All three jumped into view at the same time. Hundreds of bullets flew in both directions. A rifle round slammed into his already bruised sternum and Fleming staggered back but didn’t go down. He fired his grenade at two men picking their way over the twisted door. The blast’s shock wave knocked him on his back.
Shaking off the shock, he saw one of his two paratroopers go down. The last did something unexpected: he attacked. Charging past the scorched metal door, he emptied his M-16 into two Chinese who had emerged from the back of the IPC. Arriving at the armored vehicle’s rear, he aimed his grenade launcher into the still-open ramp. Bullets tore at his uniform, but before he went down the trooper pulled the trigger.
The first explosion came as a dull crump. Smoke seeped from the IPC’s firing slits and joints. A Chinese soldier, burned black, staggered down the ramp, his uniform smoldering. A cluster of attackers swarmed past him and the crippled vehicle on their way inside the warehouse, with no one left to shoot back. All of the warehouse’s other defenders were spread out too far away to cover the hole in their wall. And Fleming had shot his M-16 empty.
Then a blast rocked the IPC as cannon rounds cooked off. Another one; a third. Shrapnel ripped through its skin in all directions, slicing through the bodies of the Chinese soldiers jammed together only a few feet away. Then the fuel tank went up.
Waves of flaming fuel gushed out. One last, huge explosion sent the IPC’s turret flying onto the warehouse roof. It crashed through like a bomb and slammed into a cluster of workbenches. Any man within thirty feet was washed in burning diesel, and the Americans were under cover. One infantryman totally covered in flames ran screaming into the warehouse, arms extended like Frankenstein’s monster. Staggering in circles, he wailed and wailed, and finally collapsed.
It took out a score of them. The Chinese attack collapsed and the shaken infantrymen retreated to the warehouse across the parking lot.
#
Green Ghost checked his stopwatch. One hour forty-seven minutes since Fleming had said two hours would be the max they could hold out. Why had everything taken longer than expected? They’d finally all assembled on Honey Lake’s south shore, but the Chinese were nowhere to be seen. Even two helicopters flying back and forth hadn’t attracted any attention.
Firing pounded to the east, most of it at least a mile distant, except for one Ma Deuce somewhere closer. The American fifty-caliber machine gun made a distinctively deep and metallic sound and unless the Chinese had captured one, some American was still out there fighting, somewhere.
The 6th Platoon he ordered to attack due east, into the rear of the Chinese fighting in the area of the tank farm and the ammunition bunkers. The 7th Platoon would attack on their right flank, into the second section of ammunition bunkers and toward the distant warehouses. Once the Chinese were caught in a crossfire, he hoped they’d surrender or flee. Then his unit could roll up the enemy line from the north.
But that Ma Deuce sounded south of their attack. Taking four men, Green Ghost ran to the sound of the guns.
#
Marcus Lamar drifted in and out of consciousness. He’d been firing the fifty-caliber machine gun in short bursts, but then blood loss took its toll. Dirt caked his face. He wiped at it with a shaking hand and the effort exhausted him, so he closed his eyes and lay his head back down in the dust.
With his machine gun silenced, a squad of Chinese soldiers ran by, headed for the fighting to the east. One stopped at the lip of the machine gun pit and sprayed the interior with rifle rounds. The bodies of his two friends jumped where they lay, but by a miracle none hit Lamar.
Near-silence fell as the fighting ended around him and the Chinese soldiers moved on. Seconds drifted past. Then with a start, he jerked upright, wide awake, wracked by terror. Without regard for the danger, he stuck his head above the pit’s edge, staring west. He drew no fire.
Frantic, fueled by surging adrenaline, he swiveled, ignoring the pain in his back and leg. The Chinese had advanced past him and were several hundred yards east of where he lay. They were headed for his grandmother! He’d failed to stop them and she was in danger.
He tried to carry the Ma Deuce to the opposite side of the foxhole, but he didn’t have the strength. Instead, he loaded a new belt, crawled out of the pit, and swiveled the barrel to face east. Aiming for two infantrymen trotting beside each other two hundred yards away, he pressed the trigger. The tripod absorbed most of the recoil. Tracers arced toward them, slamming into their backs, and both men went down. He smiled and shifted his aim to the next group.
