He twisted a shoulder and threw a series of elbows at his attacker. The first two hit muscle, but the third blow found something solid, making a loud crack.
The attacker’s clutch weakened, allowing Bunker to work himself free. He got to his feet and turned with hands fisted, ready to fight.
The gray-haired man across from him stood quickly. He was slender but appeared to be in good shape, his forearms the size of Popeye’s. His face ran red with blood, as did his uniform.
A gas mask sat in the dirt a few feet away, which explained the pressure crease across the man’s forehead. He must have been lying in wait, probably covered by the bodies of his fallen comrades.
Bunker looked for a name and rank, but the man’s greens offered neither. The very next instant, his mind tapped into a recent memory from the church tower, when he was observing the activity on the stage.
The vision was of an older man about to shoot Stan Fielding. Bunker’s vantage point wasn’t the best at the time, but it did offer additional data he could use. Given the man’s gas mask, obvious age, and the details from the memory flash, Bunker guessed at the soldier’s identity. “General Zhukov, I presume.”
He waited for Zhukov to respond or pull the holstered pistol from his hip. Zhukov did neither, growling something in Russian after his face pushed into an angry snarl. The man raced forward with his arms extended.
Bunker ducked the attack, then wrapped his arms around Zhukov’s waist. He kept his shoulder centered in the groin area for leverage, driving the General back.
The blaze of the sun pelted Bunker’s eyes, making him squint. He couldn’t see the path ahead, or the collection of bodies he knew were there. They’d trip him if he continued, so he stopped the tackle and sent all his strength to his biceps.
He swung the aging Russian up and around, driving Zhukov into the dirt with his dominant side. A rush of wind left the General’s chest when the soil smacked his spine with a thump.
Bunker climbed on his opponent’s chest and drew back a coiled fist. He let it loose, delivering a sharp right, snapping the officer’s head to the side. Blood sprayed from Zhukov’s lip before he bought his eyes back, the intensity locked in.
Zhukov’s right hand shot up to grab Bunker by the throat, focusing his grip around the larynx. His fingers tore at the skin with the force of a hydraulic press, catching Bunker off guard.
Bunker landed a pair of rights on Zhukov’s chin, but the old man took the beating, looking as though he enjoyed the pain. Bunker felt his air supply slipping. He tore at the officer’s thumb in distress, attempting to pry it free from his skin. Zhukov’s grip was beyond anything he’d ever dealt with before, and that included his old pal Grinder, the most feared pugilist he’d ever met.
Grinder was a three hundred pound human tank, able to chew glass and crap thunder, neither of which he thought would pry Zhukov’s hand free at the moment.
Bunker sent another barrage of jabs at Zhukov’s face. They had little effect, except to raise more blood and liberate a tooth from the old man’s mouth.
The battle against the fingers tearing into his neck continued with his left hand, while his right found its way to Zhukov’s eyes. Bunker aimed a thumb for the nearest pupil and pressed hard, adding every ounce of force he could muster.
Zhukov’s grunts turned into a bellowing howl as Bunker’s nail broke the surface. Yet the General’s claw of death never faded.
Bunker pulled his thumb free from the socket and landed another flurry of punches, pounding at Zhukov’s face, arms, and chest. The assault wasn’t working. He needed to change tactics before his windpipe succumbed to the pressure.
Right then, a voice from his past broke through the pain in an instant. It belonged to his grizzled Drill Instructor, a persistent actor in many of his most vivid memories. The brick of a man was preaching safety tips about chokehold training to Bunker’s platoon of bleary-eyed recruits. The DI warned against applying too much pressure around the neck, especially when sparring with someone over forty. It might shake loose the natural plaque buildup that occurs with age in the arteries.
Blood clots are common in the elderly and the General certainly qualified as such, despite his Herculean grip. Bunker knew it was a long shot, but worth a try.
He adjusted his aim, landing alternating blows on the sides of Zhukov’s neck. The mounting desperation in his chest added more and more force behind each strike, but his accuracy suffered as a result, missing the mark with the first four punches.
