by Peter Nealen
He’d been devastated when he’d found that he’d killed those three kids in Afghanistan. The Marines had all insisted there was no way of knowing it was him, but he knew. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he knew. He’d started to question everything he was, every bit of chest-thumping pride and machismo violence that he’d embraced as a Fleet Corpsman. He’d been there to save Marines’ lives, and to hell with the enemy—up until the enemy had turned out to be local waifs, not one of whom looked like he was older than ten.
After that, he had gotten out of the Navy as quickly as he could, and gone to medical school, as much as penance for what he’d done as out of a genuine “desire to help people,” that so many of his classmates had professed. He’d taken his Hippocratic Oath and taken it to heart, determined that he’d never lift a hand in anger against his fellow man again.
But despite his determination to stay in the ER and save lives, Brannigan had convinced him to go to Khadarkh. And his own compassion for his fellow man had nearly gotten half of them killed, when that IRGC fanatic had tried to blow them up with a grenade while he’d been trying to save the man’s life.
He didn’t know why he’d come to Burma, except loyalty to Brannigan, Santelli, and the rest. He knew why Jenkins wanted to kill the North Korean; he hadn’t seen the girl, but he’d heard enough of the reactions from the others to know the score. It shouldn’t have shocked him. In a way, it didn’t. It did anger him, though, and he found himself looking at his patient with the same simmering anger that the others felt.
It worried him. Was he falling back into that old mindset, the same one that had gotten those kids killed? Was he losing his soul again? He’d thought he had been finding some redemption working in the ER. If he went back to being the man he had been, would he ever find his way out again?
The sudden thunder of gunfire and explosions from the south involuntarily drew all eyes in that direction, as Flanagan and Curtis came under attack. Villareal turned that way, drawn out of his reverie and momentarily wishing for a rifle, when the North Korean suddenly doubled up with an agonized groan.
Villareal forced himself to turn back to the man on the mat, stepping closer to see better. “Ask him what’s wrong,” he started to tell Towne, when the North Korean suddenly reached up, fast as a striking snake, and grabbed him by the throat.
As sick as the man obviously was, the grip was strong enough that Villareal immediately started to choke, the North Korean’s fingers pinching off his windpipe. He grabbed the man’s wrists and tried to twist them away from his throat, getting one free even as Jenkins stepped in, stomped on the Korean’s groin, which made him immediately let go. Jenkins then grabbed Villareal by the shoulder, threw him out of the way, then smoothly brought his rifle up and shot the sick man dead with a pair to the head.
Villareal had fallen back, but was still close enough that the muzzle blast slapped him in the face, the physical shock joining the sickening twist in his gut at the killing. He knew that, under the circumstances, it couldn’t rightly be called a murder; the man had been actively trying to kill him while they were under attack. But it was still right on the edge of everything he’d hated about soldiering and had tried to get away from.
He swallowed, hard. Towne had scrambled back as soon as the scuffle had started, and was staring at the dead man. The dark, puckered holes in cheek and forehead were almost invisible in the dimness, even with night vision.
The cacophony of the gunfight to the south, coupled with the noise of the attack on Parsenkyaw to the west, only meant that Jenkins’ shots hadn’t really registered much outside of the hut.
Jenkins spat on the corpse. “Good fucking riddance,” he said. “Come on, Doc, we might need you to treat actual good guys soon, if this keeps up.”
Slowly, keeping his thoughts to himself, Villareal stood, reaching for his med bag, even as the whistles announced the commencement of the attack from the east.
***
Brannigan was pissed. This time it had nothing to do with the job, or the men; the Blackhearts were certainly performing above and beyond what he’d expected. Even the new guys were pros, though Hart worried him a little. The man was a little overwrought over the girl, and his outbursts and consequent distraction, while they hadn’t affected the defense yet, were out of place in the crack they now found themselves in. Fortunately, Tanaka seemed to be keeping his head, and in so doing was helping keep the amputee steady.
