Escalation

by Peter Nealen

  Scott glanced over and saw what I was doing. He started looking around the nearby trees, and held out a hand. Scott and I had worked together long enough that we could catch up with each other’s thought processes pretty quickly, even without speaking.

  I tied one end of the 550 cord, which was originally designed for use as parachute shroud lines, hence its other name of “paracord,” to the ring of the frag’s pin, then handed the grenade to Scott while I unraveled the “daisy chain” as he pulled it over to him and wedged the frag in the roots of one of the oaks. Meanwhile, I was running the cord to another nearby trunk and starting to carefully wrap it around the bole, drawing it just tight enough before tying it off.

  If I pulled too hard, Scott would be in trouble.

  Satisfied, we backed off and hurried to catch up with the rest of the team. Hopefully, even if they spotted the trap, it would give them pause. There would be no way they could be sure that there wouldn’t be more. They’d have to slow down and search for other traps, which would give us time to open up that time/distance gap.

  Scott fell in behind Tony while I pushed to catch up with the point element. Phil knew where he was going, but I was the team leader. I needed to be able to steer him if necessary.

  We’d gone about another half a klick when I heard a dull thump from behind us.

  They hadn’t spotted the cord, after all.

  ***

  Phil and I crouched at the edge of the trees and scanned the field in front of us.

  It was getting late. First light was in about an hour. In a way, it would be something of an advantage. NVGs get less effective during Before Morning Nautical Twilight; the image gets washed out and contrast goes to hell. Even movement gets hard to see. Meanwhile, it’s still too dark for the naked eye. Thermals, unfortunately, were still unaffected, though. Which meant that we still had to move carefully.

  Hartrick had talked about the days when the Marines and Army could move with impunity during the night, because the Arabs and Afghans they were fighting didn’t have night vision. The US had owned the night. Those days were long gone. We had to act as if the enemy had every capability that we did. Because, in most cases, they did.

  Phil finished his scan and turned to me. “I can still hear drones, but I don’t see any,” he whispered. “Makes me nervous.”

  I craned my neck to scan the sky again. “There might be some north of us, blocked by the trees,” I said, “but they can’t be everywhere. Comes the point where we’ve just got to take the risk.”

  He nodded, the motion just visible in the slowly receding darkness. “We can try to crawl, or we can make a dash for it,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

  I studied the ground in front of us. We had about two hundred meters of open field to cross to get to the line of trees that separated two different fields. The trees weren’t thick, but they’d provide some concealment. And we’d need every bit of it to get across the nearly two klicks of open fields between us and the woods on the southeastern side of Highway 501.

  Fortunately, as I scanned the landscape, through the much lower and sparser hedgerow along the sides of the road that split the fields between us and the highway, I didn’t see any vehicles. And, at least for the moment, the sky was mostly clear. Didn’t mean it would last, but they couldn’t watch everywhere.

  “I think the faster we get over there, the better,” I said. “With the numbers we’ve got, if we try and take it slow and sneaky, we will get caught with somebody in the open when a bird or a drone does go over.”

  “Speed is security, then,” he said. He was all business at that point, his usual, and often unwelcome, “wit” shelved for the moment. That was Phil. He was an ass the rest of the time, but when it was really time to work, he shut up and worked. He looked back over his shoulder. “No time like the present, huh?”

  I followed his gaze. Sure enough, it looked like everybody was in place behind us. It was time to move. I tapped him on the shoulder, and then he was up and moving.

  It was a short dash, and he made it half bent over, his ghillie hood-over flapping a little around him. I pointed to Greg, who followed. The next man back was, I thought, the grunt who had been in the bunker with Warren. I waved him over and grabbed him by the kit, pulling him down so that I could hiss in his ear.

  “You stay low, you move fast,” I said. “Get over there and get set in on security.” He nodded, and I let him go. He followed Greg, lumbering a bit more, weighed down by his body armor.

