The Battles of Rock Harbor: A Bugging In Tale of the Apocalypse

by J. B. Craig

  Jen pulled a high explosive round for the 90MM, and Greg felt the round slide into place. A click, and a slap on his ass, and he was locked and loaded.

  “I’m down” whispered Jen.

  Greg sighted the middle of the target boat and squeezed the trigger. WHOOOOF! The noise was loud, but, as they’re named that way, the recoilless rifle barely moved. The roof, however, lit up with smoke and the flame of the rocket. Then the boat just disappeared in the middle. The fireball lit up the river brighter than the flare.

  Greg didn’t have time to enjoy his handiwork. “Load HE, Jen!” At that moment, in the relative quiet of a few enemy splashing and screaming that they couldn’t swim, Greg heard Ma-Deuce open up with her distinctive Bam-Bam-Bam by the front gate. Gunny was getting some. Small arms fire opened up, and the berm area suddenly sounded like popcorn in a microwave. This was a well-coordinated attack. Luckily, the men from Dahlgren brought some counter-measures.

  Jen got the second round loaded just as incoming rounds from about 50 remaining enemy started to spray the roof. Jen was hit in the leg, and luckily, dropped behind the peak of the roof – away from the bad guys. Greg ran up to take cover behind the masonry chimney.

  “JEN! Jen… are you OK, baby?”

  “I’m good, Cowboy, light ‘em up. Those fuckers SHOT me!”

  Greg took a deep breath, and sighted on the next-largest boat, and turned it into a crater in the water. About half the incoming rounds followed his smoke trail, and he ducked behind the chimney. Shards of brick and asphalt shingles sprayed all around him. At his last glance, the third boat was about 30 feet from the boat dock. Greg dropped the nose of the 90MM and said “HE” to Jennifer. She tossed him a round, which he caught after playing “Tip drill”. He was also trying to stay behind the stone of the chimney. He loaded a third round, and looked over his shoulder. Jen was tying a length of para-cord around her calf. She was alert and seemed OK.

  “Jen, Listen. Lay on the roof with your legs up-hill – don’t go into Shock. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Wilco, cowboy. You’ll say anything to get my legs up in the air.” She looked at him, smiled, and blew a kiss.

  Greg got on Jen’s side of the roof and ran to the edge of the house closest to the boat ramp. He sighted in the last large boat, and fired… and hit a pine tree, crashing it across the boat ramp.

  “FUCK!”

  Ski

  A few minutes before, Ski and PFC Newman, perched comfortably in the thick foliage of a Cedar tree, equidistant from the mine-lane, 5-ton, and defensive berm watched quietly as 100- plus infantry slowly, but not quietly, made their way through the woods. Phoenix got smarter and was performing a 2-pronged attack on community, even though the thick forest made it harder.

  Ski watched as the last infantry men passed him, going towards landmine alley, followed by Whip and his 20 or so ‘Rangers’. He looked over at Newman, and then made the universal “cut their throat” sign. Once they were far enough away, he called in his Situation Report, or SITREP, and he slowly climbed down out of the Cedar tree, with Newman on his 6, or covering the rear.

  They followed at a distance, moving like REAL Rangers and Marine Recon warriors would. Despite Ski’s talk at dinner, he was convinced by Greg that each man should have an M-4, a side-arm, and whatever knife they each called “sweetness” every night before bed. Ski had his Ka-Bar, and Newman had his Gerber combat blade.

  In front of them, they heard the M-2 open up, defending the peninsula. That worry of ambush gone, they moved forward for some blood. Phoenix’s infantry seemed to be making their way to the mined path.

  At the shrill sound of a whistle, those on the path started marching forward. They entered the path, and double-timed down it, accompanied by an occasional boom, or pop, as they detonated the mines. Phoenix was using his own men as cannon fodder! There was an occasional gurgle and screams from those trying to help as someone tripped one of the snares. Esteban was ruthless with his bent trees, and often a group of attackers would watch as a team member was yanked off the ground and shit himself as he was hung over the trail. With that many people, a buddy might be cut down before being strangled, but once again, it took a handful of men to save one, and was totally demoralizing to the attackers. Whip and his ‘Rangers’ didn’t go on the path, but instead walked parallel to it, through the thick woods. Ski and Newman followed their prey quietly.

