by James Cook
When the scene of the fight looked the way Heinrich wanted it to, he notified Maru he was inbound and ordered him to have his men prepare to assault the island. When they departed for the peninsula’s northern shore, Heinrich returned his rifle to its case, grabbed his assault pack, and headed northward.
“At best count, we’re up against two dozen enemies,” Heinrich said when he reached the two squads waiting for him. His men were hunkered down behind a treeline that thinned out to scrub grass, and beyond that, a narrow beach of gray river stones. Seven small boats waited on the slender bank, a scavenged collection of canoes and fishing skiffs. Not exactly an armada, but enough to get Heinrich and his men across the roughly four-hundred feet of shallow water to the island immediately northward.
“Six, Three, and Seven are going to stay on the northern bank,” Heinrich went on. “If anyone tries to escape, they’ll probably head north. Our boys will be there if they do. The rest of you are with me. Four and Five will approach from the west. Their job is to get the smugglers’ attention. Once they’re engaged, we’ll flank them from the south. Everybody clear?”
The men nodded and grunted assent.
“Good. When we hit the island, break up into fire teams. I want five yard intervals, squad leaders hanging back with radios. Squad leaders, keep your men on track. I don’t want anyone getting lost in the dark. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” the squad leaders said quietly.
“I want a shooter in three of the boats in case we come under fire. Squad leaders, pick your best marksmen. Marksmen, if you hear shots, aim for the muzzle flashes. And no matter what, keep fucking rowing. When we hit that beach, we do it together. No running, no hiding, no letting other fire teams take the heat while you lay in the dirt like cowards. Remember your training, keep your head on a swivel, and stay in the fight. Any man caught slacking will answer to me. Do I make myself clear?”
The men nodded. They had all seen what happened to people who failed to meet Heinrich’s expectations, and were duly solemn.
“Squad leaders, have fire team leaders take charge. Move out.”
While his men obeyed orders, Heinrich keyed his radio and notified the squads on the opposite side of the river it was time to start the assault.
“Copy, Chief. Six, Three, and Seven holding position.”
“Acknowledged. Four and Five?”
“Moving out now, Chief. Will advise when we have a beachhead.”
“Copy. Chief out.”
Now for the hard part, Heinrich thought.
NINETEEN
Before heading out, Heinrich stashed his M-110 and retrieved his pistol and Chinese AK-47. He hated leaving his sniper rifle behind—he had kept it close to him since the day he found it—but the fight ahead required close-quarters work.
The raider chief sat in his room and placed a hand on the M-110’s case, regarding it like a talisman. He understood now why ancient cultures had placed so much value on well-made weapons, going as far as to name them and ascribe them supernatural powers. Heinrich harbored no such superstitions, but he nonetheless felt an attachment to the rifle. Taking time to grab it before fleeing Parabellum had nearly cost him his life, but in retrospect, he was glad he had done it. Losing the M-110 would have been like losing a limb.
Heinrich stood and checked his equipment. The small assault pack contained water, a first-aid kit, and a spare battery pack for his radio. His tactical vest was configured for spare rifle ammo, a fighting knife, small flashlight, multi-tool, and a machete.
Next he checked his rifle. He had only fired it a few times, but it had thus far proved reliable. He’d used others of its kind in the past and had not encountered any failures. Chinese manufacturing may have been shoddy in other areas, but the commies knew how to make a rifle. Heinrich’s vest contained six extra magazines. Counting the mag in his weapon, he had 210 rounds.
Last he examined his pistol, a Glock 17 he had owned since before the Outbreak. It was clean and lubricated and ready to go. Heinrich inserted a magazine, chambered a round, dropped the magazine, and replaced the chambered round from his meager supply of spare ammo. The Glock went into a drop holster along with two spare magazines. Fifty-two rounds for the pistol and 210 for the rifle gave him 262 total, which was most of the loadout he had brought with him from the supply cache. His men were similarly equipped.