No, Brannigan was mad because he was moving from position to position, trying to help coordinate the defense, and had not yet fired a shot in anger at their attackers. He seemed to get to each position on the perimeter just as the Blackhearts repelled another assault. It ground on him, made him feel like he was hanging back and letting his boys do all the fighting.
He knew it wasn’t true, and what was more, he knew that the Blackhearts didn’t care. They were there to fight; they didn’t require the same level of leadership that might have been needed with the varying levels of experience and dedication one might find in the regular military. They knew the score, and the likes of Hancock, Santelli, and Flanagan, in particular, didn’t put as much stock in his “lead from the front” ethos as he did.
It still bugged him.
So when Hancock’s voice came over the radio, shortly after Wade’s and Santelli’s flank went quiet, Brannigan was already nearly sprinting for the western bunker’s entrance, and damned near dove inside. He barely heard the transmission itself.
“We’ve got noises and a lot of movement to the west,” Hancock had reported.
As he clambered into the bunker, practically having to duck-walk through the entrance, Brannigan took a breath and listened for a second, trying to form a clearer picture of the overall situation, beyond their perimeter.
The intermittent shelling and bursts of gunfire in the distance, toward Parsenkyaw, were continuing, but there was something about the sound that somehow made it seem like there was little resistance left. And with Hancock’s announcement, he thought he knew why.
He shoved his way toward the firing port, barely fitting into the low, musty space where Childress and Hancock were crouched behind their rifles. Peering through the port, he could see vague movement off to the west, where the slight rise of the ridgeline blocked off the direct line of sight toward Parsenkyaw. There were still flashes flickering on the other side of that rise, and one of them silhouetted what could only be the form of a man running to take shelter under a tree. He was a long way off, but something about the way he moved suggested he was carrying a weapon.
“We’ve been hearing what sounds like a radio out there, too,” Hancock reported. “It’s faint, and I’m no linguist, but I don’t think those are our Korean friends out there.”
Brannigan nodded in the dark. “I think you’re right. I think that the Kokangs have probably fallen back from the assault on Parsenkyaw, and this is their fallback position.”
“That’s great,” Childress muttered. “Seems like it’s everybody’s turn for a bad night, don’t it?”
“It certainly does seem that way,” Brannigan agreed. He keyed his radio. “Bianco, we’re going to need you on the western flank,” he called.
“Are you thinking we should hit ‘em first?” Hancock asked.
“The element of surprise is gone,” Brannigan said. “Anyone within five miles knows that somebody’s sitting here like a well-armed dog in the manger. And if we’ve got both the Norks and the Kokangs coming in at us, we won’t be able to hold out forever. We need to hit ‘em, drive ‘em back, and get ready to break out in the confusion. If we can get out of this fucking death trap and break contact, we can figure out our backup plan while we still have enough ammo to have a backup plan.”
“Roger that,” Hancock replied.
There was the faint clink of an ammo belt against an MG 3’s receiver, and then Bianco was at the entrance to the bunker. With mounting frustration, Brannigan saw that there wasn’t going to be room in the bunker for all four
of them; there was barely enough room for three. And Bianco’s MG was going to be a lot more valuable in the next couple of minutes than his G3. Stifling a curse, he started out of the bunker, as the big machinegunner stepped back to get out of the way. “I’m going to start getting everyone else ready to move,” he told Hancock over his shoulder. “Initiation’s on you; when you’ve got targets, hit ‘em hard, then get out of this hole and get ready to head out.”
“We’ll hold off for a couple minutes, give you time to get set,” Hancock replied as Bianco started in the narrow entryway.
“Don’t worry about that,” Brannigan said. “If they get within three hundred yards, waste ‘em. I don’t want them getting too close.”
Then he was out of the bunker and heading for the hut, just as Jenkins and Villareal came out. He could tell, even in the dim light, that something had happened.