  As the majority of the Infantry entered the kill zone in front of the bunker, the defender’s small arms lit up, and it was a full-on battle. Top called in mortars, which were dropping into the middle of the bad guys at the head of the trail, creating random “crumps” and screams. Only then did the ‘Rangers’ enter the clearing and spread out in a defensive formation. They tried taking potshots with their little 9mm automatics, but it was truly “spray and pray”. They spent longer changing their magazines than they did emptying them.

  Ski tapped Newman on the shoulder and mimicked spraying his own M-4. Newman smiled and nodded, doing a parody of a dysfunctional person spraying the whole area. Ski grinned and moved forward. The 2 elite warriors leveled their M-4’s into the back of the group of ‘Rangers’ and did their own version of Spraying. There was no praying involved, as each well-aimed, 3-round burst took out, or at least crippled a musclebound ‘Ranger.’ When they were done, they didn’t bother to re-load, over a dozen ‘Rangers’ were down, and a handful were standing, looking around confused. The Marine and Ranger warriors dropped their rifles and waded into the few remaining rangers with pistols and knives. All of this was happening while the un-trained enemy infantry was being mowed down by the defenders behind the berm. The defenders were now outnumbered about 6-to-1, but seemed to be holding their own.

  At that point, Top tripped the claymores in the berm, and the odds immediately went to about 4 to 1, with lots of screaming and the smell of offal coming from the poorly prepared attackers. A quick look by Ski showed that the numbers had moved to about 50 attackers against a dozen or so defenders. Ski watched as Top took a shot to the head area as he was barking orders.

  Ski was rightly and fully pissed off. He looked left, found his prey. “WHIP IS MINE.” Yelled Ski.

  “No shit, brother, I’ll bat clean-up.” Said Newman. He casually double-tapped all but one of the remaining standing ‘Rangers’ in the face, then pointed at the last one and said, “Who said you could call yourself a Ranger? Prove it pussy.”

  Newman was facing, easily, a 280 lb. Gym rat. This dude was covered with tattoos and looked at the 160 lbs. (soaking wet) Newman. He was caught in the sights of Newman’s Beretta, so dropped his Uzi. “I said so. Come be daddy’s bitch.”

  Newman walked up slowly, dropped his empty pistol (not that the Thug knew it), and when the ‘Ranger’ rushed him, he side-stepped and stuck his Gerber combat knife into the base of his skull. There was no dance and parry, just deadly accuracy. “Check mate, Fuck-puddle. You are NOT a Ranger!” He stood over the dead Gym Rat, and yelled a victory rebel yell, as he pulled out his knife, and then proceeded to clean up the wounded ‘Rangers’ still twitching on the ground. He was briefly an ENT specialist, as his knife went into their eye, nose or throat, and he moved on to the next one. Then he wiped off his knife, and watched Whip and Ski circle each other.

  Whip got his name because he was fast as a whip with a knife. The look in his eye was predatory as he looked Ski in the face. “I’ve seen you. Your brother was so proud of you. Killing both of you will be my legacy, and my mercy.”

  “Your legacy will be getting fed to the crabs in this harbor. I’m done talking, let’s dance.” Ski went silent and started to circle.

  Whip moved in with a strike, faked to the right, and cut Ski on the left shoulder and jumped a few feet to the side.

  “Ow.” Ski said sarcastically. Then he faked throwing his Ka-Bar at Whip. When Whip moved to the side, Ski was there at his side, and shoved the Ka-Bar into his kidney. Many say that a knife to the kidney is the most painful wound anyone coul
d experience. It’s where Special Operators are trained to strike from behind, because the pain is so intense, that it renders the victim immovable, and silent.

