by W. J. Lundy
Gunner explained to them that there were not many recon members in the camp and, because of the shortage of gun fighters, they had been stuck doing most of the heavy lifting. This niche status earned them a nice cache of weapons and equipment. The recon groups received better food at chow and they had more freedom of movement on the island.
Another benefit of being on a recon team was that you did not have to participate in the daily camp duties. No working in the mess hall, filling sand bags, or burning shit. Still though, one or two days a week you were expected to go into the infected cities and face off against the primals. When the mission was over, a twenty-four hour quarantine would be waiting for you.
The admiral had tried to give his war fighters the best to keep them happy. The security of the camp was held together by the compliance of the recon groups. One thing the admiral didn’t understand was that the same thing that gave them the courage to run down primals, was also what burned at them to return home to their country and their families, even if it meant certain death.
Morning came hot and fast to the island. Brad woke early, since it was impossible to sleep under the intensity of the sun. He rose from his cot and followed the others to the showers and latrine. He had briefly met the members of Charlie Group the previous night. It had been late though, and there were no lights in the tent, so introductions were brief.
Charlie Group was made up almost entirely of combat arms soldiers, sailors and Marines. There were seven of them, including Gunner. Most of them had worked together for weeks, since the founding of the island camp. Gunner had joined the group early, and as the senior member had become their leader. He was responsible for the recruiting and training of the members as well as the planning of missions. The rest of Charlie Group referred to Gunner as ‘The Godfather’, which somehow had broken down to just ‘Pops’.
The only female in the group and exclusive non-combat arms member was Lieutenant Kelli Davis. She had been a competitive shooting champion in high school, and ranked top junior pistol shot in her state for three years. It was said her skills with a rifle were even better. She was raised a country girl, hard as nails, and could hunt and track with the best of them.
Gunner sent a request through the chain of command for Kelli to join Charlie Group. They resisted at first, but Gunner was a hell of a salesman and eventually they came around. He was in need of a sniper and she would fit the position. The guys in charge signed off on the request, but that’s not why he’d recruited her. She was a naval aviator and had trained on large cargo aircraft. Charlie Group had needed a pilot, and they got one.
The Villegas brothers were from Southern California. Dark, lean, and mean Marine Corps reservists doing a nine-month tour in Kuwait during the fall, they had managed to escape deep into the desert during the first days. They had survived for weeks on their own before being spotted by a low-flying observation plane. Now they were designated rifleman in Charlie Group. Quiet, tough, and reliable was how they were described.
The last three members of Charlie Group were plucked from the top of a Bradley fighting vehicle in the dunes of Saudi Arabia. Sergeant Hahn, Corporal Parker, and Specialist Theo had been cavalry scouts assigned to an armored cavalry regiment. The scouts had fought a rolling retreat all the way from central Iraq. Tip of the spear. Lead vehicles in a massive convoy which had been rolling south towards the southern border. During an intense late night engagement, a fuel vehicle had bogged down on a bridge. They had pulled into a defensive perimeter and called the recovery vehicles forward, fighting wave after wave as the combat engineers attempted to clear the route. A lot of people and ammunition were lost in the failed effort. The more the soldiers fought, the more primals were attracted in. Vehicle crews ran out of ammunition and a means to fight back, then their fuel tanks had run dry. In the early morning hours, crews on the south side of the bridge were ordered by the officer in charge to continue the withdrawal and move towards the Saudi border, while vehicles to the north would search for a new route. Vehicles broke out of the defensive formations and scrambled to escape the primal mobs. Hahn’s Bradley was down to a driver and gunner; he had lost all of his dismounts early in the battle. Hahn commanded his vehicle south, fighting his way through the desert. In the chaos, they became separated from the rest. Radios were stormed with panicked traffic. Without the support of the convoy, their vehicle ran out of fuel and they became stranded and alone, lost in the Saudi desert. Sergeant Hahn and his men were rescued two days later.
