by David Pope
Not him. As one of the more Senior NCOs, per his own request, he commanded the point pillbox. That hadn’t turned out well.
He replayed the scene. Lieutenant Colonel Rourke and his own squad, including Corporal Hudson on the .50-caliber, hit by an unexpected point-blank attack. He wondered what had happened to his squad, the men and woman under his command. The thought of them dead or injured seemed beyond comprehension. It hurt his soul, and guilt racked his conscious.
Only the memory of sneaking up on the bastards raping McMichael, killing them, saving her, provided any solace. Upon seeing the bastards and what they were doing, a burning hate replaced the guilt, and he acted. Years of close combat-training kicked in, and he slew both men in a cold rage. Hell, it turned out to be easier than he’d imagined—too easy. But he worried someone would find the bodies, see the pipe, put it all together, and come after them.
With the adrenaline gone, Upton’s thoughts continued to drift.
Even in the darkness, under dire circumstances, he wouldn’t give up hope. He wanted to get back into the fight. The Army was his life. Cowering earlier was terrible. Now, he’d do everything in his power to get back and take it to the enemy. Truth be told, he loved the military: it had saved his life.
Growing up in Reno, the oldest of three boys, his parents divorced early and remarried several times. Both struggled with money, and by the time he found himself in his late teens, he rebelled and started hanging around with the wrong kids. Just after turning eighteen, he was arrested for shop lifting alcohol. That was a wake-up call, and he realized all he wanted was to work, make a decent living, stay clean, and have a reliable life. A friend of his was enlisting and talked him into meeting with a recruiter. The rest was history. He found a home, a big family he could rely on, with the steady structure he craved. Now, ten years later, he was a master sergeant, and he wanted to stay in for life. Ask the women he’d been in relationships with, all of whom eventually left him, and they’d all say he was a decent man but married to the Army. Without a doubt, he believed they’d say he loved the military so much he couldn’t truly love anything else. And maybe it was true, because right now, more than anything, he wanted to get back.
“Ah, Sergeant, are you there?”
Startled, but pleased by the sound of her voice, in a low tone Upton answered, “Shhh. Yes, I’m here, but keep it to a whisper.”
“Water. More water,” McMichael pleaded.
Upton rolled onto his back, scooted down, and raised and stretched his legs until they straddled McMichael’s torso. Hunched over, his head constricted by the height of the pipe, he unclipped his hydration system, pulled the straw, and lowered it to her lips.
McMichael grabbed the tube, guided it to her mouth, and sucked. After a few seconds, she pushed the water away and took several deep breaths.
Upton re-clipped the water to his belt. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Head hurts but not as bad. My legs and back hurt too.”
Upton believed her, but there wasn’t time to dwell on the pain. “I checked your injuries. A concussion, a few scrapes, that’s it. You’re fine.” No response. Her eyes remained open, and he knew she was listening. He needed to make her understand that the pipe was a death trap. He asked in a low voice, “Can you put on your pants and crawl out of here?”
She ran her tongue across cracked lips, then answered, “I remember diving into a pipe. I think this pipe. Explosions, bad. Did we lose, what’s happening?”
Upton filled her in a little. “Yeah, I figure we got whipped. I’m guessing we’re behind enemy lines. The pipe saved us. But now, if the enemy finds us, I suspect they’ll kill us or send us to prison. We can’t hide here much longer. We’re sitting ducks. Let’s get moving and use the cover of darkness to our advantage. With some luck, we can make it back to friendly lines.”
McMichael blinked as if she was letting the news sink in. Then, with both hands, she reached down and touched bare legs and fondled the pants lying across her hips. “Why’re my pants off? Where the fuck is my combat belt, my shoes?”
He didn’t want her dwelling on more crap. “I had to check your wounds and bandage them. Your pants were in the way. Now put ’em on, and once we get out of here, I’ll figure out a solution for your feet. Worst case: I’ll carry you.”
“I don’t think I can, you know, put my pants on. It’s too tight in here, and my head hurts.”