#
More than two dozen Chinese bodies littered the desert south of Honey Lake. Leading his four paratroopers, Green Ghost trotted southeast, simultaneously hurrying and being cautious. Thin smoke curled from a defensive position ahead.
“This one’s still alive.” Green Ghost knelt beside a prone figure lying near a Ma Deuce, outside of a destroyed gun pit. On the killing field beyond the foxhole, huddled forms lay in clumps. Green Ghost felt the unconscious soldier’s neck and found a pulse. “Weak but steady. He’s in shock. Which one of you’s the best with first aid?”
The four men exchanged glances. None raised their hand, but three of them stared at the fourth.
Green Ghost pointed at him. “You stay here and do what you can. The rest of you follow me.”
#
“General, where are you hit?”
Fleming opened his eyes. Lieutenant Hemmeker leaned over him, outlined by light leaking through the warehouse’s shattered walls and roof.
Fleming needed oxygen, but breathing sent spasms of pain down his chest and into the muscles lining his shoulder blades. “Chest,” he whispered after drawing a shallow breath.
“What about your head?”
Uncertain, he reached up, but stopped when pain like being stabbed sliced down his side. Clenching his teeth, he forced his arm up despite the agony it caused. His helmet was gone and sticky blood ran through his scalp and down his left cheek. “It’s fine.” The lieutenant’s face blurred in and out of focus. “I’ll be fine. Help me up.”
“Sir, maybe you’d better stay down until the medic can see you.”
“Help me to my feet, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
Scowling, Hemmeker did as he was told. Fleming outweighed him by at least seventy pounds, but the lieutenant extended his hand and dug in as the general pulled himself up.
Black and red sparkles blotted out his vision for a few seconds. Taking shallow breaths, he found that in addition to the pain in his chest, his head hurt, too. “What’s our situation?”
“They haven’t flanked us yet, but First Platoon is pulling back in five minutes. We don’t have any choice but to follow their lead.”
“No,” Fleming said. “Tell them to stand where they are.”
“But, sir—”
“Thirty minutes. If relief hasn’t come by then, we retreat in echelon. Tell the others.”
“Hey, Loot!” someone shouted. “They’re massin’ to come again.”
“General, I’ve only got ten men on their feet, and that’s counting you. We can’t hold. It’s suicide to try.”
“We’re staying put. Do you hear me?”
Hemmeker looked around at the wide-eyed faces of his men. “With all due respect, sir, that order will get all of us killed.”
“Where did you expect to die, son?”
“Preferably anywhere but here, sir.”
Fleming felt tears welling in his eyes, not from fear or sadness but from pain. The smile on his broad face must have appeared lopsided to the young lieutenant. One thing he’d learned from Nick Angriff, though: never let the rank and file see your fear.
He clapped Hemmeker on the shoulder and exuded confidence. “As long as you keep shootin’, there’s still hope.”
#
Green Ghost’s knees churned like pistons, propelling him over the sandy desert toward the Chinese infantry. He could finally see them, their backs to him as they used fir
e and maneuver tactics to attack 5th Platoon to the east. At least fifty were within sight when he’d closed to firing range at about 300 yards. He waved the three paratroopers to a stop, and they all took a knee and sighted on their unsuspecting targets.
Leading elements of 7th Platoon had already engaged the Chinese on the far northern flank, but those he aimed at hadn’t yet noticed they were also under attack from the west. The rest of 6th Platoon, on Green Ghost’s immediate left, had also taken up firing positions. They all squeezed their triggers at roughly the same time.
It was a turkey shoot. Fire discipline among the paratroopers remained excellent. Instead of shooting on full automatic and spraying bullets all over the desert, they fired three-round bursts and were able to keep their sights on their targets. Seven Chinese fell and hit the dirt before they could even react.