  If pain were measured by screaming, this cut would not be too bad. That said, the victim’s eyes rolled up into his head. He tried to take a breath, but nothing would move into his lungs. Whip dropped to his knees, and looked like he was screaming, but no noise came out.

  “That’s why we sneak up on fucks like you and stab the kidney. They can’t scream, bitch! Any last words? Oh, what? Can’t hear you. I guess you’re done then.” With that, Ski grabbed Whip by the hair, and cut his throat, sawing all the way to his backbone. When he let go, Whip’s head fell back, and his body fell on his own folded-under head. Even though Newman was one tough warrior, he threw up in his throat a little at the sight.

  With all of the small arms noise of the battle of the berm, and the ringing of the ears that came with claymores blowing off nearby, neither Newman nor Ski could hear very well. Add to that the adrenaline of man-to-man combat, and neither of them were tuned into the motorcycles coming down the now-cleared land-mine alley. When they did hear them getting close, they turned, with knives in their hands, as Phoenix’s gang of 20-plus biker cavalry came through and sprayed them both with 9mm bullets. Both men tried evasive action to get to their firearms, but there were too many men and bullets. They were both hit several times and went down hard as the motorcycles roared past.

  As they lay bleeding in the dirt, Ski looked over at Newman, and gasped, “Semper Fi, Brother. We brought a knife to a gun fight.” He laughed, then closed his eyes. The Marine Creed of “Always faithful” was indeed a testament to Ski’s revenge of his brother’s death. He reached out and grasped hands with Newman.

  “Sua Sponte, friend.” PFC Newman smiled as he gasped the Ranger creed, ‘Of their own accord’ as his last words on the planet. He did indeed choose this path, of his own accord. He also defended the honor, and name, of the US Army Rangers, admirably.

  Cratering

  After Hitting the tree with his poorly-aimed shot from the roof, Greg dropped flat and picked up a Flechette round as he got to the ladder. His thinking was that by the time he cleared the trees the boat was behind, they would have landed. He strapped the 90MM across his back and slid down the ladder. Dropping off the roof and running towards the bunker.

  As Greg cleared the Leilani’s front yard, he looked at the bunker, hoping that he could win the race, by getting there before the attackers cleared the kill zone. He saw Les in the bunker, shouting at Greg to “GET DOWN – Fire in the hole!”

  Greg dropped to the ground, curled into a ball, opened his mouth, and stuck his fingers in his ears, to prevent overpressure causing ruptured ear drums. He had remembered his lesson from the first battle: Overpressure sucks. Just about then, there was a CRUMP as the cratering charge and other IED’s planted around the boat ramp blew chunks of concrete and stone into the center of the group of attackers who were just coming ashore. The concussion was like a punch in the chest. Greg moved his hands to cover his head as detritus rained down all around him. He was hit in the leg by a falling chunk of stone, but he felt that it wasn’t anything serious.

  He got up from his protective position, and limp-sprinted to the foxhole as he heard the first line claymores detonated at the berm behind about a quarter mile behind him. He dove and slid into the foxhole, snagging himself on the end, but eventually dropped in with Les – who was on the ground with a chunk of stone imbedded in his head. Greg checked for a pulse and didn’t get one. Another good man gone, another grave to dig, another reason to want revenge on Phoenix.

  Greg saw Manuel sprinting through the trees, and then across the front yard of one of the empty houses on the peninsula. He was headed for Golden Bell point, on the other side of the sand bar, overlooking the inlet. Based on the intel received on the radio, he assumed it was to repel the sailboat, which had not passed the channel into Rock Harbor. Greg had more pressing needs at the moment. He had an assault force to repel.

  As Greg stopped at the roadside entry to the boat ramp, he looked down and saw that the cratering charge did indeed do its job. There were four invaders, in various states of walking wounded trying to organize a defense around the crater.

