by Summer Lane
He waves his arms and gestures down the road.
The guards run back into the camp. The scout lingers there for a second, looking up into the hills. He knows that there are snipers watching the camp. He also knows that the second he makes a break for it, I will shoot him.
There is a moment of hesitation on his part.
He stands at the gate, clearly tempted to go inside. I know what he is thinking – that if he makes a mad dash for the gate, he will get away with it. That we won’t shoot him, that he’ll tell the insurgents not to leave the compound, and that we’ll all die out here.
My finger hovers over the trigger of my rifle.
I am more than capable of following through with my threat.
And then he turns away from the camp and slinks back into the shadows, into the waiting arms of the militia hidden in the trees. I release a tense breath.
“That was fun,” Uriah whispers, deadpan.
“I had a feeling he wanted to live,” I reply.
The camp buzzes with activity. Troops pour out of the barracks. They arm up, get in their vehicles and form a convoy. There are maybe one hundred men deploying into the woods. The guards open the front gates and the convoy pulls out. They grind onto the gravelly, muddy road and rumble through the forest.
If the guards at the entrance have noticed that the German scout disappeared again, they don’t show it. They don’t seem to care.
I close my eyes.
Without radios to communicate with each other, the Rogue Rangers and the rest of my team have to rely on instinct to implement the plan. We are supposed to wait twenty minutes before we attack the camp, giving us enough time to get inside, cut down the insurgents and close the camp up before the troops in the convoy come back.
We’ll be waiting for them, then.
Tick, tock.
I count the minutes under my breath, stiff from lying on my stomach, tired. I open a canteen and take a drink of water. Uriah is the only sniper close enough to me to actually talk to. Vera is elsewhere. Manny is with Elle and Arlene.
“Twenty minutes,” Uriah says at last.
I nod.
I hope everyone else is on the same clock that we are. I watch the front entrance, counting down.
Whoosh.
I hear the distinct sound of an RPG being launched. It sounds like someone popping a lid off a metal can. It echoes through the forest, streaking toward the camp. The RPG hits the front gate and rips the metal apart. The detonation sends up a blaze of flames and shrapnel. Bits of barbed wire and chain link fencing flies everywhere. I can feel the heat from the blaze on my face.
The ground shakes.
Another RPG whistles through the air and hits the corner of the camp, smashing into the base of the guard tower. The tall structure collapses on itself. The guards inside try to throw themselves out of the building as it falls, but they land in a strangled heap on the ground, bones broken, skin burned.
The entrance has been blasted wide open.
I lean into my gun and peer through the optics. Insurgents surge into the camp from within the barracks, armed. They cannot see us, but they know we are there. We have the advantage, and I am proud of that.
I systematically pick off as many guards as I can. Gunshots ring through the air, dulling my sense of hearing. Everything becomes a loud, exploding blur. Uriah takes shots beside me, too. The Rogue Rangers let loose with everything they’ve got – guerilla warfare in its most impressive form.
I see an Omega insurgent running toward cover at the corner of the camp, taking shelter behind the fallen guard tower. Hitting a target that is moving quickly is one of the more difficult aspects of being a sniper. I follow him with my rifle, leading the target in my sights. I squeeze the trigger and my bullet slices through the air, dropping him instantly.
Aim small, miss small, I think. That’s what Chris always says.
And, as always, Chris is right. The smaller I make my targets, the less room there is for me to miss. If I aim for a two-inch square, I might miss by a couple of inches, but I will still hit my target.
It’s these little tips and tricks that make my job interesting.
If you can call this a job.
Eventually, the insurgents in the camp wise up. They take cover behind the buildings. They stop running out into the open, realizing that a hidden force surrounds them. I desperately want to use the remainder of our RPGs to blow up the barracks and destroy their cover, but I keep our goal in mind: preserve the radios!
We have no way of knowing which building the radios are in – or if there are any – so we’ll need to make sure all of them survive this firefight.
“It’s time to go down on foot,” I tell Uriah.
“You sure?” he asks.
I shrug.
What else are we supposed to do? We’ve reached a stalemate. The only thing left is to walk through those doors and finish this thing.
Uriah doesn’t argue. I rise from my spot and start moving down the hill. My movement is a signal to the rest of the Rangers hidden in the forest that it’s time to rush the camp. I move as quickly as possible.
There is a cessation of fire as we move.
The insurgents don’t shoot. We don’t shoot.
There is silence. I stop near the corner of the entrance, nervous about breaking cover. I look at Uriah. The smoldering flames of the RPGs dance on the guard tower and a few overturned Omega vehicles.
“If I didn’t know any better,” Uriah says, panting. “I’d say we were walking right into the gates of hell.”
I roll my eyes.
“So dramatic,” I reply.
And that burst of sarcasm gives me the confidence to break cover. The Rangers cover me as I advance through the gate, stepping over the fiery threshold of the entrance. I shoot as I move, zigzagging, never pausing, never making myself a stationary target.
Constant movement will keep me alive. Yet another trick I’ve learned.