  Watching him go, I reflected that we were going to have to do what we could to talk the soldiers into ditching as much of that armor as possible. If we were as far out in the cold as I thought we were, mobility was going to be at a premium in the days ahead.

  I ushered the rest across until Scott caught up and took up a security position next to me, facing back the way we’d come. “No sign of our tails for the last hour,” he whispered, even as Tony took off across the field, his boots thumping a little more heavily thanks to the belt-fed he was carrying. “I think it worked.”

  “I hope so,” I replied. “You got this?”

  “Go,” he said. I turned, glanced around the fields, and then ran for the trees.

  The last four days were definitely taking their toll. I was more worn out when I reached the trees than I should have been.

  Fortunately, as I pushed forward, past Tony, who had taken a knee facing back across the open space to cover Scott, who was already starting his own dash, I reflected back on Selection, and knew that I’d catch my second wind in a little bit. Or, at least, it wouldn’t get any worse.

  By the time I reached Phil, having to pause a few times along the way to tell some of our charges to get back against the trees and as out of sight as possible, Scott was already in position, and sent me a one-word transmission. “Up.”

  I broke squelch twice to indicate that I’d heard. Even as I did, I glanced up, and reflected that under the circumstances, we needed to stop relying so much on the radio. Not only were the batteries running low, but if the enemy had any Direction-Finding equipment at all, they were going to start triangulating stray transmissions that weren’t theirs.

  The sheer hash of electronic noise that characterized the modern world would help, but if they’d managed to crash the Internet and cell networks in Slovakia, that was going to clean things up a lot, and make it harder for us to hide.

  As I reached Phil, I took another look around and above. We seemed to still be clear. I tapped him on the shoulder. Without a word, he rose and moved to the next tree, pausing just long enough to scan again before moving to the next one past that. We were running out of darkness. Hopefully, we could be across the highway and into the woods before sunrise.

  ***

  Bradshaw had been busy during the night. Our linkup with Killian’s vehicles went smoothly. Scott took over the rest of the team, while I accompanied Bradshaw and the rescued soldiers to Killian’s track.

  “Good to see you back, Bowen,” Killian said. He was still kitted up, though I’d seen a couple of his soldiers who weren’t. It was stand-to time, too, and Bradshaw had his infantry section at one hundred percent, but there were notable exceptions in spots around the perimeter that Killian couldn’t see from the Powell’s position.

  Killian had some discipline problems in his platoon.

  We’d barely gotten to the track when Warren simply slumped down on the ground next to a tree. He was pale, clammy, and gasping for air like a landed fish. We’d pushed him to his breaking point and beyond to get away from Keystone in one piece.

  Killian looked at him, but apparently didn’t recognize him. The blouse he’d grabbed had belonged to a Sergeant First Class, judging by the rank insignia velcroed center chest, and Warren wasn’t in any shape to introduce himself or do much of anything besides try not to pass out.

  “I’m Sergeant Killian,” the platoon sergeant announced, looking around at the ragged assembly of soldiers while Bradshaw and I stood off to one side
and watched. “And right now, it looks like we’re on our own. If there’s any information any of you can give us as to what happened at Keystone, or what’s going on, now’s the time.”

  The woman we’d rescued had slumped down on the ground where she’d stopped, and looked about as done-in as Warren. Most of the others just looked around at each other. A couple shrugged.

  The young grunt who had been in the first bunker stepped forward. He had no helmet, but still had his body armor and his rifle. He was deeply tanned, with sandy blond hair, a prominent nose, and a pronounced underbite. “I didn’t see much, Sar’nt,” he said. “I was just getting back from patrol, and heading toward my can when something blew up at the front gate. It was something big; it just about knocked me on my face. A couple minutes later, they blew the north gate. After that, all hell broke loose. The IDF alarm started going off, and artillery started coming down. At least, I think it was artillery. We got rocketed a few weeks ago, and that sounded different.”

