by W. R. Benton
“My name is Devil, and I've come to take ya home with me.”
“Drunk as a skunk, aren't you? You smell like you've had enough to drink for a few nights and I need a real name, so I can contact you later if needed. Do you have any identification on you?”
D2 pulled the pistol from his coat and fired two fast rounds, both striking the officer in the head. He knew the cops all wore body armor, but the man was less than six feet away from him. His first shot struck the cop in the face, just to the left of the bridge of his nose, and the second struck his temple as he turned his head to avoid being shot. Between the two bullets passing through his head, the man was dead before he struck the ground. The gunman didn't notice the bloody gore on the ground behind the officer as he removed his radio and crushed his body camera. He then took the dead man's pistol and all his ammunition, for temporary use.
He then continued pushing his cart out of the area and unknowingly smiled when a number of cop cars with lights flashing passed him. Two miles later he neared a parking lot and spotted a lone white car. It was his get away transportation, and it was nothing special to look at. He opened the trunk, placed all his gear inside, and removed his clothing. Under his torn rags he was wearing a soccer uniform. He was dressed in a red tee, with the number 7 on the front and back, and matching shorts and socks. On the back was a small logo that read, “Proudly sponsored by Eddie's Landscaping.”
He took off the old boots he had on and placed them in the trunk in a brown paper bag, and put on a pair of athletic shoes with plastic cleats. He was listening to the police radio and while they were looking for him, they had no idea what he looked like. He didn't like killing the cop, but he knew he'd spoken too much when the man started asking his name.
I'd hoped the man would run after the sniper after I gave him a direction, only it didn't happen that way. I need to get moving or they'll still lock my ass up, he thought as he got in the car, started it and placed it in gear.
Listening to the cop's radio made it simple to avoid the police, but when he stopped about five miles out of Atlanta, the officers pistol, ammo, the radio and all the clothing went in plastic shopping bags and were left behind in a deserted house. Another agent would collect the stuff and see it was destroyed properly.
He'd worn gloves as he wiped the radio and pistol clean of finger prints, using a commercial cleaner. He wasn't overly concerned about DNA, because the NWO would never allow him to remain in jail long, and besides his DNA was not in any computer system. They'd have to catch him to compare DNA, and that was not likely to happen.
He removed his phone from his shirt pocket, dialed a local number and said, “The trash has been taken out.” He shifted the car into gear and started down the macadam road at the posted speed limit.
“Thank you, and I'll pass it on.” an unknown voice said.
It was then he saw flashing lights in his mirror, and his gut suddenly tightened. Damn me, cop; but relax, they can't place you near the White House. Or can they?
Chapter 6
The chopper lowered to the ground and one man climbed from the back. The bird was still running it's engines, and the door gunners were unable to position their machine-guns to the forward position so they were seen moving from left to right. James noticed the man was armed, dressed as French Special Forces, Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre, or BFST as they were called. His badge of the BFST was seen clearly on his green beret.
“Take your shots when you're ready.” James said as he pulled the pin from a grenade and stood by the door.
“Taking mine, now.” Frank said. The UN silencer on his rifle gave a low thump sound and the man in the left seat slumped forward, the headrest behind him dripping blood and gore. The straps that held the man in the seat prevented his body from falling on the control stick. However, there was little doubt he was dead.
Joda didn't say a word, but his weapon gave an identical thump and the man in the right seat was struck in the chest; blood could clearly be seen staining his flight suit by the naked eye from the building. As each second passed, the stain grew larger. The man was heard applying more power to the aircraft and the chopper began to wobble as he attempted to get back in the air. The man on the ground attempted to run back and board the helicopter, but it was now a good ten feet in the air.
Joda fired again when the aircraft began to nose down so it could gain altitude, and saw his round take the co-pilot in the very center of his chest. The man's arms flew to his wound, the chopper rocked from side to side, and then turned almost 90 degrees on it's side. The rotating blades made contact with the concrete of the parking lot, and huge chunks of blade and pavement flew in all directions. One large piece of the blades struck the shack with a loud thud and then ricocheted off in another direction. The noise was enough that all in the building ducked.
“It's going down!” Frank screamed in joy, but then lowered his head as the man on the ground fired four rounds at the building.
James heard the chopper hit the ground hard, and was replacing the pin in his grenade when the aircraft blew. The noise startled him, and unknowingly he smiled as the cotter pin was inserted and he forced the ends apart to make the grenade safe once more. He replaced the duct tape that kept the pin covered for safety's sake.
The air was suddenly filled with the scent of burning fuel, oil and human flesh.
“Take out the man on the ground!” James shouted as two rounds passed through the door, just missing him. Wood splinters struck his cheeks and neck.
By now the man with the beret was behind a huge granite marker, trading shots with the partisans.
As Joda watched the burning chopper, a man ran from the flames engulfed in fire, staggering like a drunk leaving a bar, and his screams were clearly heard. Lining up the cross-hairs on his scope, he placed a round in the man's head and the shrieking stopped.