The fifth salvo landed on target, sending the old man’s good eye rolling upward, showing only white after the pupil disappeared into the top of his skull.
Zhukov’s hand dropped away and his body fell limp.
Bunker landed two more thumps as insurance, then rolled to the left, his energy reserves spent. He landed on his back in an awkward flop, his lungs gasping for air.
Spotty confusion filled his head as he wheezed, making it difficult to marshal his thoughts. They spun and flickered, showing disconnected flashes from his past. Most of the visions were linked to one of his many regrets, yet all of them were bloody, completing a red-colored mosaic in his mind.
The throb across his neck ran deep, but Bunker was able to resume breathing. Air came slowly at first, then the full force of his lungs kicked in, making him cough in response. The oxygen energized his body in one massive rush, bringing clarity to his mind a moment later.
He wasn’t prepared for the incredible strength of the gray-haired commander. Yet he should have been after pushing the man’s buttons. Valentina’s brutal death had done its job, driving Zhukov’s blood-fueled rage into the super-soldier category, almost killing Bunker in the process.
Only the effects of Father Time had saved Bunker, with a little help from his Drill Instructor’s constant teachings—the neck punches. Were they a stroke of genius, or some kind of miracle?
He scoffed, deciding the arterial assault was nothing more than sheer luck. Even so, he’d gladly take it, stopping Zhukov with a plaque-induced blood clot.
When your last breath is only a heartbeat away, you’ll try anything to survive, even a crazy stunt like that.
Bunker turned on his side, taking in a few more breaths in recovery. He surveyed the area for threats.
The third tank sat motionless forty yards away. The rear of its engine compartment had been pushed against the felled trees, blocking its retreat. The main cannon was aimed his way, though turned slightly to starboard and elevated by the same amount.
The driver’s hatch was open along the front. So, too, were the hatches up top. They belonged to the tank commander and the gunner, neither of which was manning the machine gun. The tank crew must have bailed out. It was the only explanation.
Bunker crawled to his feet, feeling both relieved and proud. Their ambush had worked, yet the mission wasn’t complete. Some of the Russians still clung to the last moments of life. An arm movement here. A leg twitch there.
Bunker took the semi-auto handgun from the General’s holster, his thumb releasing the safety in a flick. He snatched a reserve magazine from a pouch attached to Zhukov’s belt, then racked the slide to make sure the weapon was ready to fire. A round ejected in the process, landing in a spin as it caromed atop the flattened grass.
A soldier sat up in a sudden twist, dead ahead, twenty yards away, his hands grabbing at his throat. Before Bunker could raise the pistol and fire, the Russian’s brain matter blew apart in a spray of chunks.
Bunker brought his eyes to the hillside beyond the trench, following the sound of the gunshot. The sun’s late afternoon brilliance made it difficult to see more than a centralized glare. He put a hand up to shield his eyes, gaining more visibility as he continued the search for the shooter.
He was able to zero in on a low-lying dark spot. It was entrenched in one of the sniper hides. The location belonged to Burt, who held up a thumbs-up signal right on cue.
Rusty’s position to the left looked abandoned, as did Dicky’s
on the right. Either they’d retreated or they’d been hit. Same with Dustin. His phone booth of a boulder stood alone in its own shadow.
Bunker worried for them all, but he couldn’t stop his immediate mission to check on them. He moved ahead, aiming the pistol from body to body. If something moved, he shot it, leaving no survivors.
He kept his search restricted to the center of the meadow, avoiding any active booby traps near the tree line. He changed magazines when the pistol ran empty, but continued to fire on the survivors, making sure to end every invader.
Burt’s job was to cover the perimeter, plinking skin and bone like target practice as Bunker moved. One by one, those who were still alive became dead, finishing the ambush in a hail of lead.
When it was over, Burt stood in celebration, his rifle held high with both hands. Bunker nodded at the mechanic, the thrill of victory finding his chest as well.