  Greg aimed the Flechette charge into the center rear of the crater and fired it a range of about 60 feet. The men in the crater didn’t see him approach around the trees, so were not prepared. They just ceased to exist from the waist up. Flechettes create massive trauma against people, with their steel darts. 90MM worth of flechettes is much like firing 15 12-gauge shotguns at the same time. Greg set the 90MM down pulled around his M-4. A few finishing shots into the moaning bodies around the ramp, and the naval assault seemed to have been blunted.

  …Except for the sailboat. Greg ran to the edge of the boat ramp, and onto the edge of the dock, as he knew he could see the inlet from there. Greg saw what had happened to the sailboat. The keel of the boat had bottomed out in the shallow inlet, as the already deeper-drafting sailboat was over-filled with men carrying guns and ammo. They were shooting in the direction of Golden Bell point. Suddenly, Greg watched a pipe bomb sail through the air, and go into the hatch of the sailboat. A muffled crump later, and the boat was foundering, with wounded men screaming for help in the water. “I can’t swim!” was among the pleas for help. The fools still didn’t know that they were in about 5 feet of water. They only had to stand up. Greg took the time to empty his magazine, 3 rounds at a time into the bodies around the boat, as he could see them illuminated by the burning sailboat. With that magazine empty, Greg sprinted back up the boat ramp, to check on Manuel.

  Once up the ramp he ran down the road toward the last house on Golden Bell Point. Ethyl got there about 50 feet ahead of him. She was already applying a tourniquet to Manuel’s bleeding leg, and he was applying pressure to the abdominal wound that he received.

  Greg got there, panting, adrenaline-shaky, and asked Ethyl for a sitrep.

  “This idiot disobeyed orders and took the pipe bomb to the point. He got himself shot. That’s the sitrep!”, she yelled with anger and sorrow in her voice. “She pulled herself together and patted his shoulder. This brave idiot better not die. You can’t help with these wounds. It looks like our flank is covered. There are no more threats that I can see. Greg walked to the point and looked down into the carnage around the sailboat. The crabs would eat well tonight.

  While 4 residents were successfully repelling most the naval attack, things were getting hot at the Berm. That is, if you can count 2 wounded in action, and 1 KIA as a successful defense of the flank. Greg started trotting/limping to the battle raging at the entrance, as the stone that hit his leg was starting to tell him a painful story. He looked up on the roof and saw Jennifer crawling across the roof - making her way to the ladder. She blew him a kiss, then cringed in pain, but waved him on to the front.

  Top

  Top and the remaining defenders had held the berm from the initial frontal assault. As they came through the mined path, he dropped 25mm grenades from Ski’s M-203 into the group, and they paid the price for being first to survive the path. Top took out a few at a time while he had the distance, but there were more attackers than he could keep up with, so he switched to the M-4 and dropped them one at a time, with double-taps to the center of mass.

  When the attackers overwhelmed the defenders at the berm with sheer numbers, they got close to the road opening in the berm and Top discharged the claymores, cutting down at least a dozen instantaneously. He then started calling in mortar strikes in the same pre-planned coordinates of the gap. The repeated crump of mortars taking out a handful of attackers at a time was like clockwork.

  Based on the sound of the report, and the corresponding dropping attackers falling limp, or getting blown backward, Este was dropping one attacker after the other with the .308 from his roost. The Ma Deuce had exploded several, and had more laying low, but just went silent. Top figured that Gunny was either ch
anging barrels or reloading. The M2 is usually a 2-man crew-served weapon, but could be fired by one in a stationary position, or mounted to a vehicle turret. Dealing with Jams and reloads went much slower without a second gunner to help.

  Several of the attackers saw the deadly gap filling with their fellow bad-guys, so pushed the right side of the berm, across the street and as far from the mansion and its deadly fire from above as they could. They Fired an RPG at the berm, and the concussion blew Buck the firefighter back into the grass. The attackers used the crater it created in the wall as a step up and over the berm. Over 40 surviving attackers all saw the opening, and took it, as they didn’t want to face any more claymores, or the ranged fire from the mortar team. Several took the opportunity to put a few rounds in Buck, who was riddled with bullets. Top saw the pressure at the gap cease, and called for another flare, so he could assess the situation.