***
Roger Hancock didn’t look away from the firing port as Bianco hustled his considerable bulk, along with his machinegun and ammo, in between him and Childress. He was trying to see what the enemy was doing, and to plan in his head when would be the perfect time to spoil their advance with a lot of gunfire.
Sweat was dripping down his face from his nearly-bald head. His boonie hat was completely soaked through. He didn’t notice. He was focused, focused in a way that he only got when the adrenaline was flowing. Only when he surfed, or raced, or jumped out of an airplane.
Or was in combat.
There were a lot of figures out there, moving carefully toward the camp. He heard the crackle of the radio several more times, and though he couldn’t make out words, or understand the language, he knew that they were trying to coordinate with the North Korean elements that had already tried twice to assault the camp.
They were hanging back, as if unsure if they should attack or try to link up. They were also still just outside of the three-hundred-yard drop-dead line that Brannigan had set.
Not that he was rigidly wedded to that limit. He knew Brannigan better than that. If he saw an opportunity earlier, he’d open up. Similarly, if he could buy a few more moments for the rest to get their gear together and get ready to break out, he’d hold his fire just a little past that line.
Bianco was breathing heavily next to him; the heat had to be punishing for the big man. He kept his own breathing slow and steady; once the fight started, he didn’t want to just dump rounds to scare the enemy off. He wanted to kill as many of them as possible. Not only would it whittle down their opposition, but every dead man would be a deterrent, a reminder not to get too close. Killing at that distance in the dark was already going to be difficult enough without losing breathing control.
There was another distant crackle of radio chatter. His eyes narrowed as he tried to see clearly across the distance and through the dimness.
After a moment, he was sure. The enemy had split into two elements. They were moving carefully and quietly, trying to come at the camp in a pincer, one to the northwest, the other to the southwest. It was impossible to count accurately in the low light, even through the NVGs, but it looked like there were at least twenty men in each element.
He checked his watch, taking care to keep the glow of the watch face illuminator below the lip of the firing port. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it had been at least five minutes since Brannigan had left. There were faint sounds of movement behind them, as the rest of the Blackhearts adjusted and got ready to move.
He decided. They couldn’t spare the time anymore. The Kokangs were getting too close.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He put his red dot on the nearest of the men to the southwest, just past a tree, and let out his breath, trying to steady the flickering, luminous dot as much as possible. Gently, he squeezed the trigger to the rear.
The HK didn’t have a great trigger. It was heavy, and this one in particular felt a little gritty. But he kept the pressure even and the sights as rock-steady as he could, until the trigger broke, the rifle thundered, and flame spat from the muzzle brake.
When he recovered from the recoil, the dark silhouette of the man he’d been aiming at was gone.
His shot had been the only signal that Bianco needed. With a rattling roar that sounded eerily like the classic MG-42 that the MG 3 was based on, he unleashed a long burst at the same group, leaning into the machinegun and rocking his shoulders from side to side, sweeping the stream of death and destruction across a kill zone a good hundred meters wide. The flame of the muzzle blast lit up the inside of the bunker like a strobe light.
Hancock suddenly found he had no targets; the entire element, those who hadn’t already been mowed down, had apparently hit the dirt. He shifted his focus to the northwest, to see that that element was mostly running for the rise, trying to get out of the kill zone. Childress was picking them off as he could, though the poor illumination made for fewer hits than he might like.
“All right,” Hancock yelled, between bursts from Bianco’s machinegun, “Let’s go! Get out and fall back to the northeast side of the camp!”
Childress was the first to go, squeezing past Bianco and slipping quickly out of the bunker entrance. For all his long-limbed gawkiness, Childress moved well. Bianco had a bit of a harder time, huffing as he pulled the MG 3 off the parapet and struggled to turn around in the tight space, finally half-walking, half-crawling out of the bunker.
Hancock took one more look out to the west, but saw no readily available targets. It would have to do. They had to move. He turned and followed Bianco out.
