Escalation

by Peter Nealen

  “Warren!” I hissed again, a loud stage whisper that I hoped would carry without being heard beyond the wall. It was deathly quiet within Keystone’s perimeter, despite the faint crackle where the fires still burned.

  There was no response. But something about that bunker, the concrete cracked by a near-miss from an artillery shell, that had cratered the ground next to it and smashed in the side of a nearby trailer, bugged me. I wasn’t ready to just go up to it.

  I keyed my radio. “Warren, this is Golf Lima Ten Six. Are you in bunker…” I squinted. “Bunker Seven Echo?”

  I thought I heard movement at that. There was a faint crackle on the radio, as if someone had keyed the mic, then decided against it.

  Rifles were pointed at the dark maw of the entrance to that bunker. I suspected I knew what was going on, but under the circumstances, there was no way in hell I was going to take chances.

  Finally, the radio crackled with Warren’s voice. “Yes,” he said, “we’re in Seven E.”

  I didn’t bother to correct his radio procedures. From the sounds of things, Chief Warrant Officer Warren was a pogue, a non-infantry type. He was out of his depth, and it could cause problems going forward.

  England hadn’t been much use, but if we had more than one bit of human baggage in tow, getting out of Keystone unobserved could get interesting.

  But these survivors were why we were there. Just like Specialist England. “I have eyes on your position now,” I told him. “We’re going to move to you. You will see or hear armed men moving around the bunker. Do not shoot at them. They are friendlies. Once we have security set, I will come to you.”

  “R-roger,” was the response. “Over.”

  I rolled my eyes. This guy must not have done much for the last decade plus besides fly a desk. But I pointed to Phil and Chris, and soon they were darting across the lane between smashed and bullet- and shrapnel-riddled trailers to take up security positions on the openings.

  Once we had a rough perimeter around the bunker, I moved in. “Warren,” I called softly. “I’m coming in.” Hoping that I wasn’t about to get my head shot off by some jumpy private or admin warrant officer, I ducked inside the bunker.

  There were five figures inside. Three were in varying degrees of PT gear or sleepwear. One was in cammies, but otherwise unarmed. The last one was kitted up, and had his M37A2 pointed at my face as I entered.

  Of course, I had my OBR pointed at him, too. I wasn’t taking chances, and my finger was resting on the trigger, just in case. I was partially silhouetted against the gray light outside, but he was a white outline in my NVGs, and the IR aiming laser was dancing on his chest.

  “Friendly,” I hissed. He lowered the rifle, and after a second, so did I. I looked around at the group of survivors. Four men and a woman. One of the men in PT gear was fat; he was going to have a hard time keeping up, or even crawling across that damned field outside the wall. Unfortunately, he was also the one with the radio in his hands.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ve got the immediate area secured. We need to find field clothes for you three.” I’d never imagined that I’d be worrying about dressing soldiers like little kids, but that was the situation I found myself in. They couldn’t be in very good shape after the last day and night that had already passed, and they were going to die of exposure as fall approached if we dragged them through the woods in shorts and t-shirts.

  We couldn’t expect to get out of this situation quickly. We had to think long-term. And that meant making sure that everybody was at least dressed to survive.

  “We were all in this block of trailers, I think,” the man with the rifle said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It looks like everyone else in here is dead, so go in, find something that’ll fit, and get dressed. You’ve got five minutes.”

  The fat guy, whom I suspected from the radio was Warren, was about to protest, but thought better of it. He was breathing hard, and was obviously scared, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He struggled to his feet and ducked out of the bunker. The others followed, slowly.

  I grabbed the guy with the rifle on the way out. “How many mags do you have?” I asked him.

  “Four,” he said. “I was just coming off patrol when things clacked off.”

  “You’re with us,” I said. “Find a hole and fit in.”

  He nodded. “You planning on going out the north gate?” he asked.

  “Didn’t even know there was a north gate,” I replied. “We weren’t stationed here.” I left off the fact that we weren’t Army. He’d figure that out soon enough.