This raid better produce something, Heinrich thought. If we don’t re-stock soon, we’re in deep shit.
Heinrich left the house, boarded a boat, and sat quietly while two of his men paddled for the island where their intended victims awaited.
*****
The shooting started before Heinrich could see more than a flicker of light from the smugglers’ camp.
“One and Two, this is Chief,” Heinrich radioed. “Double-time, but maintain intervals. Do it now.”
“Chief, One, Copy.”
“Chief, Two, Copy.”
“Point Man, Chief. Take your fire team and swing around north.”
“Copy, Chief. On my way.”
Heinrich crouched and increased his pace. The three-man fire team in his charge followed suit. As he moved, the radio crackled in his ear.
“Chief, this is Four. Roving patrol spotted one of our teams on our way in. Had to engage early. Over.”
Heinrich choked down his anger and kept his voice even. “Acknowledged. What’s your disposition?”
“Landed the boats northwest of the camp. Smugglers are about forty meters off the water, just inside the treeline. We’re holding position on the western shore. Five is up north of us. We’ve got ‘em in a crossfire, but it’s hard to see anybody in the dark.”
“Copy, Four. We’ll come in from the east and hold off at thirty meters. Five, on my order, move in and hit ‘em with frag.”
“This is Five. Copy, Chief. Be advised, we’re taking heavy fire.”
“Acknowledged, Five. Watch out for our guys coming from the east.”
“Copy, Chief.”
“One, Two, Point Man, move north until I give word to stop.”
A round of acknowledgments came in. Heinrich turned his fire team in the appropriate direction and followed as they darted from tree to tree. The occasional stray bullet careened overhead, ripping wood chunks loose and turning them into high-velocity shrapnel.
When Heinrich had covered what he estimated to be a hundred yards, he took cover and scanned the smugglers’ camp. From where he stood, he was directly in line with the campfires to the west. He hissed at his fire team to hold position and keyed his radio.
“One, Two, Point man, stop and proceed toward enemy camp. Hold off at thirty yards and engage.”
More acknowledgements. Heinrich waved his fire team closer and set out at a run.
Squads four and five were doing their jobs. As he came within visual of the camp, he saw muzzle flashes spread out over a roughly fifty yard area, all focused westward. The camp itself was empty but the fires still burned, illuminating a small circle of forest.
“One, Two, Point Man, hold up and engage from cover. Four, cease fire. Five, hit ‘em with everything you got. Keep ‘em distracted.”
“This is five lead. Copy, Chief.”
Heinrich found a thick tree and took cover behind it. The island was mostly covered with old growth trees and little in the way of brush, meaning there was cover but very little concealment. The ground was loose and rocky, making lying prone painful. Heinrich ignored the discomfort and was grateful he had chosen to attack at night. With the lack of brush to hide in, a daytime raid would have meant heavy casualties, something he could not afford right now.
To his right, Heinrich’s fire team hit their bellies, leveled their rifles, and opened fire. Across from their position, squad four ceased fire and the fusillade of stray rounds overhead ceased for the moment. Gunfire erupted all across the raiders’ eastern skirmish line as squads one and two joined the fight.
Heinrich shoved aside all thought and scanned the battlefield. He h
eard screams erupting from the direction of the smugglers, telling him his renewed assault was claiming victims. By constantly shifting the direction of attack, Heinrich had put his targets off balance.
All according to plan.
“Five, this is Chief. Move in and hit ‘em with frag. One and Two, direct your fire southwest.”
Heinrich saw a muzzle flash in the night and heard bullets impacting trees inches over the heads of his fire team. He came up to one knee, aimed low at the muzzle flash, and squeezed off four rounds. The flashes stopped, as well as the bullets. One of the fire team gunmen looked Heinrich’s way and nodded, grinning. Heinrich gave him a thumbs-up, went back to his belly, and rolled to his left, stopping behind another tree. His men followed his example and began firing again. Heinrich approved. Not only would changing position frequently make it harder for the smugglers to hit his men, it would make it seem as if there were more of them than there really were. An overwhelmed enemy was a sloppy enemy, and a sloppy enemy was a dead one.
