by Vince Milam
She decided to wait among the scattered remains of the farmhouse until daylight. The evening’s war exploded all around the countryside. Her left knee ached. She flexed it gently as a breeze ruffled her matted hair. One, two, three.
Chapter 37
Cole couldn’t sleep beyond a few fitful intervals. He tossed and turned for several hours and ended up outside, leaning against the Land Cruiser and staring at the stars. Artillery explosions rolled across the plains, mixed with the light crackle of small arms fire. Dawn would show in an hour or two. The infinity of the sky and the desperation of the situation highlighted, pretty much more than ever before, how insignificant and puny and useless a man could feel. Nadine was gone, perhaps dead. The normal tranquility of Rockport floated a million miles away and years ago. He didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. This entire venture seemed like an endeavor foolhardy beyond belief, and Nadine’s disappearance had landed him in a place at the bottom of the well.
Muffled Arabic commands ended his contemplation. Multiple voices came from the olive trees. The noise of snapping ground cover got closer.
Cole quietly opened the back door of the Land Cruiser and removed the M-15 and the shotgun, along with all the ammunition, and carried them into the convent. The .45 remained back in the room. With speed and silence he locked the convent’s main door with a large heavy board slid into the braces set on the inside. The thick cypress door, baked hard by the sun over decades, would hold. The other door in the convent’s kitchen stood open to the cool night air. Of the same heavy cypress construction, its hinges squeaked when closed, creating a response of heightened conversation from the olive trees. He sealed the door in the same manner as the other.
The high windows, set well above the ground, provided light to the convent but no views. Only a few of the rooms had windows, most did not. One window on each side of the building opened to the common hallway. The building’s thick stone and brick walls would handle anything, but the windows created portals.
It was time to wake Francois. Kneeling before a crucifix in the starlit room, Francois glanced over his shoulder.
“They’re coming,” Cole said with hushed tones. Francois’s window stood open.
Francois crossed himself, stood, and viewed Cole with weapons in both hands, an ammunition belt draped over his shoulders. The priest did not ask for an explanation, evidently understanding bad men had arrived to kill them all.
“Get the sisters and move them to the chapel, except for Sister Rahel. We may need her.”
Francois pulled on pants, nodded in response, and sped down the hall.
With the weapons and ammunition placed in the hallway, Cole reentered Francois’s room, tossed the thin mattress aside, and lifted the simple bed on its end and leaned it against the wall, creating a ramp under the window. He climbed the crude rope webbing that had supported the mattress, peeked over the window, and faced starlit shapes moving from the olive trees to the walls of the convent. He scrambled down and repeated the bed-as-ramp process in his room. By this time, clusters of armed men had collected near the main door. One of them attempted to open the door with the handle, muttered something, and several of them put their shoulders against the stout wood and pushed, grunting with the effort. They weren’t budging that door, so he found the next room with a window and repeated the ramp process.
The fighters decided there was no point keeping silent. One of them opened fire on the stout door. The bullets had no effect other than to signal a full-fledged attack.
The shots came as Francois and Sister Rahel approached, both of them instinctively flinching at the explosive crack of automatic fire.
“Pull beds from two of the rooms and prop them below the two hallway windows,” said Cole.
They both moved to action without a word. Cole rushed back to the weapons on the floor outside Francois’s room and grabbed the M-15, ran to his room to slide the .45 into his pants, and scrambled up the bed ramp. Shouts and random gunfire filled the predawn air. Muzzle blasts and bullets came through the windows on both sides of the convent. These bastards would sooner or later realize their gunfire was ineffective, angled as it was up through the windows and hitting the convent’s ceiling. That would drive them to figure out how to climb to the windows and enter. Screams of savagery and yelled commands mixed with the automatic fire.
The ammunition cache was limited, but it might do. Unlike the attackers, he’d keep the automatic M-15 on single shot and focus on accuracy and preservation of the ammunition. Marine Corps training and combat experience now helped him develop a calculated battle plan. Returned fire had to give the impression that more than one person fought back. Fire and maneuver—keep moving. Protect the windows and pray the two doors withstood whatever assault these jihadists threw at them.
An internal switch had gone off, the fears and uncertainties long gone. The situation cried life or death and no middle ground. His Comanche blood surged and he became all fight.
He climbed a bedframe to assess. One of the jihadist leaders stood back and watched his men. Several minutes of random firing through high open windows was proving pointless. This guy would see that unless they could breach the doors, the only viable option lay with them climbing through the windows. At this point, the leader also probably figured they could assault the convent without fear of return fire. That would soon change.
Cole dropped to the ground and ran into the hallway to wrap the bandolier of M-15 ammunition magazines around his waist. Grabbing the shotgun and its small box of shells, he ran to Francois and Sister Rahel who had just finished moving the second bed under a large hallway window.
“Will either of you shoot?” asked Cole, offering the shotgun to Francois.
“No. We cannot,” said Francois.
The dark hallway became illuminated at random by outside muzzle blasts coming through the windows, accompanied by battle screams. At one of those moments, Cole viewed Sister Rahel. The tiny woman had donned her habit and stood with fists gripped tight, exuding resolve.