The back portion of tent six contained a makeshift ready room: a small table surrounded by cobbled-together benches. When Brad filed into the tent, he found most of Charlie Group already assembled in the briefing area. He was surprised to see Chelsea, Nelson, and Craig occupying a bench near the back of the space. Brooks had followed in behind Brad, and stood next to a pole that supported the weight of the tent.
Sean and Gunner entered the room through a side door, causing everyone to suddenly cease conversations and take their seats. Gunner took a seat near the table and Sean found a seat near him. Even though they all shared a common goal in getting back to the States, Gunner had decided early on that he would keep everyone in the dark until they reached the drop zone. Operational security had to be tight for everything to succeed.
Gunner pulled a sheet off the table, uncovering a map underneath. “Hope everyone is rested up, we have a big op planned for tomorrow. I gather everyone has met the new members of Charlie Group. These guys have a lot of experience on the ground with screamers; experience we can use. Also, tomorrow’s mission will be augmented with the Marines.
“They are mechanics and electricians. We are tasked with trying to locate and recover working generators. The wrench turners will help, so let’s not get them killed right off.”
Hahn raised his hand and gave Gunner a cold stare, “Excuse me Gunner, but how in the hell are we supposed to kill screamers while we are babysitting these kids?”
“Fair enough question, Hahn. We’ll split into two, six-man teams for tomorrow. You six will run the same as always, as the Alpha element. Chief Rogers will take his people and the techs as Bravo element. I’ll stay in command.”
Gunner pointed to a spot on the map overlay. ”We’re going to drop in on the roof of this large office structure. From there, we’ll run a standard perimeter and observation post, before we branch out on our search recons. We’ll have approximately one hundred and eighty minutes on the ground. Pickup will be on the same rooftop.”
Hahn again raised his hand. “Pops, what’s the alternate rally and pickup point in case things go bad?”
“So glad you asked that, Sergeant Hahn,” Gunner said, as he used his grease marker to circle a section on the far corner of the map. “This is plan B, it’s an airport. If the shit hits the fan, we will roll hard to the alternate pickup point.”
“Pops, that’s damn near five clicks through open terrain! One hell of a hump if we’re in active retreat,” Hahn said.
“True story; thank you for recognizing the risk for us. I want all of you to memorize this map and possible routes to plan B. Sergeant Hahn makes a good point about the dangers, so let’s take double ammo and rations tomorrow just in case,” Gunner said to the moans of the others.
“Damn Pops, double ammo and rations? That’s a lot of gear to hump,” the elder Villegas, Daniel, protested.
The younger Villegas, Joey, let out a deep laugh, “Shoot, big brother, if it’s too much for your old ass, I’ll carry your shit for you.”
“Yo shut up man, I’ll carry my own shit!” Daniel snapped back.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough, get your stuff together. Everyone on the road tomorrow at zero three. That is all.” Gunner said.
The room fell to silence as Gunner and Sean walked out of the tent. The rest of the members gathered around the table, taking notes and drawing sketches of the objective. Brad decided to avoid the crowd and went outside to grab some fresh air. He went beyond the tents and walked the road toward t
he large camp.
Sensing he was being followed, he turned back and saw Chelsea coming up behind him. He stopped to wait up for her. “Can I join you, Sergeant Thompson?” she asked with humor in her voice.
“You may, Corporal Swanson,” he answered as they continued to walk the road.
“So Brad, what the hell are we doing here? Do you know what is going on?” Chelsea asked.
Brad stopped and looked behind him before answering her. “Chelsea, just relax and go with things. We just got here. You’ll get adjusted to the routine.”
“I don’t care; I didn’t sign up to be making garbage runs into cities. This isn’t my job. I just want to get home. I don’t want to adjust, Brad.”
“Everyone wants to get home, but for now this is the hand we have been dealt. Get your people together. Inspect their gear and make sure they are ready for tomorrow’s mission.”
“I’m not interested in the mission, can’t they find someone else?”