When Bunker’s thoughts turned to Apollo, he realized the Sheriff’s position had been quiet. He couldn’t see the portly man or his rifle, even after the wind had cleared much of the area of smoke.
One of the trees holding a Tannerite charge was still upright, its upper limbs covered with an adornment of plastic bottles, ready to deliver another volley of deadly chemicals. It meant only one thing—the Sheriff failed to complete his most important task. Something went wrong.
Bunker motioned to Burt that he was heading to Apollo’s position on the ridge. He changed course, planning to retrace the safety trail next to the log markers.
He sidestepped a pile of seven Russians, stacked up like cordwood, three deep and two wide, with one lying diagonally on top. Every soldier was face down—odd to say the least. If he didn’t know better, he would have guessed someone arranged them that way.
Three strides later, Bunker felt an impact along his right side, just below his armpit. The force spun him sideways only moments before the sound of a gunshot tore into his ears. The grass cradled his fall, his focus finding its way to the gunshot’s originating position an instant later.
The mechanic was still on his feet, holding the rifle near his right hip. It was loosely aimed at Bunker, with a wisp of smoke rising from the end of the barrel.
CHAPTER 25
Bunker kept watch on Burt as the wound under his arm leaked red through the press of his hand. His fingers told him the bullet went through and through, damaging mostly skin, he hoped. Even though he didn’t think it hit anything vital, it didn’t lessen the pain. Or the shock.
Did the mechanic just shoot him on purpose?
Or was it an accident?
Bunker’s mind went into instant analysis mode, scrambling for answers before his next breath finished its run through his lungs.
He knew none of the bodies around him were alive, so it didn’t seem likely Burt had a Russian target in mind when he fired. If he had, then the shot was an accident, catching Bunker’s torso by mistake.
Perhaps it was a misfire. When your finger is resting on a trigger, it doesn’t take much pressure to push it past the sear point in error. Even less force is needed when trigger work has been done on the rifle to lessen the pressure required to fire. Many seasoned shooters prefer lighter, more sensitive trigger pulls, increasing their precision.
It was also possible Burt could have been using the scope to glass the area, covering Bunker’s movement against sudden threats. Overwatch mistakes are an unfortunate part of the job, though they are usually caused by the unexpected movement of an ally.
Bunker’s path had been true and consistent. No sudden moves. Burt knew where he was going—on a direct track to Apollo’s elevated position.
Anyone who’s served knows that blunders with firearms happen, whether in combat or not. More so when the weapon is in the hands of an untrained civilian. Hell, even highly-skilled Marines miss their target on occasion.
After-Action Reports do include occasional incidents of friendly fire. In truth, it happens more often than most Commanders dare admit. Yet, despite every precaution, accidents are part of the battlefield.
Whether from errors in position, identification, or communication, they add to the victim toll. Some are a result of faulty intel or collateral damage. Others are from the mishandling of weapons. A rare few are intentional.
Weather, terrain, and navigation can also play a role in the untimely death of a fellow patriot. Human or machine as the cause, it didn’t matter. The percentages stayed true across the statistics. Troops get wounded by their own. Some die. It can’t be avoided in a red zone.
Bunker didn’t know why, but his mind flashed a series of incidents from his past: a mud-driven crunchy from a tank’s sudden turn—a high-powered sniper round finding its way to an allied troop who was in the wrong place at the wrong time—a premature pistol discharge by a squad mate cleaning his firearm.
He wished his heart didn’t carry the haunting images, but they were part of who he was, having been etched into his long-term memory years ago.
Bunker lay in the grass, his eyes locked with Burt’s, waiting for a reaction. Something that would answer the question burning a hole into his soul. Something that would keep him from raising his pistol to return fire. All it would take would be the slightest of body movements. A facial expression. An apologetic hand wave. A shoulder shrug. Anything to de-escalate the nagging feeling in Bunker’s throat.