“Will you reload?” asked Cole.
Francois pursed his lips, looked at Sister Rahel whose fiery eyes blazed an affirmative, and replied, “Oui. This we can do.”
Cole showed Sister Rahel how to reload the shotgun and sat her against the hallway wall, midway down its length. He planned to manage the M-15 himself, grabbing a loaded magazine from the bandolier around his waist and slamming it into the weapon when needed.
“I’ll move from room to room as well as out here in the hallway, firing out the windows. Sometimes I’ll use that weapon,” Cole said and pointed at the shotgun, “And sometimes I’ll use this other one. I want them to think there are several of us firing back.”
Francois and Sister Rahel nodded, grim and determined. The outside shots and yells began to diminish. Cole knew what it meant.
“When I pass by here I’ll grab the shotgun. Have it reloaded. That’s important, Sister. I want to keep a continuous fire. These men will give no quarter. I don’t intend to either.”
“It shall be prepared for you,” said Sister Rahel. “You may be assured.”
He paused to listen. The outside fighters had begun to organize, yelling orders at each other.
“Francois, I need you to scout. They will climb through the windows. Probably by a couple of them lifting a fighter to grab the windowsill and climb in. I need you to move as fast as you can from window to window and alert me to any sounds or, God forbid, any of them entering. Got that?”
Francois’s expression showed rock hard, battle-ready. “And tell me, mon ami, how I am to alert you?”
“Yell. Scream. Whatever it takes. It’s fixin’ to get damn loud in here.”
“I shall do so. Be most careful. God’s strength to you,” said Francois.
Cole racked a round into the M-15. “Keep that shotgun loaded for me, Sister. Keep me alerted, Francois. May God be with all of us.”
He moved to the bedroom with the most sound outside and climbed t
he rope webbing of the bed to look below. A dozen men assembled. One of them had slung an AK-47 assault rifle over his shoulder while two compatriots grabbed him by the thighs and lifted him.
Cole could shoot. Military training, years of hunting, and the Aransas County shooting range kept those skills honed. This environment made for close quarters, and the longer rifle bordered on a hindrance. He pulled the .45 from his pants, cocked the hammer, and thought, Welcome to the dance, assholes.
The first shot went through the climber’s head, the second and third hit the lifters in the chest. He got off one more shot, hitting another in the torso, before the jihadist fighters recovered from the shock of someone firing at them and began to furiously return automatic fire.
Cole leapt off the bed as bullets riddled the window frame and the ceiling of the room. He dashed into the hallway and two doors down, scrambled up on the bedframe and sighted the rifle on the men who still fired at his previous location. Five rapid shots produced five hits, the fighters screaming with pain and anger. He leapt down and saw in the darkness Francois rush out of a room on the other side of the hallway, skid to a stop, and point back toward the room he had just exited.
“They are there!” said Francois.
“Got it!” said Cole.
Francois turned to dash into other rooms. Cole ran by Sister Rahel and tossed the M-15 at her. She caught it and extended her other arm with the shotgun. He snatched it on the run and flew into the bedroom Francois had indicated. Momentum carried him up the bedframe and he had the Mossberg to his shoulder and began to fire directly below.
The shotgun’s buckshot devastated the attackers. He fired four times. It made the perfect weapon for this type of firefight. Check’s comment about the shotgun flashed through Cole’s mind—“For up close and personal.” Again, return fire from the fighters hammered the window frame and ceiling of the room. Cole had already jumped away and moved along the hallway.
He ran by Sister Rahel, exchanging weapons again. She began shoving shells into the shotgun’s magazine.
Cole fired through another bedroom window, and jumped off the bedframe when Francois yelled from the hallway. He sprinted from the room to see Francois mounted under a hallway window, wielding a bedpost ripped from one of the beds. The invaders lifted a fighter to the windowsill and his two hands gripped the frame. Francois smashed both sets of fingers in rapid succession and caused the invader to fall among his fellow fighters. Cole climbed the bedframe next to Francois and unloaded several pistol shots into the crowd below before bullets filled the space and slammed into the hallway ceiling.
They kept a frantic defense for fifteen more minutes. Cole did not relent with his well-placed shots and the constant maneuvering must have convinced the assailants at least two if not three defenders fired back.
The assault noise below the windows stopped. Chunks of ceiling plaster, hanging, fell to the floor. Both sides of the convent showed groups of fighters standing away from the walls, reorganizing.
Cole knelt by Sister Rahel and checked the shotgun ammunition supply. Less than a dozen shells remained. The M-15 had two thirty-round clips, and the pistol had perhaps five shots left.
Francois knelt with them. “And so,” said Francois. “Have they left?”
“No,” said Cole. “They’re regrouping.” He moved to the hallway window facing the olive trees, climbed the bedframe, and took careful aim. The darkness prevented sighting with great accuracy, but one of the fighter’s weapons glinted in the starlight and Cole squeezed a shot at the reflected source. A cry returned from the night, followed by more gunfire from the fighters aimed at his window. He moved across the hallway and delivered the same performance to a fighter on that side. The slightest hint of dawn showed from the east.
