by Peter Nealen
Unfortunately, it was too much to ask that all of them would be as level-headed about their situation as the young man I had initially freed. As I turned to covering the door we had come in, some damned POG burst out crying when told that the Americans were here to rescue them.
“Shut that motherfucker up!” Bob and I hissed almost simultaneously.
There was a scuffle as several of the newly freed hostages, who were a little more aware of their situation, piled on the guy to keep him quiet. I listened carefully at the door. Nothing. Everything was still quiet. I keyed the comm. “Coconut, Hillbilly,” I murmured. “Found some twenty hostages in Building Two. Getting them sorted out now.”
“Roger,” came the faint reply. “Nothing else so far. I’ll get Schultz moving.” We had taken to nicknaming Kohl “Sgt. Schultz.” He had needed it explained to him, and wasn’t terribly amused when he got it. This only ensured we’d use it more.
The last of the hostages was getting cut loose. The weeper had been gagged by his fellows, using the sack that had been over his head. I approved. We did not want anyone knowing we were here until the sun came up and we were long gone.
The sudden sound of shouting in Arabic and the rattle of AK fire dashed those hopes.
Alek’s voice crackled over the radio. “Go loud, we’re made. Push to Building Two and strongpoint until the trucks arrive.”
I looked at the guy I’d freed first. “Can you shoot?” I asked, grabbing him by the shoulder. I hoped he could, but I knew a lot of training requirements in the military had gone to shit lately; some, especially in the Air Force or Navy, never even touched a weapon after basic.
“Yes,” he replied. “Where do you want me?”
I steered him toward the door. “Cover right here, and check your targets before you shoot at anything,” I said, as I picked up the AK that the gomer wasn’t going to need anymore, and handed it to him. “There are friendlies on their way here.”
“Roger,” he replied, taking a barricade stance on the door, the rifle held in a firm alert carry. Good, he did know what he was doing.
“Bob,” I called, as quietly as I could, “Give somebody with their head screwed on straight that other gomer’s rifle. I think we’re going to need it.” I opened the duffel, which I‘d left just inside the foyer, and shucked out my rifle, rocking a mag into the well and racking it as quietly as I could. The suppressor was already on the barrel. I handed the three spare AK magazines the dead gomer had in a chest harness to the kid I’d armed, and he tucked them into the elastic of his shorts.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked, over the growing sound of shouting and sporadic shooting outside. I didn’t know what they were shooting at, as all of our shooters should have been inside, but odds were, they didn’t know, either.
“Sack,” he replied. “Sgt John Sack, USMC.” He must have been part of the advisor group with TF Horn of Africa. “Who are you guys?”
“I’m Jeff,” I replied. “As for who the lot of us are, let’s just say we’re some pissed-off old gunfighters who got hired to find you, and deal with the rest of the pleasantries when we’re somewhere more secure than here.” I finished speaking as a gomer came slamming through the gateway into the courtyard in front of us. I shouldered my rifle, and drilled him in the chest with a tight pair of shots.
There was a flurry of shots from further down the complex. It sounded like people were coming awake, and Alek, Larry, Colton, and Tim were having to fight their way through as they cleared. My little reverie was cut short as four more yelling gomers tried to come through the gate, and Sack and I cut them down.
There was another fusillade from the left, and then an IR light flashed from Building One. “Hillbilly, Coconut. We’re in Building One.”
“Roger,” I replied. “I have eyes-on. How far out is Schultz?”
“Five mikes,” was the reply, as all hell broke loose.
There was a roar of engines, and more shooting. Fires were starting to flare up, and in the flickering light, I could see movement outside the gate. The shouting was turning into a cacophony now, and there was more small arms fire aimed toward the buildings, and up in the air. We’d stirred up a hornet’s nest.
I tapped Sack on the shoulder, and indicated that I was moving to the gate. I wanted a better view of what was going on, as well as a better shot at anybody coming.