The answer came when Burt brought the rifle up to his shoulder, then slid his eye behind the scope with its barrel aimed at Bunker.
Shit. Intentional.
Bunker sent his body into a fast roll, completing several revolutions in retreat. Each time his injured side made contact with the ground, the pain sent a searing jolt through his abdomen.
Burt fired three more shots, none of them hitting their mark.
Bunker continued his whirl in the dirt, catching a glimpse of Burt ejecting a magazine from the AR-10.
Bunker got to his feet during the lapse in fire. He took two steps and dove over the double stack of corpses he’d passed earlier, using them as cover. He landed on his right side, aggravating the bullet wound.
Burt continued his flurry of rounds, firing one shot after another with little time in between. When he stopped to change magazines, Bunker brought the pistol up and fired several rounds, keeping his profile low. Each of the rounds missed, hitting only dirt and grass beyond the target.
Pistol accuracy decreases with range, especially when you’re injured and under duress. Bunker was a decent shot but didn’t possess the marksmanship needed. He needed to get lucky. Not just with his aim, but against Burt’s elevated position.
Burt’s location gave him the clear advantage. As did the scoped rifle in his hands. Oh, and the stack of reserve mags.
Bunker pulled the trigger two more times. The first bullet traveled down the barrel, but the second didn’t. The pistol’s slide had locked open.
Shit. Out of ammo.
He didn’t have another magazine, either. He tossed the empty gun away as Burt sent another firestorm his way.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
The dead soldiers in front of him carried rifles, but Bunker didn’t think he could get to them. The weapons were tucked under their respective bodies, all of which were lying face down on each other. He’d have to rise up to dig for them, exposing himself in the process.
There were weapons available on his flanks, but again, he’d have to leave cover to retrieve them. His only option would be to wait until Burt changed magazines again, then make a stab for them. He’d only have seconds to get there and back. Not an easy feat, but he was out of choices. Eventually Burt would figure out a solution to Bunker’s cover and advance to change the angle of fire.
Burt fired another seven rounds, bringing the total to twelve. When the count reached twenty, Bunker would go for the rifle on his left.
Pop! Pop!
Fourteen.
Bunker focused on his breathing, taking long, slow breaths. He held them for a two-count before exhaling. It s
hould lower his heart rate, lessening the amount of blood pushing out from his wound.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Seventeen. Three more. Almost time.
Just then, another gunshot rang out, only this discharge was louder. Immediately after, he heard a man’s grunt. It was a sharp, painful grunt.
Was it Burt? Or someone else?
Bunker waited for more gunfire, but it never came. He brought his eyes up to peer over the mound. Burt wasn’t visible.
Bunker leaned higher, surveying the landscape in front of him. The mechanic wasn’t charging his way. The path to the right was clear as well. No sign of Burt advancing on his position.
Right then, movement caught his attention. It was on the right and elevated—Apollo’s sniper position.
Bunker’s heart energized. “It’s about time, Sheriff,” he said to the air around him, focusing his eyes on Apollo’s position.
A handful of seconds later, a head came up, exposing the eyes and nose. He’d expected the face of an elderly lawman, but that wasn’t what he saw. The face and hair belonged to Stephanie King, and she was behind the scope of the TrackingPoint rifle.
“What the hell are you doing, Steph?” Bunker mumbled. She was supposed to take the boys back to camp, not join the fight. She hated guns.
Another groan came from Burt’s position. Bunker turned his eyes to the left in a flash. Bunker couldn’t see the mechanic, but the facts seemed clear. Stephanie had just put a bullet into Burt. Since Burt was moaning, it wasn’t a fatal shot. At least not yet.
Bunker thought about the rifle lying in the grass next to the dead soldier on his left. It was now or never, he decided. He took off for the Russian long gun, running in a hunched-over style. The wound in his side howled after the sprint, but it didn’t stop him from snatching the gun from the corpse.
Bunker checked Burt’s position. Still no sign of the shooter. He ran back, taking only seconds to return to cover.
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