“If they’re smart, they’ll stop the random assaults and move on multiple windows at the same time,” said Cole, kneeling again with Francois and Sister Rahel. “No way to know if they’re smart, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
“You are bleeding,” said Sister Rahel and tore the bottom hem of her habit to craft a bandage.
“It’s okay,” said Cole. “Some small chunks of rock got blasted from the wall and caught me.” He took the proffered bandage and pressed it against his scalp.
“I will need one of those,” said Sister Rahel as she pointed at Francois’s bedpost club. She turned to Cole and said, “I will reload, of course. But that option shall soon expire.” She lifted the box of shotgun shells and rattled it, indicating the dwindled number.
“Oui,” said Francois. He moved to one of the propped bedframes and snapped off a post, returning it to Sister Rahel. She gripped it with both hands and swung several times, getting comfortable with its heft. Cole gave a slight head shake and thought, That’s one badass little nun.
He hoped to hold them off until daylight. There was no guarantee they would stop their assault then, but options expanded with the sun. It would allow him to sight the M-15 at a distance and maintain fire if they backed off again.
“Alright. We keep doing what we’ve been doing,” said Cole. “Sister, forget loading this weapon. I’ll take it with me.” Cole poured the remaining shotgun shells into a front pocket. “If they coordinate their attack and go after multiple windows at the same time, I need each of you to focus on different sides of the building. I’ll back you both. Yell for me. Use those clubs. Smash fingers. Let’s hope they come after these hallway windows. If they focus on the rooms, it’s liable to be damn tough moving fast enough between them.”
The attackers focused on the rooms. Initially the three held them at bay. Cole kept moving, and caught glimpses of Francois clocking several of them on the head as their upper body struggled over the windowsill. Sister Rahel would climb a bedframe, raise her club high, and wait as a hovering hawk for fingers to appear. Cole several times delivered a headshot to an attacker in the process of dropping into a room. Carrying all the weapons from one spot to the next, he’d leave either the shotgun or rifle at the doorway as he entered.
It began to get desperate. Screams of anger and barbarity came from the attackers as they threw themselves at the windows on both sides. At one point, as Cole flew along the hallway, he saw a room where a fighter stood, his AK-47 at the ready, while another one followed and dropped to the ground behind his fellow fighter. Cole slammed to a stop and shouldered the shotgun, killed the first one, pumped what he thought was the next round into the chamber, and heard the empty click of the firing pin when the trigger was pulled. The surviving fighter had already moved his weapon from the sling position on his back and squeezed off rounds at Cole, shooting from the hip. The bullets hissed past as he dropped the shotgun, reached into his back belt, and whipped out the .45. A snap shot spun the attacker and a second, better aimed shot finished him off. Yells from his side of the hallway brought him running into the next room, where Francois teetered on the top of the bedframe and grappled with a fighter who was attempting to enter the room. A .45 caliber bullet popped back the head of Francois’s adversary. The sudden lack of struggle with his opponent caused Francois to tumble off the frame and onto the floor. The window filled with the next attacker, who swung his AK into a firing position as he squatted on the windowsill. Cole took aim but the pistol’s action stood locked open, out of ammunition. The barrel of the AK-47 had begun to swing in his direction when Francois rushed past him and smashed the fighter’s face with the bedpost. The blow sent the fighter tumbling back through the window and onto the ground.
Cole snatched the M-15 from where he’d left it at a nearby doorway, calling to Francois over his shoulder, “Thanks!”
“It is nothing!” said Francois, fire in his voice.
Cole had to get back to the rooms on the other side of the hallway where Sister Rahel patrolled. He slapped the pockets of the bandolier around this waist, identifying one more clip of ammunition. Maybe thirty-five rounds total remained. It might do. It would have to.
He found her in the second room he looke
d into. She stood wraithlike on the top edge of the bedframe ramp and pressed against the wall next to the window, the large bedpost club held with both hands high above her head, waiting. The predawn light made visibility better.
She turned to Cole, released a hand from the club, and held up a finger for silence.
“It is something,” she said.
Cole edged over to stand beneath the window and listen. The sound of scattered gunfire came, but not directed at them. Quick, violent screams followed. A strange crushing or crunching sound carried in the air. Then all stood silent.
Sister Rahel, perched above him, shook her head with an expression of bewilderment. He crossed the hall to find Francois. The priest stood in the hallway under a window opposite Sister Rahel’s side of the convent.
As Cole approached, gunfire commenced again but, as on the other side, not directed at them. Yells and commands mixed with short, abrupt screams. The peculiar muffled crunch repeated again and again. Then silence.
Cole and Francois looked at each other, both quizzical.
“Let us see,” said Francois as he moved to the propped bedframe.
Cole joined him. They climbed and, shoulder to shoulder, peeked over the windowsill. The new dawn brought just enough light to see. Bodies lay everywhere, and blood pooled beneath fatal bullet wounds. It was a horrible sight.
Many of the bodies lay with broken necks and crushed skulls. These dead men had no bullet wounds. The rope webbing on the frame squeaked below them. Sister Rahel climbed and hoisted herself between the two men’s shoulders. She gasped at the carnage before her.