“Hillbilly, Coconut, this is Kemosabe,” Jim called. “I don’t know what just happened, but the whole goddamned neighborhood is awake, and coming out of the woodwork. There are burning tires in the intersection, and at least three technicals on the street. I’m counting at least a hundred fighters, and that’s just on the streets. Watch how much you expose yourselves; I’m seeing shooters in the upper stories of the buildings to the north.”
“Roger,” Alek replied. I hunkered down a little lower at the gate, while glancing over my shoulder at the three-story buildings across the street. I was covered, barely, by the wall, and I was in the shadows, so unless they had night vision scopes, they’d have a hard time seeing me. I still felt as exposed as hell, though.
I could just see down the street toward the south. It was a narrow sight window, but it actually gave me a pretty decent field of fire, at least insofar as the buildings allowed. And I immediately saw four militiamen running toward us, AK-47s held at waist level. I opened fire, the suppressor keeping any muzzle flash to a minimum. It would have blinded me otherwise. The two lead fighters dropped in the street, while the other two scrambled out of my line of fire.
I shrank back as my hiding place was suddenly hammered with a barrage of 7.62 fire. More small flames stabbed from the open door of Building One, as one of the other guys opened up in reply, but was soon silenced, as the volume of fire increased. Rounds smacked against the wall next to me, and snapped through the gateway, hammering against the building. I heard a sharp yell of pain, cut off as quickly as it came, from the doorway.
“Everybody all right?” I yelled, as I ripped the mag out of my M1A and rocked in a fresh one.
“Caught a bullet fragment,” Colton called back from the doorway. “I’ll be fine, just stings like hell.”
I picked up the nearly empty mag where it had dropped, and stuffed it into a cargo pocket. “Where is Schultz? We’re going to get overrun here if we stay much longer!” I yelled.
“He’s circling the area,” Alek yelled from the window, over the roar of shooting and shouting. “He’s in unarmored trucks; they can’t get close without getting shot to ribbons.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Can we get out to the south?”
Another burst of firing from the other side of Building One answered that question. “Negative, they’re coming in that way, too.”
The fire from the street had slackened somewhat, so I risked reaching out into the gateway to snag one of the dropped rifles, but quickly ducked back, as a fresh storm of shots blasted dust and chips of concrete in my face. I racked my brain to remember the layout of the exits from the recon. There had to be a way out of here, preferably out into the desert to the south, where there were fewer hiding places for gomers to pop out of.
The fire slackened some more as they lost me as a target, so I ducked back out and ripped a handful of shots off. I was rewarded with one high-pitched wail of pain as I took cover again. The return fire was, if anything, fiercer than before. But I’d gotten another AK. I tossed it back toward the door, where Sack caught it and passed it to another hostage who could fight.
Another group of gomers tried rushing the gatehouse, and were met with gunfire from the house. One got past, and actually made it inside the wall, before I blew his head off from two feet away. Blood and brains splashed messily, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Jeff!” Sack yelled from the door. “What’s going on?”
“We’re fucking surrounded, is what’s going on!” I bellowed. “Now either shut up, or get out here and fight!”
I should have known better. The crazy bastard, barefoot
and in his skivvies, dashed out to join me at the wall, his AK held in a tactical carry. There was a crack, and a bullet smacked into the wall of Building One as he passed, probably aimed at him.
“Crazy fucker,” I snarled at him, shoving him back against the wall. “Can the rest of them move?”
“Some are going to need help,” he replied, “but yeah, I think so.”
“Go get ‘em ready,” I said, shoving him back toward the gym. “And keep your damned head down!” I laid another suppressive burst down the street, and then ducked back into cover. “Alek!” I yelled.
“I hear you, brother,” came the shouted reply. “Plan B, let’s do it!”
“Shiny, get ‘em moving,” I called over the radio, slinging my rifle across my chest. I dipped into the duffel at my feet.
Colton yelled, “Coming out!” and ducked through the door to take up security on the gate, facing north, as I came up with two of the concussion charges we’d put together. They consisted of two one-pound blocks of TNT taped together, with a tubular nylon handle about two feet long and a ten-second time fuse. I had about a dozen HC smoke grenades in the bag, as well.