Someone had kicked dirt over the fire, and the middle of the camp was now as dark as the surrounding woods and open meadows. Bianco was trotting across the open space, past the corpses of the first two North Korean soldiers, to where Childress was disappearing into the shadows of the trees beyond the northern defensive position. Hancock followed.
He found Santelli, down on a knee beside the last hut, his rucksack on his back and theirs arranged around him. He was looking down toward the southeast, where the first assault had come from, his G3 held ready.
“Get your rucks on and get moving,” Santelli whispered tightly. “Straight northeast, the rally point is the hill at eight hundred meters. Bounding overwatch.”
Hancock’s only acknowledgement was to let his rifle hang on its sling while he grabbed his pack by the frame and flipped it over his head, letting his arms slide through the straps before cinching them down and grabbing his G3 again. “Vinnie, you’re with Sam,” he hissed. “I’ll stick with Carlo.”
Childress and Bianco had their rucks on by then, and without another word they started hustling across the open space to the next stand of trees, while Hancock moved up with Santelli and sank down to a knee, keeping his eyes and his weapon pointed back down the length of the camp to the south. They especially had to watch their rear.
The sounds of the two loaded mercenaries hustling off into the darkness faded, but the night was anything but quiet. The larger force off to the west was still making noise, moving around, and a few voices were raised. The assault on Parsenkyaw was quieting down, but wasn’t over yet.
If there was movement to the south and east, Hancock couldn’t hear it.
Finally, Santelli reached back and shook his pack. “They’re set,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”
Hancock heaved himself to his feet, chagrined at how much effort it took. It had been a long time since he’d done this kind of cross-country movement with a ruck, and the heat and humidity weren’t helping anything. He turned and joined Santelli as the stouter man started moving across the open at a jog.
They got to the trees where Bianco and Childress were crouched, covering their advance, just as someone off to the west opened fire on the camp with a machinegun.
***
Brannigan was back in his element, right behind Flanagan as the laconic mercenary took point. They were moving quickly, trying to get out of the tightening noose that was being drawn around the North Korean camp, but at the s
ame time, Flanagan wasn’t letting the need for haste lead him to crash through the brush like an elephant. The man was a pro in the bush, and he moved as silently as possible, even with the ruck on his back making him look like a weird, alien hunchback in the darkness.
They were about halfway up the shoulder of the next hill, heading for the rally point that Brannigan was hoping would be outside the encirclement, when Flanagan stopped dead, then slowly, very slowly, sank to one knee next to a tree, his rifle pointed to the north.
Brannigan followed suit, staring hard in the direction that Flanagan was pointing. The trees mottled the already dark hillside in deeper shadows, and at first he couldn’t see anything.
Then there was movement. Someone was walking between the trees, barely fifty meters away. And then that someone called out in what was unmistakably Mandarin.
The voice was also high-pitched, and sounded very, very young.
Another voice, farther back, answered. Then a deeper, older voice snapped out what sounded like a command, and they went silent. But by then, Brannigan could hear the crunch of vegetation under feet. They were still coming on. And unless he missed his guess, they were coming right for him and Flanagan.
He turned to warn the next men behind him. Tanaka and Curtis were down on a knee behind him, motionless. But the word hadn’t gotten to the next two, who were starting to cross the open space between the trees, down at the low part of the depression that lay between the camp and the hill where he and Flanagan were presently crouched.
There was another yell in Mandarin, and a burst of gunfire. One of the running figures in the open went down. Brannigan snapped his attention back to where he’d seen the movement, bringing his rifle to his shoulder even as the stab of flame from an AK’s muzzle gave him a target.
Flanagan was an instant ahead of him, having already been aimed in. Both rifles boomed within a split second of each other, spitting flame, and with an agonized scream, the AK went silent. A moment later, Curtis opened fire, raking the treeline with a savage burst.