The other gunner tried to crawl from the fire, but after about four feet, he stopped moving and the flames grew larger, consuming his whole body. Joda watched as the bright red flames mixed with the black oily smoke and the fireball rolled into itself as it rose to the sky. It was then the ammunition, oxygen containers, and other compressed gas cylinders began to cook off from the heat of the flames.
“Ben, I want you and Dick to go out the far window and try to flank the man in the cemetery.” James said, as he used a rag to wipe the blood from his neck and cheeks caused by the flying splinters.
Ben smiled and said, “Come with me, Dick, and let's put a stop to this.”
“As they move around the man, let's all leave this building, except Frank. I want you to attempt to stay here and take the man out if you can. If nothing else, you'll keep him in place.”
Frank nodded, and using his sniper rifle scoped the man's location, but saw nothing. He waited patiently, knowing sooner or later the man would expose a part of his body and when he did, he'd take his shot.
Félix Gueguen, a Captain in the elite Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre assigned to the UN, was well aware he was in a very dangerous position. He suspected the group of partisans would try to flank him, so he sat behind the granite stone waiting for them to move toward him. He had plenty of ammunition and two grenades, but he knew he had to shoot only when he had a clear target. His ammo and explosives were limited. The destruction of the chopper and all the men on it had shocked him, because as far as they knew, there were no partisans in the area.
I must keep a level head or I will die this day, he thought as he considered escaping.
He'd tried to move away so he could escape and evade capture, but each time he moved, it brought a shot which always struck close. He was bleeding slightly from an injury to his left hand from a piece of granite that had struck him following a bullet striking the thick stone. Sooner or later, the man with the rifle would kill him when he attempted to move to another headstone. Most men would have surrendered, but Gueguen was no regular man and was well trained for situations like this.
The grasses we
re high so he began to crawl slowly away from the grave, moving very easy so his movement wouldn't cause the grasses to move and give away his position. He was tempted to move quickly because he knew he was being flanked, but he fought the urge. Soon, he was at another headstone, so he moved behind it and noticed if he could cover the about twenty meters, he would be able to move down a hill. Once over the crest, he could stand and run, if needed.
He began crawling again.
Ben and Dick slowly approached the headstone knowing if the Frenchman was smart, he'd expect to be flanked. As a member of the French Special Forces, they both expected the man to be waiting for them. They moved from headstone to headstone, one man moving forward of the other like a game of leap frog, but now they were very close, so they paused a bit to try to spot movement. They saw nothing.
Finally, the headstone was clearly seen, but there was no Frenchman spotted behind it, so they waited, thinking the man was in the tall grass.
Félix Gueguen made it to the crest, rolled down the hill and then came to his feet quickly. He was on the western edge of the cemetery and across the street were homes, most likely vacant now due to the war. He ran to the buildings and was soon moving west on a side street. As he moved, he pulled some gauze from his first aid kit and wrapped his left hand. He felt no real pain, but suspected he was still in shock from the chopper crash and the resulting firefight with the partisans.
He was standing between two homes when he heard a shot and heard a bullet zing past his head, to strike a tree in front of him. He ran behind one house and then moved off at right angles.
He pulled his survival radio and in English said, “Hello any UN station.”
“Identify yourself.” A voice replied in English almost immediately.
“I am French Captain Félix Gueguen, of the Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre, and I am in need of pick up. I am escaping and evading a small group of partisans. I am on the ground, and the only survivor of a Mi-24D strike helicopter crash, tail number oh, niner, seven, seven, oh, one, two, niner. Call sign, Muskrat Two.”
“What is your location?”
Gueguen gave his best known position and then waited for a reply.
“Wait one.” the unknown voice said, and he knew the man was validating his information with headquarters.
“Will do, over.”
A few short minutes later, “Uh, Captain Gueguen, I have confirmed your information, but need you to answer a few questions, to authenticate I am speaking with you and not someone else. I do have a chopper in your area.”
“I understand and start the questioning.”
“What is your favorite food?”
“Beef Bourguignonne is my favorite.”
“Correct, and what is your wife's maiden name?”
“Beaubois.”
“And, your dogs name?”
“Vieux Bleu.”
“Roger that, and I have a chopper heading your way.”
“Be advised I have unfriendly partisans on my tail, so the chopper crew may find the area hot when they arrive, over.”
“Roger, copy, and he's being escorted by some fast movers.”
Gueguen moved toward an open field that was maybe fifty meters wide and a hundred meters long. It looked to be the dead remains of someone's vegetable garden. He remained hidden in the high brush around the field.
Three minutes later his radio squawked, “Captain Gueguen, this is Rescue One and I am near your location. Do you have smoke, over?”
“Roger, do you want me to pop a smoke grenade? I'm slightly north of the map coordinates I stated earlier. The partisans are on me hard.”
“Pop the smoke now.”
He pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it into the field. It exploded within seconds and a huge cloud of bright orange started moving toward the sky.
“I see orange, is that correct?”
“Roger that, orange. I'm on the eastern edge of the field.”
“We're coming to your location so give me a count down as we attempt to pinpoint your location.”
The chopper started for him and as it neared he counted down, “Five, four, three, two, one, overhead . . . now!”
“We have you visual, Gueguen, but be advised the partisans are nearing you.” The rescue chopper's door gunners began spitting lead.