Other Chinese troops were further east, behind another line of bunkers, providing cover fire for the ones that were supposed to be advancing, the ones Green Ghost and his two platoons were shooting up from the west. When the Chinese turned around to see why their comrades weren’t advancing, the trap they were in became clear. That was all it took.
Panic rippled through the Chinese ranks. The ammunition bunkers offered excellent cover, unless you were being shot at from two different directions. Superior numbers didn’t count for much when there was no place to hide. A few took off running to the north, the only way out. The 7th Platoon commander was smart enough to order his men not to shoot those first few, letting the other Chinese think there was a way out.
Seeing their friends escape, others followed, first in a trickle, and then in a steady stream. Only when dozens had started running did the 7th Platoon’s C.O. let them fire. The Americans mowed them down and the rout was on.
#
The swelling around his sternum made it hard to draw a deep breath, but Fleming wasn’t about to show it. Likewise, he ignored the burning around his head wound. Instead he concentrated on removing bullets from partly fired M-16 magazines and loading them into his. It took scrounging seven magazines from the dead and wounded, but by the time a paratrooper yelled that the attack was resuming, he had two fully loaded mags. The Sig Sauer P226 at his belt still had a full load and three extra magazines. He might die, but he’d go down shooting!
This time the Chinese IPC supporting the infantry found a clear firing lane into the tangled steel that had been the double doors. The infantry didn’t rush forward like they had the first time, but instead used fire support and movement, advancing in groups. Whenever the Americans tried to return fire, there were always Chinese guns trained on them. In short order, the infantry had gotten to the last of the containers, a mere thirty yards away.
One soldier took a bullet in the calf and dropped to one knee. By sheer bad luck, a 25mm cannon round penetrated a damaged spot in the warehouse’s brick wall and took his head off at the shoulders.
It infuriated Fleming so much he forgot his pain and ran to the breached doors, dropping two Chinese soldiers as they broke cover to rush the warehouse. Bullets immediately struck and whined all around him. A cannon shell hit the debris to his front and sprayed him with splinters. Two slivers of steel struck his forearm. The IPC autocannon’s turret turned and he looked right down its barrel.
Then it blew up. The turret flew up and out, trailing smoke. Flames shot through every seam. Burning crewmen flung the doors open and staggered until they fell. And when the fire subsided after the initial explosion, Fleming saw American paratroopers moving into firing position on both sides of the ruined IPC. From the warehouse behind the Chinese in the parking lot came grenade blasts.
Green Ghost had arrived at last.
#
Chapter 84
Cry if you wish, scream if you must,
But never betray your comrades’ trust.
Sergio Velazquez, untitled fragment
Sierra Army Depot, Herlong, CA
1018 hours
Fleming leaned against a surviving workbench and tried to breathe without it hurting too much. A medic had cleaned and dressed the wounds to his scalp and arms, but nothing could be done about his chest. After stripping to the waist, he’d peeled off the experimental ceramic mesh that had again saved his life. From sternum to navel and shoulder to shoulder, dark purple bruises surrounded angry red patches on his black skin.
Lieutenant Hemmeker stood nearby, waiting to fill him in on the battle’s progress, but stopped when a lean man in mismatched and blood-spattered camo entered the warehouse. He glanced around and walked straight up to Fleming. “Nice tats,” he said. “Are they new?”
Fleming tilted back his head and fought down a laugh. “New and temporary.”
“They look like the ones you had last year. Maybe you should just get the ink.”
Hemmeker gave Ghost a dubious look, as if expecting Fleming to rip into the strange soldier with no insignia.
Instead, Fleming laughed and then grimaced. “Stop it or I’ll forget I’m glad to see you.”
“Looks like you boys had some action.”
“Lieutenant Hemmeker here fought a first-class battle. He’s trained his men well. I mostly tried not to get in the way.”
“Good job, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you…” Like everyone else, Hemmeker didn’t know how to address him.
“He’s a bird colonel, Lieutenant. He’s just shy about showing it.”
Hemmeker immediately straightened. “Yes, General. Thank you, Colonel, but my men deserve the credit.”
“The men are a reflection of their commander.”
“Thank you again, Colonel.”
