Armageddon

“Got at least two shooters, up over there,” said the soldier. It was Lang. He pointed to the right. “Must’ve planted some sort of mine in the road, detonated it when we got close.”

The Humvee, its front end torn up, sat upside down on the opposite shoulder. One of its tires had been ripped off by the impact and landed in the middle of the road.

“Where’s your partner?” Dog asked.

“Don’t know.”

A burst of bullets slashed through the vegetation. Dog took out his Beretta, but neither he nor Lang fired; it wasn’t clear where the gu

“You cover me while I go to the truck,” said Dog.

Lang started to object, but to Dog it was a no-brainer.

“I’d guess you’re a better shot with that gun than I’ll ever dream of being,” he explained. “If I can get over there and get our radio, we can get all sorts of help. Otherwise those assholes’ll pick us off eventually.”

“Yeah, okay, that makes sense,” said Lang. “You wait until I lay down some fire, okay? When I yell ‘go,’ you just scoot right across. Save your pistol until you have a damn close target.”

“Will do.”

The soldier crawled forward, then fired a short burst, which was immediately answered by at least two enemy soldiers, who fired long, poorly aimed bursts from their weapons, draining their magazines. Lang held his fire until the shooting died down. When it did, he jumped up, shouted “Go!” and began blasting the area where the gunfire had come from.

Dog threw himself toward the Humvee, leaping headlong across the road. He ran several miles every day, but the five or six yards he ran now felt like a marathon. By the time Dog slid down behind the wrecked Humvee, he was out  of breath. He rolled onto his belly and crawled along the side of the truck, watching the vegetation on his left.

The driver’s body had been pitched in the tall grass just at the edge of the shoulder. Dog crawled over to him. As soon as he got there he realized the man was dead; his leg had been sheered off and his left arm was a blackened stub. Dog turned away, pushing back to the truck as more gunfire erupted.

The SF men had carried an A/PSC-5 (V), a lightweight but very powerful radio that could use both satellite and UHF frequencies. Dog hunted for it but couldn’t find it in the jumble of the truck. He did see his pack, however. Besides extra ammunition for his pistol, a survival knife, and a small first-aid kit, he had a PRC-90 radio there, an old emergency radio from his flight gear that he habitually carried as a backup.

The pack was wedged against the crushed windshield, next to an M4 rifle. Dog pushed in through the side of the truck, making his way in like a gopher exploring a new hole. As he reached for the pack he saw that his hand was covered with blood; three long, jagged scrapes had been torn along the flesh. He grasped the bag, expecting to have to fight to free it. But it came out easily, and so did the gun. He searched once more for the Special Forces’ radio but couldn’t find it. He got out of the truck and looked around the nearby jungle but saw nothing; finally he went back to the vehicle to look again. As he did, the Humvee began to shake and he heard gunfire in the distance.

They must have some sort of damn mortar in the hills that they’re firing nearby, Dog thought, not realizing at first that the vehicle was shaking because it was being pummeled by bullets. By the time he finally saw he was the target, he was out of the truck and in the shallow ravine. Dog pulled the M4 up, hunched over it, and put his finger on the trigger, aiming in the direction of the gunfire. He braced himself and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked down at the gun, made sure it was loaded, and then looked at his hand, double-checking to make sure he had his finger positioned against the trigger. But still nothing happened when he tried to fire.

Dog stuck the barrel of the rifle into his pack, took out his pistol, then crawled forward along the side of the road. The enemy gunfire had stopped, but Lang waved at him to stay there from across the road. Dog scouted the area for the soldiers’ radio before scrambling back behind the Hummer, where he took the PRC-90 radio from the pack.

While the PRC-90 was still used by some aircrews, it had been superseded by newer models long ago and had a number of drawbacks as a general-purpose radio, not the least of which in this case was its limited range. It had an auto-beacon mode which sent out special distress signals, as well as a voice mode, but it could only communicate effectively with another radio in line-of-sight, and given the terrain there was no hope of being able to contact the Dreamland Command trailer directly. But Dog hoped that its signal might be picked up by one of the LADS units or perhaps an aircraft operating nearby. In any event, it was all they had.

Something caught his eye in the brush about thirty yards away. He pushed the radio transmit switch to “auto beacon,” then tossed it down and pulled out his Beretta. When the shadow moved again he fired twice; the pistol jumped in his hand and his second bullet hit the leaves high above.

Lang yelled something to him, then started firing. As he did, the Humvee was peppered with gunfire. Dog flattened himself, then pulled his pistol into firing position, both hands properly on the weapon this time. He sighted into the brush, waited until he saw something move, then fired. The recoil didn’t seem nearly as bad this time.

“They’re all over the place. Get back here!” Lang yelled.

“Good idea,” shouted Dog. He slipped the radio into the pack and backed up, still moving on his stomach. As bullets began ripping into the ravine, Dog scooped up his knapsack and ran for it, crossing in two bounds and diving head-first into the bushes. Guns popped everywhere. Dog waited for the burn and catch in his stomach and chest, sure he’d been hit. When they didn’t come he turned himself over and crawled on his hands and knees to Lang, pushing the rifle to him and then retrieving the PRC-90.

He made a broadcast. He didn’t get a response but he hadn’t really expected one; he tried twice more, then put the unit back on beacon. The radio was small enough to slide into the pocket on his bullet proof vest.

“I couldn’t find your radio,” Dog told the other man. “This unit has pretty limited range. It may be a while before someone hears mine.”

“I don’t think it matters at the moment,” said the soldier. “We’re on our own here.”

“They’ll send somebody for us.”

“They don’t have anybody to send,” said the soldier. “At least not right away.”

Dog reached back into his pack for his first-aid kit. “Your face is cut up,” he told the soldier. “I have some antibacterial ointment that’ll keep it from getting infected.”

“Save it for yourself.”

“I’m not cut,” he said.

The soldier looked at him as if he were out of his mind.

“I’m cut?” said Dog. Then he remembered that he had gashed his hand and arm. He looked down at it, and saw that much of his uniform was torn and covered with blood. “This is nothing,” he told Lang.

Despite their predicament, the soldier laughed. “That’s the spirit, Colonel. Keep thinking positive.”

Southeastern Brunei

Exact location and time unknown

This time, Mack was ready when the door opened. He’d filled the can with urine and was poised near the door, balanced on his haunches and ready to spring.

He hit the big man full in the face with the urine; as the terrorist reeled backward, Mack bolted through the open space, aiming to flatten the man in the hallway who stood guard with the rifle. He caught him in the neck with his fist, then felt himself tumbling across his body, the AK47 in his hands.

How he got it turned around, much less how he managed to aim it or make sure it was ready to fire, Mack didn’t know. It seemed to him that one second he was smacking his left shoulder against the wall and the next he was standing over the two dead Muslims, the AK47 smoking. The hallway became a cave filled with smoke. Mack saw the door at the end of the hall in front of him and ran for it, sure that flames were roaring behind him.