Colton was shooting, engaging any shooters he could see on the street. The rest of the team came out of the house, while Tim still held security on the window, in case anyone tried to come at us through the house. Tim was also, I noticed, keeping a prisoner; the guy was on his face on the ground, with Tim’s knee in his back. Alek came to me, and grabbed one of the concussion charges. I had placed one next to me, and immediately grabbed a smoke, pulling the pin and lofting it over the wall to the north. Let those fuckers in the buildings across the street see us through that.
“Bob!” Alek yelled through the open door of the gym. “Let’s go, get ‘em moving!”
No sooner had he finished speaking, over the storm of gunfire outside, and the snapping reports of Larry and Colton shooting back through the gate, than Sack yelled, “Coming out!” and led a line of hostages out of the gym’s foyer.
“Coconut, Kemosabe,” Jim called over the radio. “Goldwings and I are keeping them off the crew-serves, but you need to get out of there. It looks like half of Balbala is headed in your direction.” His statement was punctuated by another crack, as either he or Hank shot another gomer trying to get on a machine gun mounted on one of the technicals out on the street.
I looked over my shoulder, and the ragged band of hostages looked to be all out in the courtyard, some coughing as the thick white smoke from the grenade started rolling over the top of the wall. I nodded at Alek, and we both grabbed concussion charges. Lighting the time fuses, we both started to whirl the charges on the end of the nylon, getting them some good momentum before we lobbed them over the wall. No sooner had mine left my hand than I was diving for more smokes.
The charges went off thunderously in the street, blowing smoke and dust up over the wall, and shattering glass all over the block. We immediately followed with about six smokes, as fast as Alek and I could pull pins, throw, and grab the next ones. As we were lobbing smoke grenades, Larry and Colton pushed out onto the street, firing as they moved.
Sweeping my rifle back up from where it dangled in front of my chest, I hefted the duffel and tossed it to the fittest-looking hostage I could see who didn’t have a weapon. “Hold on to that!” I yelled. “Now move!” Then I charged out the gate, and took a knee near, but not on, the wall, facing north.
The intersection to the north of the complex was like a scene out of hell. The gomers had rolled tires out into the middle of the intersection and set them on fire when they started attacking us. One of the concussion charges had landed on one, and scattered burning rubber all across the street. Flames flickered on the ground, through the roiling clouds of smoke, while muzzle flashes strobed above, bullets snapping by overhead, seeking our lives. The fire had slackened, and several bodies lay in heaps on the streets, from both our fire and the explosions. Some of the gomers were still staggering around, firing wildly in our direction. They were blinded by the smoke. The thermal elements of our NVGs removed any such handicap from us.
We gunned them down in the street with their fellows.
Larry, Colton, and I formed a line of shooters across the street, trusting to our fire to keep us alive, as Alek, Tim, and Bob chivvied the hostages down the street, toward the open desert, where we hoped that Kohl and his buddies could pick us up. Tim still had his prisoner, holding him by the collar with one hand, pushing him down the street. I could hear more shooting behind me, as they fought their way through another group of gomers trying to come around to the south. I couldn’t focus on them. My fight was to the north.
Time seemed to slow down, and everything took on a certain clarity that only comes to me when things have well and truly gone south. Larry was shooting so fast it sounded like his DSA FAL was on automatic, but I could hear every single shot. Colton was actually firing bursts. I was simply shooting pairs, every time my IR laser settled on a target.
Gomer. Two shots. Next target. AK in hand. Two shots. Gun goes dry, yank a fresh mag from its pouch, use it to hit the mag release, and sweep the empty mag out of the well. Rock the fresh mag in, and send the bolt home. Shotgun. Two shots. Next target.
We were holding the line, but the hostile fire was getting more intense, not less. Jim hadn’t been kidding; gomers were flooding out of the alleys and back streets of Balbala. We had well and truly kicked the hornet’s nest. Dimly, through the noise, I heard Alek yelling over the radio. “Hillbilly! Bound back!”