Uriah is right behind me, and suddenly the camp is being flooded with the Rangers. I slide behind an Omega pickup. Bullets ping off the roof as I kneel down, catching my breath. Sweat slides down my back, sticking my shirt and jacket to my skin.
I don’t even feel the cold weather anymore.
Bright bursts of muzzle fire light up the night, bubbles of illumination against the dark mountainside. It is a familiar situation for me, but I would rather be fighting side by side with Chris.
Focus, focus, I remind myself
I poke the muzzle of my gun over the tip of the pickup and take several shots at insurgents that are stupid enough to break cover. About ten of them are charging forward between two barracks, guns blazing, screaming bloody murder. There is a type of madness in their eyes, desperation. They don’t seem to care that their push is suicidal – from the look on their faces, they’re almost welcoming it.
I take out the first two men at the front of the group. They hit the ground. Their bodies are trampled by the rest of their group. The Rangers open fire on them and raze the squad to the ground, until there is only one man left alive.
He picks up a gun from one of the fallen and screams at us. I can’t understand what he’s saying – there is too much noise and gunfire. As he runs, I’m struck by the focus. He runs without faltering, without stopping. He knows he is going to die. He doesn’t even try to prolong his life by finding cover. He just runs, firing off shots in the direction of the militia.
Uriah kneels down – about twenty yards away from me – and shoots him. The force of the bullet knocks him backward. He hits the ground at a twisted angle, eyes wide open, blood trickling out of his mouth.
It’s sad that someone so young would give themselves – body and soul – to a cause that has brought nothing but pain and cruelty to the world.
My sympathy is short-lived.
I move from cover to cover, slipping like a shadow between points, Uriah following right behind me. To the side of the camp, I see Manny bursting through the fence, guns b
lazing, a wild smile on his face. He charges inside, hollering. His flight cap is fastened around his head, tangled in his gray hair.
He looks crazy.
He swings around the corner of one of the barracks, taking out an insurgent who’s creeping around the back.
“Come and get it, you bloody cowards!” Manny yells, laughing.
Uriah looks at me as if to say, What are we going to do with him?
I’m just glad he’s on our side.
I check my left and right, ready to move from the corner of the front barracks to the next. An Omega trooper with dark skin and black eyes leaps from behind cover, grabs my shoulders and slams me against the wall before I can bring my weapon up. My head spins – not so much with pain but from familiarity. I remember being slammed against a wall on my first big guerilla mission with Chris and Freedom Fighters.
Déjà vu.
Only this time, neither Sophia or Chris is here to help me. I duck and spin around, bringing my rifle up to block a violent jab toward my face. The insurgent curses in a foreign language, scraping his fist against the metal of my gun, bloodying his knuckles.
I spin the gun around and shove it into his throat.
He stumbles backward, hitting the wall.
He tries to grab my gun, but it is attached to a sling that’s strapped around my body, so I slam into him, inches from his face.
Gross.
I can smell his sweat. His meaty hands close around my body and he crunches me against him, squeezing the air from my lungs. Desperate for oxygen, I struggle against his iron grip, unable to grab my gun. My arms are pinned to my sides.
I have no hands, my legs are paralyzed by his weight, crushed between him and the wall. With no other options left, I sink my teeth into his cheek and bite as hard as I can. The taste of blood and flesh mingle in my mouth. It’s disgusting.
He screams and drops me, grasping his cheek.
I spit and cough, gasping for breath.
He’s enraged. He drops his hand. Blood and teeth marks scar his cheek. A piece of his cheek has been torn away. I shudder, feeling like a feral animal.
But his hesitation is his mistake.
Before I can grab my rifle or make a move to defend myself again, Uriah sprints across the camp, coming to my aid. He pops two rounds into my attacker’s back. He looks down at his chest. He looks shocked, almost, to see the blood blossoming there. He looks at me. And then he falls forward, landing face first on the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Uriah asks, holding his hand out.
I take it, getting to my feet. My face is smeared with blood – thankfully, it’s not my own. “I’m fine,” I say.
I grab my rifle and turn back to the camp. It looks like we’ve taken down the defenses. Omega is running.
Elle and Bravo emerge from the border of the camp. Elle’s got a small rifle in her hands, grease smudged across her face. Bravo trots beside her, calm and collected despite the gunfire and screams. Vera is not far behind them. She looks angry. A huge frown spreads across her face as she stalks toward Commander Jones and the Rangers.
I cross the length of the camp, joining the group.
It looks like the firefight is over.
“Seriously,” Vera rants, turning to me. “That took way longer than it should have!”
“I think we did good, actually,” I reply. “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. The rest of the insurgents are heading into the hills.” She folds her arms across her chest. “They’ll be back with help. We need to be ready for them.”
“We will be,” I say.
Dead insurgents are everywhere.
“And this is the downfall of man,” Desmond murmurs, coming up behind me. “The killing.”
“They’ve earned it,” I say, cold.
“Yes,” he agrees. “They have.”
My ability to feel sadness for the enemy is gone. Their cruelty and evil have spread too far and injured too many people that I love. I no longer care about showing them mercy. I only care about showing them revenge.