Above the gunfire, Heinrich heard the smugglers shouting to one another. He could not make out what they were saying, but their tone was decidedly panicked.
Good.
“Five, Chief. Where’s my goddamn frag?”
There was no response for a few seconds. Heinrich keyed his radio and asked again. Still nothing. Then his earpiece clicked twice, the signal for acknowledgement when the enemy was close enough to hear if one of Heinrich’s men spoke. The raider chief settled down and waited. Less than a minute later, a smuggler stood up and ran screaming toward the western shore. He got three steps before being cut down. As he fell, an explosion rocked the night and Heinrich felt a familiar thump come through the ground and into his torso. The feeling was oddly sexual. There were more screams and more explosions, seven in all.
When the Storm Road Tribe had left Parabellum, there had been enough fragmentation grenades in the emergency caches to outfit his men with two each. Squad five had just exhausted half their supply.
Heinrich risked coming up to his feet to look around, keeping his body bladed behind a tree. The grenades had taken a heavy toll on the smugglers. He heard screams and moans from their direction, and saw a few severed limbs that had been blown into the ring of firelight. No more than eight rifles still fired at his men, all of them focused eastward. “One, Two, Point Man, cease fire,” Heinrich radioed. “Four and five, move in and engage.”
There were no acknowledgements. Nor were there shouts or challenges or battle cries. His men stayed low and quiet and kept behind cover as much as possible. As they neared the campsite, they held up hands to signal one another. A few smugglers tried to resist and were quickly put down. The rest threw down their weapons and surrendered, begging for mercy. Heinrich ordered squads one and two to reconnoiter the island for survivors. Then he radioed the squads on the northern riverbank and asked if any boats had left.
“Chief, Six. Negative. Be advised, we can’t see the southern side of the island.”
“Copy, Six. Two, send one of your fire teams to the south shore. Make sure our boats are still there.”
“Roger, Chief. En route.”
The last of the smugglers were now bound with zip ties and being dragged into the light of the campfires. Heinrich stood up, stretched, and motioned for his fire team to follow.
“Hard part’s over, fellas,” he said. “Let’s see what we got.”
The men chattered excitedly as they followed their chief toward the smugglers’ blood-spattered camp.
*****
“Casualties?”
“Two,” Maru said. “One of Rourke’s men took a shot to the leg. Through and through. He’ll be all right in a few weeks, long as it don’t go septic.”
“And the other?”
“Took one in the head. He’s done.”
Down to 99. “Give him a proper burial.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Heinrich watched Maru walk away for a few seconds, then turned his attention to his other lieutenant, a red-bearded giant of a man named Ferguson. “What’s the story on the cargo?”
“Come take a look,” Ferguson said.
He walked over to a stack of white five-gallon buckets lined with trash bags and topped with weather-sealed lids. There were six buckets. Ferguson unscrewed the lid from one and opened the plastic bag within. Heinrich looked down at the contents.
“The fuck is that?”
Ferguson reached down and picked up a dark brown rectangle of dense, sticky resin and squeezed it. The substance resisted being compressed. “Opium. Uncooked.”
“Uncooked?”
“The raw stuff. Dry resin. Didn’t boil it or filter it much.
“Guys from down south brought it?”
“Looks like.”
“Worth anything?”
“Oh, hell yeah. We find a buyer, we got a fuckin’ fortune on our hands.”
Heinrich walked over to a pile of crates his men had stacked nearby and kicked one. “And what were they trading for?”
“Seed grain. Enough for about five-hundred acres.”
Heinrich gave a low whistle. “Son of a bitch. Is it in good shape?”
“No mold or rot, near as I can tell. Have to keep it dry to trade it.”
“What about supplies?”
“These guys packed light. Probably didn’t figure being on the road more than two weeks. Last us a day or so.”
