by Dave Edlund
In the blink of an eye, Diesel launched at some unseen threat behind Peter. He spun around, trying to bring the rifle to bear, but it was too late. A massive black creature was in the air flying at him like a missile.
Knowing he couldn’t avoid the impact, Peter extended the rifle and the black terrier clamped its jaws down on the barrel and stock. He heard the sound of splintering fiberglass, the synthetic stock yielding to the bite pressure exerted by the powerful jaws.
For the moment, it was a standoff. The dog held fiercely to the rifle, as did Peter. At the same time, he heard the terrifying sounds of a pitched battle, deep growls mixed with high-pitched yelps and cries.
Peter hazarded a glance to the side and saw Diesel locked in mortal combat with another black beast. The red pit bull was half the size of his adversary, and Peter feared for his dog. But a glance was all he could steal. His attention brought back to his own struggle. The black creature tried to twist its head and dislodge the rifle from Peter’s grip. But he maintained the advantage of leverage as he shifted his hands to the opposite ends of the weapon.
The pit bull and Russian Terrier were fighting viciously. Red and black tumbling, separating, and pouncing. White teeth flashing like daggers. Blood-tinted saliva streaming from open jaws. The rapid attacks and parries became a blur as the animals clashed, driven by the most basic of natural instincts: kill… or be killed.
Black and red fur rolled, becoming one and then separating, only to repeat as the melee continued. Each advance an attempt to clamp down on the other’s throat or soft belly. Once a firm bite was achieved, the animal would wrench its head violently, ripping and tearing muscle and skin in the process.
Peter saw Diesel flip the Russian Terrier and slip between its legs, then bite down, only to be thrown away with a powerful kick. In a flash, the larger hound pounced on Diesel. The black jaws bit deeply into the red neck as a huge paw and leg pushed down on Diesel’s shoulders. The terrier was aiming to pin the pit bull to the ground and crush his spine or rip open his throat. Either way it would claim victory.
Diesel yelped over and over. In a madness bred of pain and desperation, he twisted and slipped the jaws, but the creature was still over him, viciously snapping blood-covered teeth, seeking any hold it could get.
The blocky red head turned and mashed down on a black front leg. Like a steel trap, the jaws squeezed and locked into place. Then the head shook brutally, separating muscle and bone. Punctures opened to gashes, spilling blood.
With lighting speed, the black head came down, jaws open, teeth bared. It grabbed the first thing it contacted and ripped off half of Diesel’s ear.
Diesel released and yowled in agony, the high-pitched cry penetrating the din of noise. The black terrier, perhaps confused that it’s bite had so easily given way, pulled its head back and spat out the piece of fleshy cartilage. In that opening, the pit bull lashed out and closed on the exposed throat of its larger opponent, crushing the windpipe in a fraction of a second. Then Diesel planted his hind legs against the belly of the black dog and pushed, flipping it onto its side. He was still locked down on its throat, slowly depriving it of air.
But the fight was far from over. Both dogs were pumped full of adrenaline, obscuring pain and driving them berserk with the single-minded purpose of killing the other.
The hound attempted to twist free, but with one mauled front leg and the pit bull on its throat, it had no leverage. Diesel pressed his advantage, and rocked his head. At first the motion was limited, but as blood crossed his tongue, the thrashing escalated. It became more and more violent as the Russian Terrier slowly succumbed.
Finally, Diesel released his prey.
Peter did not witness the outcome of the battle. He was pitched in a deadly fight of his own.
With teeth clinched down on the rifle, Peter twisted the gun to the side. The beast went with it, coming to rest on its back.
Without a pause, Peter dropped his body, aiming his knee at the dog’s chest. Upon impact, the canine released and exhaled a grunt, then kicked with all four legs.