“What did you tell me back on the tower? You said don’t quit. So suck it up, Marine. I don’t want to hear this bullshit out of you again. Do you understand?” Brad said, his frustration growing. Not only with her attitude, but because he couldn’t tell her the true objectives of the mission.
“Yes Sergeant! Understood,” Chelsea said before she turned to walk away, but not before Brad saw the hurt in her expression.
30.
The Sea Stallion’s blades were already turning at high speed. The roar of the engines and the wash of dust made communication impossible. Gunner was just outside the radius of the large rotor blades, speaking to the helicopter’s crew chief. Then he ran back to the edge of the road where the rest of Charlie Group had assembled, and pulled Sergeant Hahn and Sean off to the side.
Everyone was standing nervously over their gear of overstuffed rucksacks and long rifles, waiting for instructions. Each of them was dressed in their newly-acquired bite shirts under their heavy body armor. Brad and the other three soldiers were in MultiCam while the rest wore the tan, Navy issue uniforms. Brad looked to Chelsea to try and get her attention; she saw his stare and looked away.
Sean and Hahn ran to the group, yelling for them to move out. Brad grabbed his heavy rucksack and looped the straps over his shoulders. He joined in line behind the rest of Charlie Group running toward the loading ramp of the aircraft. He followed until the line quickly stopped, then dropped into a seat on the port side. When everyone was onboard and set, Gunner flashed a thumbs up to the crew chief.
Slowly the CH-53 rose into the still dark, early morning sky. The ramp remained down and they could see the dim outlines of the darkened camp as they flew away back out over the Arabian Sea and towards the Gulf of Aden. Quickly they were up and at cruising speed; the two hundred mile trip to the main land would take them just over an hour. The sun was starting to break the horizon and the sky glowed in response.
Brad tried to relax. He went over the checklists in his head. He didn’t have to worry about forgetting anything; everything he owned was in his pack or on his person. He was carrying food and water for six days, which might seem like a lot, but not for continuous operations. Lately he had trained himself to survive on as little as one meal a day. One high calorie meal a day had done little to prevent the weight loss he had experienced in the last month.
He had two hundred and ten rounds of 5.56 ammo strapped to his vest and another hundred and forty rounds in his pack. He carried seventy-five rounds of 9mm ammo, not counting the fifteen rounds loaded into his Sigma pistol. The tomahawk was strapped to his hip, his fighting knife on the left breast of his armor. Brad had reluctantly discarded his helmet in exchange for a lightweight boonie cap. He had two changes of uniform and a light poncho liner in a bivy sack. Altogether, his kit was over eighty-five pounds.
The helicopter flared and changed altitude as they approached the coast line. The CH-53 cut right to approach the city in a slow, sweeping arc, out and away from their true objective. Just as in normal combat operations, the idea was to deceive the enemy of their true landing point. The helicopter neared the edge of the city and several times made false insertions.
The crew chief gave a five minute warning and everyone gripped onto their rucksacks and weapons. The Sea Stallion made another dry landing nearly two blocks from the target building before it leapfrogged up and sped to the actual drop site. The bird lowered and hovered just over the building as the crew chief yelled for them to get out. Quickly they grabbed their gear and poured out of the helicopter. The Sea Stallion crew members grabbed web and sling load materials and dumped it onto the deck just as the throttles went up and the helicopter roared away.
Brad watched as it made more false insertions and slowed its speed to lure any hunting primals away from the target building. Charlie Group cleared the area and made a full circle perimeter along the inside of the roof. They had formed a basic perimeter with the Alpha element taking responsibility of covering the two rooftop entrances. Then they dropped and became silent, listening for any movement, and smelling the air for signs of the primals.
Brad sat uncomfortably; he had unwisely chosen a position amongst broken stone and debris. The sun was now in full force and he could feel the sweltering heat and the sweat rolling down his back. The building they had chosen was three stories high. The roof was constructed of concrete but mainly held together by asphalt. The edges of the roof were skirted by a three-foot wall. Small vents, chimneys, and two roof access structures were almost randomly placed.