“Better than nothing. Weapons? Ammo?”
“Military M-4s, mostly. Stole ‘em or bribed ‘em off somebody. ‘Bout two-thousand rounds of 5.56.”
“Anything else?”
“Few pistols, different calibers. Porn mags, booze, weed. Usual shit.”
“What kind of booze?”
“Moonshine. Decent stuff.”
“How many bottles?”
“Found twelve so far. Guys are still looking.”
“One of them is mine. And one each for you and Maru. You two did most of the hard work, you deserve first pick of the spoils.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“The rest we’ll trade. Ask around, see if anyone knows where we can sell the opium.”
“Will do.”
“Any women?”
A frustrated sigh. “Sadly, no.”
“What about survivors?”
“Three of ‘em. Say they’re dope smugglers out of Mississippi.”
“I’m curious about that opium. Find out what they know.”
“No problem.”
“And ask them about the men they were trading with. I want to know who they were and where they came from.”
Ferguson nodded.
“I’ll leave you to it, Ferg. Anybody needs me, I’ll be on the waterfront.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
Heinrich left the forest canopy and walked to the shore of the island. The first light of dawn shone through the cloud cover overhead, washing the river and surrounding countryside in shades of blue. The air was damp and heavy with the promise of a hot day ahead. Heinrich sat down on the rocky beach and crossed his legs and listened to the morning. Birds sang in the trees and insects buzzed along the riverbank.
Tired as he was, Heinrich was glad he was awake. The early hours when most of the world was asleep and the new day was still opening its eyes had always had a calming effect on him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Something always comes along,” he said, nodding to himself. “Something always comes along.”
TWENTY
Caleb,
Northern California
The Chinook flew off and left us with a big pile of the olive-drab fiberglass crates the US military is so fond of. I looked at Grabovsky and made a show of indicating the four of us.
“Exactly what the hell are we supposed to do with all this?” I asked. “We’d need half a platoon and two trucks to move it.”
Grabovsky flipped up his NVGs and consulted the readout of his tablet. “Nothing to worry about. Someone will be alon
g to collect it.”
“Collect it? Who?”
“Friends. Let’s get moving. We got a lot of ground to cover.”
I looked at the stacks of guns, ammo, medical supplies, food, and communications equipment, and then at Grabovsky. He was already marching northward with NVGs over his eyes, rifle hanging at the ready. Tyrel touched my shoulder as he passed.
“Better get moving, son.”
Gabe muttered something under his breath, gave the equipment a long look, and followed. My choices were to either stand there, or go along. So I activated my NVGs and went.
Half a mile passed under my feet before I realized how tense I was. My hands were tight around my rifle, my shoulders hunched, my jaw clenched. I took a long, slow breath and focused on relaxing.
There were a lot of things bothering me. I didn’t care for the extreme secrecy surrounding this whole thing. I did not like being in enemy territory and still not knowing the full parameters of my mission. Most of all, I did not like being forced to trust Grabovsky, despite Gabe’s endorsement of his character.
I also knew it did not matter what I liked or didn’t like. No one had put a gun to my head and forced me into this. I could have turned General Jacobs down when he offered to make me a federal emissary. I could have backed away from this mission when it was offered to me and rejoined the First Recon back in Hollow Rock. General Jacobs had made it clear from the beginning he did not want conscripts in his service, he wanted volunteers. If at any point I did not want to work for him anymore, I need only resign my commission and turn in my black card.
Furthermore, in the last two and a half years, I could have deserted the Army whenever I wanted and started a new life in any of the multitude of communities between Tennessee and Colorado. Plenty of people far dumber than me had done exactly that. Federal records were not what they used to be, and while there was an extensive file on me in the Archive, a simple name change and establishing myself in a community where I was unknown would make it next to impossible for a federal agent to find me. Assuming one was sent for me at all. I doubted that would happen. The feds had bigger problems than tracking down a lone deserter fleeing a felony rap.