Out of nowhere a fast moving jet zipped low overhead and dropped two canisters of napalm, setting the structures behind him on fire. The tumbling containers had worried him at first, because once released, they appeared to be coming right for him. He would have sworn they'd passed over head by less than two meters. He heard partisans screaming and hoped that threat was gone.
Then another jet zoomed in and Gatling guns filled the air with what sounded like a huge zipper being pulled down. He saw clumps of dirt and concrete thrown six meters into the air as the bullets struck and took out chunks of what they hit.
“Gueguen, I need you to move to the center of the field. Can you safely do that?”
“Roger, and I'll be running.”
“Mad Dog's One and Two, I am taking ground fire. It's coming from north of the napalm drop, maybe 100 meters, over.”
The two jets confirmed the location and then both lined up to approach the partisans on the ground with missiles.
They approached even lower this time and as they passed him, Captain Gueguen actually saw one pilot wave at him. Missiles were released and explosions heard. Watching the two jets, he was fascinated by their speed and accuracy with munitions. As they started to pull up, the jet on the left was struck by something that appeared to be a missile or rocket of some sort fired from the ground.
“Uh, Mad Dog One, this is Two and my instrument panel is lit up like a Christmas tree. I will attempt to keep flying for as long as I can.”
“Try to gain some altitude as I move in close to look your bird over closely.”
“The stick is heavy, but I'm slowly ascending, over.”
“Do either of you have any injuries?”
“Wait one.”
“Roger.”
A minute later the pilot said, “My back seat man is either seriously wounded or dead, because I get no response from him.”
Suddenly, the canopy on the damaged aircraft blew off, and out came the ejection seat from the back seat position. The pilot was up to maybe a thousand meters, so the seat had plenty of time to function as designed. The Weapons System Operator (WSO) was seen separating from his seat and a good parachute was noted. Mad Dog One circled the parachute as it went down and even got a wave from the WSO.
Mad Dog then moved up along side of Mad Dog Two and looked the aircraft over closely as he radioed the position of the downed WSO.
“Two, be advised I see no flames but a good portion of your left wing leading edge is gone and the flaps appear to be damaged, as well as you're leaking fuel.”
“Roger, I can see the fuel gauge and it's dropping quickly. I want to move South, into the Mark Twain National Forest and either crash land or bail out.”
“Say again, Mad Dog Two, because I can barely hear you with the canopy gone.”
He repeated his plan and then heard, “Roger that, so continue on your present course for as long as you can. We'll be off your wing until you're safely on the ground.”
“Captain Gueguen, Rescue One, over.”
“Go One.” he replied, and hoped they were coming to take him home.
“Prepare for pick up in about two mikes (minutes), and we're moving toward your position now. We will not land, repeat, we will not land. We will lower a rescue collar to you, over.”
“Copy, and roger on the collar.”
The whop-whop-whop of the blades were clearly heard, and the noise grew louder by the second.
“Have you visual in the field?” the helicopter pilot asked. The big chopper, a Canadian Forces CH-149 Cormorant, hovered right over him as a wench operator lowered what was commonly called a sea collar to the ground. He allowed the collar to touch the ground, t
o discharge all static electricity as taught in survival school, but he was getting anxious now and frightened that something might happen now that rescue was so close. Once the collar was on the ground, Gueguen moved to the device and placed it around his chest and gave a thumbs up signal.
His radio came alive, “This is Rescue One, and I'm taking fire, taking fire, from my south side, over.”
“Copy, Rescue One, this is Mad Dog Three, with Mad Dog Four. Continue with your pickup as we raise some hell to your south, over.”
“This is Mad Dog Two's Whiskey, Sierra, Oscar, and I'm safely on the ground.”
“Copy Two, and this is Rescue One. Let me get this man on board and then we'll make a try for you. Is your area green or hot?”
“I see no one, but really can't say.”
The Weapons System Operator sudden felt a sharp blow to his chest and looking down, he noticed blood on his flight suit and suddenly becoming weak, he dropped to his knees.
James broke from the cover of the trees, and running toward the WSO he waited until he was near and fired another round into the WSO's chest, which knocked him back, and the radio fell from his hand. James scooped up the radio and moved into the trees.
The fatally injured WSO was now spread eagle on his back, the pain causing him to kick and claw madly at the soil. His body no longer obeyed him and he noticed the sun must be going down because it was growing darker by the second. German Captain Leon Böckler closed his eyes for a few seconds to rest, and his world slowly faded from gray to black and then he was dead. A minute later, he lay still and only his left index finger twitched as his central nervous system shut down.
Captain Gueguen was quickly pulled into the chopper by the wench operator and moved to a red nylon troop seat, where he was strapped in tightly. A medic unwrapped his hand as the chopper moved straight for the downed WSO's position.
The medic couldn't hear over the noises of the Chopper, but he pointed to the hand injury and Gueguen saw a nice neat hole through his hand. He wondered why he'd not noticed it before, and finally realized he was moving on adrenaline and had overlooked the severity of his injury. The medic wrapped it well to prevent blood loss and gave him a shot of morphine.