Peter felt the claws rake against his arms and legs, renting his jacket and pants. Blood soon filled the coarse gashes, now aflame in burning pain. Still over the dog, he slammed the rifled down. But the black terrier grabbed the barrel and stock again and shook its mighty head. It was all Peter could do to maintain his grip. Then the dog kicked again. This time one of the muscular hind legs connected with Peter’s groin. It felt like he’d been hit with a tree limb.
The air left his lungs and his grip weakened. The creature wrenched again and yanked the rifle from his hands. Peter leaned to the side, trying to avoid another powerful kick.
Dropping the lifeless rifle, the beast lunged for him, aiming for the throat. It launched, mouth agape and fangs glinting in the sunlight. Peter raised his left arm, intending to sacrifice it to the jaws.
A flash of red slammed into the side of the black beast. The pit bull’s legs where open, encircling the larger canine as it bit down on the back of the ebony neck. Insane with fury, Diesel stayed on the beast as they slammed into the ground. The terrier attempted to roll free, its four legs thrashing wildly. Driven by crazed fear, the pit bull refused to release, instead squeezing its jaws tighter.
Peter was scrambling to regain his composure. He saw a bloodied Diesel struggling with the black monster, and reached for the .45 pistol holstered at his side. His hand found the grip when the black creature stopped moving. Diesel had crushed its neck.
Chapter 33
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
The savage encounter had lasted less than 90 seconds—not enough time for Ashcroft to engage. He was still running forward when the second Black Russian Terrier was killed by Diesel. He screamed in rage and raised his rifle.
Gunshots filled the air.
Unsteady from breathing heavily, his shots missed. The bullets cratered in the dirt and rock near Peter.
Despite his wounds, Diesel launched on the new enemy, closing rapidly. Ashcroft adjusted his aim, trying to shoot the pit bull, but was too slow to connect with the rushing red dog.
Peter twisted his upper body and aligned the sights on Ashcroft. He fired and a .45 caliber bullet slammed into his chest. He stumbled backwards but didn’t go down.
Body armor.
It was enough to cause Ashcroft to lose his aim. Peter lowered his sights and fired again. The bullet crushed through his pelvis just before Diesel plowed into his chest—70 pounds of berserk muscle and teeth in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy.
Ashcroft threw his arms up and latched onto Diesel. But it was too late. The teeth had already penetrated deep into his throat. A bath of hot red blood ensued as Diesel pulled up, ripping his throat open.
Peter hobbled forward and called Diesel off. The animal hesitated, and Peter called again. This time, it let go and limped back to its master.
With considerable effort, Peter hoisted Diesel into his arms and retreated to the rock shield.
After several deep breaths, the pain in Peter’s groin and abdomen subsided. The torn flesh on his arms and legs burned, but clotting had already stemmed the bleeding. He began to inspect Diesel’s wounds. His fur was mated with blood. It was impossible to determine how much was Diesel’s and how much was from the Russian Terriers and Ashcroft. One ear was half-gone and bleeding. There were deep gouges along his chest and belly. Several were bleeding, and would likely require stitches. His neck was both punctured and lacerated. Fortunately, the copious loose skin there probably saved Diesel’s life—the terrier grabbing nothing more vital than a fold of flesh.
As he held Diesel, the canine lowered his head and began trembling. Spasms surged through his limbs in waves and he licked his lips, his eyes closed. Shock is setting in.
“Hang in there, buddy. I’ll get you out of this; get you patched up.”
Peter had no idea the second wave was close.
s
Nadya’s team—the north squa
d—was the nearest to Peter’s position. She had ordered her squad to split into two-man teams and to spread out. Although she didn’t know the exact location of the target, that became apparent when Ashcroft opened fire.
“Keep north of his position,” Nadya ordered her team. “We have to get to the side of the boulder.”
Her communication set crackled to life, and through the earbud Nadya heard Nyden’s voice. “South squad is moving up.”
She glassed the target location with her binoculars one last time and then, in a crouch, scampered to a group of bushes not far away. She was being extra cautious, recalling Peter’s skilled performance picking off her team from a distance.