  He pointed. “It’s just over there. How’d you get in?”

  “Climbed,” I replied. I keyed my radio. “Weeb, Deacon. We’ve made contact, and one of the survivors is telling me that there’s a north gate that might be easier to get out of. He’s pointing to the west of our breach point.”

  “Roger,” Scott replied. “We’ll relocate. No more drone activity at present.”

  I keyed the mic twice to acknowledge. “Find a spot, buddy,” I told the young soldier. He nodded, looked around, and found a gap in the perimeter he could cover.

  I stayed where I was, watching the door where Warren and the other two underdressed soldiers had disappeared. Time was flying, and with it what darkness that we had left to cover our movement.

  They finally came out, the fat warrant last, fastening a blouse that looked about a size too small for him. None of them had grabbed a go bag, load bearing gear, or weapon.

  Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to go hunting for such things. Not there. Not with presumably enemy armor sitting on the highway outside, watching. We needed to get the hell away from Keystone and back into the hills.

  “Do you know of any other survivors?” I asked Warren.

  He shook his head. “We’ve been on the radio since about midday,” he said. “We haven’t made contact with anyone else.”

  “Have you looked around?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied shakily. “I didn’t consider it safe, until we knew more.”

  I nodded, looking around and thinking. I didn’t want to leave anyone else behind, but we were also short on time, and I didn’t think we had enough time to search every bunker. But the need to make sure we weren’t leaving more men or women to their deaths won out. “Saddle up,” I said. “Next bunker.”

  ***

  It didn’t take as long as it might have. Too much of the base had been blasted flat. There were probably only about three dozen bunkers left intact, and it didn’t take long to search each one.

  We found more survivors, but only about half a dozen. Of those, four were clearly grunts, and had at least grabbed their weapons when things had gone sideways. At least one, I suspected, was an infantryman, but hadn’t armed himself. He was noticeably being shunned by the other two in the bunker where we’d found him.

  Gathered in the shadow of what had been a vehicle parking area, the overhangs blasted to pieces and the vehicles nothing but still-warm, burned-out hulks, I checked my watch. 0350. We had a couple hours at least before sunrise. But we’d need all of it, especially since it didn’t look like some of our charges were going to be moving all that fast. Not everybody was up to the highest of physical fitness standards, let’s put it that way.

  “Weeb, Deacon,” I called, even as I scanned the sky above us. I could just barely hear what sounded like a couple drones, but I wasn’t picking them out, even with the NVGs’ thermal capability. “We’re coming out.”

  “We’ve got the north gate secured,” Scott reported. “Just watch your step on the way out. It’s kind of a mess out here.”

  I had that first infantryman with me, and he pointed the way for Phil. We moved out, my team forming a loose diamond formation around the gaggle of survivors.

  We threaded our way north, through the ruined and smashed remains of the installation, having to step wide around craters and passing bodies and pieces of bodies. Some had been killed by the b
ombardment or IEDs. Others had clearly been shot. The enemy had thoroughly swept the compound after the bombardment had ended.

  The north gate was smaller than the main gate to the south, but it had been hit, too. I immediately saw what Scott had been talking about. Something had detonated inside the gate. There were twisted fragments of metal everywhere, including embedded in the armored glass of the guard post, and the gate itself was a warped ruin. Whatever the bad guys had used, it had been big.

  Scott and the rest of the team were in a rough half-circle outside, mostly down in the prone, covering the surrounding woods. I moved to Scott and crouched down on a knee, once again watching the sky. There were two drones up there, now, and they might have been circling closer. It was definitely time to go.

  “We’ve got too many people to get out of here sneaky-like,” I whispered.

  “Dash for the trees?” Scott asked.

  “I think so,” I said, glancing back at the rescued survivors huddled in the ruin of the gate. “It won’t be much of a dash, but hopefully we can get under cover before the drones call in the cavalry. Presuming that we don’t just get gunned down from the road.”