Upton decided more medication would help. Inside his combat vest, he fished out another tablet and unclipped his hydration system. “Yes, you can. Here’s a painkiller. Wash it down, then I’ll look the other way while you wriggle into your pants.” He watched her frown, so he provided more encouragement. “We’re near the end of the pipe. It comes out right next to the highway.”
Seeming convinced, she opened her mouth, and Upton put a pill on her tongue. Taking the proffered straw, she washed down the tablet and once again closed her eyes.
Upton was ready to get going and didn’t need her conking out again. He re-clipped his hydration system and said, “Staff Sergeant, you need to put on your britches. I’ll turn around and won’t look. Okay?”
“Just a moment. I’m gathering my strength. Just give me a minute,” McMichael whispered.
Frustrated, her head almost in his lap, his legs straddling alongside, he sat hunched. Concerned, he debated how to get her moving.
Something startled him.
Lifting his vision, staring down the way they’d come earlier, he focused his attention. Through his night vision, he caught a quick flash of movement near the bend twenty meters away. A lightning jolt of adrenaline shot down his spine. Without hesitation, he reached for his holster and pulled his SIG Sauer M18. In a single motion he raised the weapon, flipped off the safety, and trained it at … nothing.
Whatever he’d seen, it wasn’t there now, but every fiber in his body screamed, be ready.
Chapter Eighteen
DEATH STRUGGLE
May 8, 01:22 (PDT)
McMichael knew she needed to get moving. Her pants draped across her hips, she reached up and pulled the material aside, exposing herself. Determined, opening her eyes, she whispered, “I’m getting up. Look the other way.”
Before she finished speaking, McMichael felt Upton’s legs astride her give a jerk and, at the same instant, heard a spitting sound. For a split second, the noise echoed through the pipe and a flash of light illuminated her surroundings. Next came a thud from behind. Scared and unsure, everything now dark and quiet, she held her breath, waiting. Two seconds later, she heard an unknown voice.
“Don’t even fucking move.”
McMichael flinched at the unexpected order. Smelling gunpowder, she figured it out and knew she was in deep trouble. After another few seconds, she heard the person inching closer and come to a stop. She remained rigid and unsure of how to react.
“Girl, don’t even fucking move. I plugged that bastard sitting behind you dead center mass. You’re next unless you tell me, quick, who the fuck you are and what the hell you’re doing in here?”
Fear mixed with adrenaline raced through McMichael’s body. Behind her, she imagined Upton, shot and bleeding. Maybe dead. What to do and how did the man know she was a female? Then she recalled pulling her pants aside. The man must be wearing night vision with a perfect view between her legs. Panic rising, she slowed her breathing and pushed herself to think. Her life hung in the balance. With resolve, head still aching, she lifted it a few inches off the corrugated metal and glanced towards the voice. Nothing. Her vision couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Survival instincts kicked in, and she replied, “I’m injured, been unconscious, please don’t hurt me.” Dropping her head, she hoped the soft pleading might buy time. Instead, she detected the man crawling closer. Immediately, she felt an urge to scoot away but, just as quick, she heard the man come to another stop.
“What’s your name?”
McMichael struggled to maintain her composure. She wasn’t sure what sh
e faced. Fighting back panic, she played along. “My name is Lisa. Who are you?”
“I’m Specialist Kinney, US Army, sent to investigate this here pipe on my own. I’m the best at recon. They sent me because, well, the thing is, I’m the toughest soldier in the squad.”
McMichael didn’t respond and remained silent, her worst fears realized. The enemy would now kill or imprison her. But it was only one man. Maybe, she thought, I can take him. But then the old doubts returned, and she cringed.
“Why are you half-naked, and who is that soldier behind you?” asked Kinney.
Mind racing, McMichael could almost feel the man’s eyes between her legs. Pushing aside the thought, she told a half lie. “I’ve been unconscious, but he might have pulled me in here. I’m not sure of anything.”
A sudden light replaced the darkness, and she guessed Kinney had turned on a headlamp. She considered lowering her hands to cover her own nakedness but was afraid to move.
