moving and running and gunning, the adrenaline had a place to go. When you were posted up behind a thinner-than-desirable tree, that adrenaline had no outlet.

  Carl sucked in air through his nose and blew it out as slow as his thrashing heart would allow him.

  He heard shouting to his right.

  The roving patrol.

  He heard their feet pounding pavement.

  Carl held his next breath. Leaned out from his dismal excuse for cover.

  Two men, jogging up along the side of Building Four. Their eyes were focused on the corner, where the gunfire was coming from. They stuttered to a stop just before the corner, jabbering to each other. One inched closer to the corner while the other hung over his shoulder.

  Their backs were to Carl.

  It was too easy to pass up. Even if it cost him his secrecy.

  He lifted his rifle, put a bullet through the head of the one peering around the corner.

  The other reacted faster than Carl would have liked. He spun, firing his AK from the hip, the bullets splashing through the brush all around Carl.

  Carl cringed and held his aim as best he could while he racked the bolt, hoping to God that one of those bullets didn’t seek him out, then put a single .338 projectile through the man’s heart.

  The man curled up like a pillbug and pitched forward onto the concrete.

  Carl spun around and pointed himself towards the draw that was his only escape now. He racked a fresh round into his rifle.

  Shit, he really shouldn’t be this close in with just a fucking bolt-action.

  You’re done! Get the fuck out!

  He sprinted for the draw.

  Shouts behind him.

  The rattle of automatic gunfire chased him.

  A bullet split a branch about six inches from Carl’s head.

  He hunched his shoulders and piled his body forward, hit the draw, went down on his ass and slid through about ten feet of leaves. When he came up, the forest floor he’d just been running on was over his head.

  He gasped, out a breath.

  Pain from his ribs torqued his body for a moment. The slide down the draw had crunched them good. He waited for it to pass, then hobbled up onto his feet, pointed them north along the draw, towards the road and the gate that the assault team had just breached, and he started running.

  ***

  Lee’s whole world was barely-maintained control.

  The fundamentals of marksmanship at 600 yards required complete control of the body, control of the head, the eyes, the trigger finger, the breathing.

  But it all teetered on a razor’s edge, and it required Lee to go to a different place in his mi
nd, a place where nothing mattered, lives didn’t matter, he was just doing a job.

  He was just hammering nails.

  Complete control.

  Put the reticle on the target.

  Steady rearward pressure on the trigger.

  The gun bucks. The target goes down. Find the next one.

  He couldn’t think about Julia. He couldn’t think about any of his team. He was like a surgeon, who, in order to maintain a steady hand, couldn’t think about what would happen if he fucked it up.

  He was letting the river take him. He wasn’t fighting that tide anymore. He knew where it would lead. He was an agent of destruction, because sometimes that’s what’s needed in order to give life a chance.

  Lee focused on the roving patrols. Two pairs of them were on the far side of the airport, and they were running across the tarmac towards the action.

  They were running straight at Lee. That made his shots easier.

  Windless day.

  He only had to account for bullet drop.

  Hammering nails.

  He took the first of the four men in the pelvis.

  Eighteen inches low.

  The other three went prone. A smart choice, but they had no cover. They could only make themselves smaller targets.

  The math ran through Lee’s head. No time to second-guess it.

  He cranked the elevation knob on his optic. Ten clicks. He put the reticle on the first of the three. Fired.

  The round splashed in front of the man, spewing dirt in his face.

  Shit.

  Lee didn’t adjust the optic again. He held the reticle higher, just over the top of the man’s frightened face. Squeezed off another shot.

  The man’s face caved in. Disappeared.

  Lee shifted to the next man.

  Same point of aim.

  Took off his jaw.

  Maybe not dead, but out of commission…

  Another clatter of gunfire to his right.

  He opened both eyes and glanced at the side of Building Four.

  Two dead bodies, slumped against the wall, and two live hostiles hosing the woods where Carl had just been.

  Lee didn’t have time to adjust his optic. He held low, right at the first man’s feet—Bloused Boots Guy—fired. Caught him in the chest. Killed him instantly.

  The other man jumped back into Building Four.

  Lee opened both eyes again. Saw the assault stack moving along the front of Building Four, towards the corner. He touched off his comms. “Abe! Hold on that corner, you got a hostile on the other side.”

  The assault stack came to a stop, about ten feet from the corner.

  Lee closed his left eye. Focused again.

  Don’t think about them dying.

  Don’t think about them screaming.

  Don’t think about failure.

  Lee kept his finger on the trigger. Reached up with his left hand and cranked the elevation knob back to its original 600 yard point of aim. Held on the opening of the rolling door.

  The hostile peeked out, just the side of his face.

  Lee fired through the thin, sheet metal wall.

  The face recoiled.

  A second later, a hand flopped out onto the concrete, still and dead, and Lee felt a deep and frightening satisfaction.

  That’s what 175-grain, .30 caliber projectiles were for.

  Because fuck you, and whatever you’re hiding behind.

  “Hostile’s down,” Lee said over the comms. “I don’t have an angle in that door, though. I’m blind once you’re inside.”

  “Roger that,” Mitch’s voice answered for Abe, because Abe was focused on the corner.

  Lee did a rapid mental count, and then hauled himself up out of the leaves.

  Three dead in the truck. All six roving patrol dead. Two more at the entrance of the rolling door.

  Lee transmitted as he ran, Deuce jolting up to follow him. “You got at least two more inside that building,” Lee huffed. “I’m moving to the compound now!”