“Human beings are the only species on Earth that kill each other like this” Desmond says slowly, his eyes sad. “Here we are, supposedly smarter than any other creature in the universe. And look what we do to each other. We tear each other apart.”
I look at Elle. She’s so young, yet she watches the entire thing with an expression of stone. A child her age shouldn’t be so used to killing. She should be going to high school or wondering who’s going to take her to prom.
Normal things.
Yet here we are, victims of a cruel world.
“This is life, now,” I say. “We do what we have to do.”
“I know,” Desmond sighs. “But it’s not right.”
“No,” I reply. “But Omega started this thing – and we’ll be the ones to finish it.”
Vera suddenly looks calm.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “We will.”
*
I stand inside the main building of the insurgency camp. We have set fire to the barracks. A plume of thick, black smoke rises into the air, obscuring the moonlight.
The main building is filthy. It’s a wide, squat room with dirty windows. Maps are pinned to every wall. The insurgents have been tracking militia movements. I trace my finger on a red circle drawn around two letters: CF.
“Camp Freedom,” I say aloud.
“Yes, they’ve been busy,” Desmond comments, standing in the center of the room, taking in the atmosphere. Tables are littered with trash. Vile pictures and crude messages written in foreign languages are taped to the wall.
It looks more like a gang hideout than it does an insurgency headquarters.
But I remember what the German scout said – about how children were trafficked from foreign countries and brought here to train. I would expect nothing less from people who dabble in human slavery.
In the back of the room, away from the window, is a radio. It’s old, outdated. It’s got a handheld receiver and a big speaker. But it’s something.
“I’m almost afraid to touch it,” I remark. “What if it’s keyed into Omega airwaves?”
Vera says, “If Andrew were here, he could figure it out for us.”
There is sadness in her voice. I know she misses Andrew – we all do, honestly. I stick my head out the door. “Manny!” I call.
I wait. The tension mounts.
The Omega troops will be returning any time. The Rogue Rangers are out on the road, ready to intercept the convoy while we try to get the radio to work.
Manny walks inside with Arlene.
She is looking better. Tired, but better.
“Arlene,” I say. “You know more about radios than anybody else.”
She nods. No reason to deny it. She’s the best we’ve got, other than Andrew – and since he’s in Monterey…we have to do what we have to do.
She picks up the receiver and looks at it.
“This is tuned into Omega frequencies,” she says. “I’ll find a new channel.”
The distant sound of gunfire and detonations sends a rumble through the ground. “Better hurry,” Manny advises. “We’re about to have company.”
And the countdown is on.
Vera scurries into the room, right behind Uriah.
“Have we sent a message yet?” she asks. “Please tell me you have.”
“We’re working on it,” Manny replies. “Just keep your shirt on.”
She huffs, annoyed. Uriah never leaves the doorway, peering into the darkness. “The Rangers can only hold back the reinforcement insurgents for so long. They’ll hit the camp.” He looks at me. “Let’s get this over with.”
I don’t argue.
I pick up the receiver and close my eyes, choosing my words carefully.
“Alpha One,” I say. “This is Yankee One. Mike Foxtrot. Mission is FUBAR. Priority EXFIL your AOR ASAP.”
I take my finger off the transmit button. If anyone in the Underground is listening, they
will relay this message to Chris, and he will know exactly what I’m talking about.
I repeat the message over and over until we have to leave.
The second wave of insurgents is nothing like the first. I am perched on top of the radio building, my rifle in my arms, prone. The Rogue Rangers have done a considerable amount of damage to the Omega convoy. Only four vehicles are left. The rest are smoldering in the woods, and I can hear the smattering of gunfire from here.
They are cleaning up, and they’re doing it well.
The occasional insurgent breaks out of the cover of the woods, but Uriah and I take them out before they can even reach the fence line. I find it ironic that this place – which only an hour ago was a cesspool of Omega activity – is now ours.
“You know,” Uriah says, kneeling beside me, “since we took out this camp, every hostile Omega force in this area is going to come after us – if they’re not already.”
“I know,” I reply. “But we got the message out. That’s all we can do.”
“So what then?” he continues. “We just camp out in the woods? We can’t wait here. Omega will come for the camp.”
“We’ll take their vehicles, weapons and food,” I say. “And we’ll leave.”
Uriah considers this.
“So we’ll go back to Camp Freedom with Commander Jones and the rest of the Rangers,” he finishes. “It’s going to be a chore, getting back to Monterey.”
“I know,” I reply. “But we’ll just have to do the best we can.”
Vera, Manny and Desmond are walking through the camp, overseeing the Rogue Rangers’ foraging. The militia goes through each building, dragging out crates and boxes of food and supplies, piling them into the remaining Omega vehicles behind the camp.
We take an entire pickup load of ammunition and guns. When the insurgency advance is over, I throw my legs over the lip of the building and climb down the gutter pipe.
“Do you have everything?” I ask Desmond.
He looks up from a Humvee, dreads and feathers fluttering in the cold breeze.
“I’ve got enough medical supplies in here to last us for another couple of years,” he answers. “This is an answer to prayer, man.”