  “Always cheerful, aren’t you, Matt?” Scott said. “You’ve been hanging out with Greg too much.”

  I punched him in the calf, hard enough to hurt, then moved back to where our charges were crouched. “We’re moving to the woods up there,” I said, just loudly enough that they could hear me. “You stay low, you move fast. Do not stop or slow down in the open. Understood?”

  I got what might have been murmurs of understanding and assent. I hoped so. “Phil, you’re on point.”

  Phil got up and led out. Glancing at the drones again, seeing that they really did appear to be closer, I followed.

  Chapter 11

  Phil got to the treeline quickly; even as tired as we were, three hundred yards isn’t far, especially without the weight of our rucks. Our charges, however, weren’t quite so quick. Scott, Chris, and Tony were chivvying them along as fast as possible, but it still took a couple minutes to get them all under the trees.

  And during that couple of minutes, the drones were getting closer. From my position on a knee at the edge of the field, I could hear the buzz getting louder, and a glance up at the sky showed me the faint spark of the nearest drone’s thermal signature getting closer. They were definitely heading our way.

  “Hurry the hell up,” I muttered. I was increasingly convinced that the drone operator had figured out that somebody was leaving the wrecked FOB, and was going to be alerting enemy forces at any moment. It was certainly a possibility that Killian was right; that the EDC had fired on our vehicles mistakenly, and that the drones were looking for survivors to rescue.

  I just didn’t think it was likely. And when I heard diesels rumbling and tracks start rattling and squealing in the distance, on the far side of the smashed compound, my heart rate picked up. Bad juju. “Come on!” I hissed. “Move it!”

  I looked up as the grunts passed me, Warren and the other presumed pogues trailing behind. That drone was getting closer. To hell with it. If it turned out to be a friendly that was looking for people to help, they could bill me. I brought my rifle to my shoulder, put the laser on the dot, breathed out, and fired.

  I don’t think I’d actually expected to hit the drone on the first shot. I’d blasted drones with rifle fire before; they were becoming a ubiquitous weapon of irregular warfare as well as being in common use by regular forces, and there were some nasty surprises getting attached to little commercial quad-rotors back Stateside. But this was at a bit longer range than I’d engaged one before. So, I was a little surprised—and somewhat pleased with myself—when the drone suddenly tumbled out of the sky, fluttering like a wounded bird until it hit the ground.

  “Move it!” I snarled. The vehicles down by the highway were definitely moving. They might have a hard time following us into the woods, but they’d have dismounts. And that hadn’t been one of the bigger, high-altitude drones, either. A smaller one could be steered between tree trunks, at least for a while. It would lose signal eventually, but that might not be for a while.

  We had to make tracks.

  I grabbed Warren by the blouse as he passed me. “We are officially made,” I whispered urgently. “So, we have to move fast. You keep up with us and you do not stop. Not for anything. If we stop, you keep pushing. We’ve got firepower, you don’t. You keep your people moving until I tell you we’re secure. Understood?”

  “What if that was a friendly drone?” he asked. I wondered if he’d actually been listening.

  “No such thing right now,” I told him. “Do you understand what I just told you? Your life and the lives of the rest of these soldiers depends on it.”

  He gulped air, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

  I didn’t quite shove him toward Phil. “Move,” was all I said.

  I glanced back as Scott brought up the rear. I might have seen movement around the side of what remained of Keystone’s wall, but it was hard to say. We had a head start, anyway.

  “Last man,” Scott whispered. I signaled that I’d heard him, then turned into the woods and stepped it out to catch up with Phil.

  ***

  It was a punishing movement, even for us. For the soldiers who’d gone most of two days and two nights without food or much water, it was almost a death march. But we didn’t have any other choice.

  The drones were still buzzing above the treetops, and I could hear aircraft overhead, fast-movers and rotary-wing both. Neither of which were unknown sounds in Slovakia at that time, but recent events lent the sounds an ominous note that might not have been there before.