  ***

  Abe held on the corner.

  Julia looked behind her. Mitch was slinging the grenade launcher off to the side and pulling his carbine up—they’d all agreed that grenade launchers and fuel tankers don’t mix.

  Her heart was pounding in her throat. She hated going through the door. But she would never vocalize it. She didn’t want the others to know that it scared her as bad as it did. Maybe it scared them as well. Maybe they all just kept that shit to themselves.

  The reason that Julia did all the things that she was afraid to do was because she knew that she had to be there with them, in the thick of it, or risk not being fast enough to save one of them if they got injured. It was her job. It was her purpose.

  Don’t let them die, she kept telling herself. Don’t let anyone else die.

  Mitch settled himself and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Set.”

  “Ready,” Julia said, nudging Logan in front of her.

  The nudge was passed from Logan to Rudy to Abe. Abe moved forward at a steady pace. Then hit the corner hard, followed immediately by Rudy.

  No gunfire.

  The stack was moving.

  Julia held her breath and forced her feet into action.

  Logan’s back, right in front of her.

  They cleared the corner.

  Abe was at the opening of the rolling door. He had a tiny slice of vision on the inside and he scanned it with a fast, expert eye, inching forward while the stack scrunched together again, right at the entrance. The next corner they turned would be into Building Four…

  Gunshots.

  The sheet metal between Abe and Rudy sprouted holes. The holes started lancing back towards Julia.

  Abe moved.

  Rudy grunted, stumbled. But then kept moving, right behind Abe.

  Logan hunched, lurched forward, and then his left leg let out a puff of red and he went down with a yelp.

  Julia’s first instinct was to grab him, and at the same moment that she bent down for Logan, she knew it was the wrong call. Mitch seized her shoulder, propelled her forward, staggering over top of Logan’s body.

  “Keep moving!” Mitch barked.

  Her head buzzed horribly.

  God, please don’t let Logan die before I can get back to him!

  The opening of the rolling door loomed. She had time to bring her rifle back up, back into her sights, grit her teeth, and then she hit the corner. One step out. A hard turn. She was facing darkness. Her sun-dazzled eyes wouldn’t let her see anything for a half second, and all she could do was keep moving her feet.

  Muzzle flashes split the dimness.

  The ghost of Rudy’s shape, dead ahead of her, and Abe’s shape cutting crosswise to her right.

  Go where the man in front of you hasn’t gone!

  She twisted, pivoted on her heel, swinging left inside the door.

  An obstruction nearly smacked her in the face. A vehicle of some sort. She saw its small, boxy shape, the heavy tires. A forklift that had been parked up against the side wall.

  Movement directly behind it.

  Julia juked to her right to avoid running face-first into the lift.

  A man in the corner, sighting down a rifle at Rudy’s back.

  Julia didn’t even think that she aimed. She just pulled the trigger. She watched the bullets slam through the man’s chest. Track up. Obliterate his face. He spilled backwards against the wall, and she didn’t stop firing until she registered that he was on the ground.

  She reached him, her ears ringing, her veins burning, every square inch of her body horrifyingly electric.

  She kicked the rifle out of his dead hands and sent it skittering across the floor. For some reason, she couldn’t bear to turn her back on him. So she put another round into his already-chewed-up face. Then she pivoted again, her back to the corner of the building, rifle scanning the darkness.

  You did that.

  You did that.

  But louder than that v
oice was the thought, I saved Rudy. I saved one of my guys.

  Tanker trucks. That’s the first thing she registered. A lot of them.

  —and the stink of spilled gas—

  —and then the shapes of her comrades—

  Abe, out to the right. Rudy in the middle. Mitch, peeling to her left, taking the left wall directly in front of her.

  More muzzle flashes, sparkling like fireflies in the night.

  The sound of bullets striking metal. Ricocheting with terrifying whines. Fragmentation from the projectiles ticking and tinkling all around her.

  Julia didn’t want to move from the corner. She wanted to sink down on her ass and sit next to the man that she’d killed. But she couldn’t let everyone down. She had to keep them alive.

  She propelled herself forward to catch up with Mitch.

  Mitch moved quickly along the left wall of the hangar, then came to a sudden stop and jumped to the right. A smattering of bullets tore up the wall where he’d been. He took cover at the rear axle of one of the tanker trucks, went down on one knee.

  Julia ran to him, slid to a stop. Put a hand on his shoulder to let him know she was there, her legs pressed up against him.

  Mitch gestured rapidly with his support hand. “He’s two trucks that way. Front of the truck. He’s laying down behind the front axle of the tanker. You understand?”

  Julia wasn’t sure, but she nodded.

  Mitch shifted so that his back was against the tanker. He gulped a few breaths, looked over his shoulder. “I’m gonna fire on him. You go prone right here at my feet, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “When he pops back up, you ice his ass.”

  “Okay.”

  This was combat. It was pure chaos. Everyone making it up as they went. They called it adapting and overcoming, but really it was just flying by the seat of your pants and hoping your fundamentals were better than the other guy’s.

  She dropped in place. The tires in front of her. And Mitch’s boots.

  Mitch shuffled to the left and shoved his rifle out, firing about ten rounds in the general direction of their target.

  Julia leaned to her right so she could see past the tire.

  Concrete stretched out like a desert basin. Black tires rose up like monoliths all across this terrain. There were several tanker trucks, all parked side by side next to each other. In the visual confusion, she had no idea where to look…