“Use the cover as much as you can,” she said to Marcus. But that was proving difficult as the vegetation was sparse and stunted.
Suddenly the air was split by the report of a rifle shot. The sound was distinct and different from the small-caliber military rifles deployed by her team. Nadya looked over her men and saw one of the Guardians in the pair to her left laying prone and motionless. His rifle was a few feet to his side.
More gunfire erupted, this time much farther to the left, the morning calm now a distant memory. It was Nyden’s south squad opening up on the sniper. Nadya shifted her gaze uphill and saw the bullet strikes against rock and dirt, kicking up small dust clouds.
“Keep moving,” she urged her team. “Stay to the right. We need to flank his position.”
s
Peter had just caught a glimpse of motion several hundred yards down slope and a bit to the north. He swung his scope and was rewarded with a clear image, free of the glare from the rising sun. The figure was wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying an assault rifle.
He lined up the scope reticle and adjusted the hold high, slightly above the figure’s head, to account for bullet drop over the long distance. He was laying prone for a steady rest. He moderated his breathing, and gently squeezed the trigger.
Boom!
He saw the enemy figure fall, his rifle thrown to the side.
Peter was thankful the stock damage inflicted by the Russian Terrier was only minor and didn’t seem to influence the rifle’s performance. After working the bolt to chamber another round, he was searching for more assailants. Where was the woman he had conversed with the previous day? Did she call in reinforcements, or were they already here? How many are there?
Just then a barrage of bullets struck his rock shield and the dirt before him. Reflexively Peter pulled back behind the stone barrier. Diesel was curled in a ball, shaking almost constantly from the pain of his wounds. Blood clotting in his fur had seemed to stem the loss to minor seepage.
As quickly as it started, the gunfire stopped. Peter knew that meant the men were moving toward him. They would stop only to fire. Otherwise, they would advance and attempt to encircle his position.
He scoped to the right and left. At first, he didn’t see any enemy. But he kept searching knowing they were there. Then he spotted a figure moving quickly, almost running, across an opening, aiming for a decaying log. His progress was slowed by the soft soil that was more like sand than dirt. The enemy slid to the ground and rested his rifle on the log.
From his elevated location, Peter was looking down on the man. He had his weapon resting on the log and was aiming at Peter. And then he fired, but Peter ignored the bullets as they cracked over his head.
He placed the cross hairs on the target, centering on his back. Peter fired, felt the rifle stock shove forcefully into his shoulder, and chambered another round. The man was still shooting. In less than a second, the scope was centered on the enemy target again.
Peter fired once more, the heavy bullet cratering into the man’s back, shattering his spine and smashing his vital organs.
s
South squad was down to four men, and Nyden ordered them to stop advancing and seek cover. To the north, Nadya was facing a similar dilemma.
She urged her team forward. They had to advance fast and flank Peter. “Can you engage him from your location?” Nadya had radioed Nyden, explaining her plan.
He ordered his men to fire single shots, not full automatic. They had to conserve their ammunition and prolong the covering fire.
North squad advanced.
They had covered another 30 meters when Peter spotted them darting across the barren slope. It was clear that they were working their way around him. But they were still within rifle range.
Peter moved behind the igneous stone fortification, and repositioned himself on the opposite side. From this location, he had a better view of the approaching squad and was protected from bullets fired by the south squad.
He lined up the Weatherby rifle, taking careful aim. The figures were moving at the pace of a jog. He counted four of them, and he could almost see the strenuous exertion of their charge up the sandy slope. He led the first enemy, holding a little high, and fired. The bullet struck the man’s abdomen and he tumbled forward.
The other three assailants kept running, spurred forward by the loss of their comrade. Peter picked out the next target, lined up the sights, and fired. The shot missed, and the man kept moving. He adjusted his aim and fired again, this time connecting. The man fell, his femur shattered.
Now Peter’s rifle was empty, and he had to reload.