  The addition of the distant rumble of artillery made it worse. It might have just been thunder, except that the skies were clear.

  Something big was going down in Slovakia. And I had a feeling that the destruction of FOB Keystone was an integral part of it.

  Warren was flagging within a klick, even more so than any of the rest. It had taken almost half an hour to cover that distance, but that was still too quick for him, even unburdened by weapon or gear. I didn’t let us stop, though. Scott had informed me that he was pretty sure there were foot-mobiles coming into the woods after us.

  Phil hadn’t gone straight north once we’d gotten into the woods; that would have been counter-productive. We needed to link back up with Killian and Bradshaw, and they were south of the highway. Getting across was going to be fun—by which I mean a cast-iron, stone bitch—but I had a plan for that. As it was, we were half a klick into the woods and pushing east, paralleling the edge of the fields.

  Chris had moved up to “motivate” Warren. I hadn’t told him to. Chris was a study in contradictions, sometimes. He was doubtless cussing Warren six ways from Sunday every time he had to pick the man up when he fell—which was often. At the same time, Chris was a bit of a holy roller, and considered helping his fellow man to be a sacred duty. Warren being the ranking officer among the survivors and the weakest meant that Chris was kind of caught between his contempt for weak officers and his eagerness to help people.

  As I looked back, Chris was pulling Warren to his feet again. “Weeb, Deacon,” I called. “We still got shadows?”

  “I think so, Deacon,” Scott replied. “They’re not closing the gap, but I’ve seen some movement back there. Still about five or six hundred meters back.”

  I waited, standing under a hoary oak that blacked out the sky above me. Fall was coming, but most of the leaves were still on the trees. They were only just starting to change color.

  We didn’t have claymores; right then I would have given my eyeteeth for a couple. They might have discouraged our pursuers. As it was, our options were sharply limited.

  I waved at Phil to keep pushing, along with Greg. I’d catch up. I waited where I was, letting the rest pass me until Scott reached the oak.

  “As long as they’re following us, we’re in trouble,” I whispered, as
the two of us took a knee under the tree. Scott was breathing hard, but he wasn’t flagging yet. “But if we stop and hit them, if they’ve got the numbers, they might just keep pushing, and it’ll give them a chance to close the gap.”

  “They’re going to keep pushing as long as we don’t do something,” Scott replied. “And they’re presumably fresher than we are.” He paused for a moment, looking back down the way we’d come. The density of the woods limited our lines of sight, but I could faintly hear the sounds of movement back there, only drowned out occasionally by a nearby aircraft.

  “I think they’ve been waiting for this,” Scott continued. “It’s what I’d do. Station a force to watch the FOB for any survivors either trying to get out or return if they were caught outside.”

  “You don’t think that they’re friendlies trying to rescue any survivors who might have been, as you said, caught outside?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “They’d have tried comms before now if that was the case. Some kind of comms, even if it’s fucking loudspeakers. They haven’t. They’ve just sent drones after us and men on foot, who haven’t yelled or anything. That’s hostile act, hostile intent, in my opinion. If you don’t want someone to act like they’re being hunted, don’t act like you’re hunting them.”

  I nodded. So, I wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines. Every once in a while, it was good to get that sanity check.

  I chewed my lip, tasting salt and grit. I didn’t want to get in a firefight, particularly not while we were dragging unarmed personnel with us. We needed to slow our pursuers down, rather than come to grips with them. A firefight in the dark would just give them something to shoot at. I wanted them second-guessing themselves and the darkness around them.

  In the absence of claymores, we were going to have to make do with what we had.

  Pulling a frag grenade out of my chest rig, I started digging in the side pouch for the 550 cord that I kept daisy-chained in there, just in case. There was never any telling when you might need 550, so I kept some in my ruck and some in my chest rig. It wasn’t ideal for the purpose at hand; wire would have worked better. But, once again, you gotta make do with what you’ve got.