  Killian nodded. “I remember the rocket attack,” he said.

  “So,” the kid continued, “they shelled the base for what felt like a half an hour. It all gets kind of fuzzy.” He’d probably gotten mildly concussed by a few of the nearer impacts. “There were some bigger booms in there, too, and then they hit the ammo dump.”

  I winced. That must have been hell.

  “It seemed like things kind of went quiet after that,” he went on. “I was ready to get out of the bunker, but Chief Warren,” he indicated the slumped, doughy warrant officer, who was either semi-conscious or asleep, “wouldn’t let me. Said we needed to stay put until the all clear was called. That was when I started hearing gunshots.

  “I looked out, then. Chief Warren didn’t want me to, but I was damned if I was gonna die in a hole without having a chance to fight back.” I was starting to like this kid. “There were three guys with guns walking into the lane between trailers. They weren’t Americans. They didn’t look like soldiers at all; they looked like some of the militia who ambushed us a month ago. They were shooting into the trailers, long bursts. I was going to shoot at them, but Chief ordered me not to.” The glance he shot at the glassy-eyed warrant officer was downright venomous.

  “What happened after that?” Killian asked.

  “They shot at the bunker, but didn’t come in,” the kid said. “Then they moved on. Chief insisted everybody stay quiet and hide. We kept hearing gunfire for…I don’t know. An hour, hour and a half? Then it was getting dark.” He suddenly looked deathly tired. “We were hiding after that, until these guys came and got us.”

  Killian studied him for a moment, then looked around at the rest. “Anybody else got anything to add?” he asked.

  One of the other grunts raised his hand, like a kid in school. “Sergeant Ybarra tried leading a bunch of guys he’d gathered up out through the west gate,” he said. “Something heavy tore ‘em apart right outside. Sounded like a 20 or 30mm.”

  He didn’t mention how he’d seen that, but hadn’t gone out with Ybarra. Killian let it slide, though his expression flickered for a moment, telling me that he’d noticed the same thing.

  It’s interesting, how fast you get to know somebody when you’re running and fighting for your lives together.

  “All right,” he said. “You four, head over to that Stryker and find Sergeant Ragsdale. You five, go over there and look for Sergeant Myers. The rest of you, stay here, find a hole, and work out the rotation with the guys and girls on security.”

  They shuffled off, and he turned to me and Bradshaw, though not without a glance at Warren. “Artillery,” he said quietly.

  I nodded, my expression tight. Bradshaw’s face was a mirror of my own. “Yeah,” I said. “Still think this was the Nationalists?”

  He shook his head. “Unless intel completely dropped the ball, they don’t have any tubes anywhere near here. They’re all out east.” He suddenly looked like he’d aged twenty years in the last few minutes. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

  “Not much we can do while it’s daylight,” Bradshaw said. “Everybody needs some rest. I don’t think we should be anywhere less than seventy-five percent on security, though.”

  I nodded. “We need to be ready to move, though,” I said. “Hopefully they’re looking up north, but they’re definitely hunting us now. If they find us, we’ve got to be able to break contact and get out in minutes.”

  “Agreed,” Killian said, but not without another glance at Warren. I followed his gaze, thinking that I understood his note of concern.

  Not everybody among us was in top shape or had the training and experience that we did. If things went south…

  Well, that would be interesting.

  Chapter 12

  It was a long day.

  Not only had it warmed up from the day before, but when I did get a chance to sleep, between shifts on security, studying the maps with Bradshaw while we wracked our minds for a plan, and the occasional comm shot with Kidd in Hungary, none of which resulted in any new information, I didn’t sleep well.

  I should have. I was exhausted. The last ninety-six hours had been a relentless forced march of movement, fighting, and more movement, coupled with the sheer mental stress of being hunted and knowing that we couldn’t count on any help but ourselves. I should have passed right out.