But Nadya wasn’t taking any more chances. She held her ground.
“He’s shooting a sporting rifle!” Nyden said over the communication network. “The magazine only holds three or four rounds. Then he has to reload. Count the shots, and advance when he’s reloading.”
Peter pushed the last round into the magazine and was searching for targets again. He focused to the north, fearing that they were closest to flanking him.
Chapter 34
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
Thanks to their NVGS, Boss Man and Homer had covered a lot of ground in the darkness. At one point, just as the sun was rising, they heard an engine, but it was distant, and the sound stopped abruptly. Although Jim worried that it might be the search party, he had more pressing concerns to focus on.
They had climbed a considerable distance, avoiding open terrain as much as possible. That decision forced them to follow a circuitous path. But then again, they had no clear idea where Peter might be—until the gunfire erupted.
“Let’s go!” Jim said to Homer. They picked up their pace, running in the general direction of the sound. The reports seemed to be coming from two different locations—one farther away and the other closer and to the left.
“The nearer location, that’s automatic fire,” Jim said. “That’ll be the bad guys.”
Opting to stay within the timber, they continued their approach. Then the gunshots changed to seemingly random, single shots—and much louder. Occasionally a deep report from farther away was heard.
Jim peered forward through a break in the trees. He couldn’t see any persons.
“It’s clear,” he said, and they moved forward in a crouch. Ever alert, both Boss Man and Homer had their rifles shouldered, heads moving from side to side.
Suddenly Jim held his hand up and dropped to a knee. He pointed ahead. Homer edged up to his side. He squinted, trying to make out the target. Then he saw them: four men. Dressed in camouflage.
The distant reports resumed. One shot… two shots… three shots.
“That’s gotta be Peter,” Jim said.
The rifle fire was answered by a volley from the four men Boss Man and Homer had spotted. But there was a new sound, gunfire from the right.
“Sounds like they’ve flanked his position,” Homer said.
As the words came out, they saw the four assailants rise and move in a straight line toward higher elevation. They were quickly greeted by another shot from Peter, then silence.
“Let’s go! Follow me,” Jim ordered.
He rose and took off in a dead run across the naked pumice gravel. The next copse of trees was a dozen strides away, and Jim coun
ted on the enemy being distracted as they worked to gain a superior position on Peter’s fortification.
They ducked into the trees and found a man-sized chunk of volcanic rock among the dwarf evergreens.
Peter’s rifle fire resumed and was immediately answered by the two groups, quickly approaching him from opposite sides. “If they circle him, he won’t have any cover,” Homer said.
“We’ve got to slow them down. Give them something else to worry about.” Jim raised his rifle and fired at the group of four.
They were still a long way off, 400 meters or more, but the bullet impacts from the SGIT soldiers were close enough to cause the Guardians to break off the attack on Peter.
Nyden ordered his team to return fire and seek cover. Then he radioed Nadya. “We’re taking fire from a new team. Unknown number. East of my position. Have not located them yet.”
North Squad had been reduced to only Nadya and Marcus, and they still had not been able to gain an angle to fire into Peter’s location. She confirmed the transmission and reported the status of her team.
Homer and Boss Man continued to fire into South Squad, buying relief for Peter. He raised his head at the new sound of gunfire, farther off, but could not see where it was coming from. Is this a new threat? No, if they were shooting at me, I’d know.
Richard Nyden had no choice but to direct his weapons down at the new force, whoever it was. This was more than he had bargained for, and it fell outside his mission parameters. Could it be the local police had discovered our operation? His mind was searching for answers. It didn’t make sense that military would be involved; this was a domestic police matter and there were laws against military action in such cases.
How could law enforcement converge on their position so quickly? The manhunt was miles to the north, and other than the lone deputy on the ATV, his team had not encountered any police or sheriff deputies. It didn’t make sense. But what he did know was that his team had taken heavy losses already, and now he had a new threat to contend with. He grabbed the satellite phone and placed the call.