“Good news,” said Kinney. “We’re close to an exit. Don’t fuck up. Follow my instructions, and I’ll let you live. We’ll be out in a minute.”
Cornered, torn between flight or fight, McMichael lay rigid and considered surrendering. Then she realized her right hand, still hidden from sight underneath her discarded pants, rested alongside Upton’s boot. Careful to stay unnoticed, she worked her fingers and touched a sheathed combat knife. Hope jumped, along with self- doubt. The thought of stabbing someone in close personal combat scared and repulsed her. But all day the enemy had tried to kill her, and she was tired of cowering. Even more, she wanted to be reunited with her kids.
She remembered her training and reminded herself she was a soldier. Decision time. She could fight or submit. If she gave up, she might never see her children again.
No, she’d rather fight.
Determined, she touched the knife. The length of the blade was reassuring; she could do this. But getting the knife out undetected and luring the enemy close enough to strike would be the challenge. Guided by instincts and detached intelligence, she reacted.
In a soft, submissive tone, McMichael asked, “I want to live. Specialist Kinney, that’s your name, right? My back hurts, I need to stretch, okay?” Not waiting for a response, she spread her bare legs wide, opening them until they could go no further against the confines of the pipe. Not hearing a reaction, but sensing his fascination, she continued and drew up her knees flaying them open.
She heard a small gasp and guessed she had his full attention. While she put on the show, still hidden, her right hand unsheathed the KBAR combat knife. With legs and knees spread, to keep Specialist Kinney further off balance and to lure him closer, she begged. “Please, I’m thirsty and hurt. Help, me.”
On all fours, Kinney crawled closer, keeping the beam between her legs.
McMichael froze, waiting. She knew the man was eyeing her most intimate parts, but she remained steadfast.
Very close, he stopped and shined the light higher. “You’re wearing a combat vest. You a soldier?”
Her hand on the knife, McMichael was close to attacking, and now this! She needed to keep his guard down and draw him near. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything. I’ve been unconscious. Please I need water, and my chest hurts. Take off my vest.” She lifted her left arm and placed it on her breast. Meanwhile, her right hand, hidden beneath her discarded pants, worked Upton’s knife until, at last, she palmed the handle.
Kinney shifted and then moved closer until he was between her widespread knees. Hunched over, his helmet just touching the top of the pipe, with the Glock in his right hand, he used the other to unclip his hydration system. With arm extended, he offered her the water.
Heart racing, head pounding, McMichael knew this was it. In one quick motion with her left hand, she reached up and gripped Kinney’s right wrist holding the Glock. Then she shoved upwards pinning his hand and gun against the pipe. Simultaneously, hidden beneath her crumpled pants, clutching Upton’s knife, she pushed up her other hand, but it wouldn’t move far. The blade had somehow caught in her pants. Worse, Kinney’s headlamp blinded her, and she sensed his strength and wits recovering. In slow motion, she felt him forcing his pinned hand down. She couldn’t resist for long. Blinded, eyes averted from the light, she struggled to free the knife.
Kinney, pushing downward to free his right hand, with the other smashed the soft canvas water bottle against McMichael’s forehead. Seeming to sense the futility, he flung it away. With his hand unencumbered, he grabbed her throat.
Adrenaline raging, she didn’t register the water bottle bouncing off her forehead, but she did feel his hand wrap around her neck. Just then, she felt the knife come free, and with Kinney choking her, she stabbed upwards. The razor-sharp blade sliced through Kinney’s flesh, entering below the base of his head protection system. With animal strength, she shoved the knife further, penetrating his chin, then mouth, up through his tongue into the roof of his mouth. Another push, and she cut through into the man’s nasal cavity. Blood sprayed everywhere, splattering into her eyes. Ignoring the gore, she focused on the task and didn’t blink.