  But I couldn’t. I drifted in and out, unable to get comfortable even in the shade of the beech I’d set my ruck against. Even when I did drift off, I kept starting awake as either artillery rumbled in the distance, or an aircraft went by overhead.

  So, by the time it started to get dark, I wasn’t doing much better than I had been at first light.

  I didn’t have much chow left. My stomach was going to be an aching void by the end of the next day. And I knew that the rest of the team wasn’t much better off. Bradshaw’s boys had some extra, but it wouldn’t last all that much longer. We were going to have to take steps. Preferably without getting compromised, surrounded, and slaughtered.

  That was going to be a good trick, with about seventy-five men and three armored vehicles.

  I chewed the last of the meal replacement bar. I had three more left, not counting the two in my E&E kit. And they really weren’t much of a “replacement” for a full meal. More like a snack. One that didn’t satisfy and left you thirsty.

  Especially after hiking, crawling, and fighting through the woods for four days.

  Slinging my rifle, I walked over toward Bradshaw’s position. He’d set up close, just not close enough that both of us could get taken out by one artillery shell. But neither one of us wanted to rely too much on the radios; especially as our batteries died, we were going to have to stick close, or rely on runners.

  It might come to the latter, depending on how things worked out. I didn’t think we were necessarily going to be able to stick together in a big lump like this.

  Although, I thought as I neared where Bradshaw was sitting up next to his ruck, looking bleary as he chewed a backpacker meal that he didn’t look like he was even tasting, splitting up now that we had a bunch of regular Army types under our wing might be even more difficult. I wasn’t hopeful that all of them were going to make it out alive if left to their own devices. Killian was proving more competent than I’d feared, but not all of his troops were top shelf.

  Of course, if I was being honest, I had to admit that some of that perception might have been my old Marine Corps prejudices at work.

  Bradshaw looked up at me as I stopped, standing next to him, waiting for him to finish his chow. He grunted. I didn’t speak. I was too tired for small talk.

  A bulky figure came out of the trees. “Over here, Killian,” I murmured. He shifted his course and joined us, squatting down as best he could in all that Kevlar and ceramic he was toting. I was glad to see that he still had his M37A2 slung and one hand on the firing control.

  “Gents,” he said quietly. “We need to have a talk.”

  There was a pause as we bo
th just watched him, with hooded eyes. He looked back and forth between us, then sighed heavily. We weren’t going to give him an inch, so he had to open the ball himself.

  “Chief Warren’s up,” he said. “I think you can guess where I’m going with this.”

  “He’s the ranking officer, isn’t he?” Bradshaw asked, around a mouthful of food.

  Killian nodded, taking his helmet off and rubbing his scalp. He hadn’t shaved since this had started, and his stubble was dark. “Yeah, he is. He hasn’t taken command, just yet.” He grimaced. “Well, he hasn’t in so many words. He’s just been asking questions. And that’s where things get…”

  “Dicey?” I put in, leaning against a tree, my hands crossed on my OBR’s buttstock.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he agreed, looking up at me. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I haven’t asked because I really don’t want to know, and I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. But I’m pretty sure that you’re not Delta, you’re not SEAL Team Six, and you’re not Special Activities Division.” He half-shrugged. “Though that is the current front-runner in the rumor mill.”

  We still didn’t say anything. Bradshaw looked up at me. Technically, he’d been a Triarii longer than I had, but I was the Grex Luporum Team Leader, and his section was the trail element for my team. That put me on the spot.

  “Your silence is just confirming my suspicions, gents,” Killian said quietly. He spread his hands. “Look, I get it. And I don’t want to bring this up. If you are who I think you are, it…well. It could cause some issues.” He held his hands up placatingly. “Not from me. I’m no pogue. I know you high-speed types might think that because I ride around in a Powell, I’m half a step from joining the PRA, but I’m not.” He spat, then sighed, looking down at the loam between his boots. “Unfortunately, that’s not the case with everybody. And I don’t know Warren well enough to know which way he’s going to jump, if you are who I think you are.”