I was close enough to Larry to hit him on the shoulder, and he immediately ceased fire, came to his feet, pivoted, and dashed to the south. A few seconds later, he opened up again, his shots snapping past to my left, and I followed suit, bounding past him about ten meters. I pivoted on my right foot, dropping to my knee and bringing my rifle up, and started firing again as soon as I stopped moving. Colton turned, coming to his feet.
The bullet caught him at the base of his jaw.
He spun halfway around and dropped to the pavement like a sack of rocks. I was moving before I could even yell at Larry to hold, running forward to grab him. Larry was right next to me, laying down fire to cover my rush to Colton.
He was still alive, gurgling through the ruin of the lower half of his face. There wasn’t time to do anything for him; can’t put a tourniquet on a face wound. I grabbed his arm, and hoisted him into a fireman’s carry. Fortunately, he was a skinny guy, and I hefted him easily, while Larry kept shooting, cursing a blue streak.
I tried to settle Colton across my shoulders as I ran. Larry keyed his radio as he dashed back behind me. “Seabiscuit’s down, Hillbilly has him, coming to you!”
“Roger,” came Alek’s reply. He was breathing hard, his voice rasping over the comm. The firing behind us picked up, as we dashed past Tim and Bob, who opened back up as they saw we were clear.
My lungs were burning, and every muscle was protesting under Colton’s weight, as he bounced painfully against my shoulders. My left shoulder and arm were wet with his blood. I panted with exertion, but didn’t dare slow down.
We cleared the south end of the complex, and sprinted across the road, heading for the mounds of dirt and tailings that had been left from the construction of the complex and similar projects nearby, hoping to find some cover. I was trying to gasp some encouragement to Colton, trying to keep him fighting to live, but all I managed were hoarse pants.
I staggered around the edge of a berm where Alek had gathered the liberated hostages, and slumped to the ground, trying to ease Colton off my shoulders. Two of the hostages were there as well, and helped me lower him to the ground. I made sure to put him on his side; on his back, he’d likely choke to death on his own blood.
I ripped out the med bag at his waist, and went to work, daring to use a small red lens flashlight. They knew where we were, anyway, as Rodrigo and Nick were on top of the berm with M60s, laying down covering fire as soon as Tim and Bob got out of the way.
I
needn’t have bothered. Colton was dead. Either the bullet or the fragments of his jaw must have severed his carotid artery. I was covered in his blood, and he wasn’t moving or breathing. His eyes stared sightlessly at the night sky.
I threw the med bag in the dust in fury and grief. “Where the fuck is Kohl?!” I bellowed at Alek.
Alek just pointed, where two old 5-ton trucks were rolling up the road, flame stabbing from the FN MAG machine guns mounted on the cabs. The lead truck skidded to a halt between us and the gomers in a cloud of dust and gravel. Kohl leaped out of the passenger door, FAMAS cradled in hand, and ran around to the rear, where he sent a couple of desultory bursts downrange before unhooking the tailgate and letting it fall. Then he waved us toward the truck, while taking a knee and starting to suppress the enemy.
I was starting to lift Colton’s body when a hand clasped me by the shoulder. It was Sack. “We’ll get him. I think we need you to shoot right now.” I almost decked him and went back to carrying my brother-in-arms, but his common sense penetrated the emotional shock, and I remembered that the more guns we had in the fight, the more likelihood we had of getting the rest of us out of this alive. It was too late for Colton. Maybe it wasn’t too late for the rest of us.
Bending low, I dashed forward, coming to a knee next to Kohl, and opening fire. A group of gomers was trying to rush us from the small cluster of huts on the other side of the north-south running road. They didn’t make it far. Kohl, Alek, and I gunned them down, even as three machine guns swept across them, peppering the shacks at the same time.
Kohl was a good shot, I’ll give him that. He kept his rifle on semi, putting controlled pairs into any target that presented itself. And there were plenty. The militia was enraged that we’d invaded their turf and taken their hostages, and they were out for blood. Another group of about twenty came boiling out of the alley between building complexes, and into Rodrigo’s fire. He laid windrows of them down in the dusty street.