Kinney, his right hand pinned holding the suppressed Glock, pulled the trigger several times. The shots penetrated the corrugated metal, into the dirt beyond, each time creating a miniature sand waterfall. But McMichael continued to leverage his wrist and keep it pinned. A few seconds later and around her neck, she felt his other hand loosen. Then, in apparent desperation, Kinney shifted his hand from her neck and grabbed the exposed portion of the knife blade. As he tried to pull the weapon free, she could feel the meat in his fingers against the razor edge and guessed he was slicing himself to the bone. She hung on, and in obvious agony, Kinney went into a wild and desperate rage. He bucked with great strength, and she felt his grip tightening around the blade as he tried to pry the anguish from his mouth.
To keep from being overcome, she didn’t hesitate and clamped her naked legs around the struggling man. Locking her ankles, she kept him in place.
Still he tried to buck from her grip, but her strong limbs held him firm while the pipe above constrained his movement.
To press her advantage, McMichael shimmied her legs higher and pulled the soldier closer, forcing his face deeper into the knife. She noticed how Kinney didn’t speak or yell. He couldn’t with his tongue pegged to the roof of his mouth. Instead, he made gurgling sounds and grunts while his bloody grip on the knife prevented the blade from going deeper. Not caring, McMichael drove harder, twisting, and she felt his fingers loosening.
As hot blood splashed from her victim, the sensation strengthened her. Back and forth she sawed the knife, ripping more of Kinney’s flesh. Rivers of dark came pouring out, flooding her chest with hot waves of slippery death. She pushed and strained, arms and legs burning, for what seemed like an eternity.
Bloodied and sliced, Kinney’s hand began to slip, and she felt the knife inch upward. As he tried to regrip the blade, she noticed his hand losing strength. Looking in his eyes, she saw tears of pain and watched as they trickled down his cheeks and mixed with the blood streaming from his horrific wound. As she twisted, she detected the sound of flesh, bone, and gristle grinding and tearing against the knife. After one last struggle, his hand fell away from the KA-BAR and she sensed there was nothing left.
A second later and the knife penetrated to the hilt, and at last she felt Kinney relax and go still.
Exhausted, panting, holding the dead weight above her, she rested for a moment. A sudden urge to be free arose, and still pinned to the pipe, she let go of Kinney’s Glock hand allowing it to fall aside. With her left hand free, she pressed it against Kinney’s helmeted forehead while she used the other to twist and pull out the knife. Blade in hand, she dropped it, and then lowered the man until his helmeted head came to rest alongside hers.
With Kinney lying atop, her legs still wrapped around his torso, she shuddered. Disgusted, she wanted him off. Panicked, she pushed up his head, dug her heels along his sid
es, kicked and pushed until only his face rested in her lap.
For a few seconds, breathing heavy, she sat there staring at the back of his helmeted head. Still fighting against panic, with a bitter scowl, she scooted herself away until his ruptured face slipped off and smacked wet against the pipe.
With her legs still astride Specialist Kinney’s body, the remnants of his headlamp leaking light, the pipe was almost dark. Still there was enough visibility to divine a pool of blood massed between her legs, covering her thighs, thick across her chest. In revulsion, she bent to the side and dry heaved.
Exhausted to the core, she lay back and took a series of deep breaths. Tears emerged as she imagined her kids, their faces, and antics swirling through her mind. Not noticing, each tear created a trail through blood-spattered cheeks. She took another deep breath and tried to calm herself.
To return home, she realized, meant playing soldier for a while longer. And it sucked.
Chapter Nineteen
A PLAN
After watching SALI leave the room with the disk drive handed to her by Secretary James, the general glowered at the skinny man. Sitting across from James, the general didn’t care for how the crumpled secretary lounged on the cushy couch with a smug smile, holding a glass of wine as if it were any other day. For the first time in history, people had died defending the Republic of American States. Worse, General Story hated being in the dark and didn’t have time to play games. Before he could launch into a tirade, Ms. Grant sat down on a recliner at the opposite end of the coffee table.
“I want to apologize for SALI. That woman is a handful,” said Ms. Grant, shaking her head.
The general took the opening, “And who the hell, or what the hell, is she?”
As he swirled the wine in his glass, Secretary James answered, “That woman is our SALI, and she does her best to enjoy life.”