“Hemmeker here was about to fill me in on how things are going.”
“Don’t let me stop you, Lieutenant.”
“The Chinese are in full retreat, sirs. Major Ball says they’re dispersed and heading west, both north and south of the base. We’re ordered to make sure there are none left in the base.”
“What were your platoon’s losses, Hemmeker?”
“Seven dead, sixteen wounded, sir. Five seriously. Two are expectant.”
“Damn,” Fleming said. “If they don’t live, that’s twenty percent. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Your platoon fought very bravely. Go see to your men.”
When Hemmeker was out of earshot, Green Ghost offered his canteen to Fleming, who shook his head and took out his own. Each munched an emergency ration bar. These had twelve separate sections each containing 520 calories and were meant to supply up to four days of field rations. The paratroopers had each been issued two before leaving Overtime. The taste was chalky, with a faint cherry flavor, but in that moment neither man cared and washed it down with canteen water.
“We need to collect these from the dead,” Green Ghost said. “And pilfer the Chinese for anything usable. We might be up here on our own for a while.”
“Yeah,” Fleming said. As the adrenaline wore off, his pain increased and he felt immensely tired. “So many fine young men lost today.”
“That’s how it’s always been. It’s why only old men make wars. The young know if they start one, they’ll have to do the fighting.”
“I’m old, and I didn’t make this war.”
“You’re not old, Socrates. Neither is Saint.”
“I’m not?” Fleming closed his eyes and exhaled the deepest breath he could manage. “I sure feel old.”
#
1213 hours, April 21
“The Chinese left behind two hundred and seven dead, forty-nine wounded, and thirty-three prisoners,” Major Ball said. He sat with Fleming and Green Ghost atop the eastern ridge in the warm afternoon air. “Among the base’s original force, we found thirty-five dead and seven wounded, with twelve miraculously, and suspiciously, unharmed.”
“Why suspiciously?” Green Ghost asked.
“When everyone around you is either killed or wounded, and you didn’t get a scratch, it seems suspicious to me. And don’t forget, the Chinese knew exactly which building housed Colo
nel Lamar’s headquarters. That seems really suspicious.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve got two knocked-out Chinese tanks, six APCs, four IPCs, and a mobile one-fifty-five.”
“That’s some serious firepower. These people put up one helluva fight.”
“The base C.O. was killed last night and apparently your people took over the defense and helped rearrange things. Everybody says it made a great difference in firing lanes, lines of sight, and overall defensibility of their positions.”
“How are they?”
“If we had a battalion aid station instead of medics, I’m told both of them would make it. Vapor should pull through. The other guy…”
“Claw?”
“Yeah, him. He’s iffy.”
“Expectant?”
“Not that bad. The woman Junker Jane lost a lot of blood and her foot’s all shot to hell, but she’ll be all right, too. Might walk with a permanent limp. But they’ve all lost a lot of blood and all we’ve got is plasma. Claw needs it the most.”
“What about transfusions?”
“We only brought a few transfusion kits and they’re already in use. The medics are boiling water to try to reuse them, but it’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
Fleming opened his eyes. “Are we in contact with Prime yet?”
Green Ghost shrugged.
After a few seconds, Ball realized the question had been meant for him. “Iffy, sir, but Creech has been relaying our messages.”
“Where are the helicopters?”
“Right below this ridge. I’m looking at them.”
“Tell the Blackhawk to stand by to take me up.”
#
Chapter 85
One man can change the world with a bullet in the right place.
Sniper proverb
Operation Comeback
1228 hours, April 21
Colonel Schiller followed the battle to the northwest on the radio loop, but spent no time worrying about the outcome. As brigade S-4, it would fall to him to inventory, itemize, and prioritize how best to utilize the new assets that had fallen into their hands. In particular, that meant the aircraft at Creech and the other bases in Nevada, regardless of whether or not they kept Sierra. So instead of sitting enrapt at the updates from Herlong, Schiller worked away at organizing his report on what was available at Comeback and what had been reported to him from Creech.
Standing at the Edge Page 41