Brad quickly made a visual check of the rest of the Bravo element. Sean was in the middle of the hasty perimeter kneeling next to Hahn and Gunner. Chelsea and the other techs were in a broken line along the east end of the roof. Brooks had taken up a crouched position near the south wall where he could observe both roof access structures.
After waiting over ten minutes in silence, Gunner stood and called everyone to his position near the center of the roof. Brad got to his feet in the middle of the debris and looked around to make sure everyone had received the message. Brad reached for his rucksack that he had dropped near him just after exiting the helicopter. As he grabbed the top handle and went to lift the bag, he felt a sagging in his knees and heard the creaking sound of splitting wood. He quickly released the handle and stood motionless. For an instance he had felt a sensation of dropping. He relaxed and took a deep breath as he slowly took a step forward.
Just as he leaned forward the roof gave out from underneath him. He dropped fast as if a trap door had opened. He slipped feet first with no time to outstretch his arms. He slapped his face on a beam as he fell through layers of rotted wood and asphalt. He consciously fought to hold on to his rifle as he slapped into, then through, a large pile of debris. He felt as if he was lying on piles of rotten bodies and skeletons. A hot white flash of pain rushed through his body.
He couldn’t see. The quick movement from the bright outdoors to the dark interior of the building had blinded him. He quickly checked every inch of his body for injuries. He felt okay, except for the stinging burn on his face and the taste of blood on his lips. He stretched out his arms and felt the cushioned mess around him. Brad went to straighten his legs and felt the searing pain in his thigh. Apprehensively he dropped his arm and felt a large wooden splinter piercing through the top of his leg. He had apparently fallen into a junk room loaded with piles of broken furniture and masses of garbage bags filled with refuse.
Brad could see light from the hole he had fallen though, a narrow break in the roof maybe ten to twelve feet above him. He tried to stand but found himself tangled in the mass of broken furniture and garbage bags. The pain was unbearable, and made putting weight on his right leg impossible. He heard a voice call his name from above. They were obviously trying to stay away from the break in the roof. He shouted back a quick reply.
Brad again tried to untangle himself from the debris when he heard the first moan. ‘Oh shit,’ he said to himself as he lay there, silently listening. He concentrated on
trying to find the source of the noise. There was a skirmish of activity behind him and the noise sounded muted, possibly through a wall. Brad closed his eyes and slowly opened them again, trying to let the light from the hole in the ceiling bleed into the room.
He began to make out the far wall, maybe ten feet away. He could see garbage and debris all around him; it was piled thick to the ceiling and pressed against a battered and destroyed door. ‘Oh no,’ he thought again as he realized where he had fallen. He was positioned in the middle of a makeshift barricade. Brad twisted hard in the garbage and was able to make out a larger portion of the room opening up into the darkness.
‘Now,’ the question he asked himself. ‘Are there primals in the room? Or are they all on the other side of the barricade?’ Another moan, coming from deep within the dark corners of the room, answered his question. The moan was joined by more screams from the other side of the door. Brad saw a shadow in the light above; he strained his eyes to see Brooks lying flat looking, into the hole.
“You okay down there?” Brooks yelled.
“Leg is dicked up, but I’ll live, if that’s what you are asking. I’m also not alone, if you were curious.”
“Yeah I can hear the bastards, how many?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Brad said, shouting over a building chorus of screams and moans. “Sounds like a swarm. I have at least one of them in the room with me; the rest are on the other side of a door.”
“What did you fall in, buddy? You’re in a rat’s nest of shit down there; can you crawl out?”
Brad bent his body and strained his arms, trying to get a handle onto something solid. He reached a long, broken board and was able to get a few fingers around it. He began to pull hard to straighten himself; getting his other arm around the board, he pulled with all of his strength. Just as he finished pulling himself to a painful kneeling position, there was a crash into the pile. A primal had hit it at a full on run. It was snarling and thrashing at the barricade, trying to get at Brad.
