Текст книги "The Western Front"
Автор книги: Archer Garrett
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A guardsman groaned in pain as he was struck in the shoulder. He dropped to one knee as his uniform began to blossom red. A deputy stumbled backwards and fell as a round hit him squarely in the chest. Reese grabbed the deputy, rolled him onto his side and began to hold pressure on the wound. In the confusion of the exchange, a voice could be heard shouting, “Hold your fire!” as a second voice called out repeatedly, “Medic!”
The rangers slowly and methodically began to slice the interior of the box truck, searching for the attackers. They tried not to focus on the large device that rested in the center of the freight area. They had to locate and eliminate the threat first. In spite of their focus, they could feel the hair on their arms and neck standing up.
The rangers finally spotted two men in the far corner of the interior, indiscriminately firing through the walls of the truck in the direction of the wounded officers. After two well-aimed taps from each rifle, the men dropped their guns and slumped in the back of the truck.
Reese called a guardsman over to relieve him, before he rushed to the rangers’ side. They stood motionless and speechless as they stared at the apparent, nuclear device. Reese paused for a moment, and then rushed to the two men inside of the truck. The men looked to be Hispanic. One of them was dead already, and the second was gravely wounded. Reese tossed the man’s rifle to the side, leaned in closely and growled in Spanish, “Who do you work for?”
The man lay motionless and said nothing.
Reese turned to yell for help carrying the man outside, but heard a faint whisper coming from the dying man.
Reese turned back to face him as the man repeated the phrase. His heart sunk as he recognized the language. The clean shaven man was not Hispanic at all. The dialect was Khaliji, or Gulf Arabic, as it was commonly called in the West. Khaliji differed from other Arabic dialects in that it borrowed heavily from the Persians. Reese knew without a doubt that the man was from somewhere along the shores of the Persian Gulf, most likely from Saudi Arabia, one of the gulf kingdoms or the southern coast of Iran.
The man defiantly repeated the phrase a final time in his native tongue, as if it was a dying prayer meant for his god rather than for Reese. Finally, his eyes rolled back in his head. The words ran through Reese’s head in a frantic loop. His head throbbed as the words echoed through it.
Reese numbly stepped out of the truck and onto the pavement. He was met by a guardsman that said, “Sir, we’ve called the bomb squad; they’ll be here in a few minutes. We did it! We saved the city!”
The words were distant and hollow, as if they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. Reese turned to the rangers and tried to speak, but could only manage a whisper.
“I need you to get all members of the evacuation team out of the city immediately, and get me the governor on the phone, now.”
The two men eyed him curiously for a moment, before turning to execute his orders.
Reese knelt on the ground and stared skyward as he simply whispered, “God, help us.” The words of the dead man played on an endless loop in his head:
Praise be to A llah, for the righteous fury of your left hand may be denied, but the wrath of your right shall not. Before this hour has passed, the world shall witness your glory.
Reese looked down at his watch; he had twenty minutes until four o’clock.
Chapter 26
Clayton
Washington County, Alabama
They turned east onto the narrow, paved road from Highway 43. The pavement was crumbling and hopelessly potholed. The Sheriff navigated the road slowly to avoid damaging his SUV. The shoulders were almost nonexistent. The grassy swales on either side had long since been reclaimed by the dense forest. The woods that the road dissected struggled to once again become whole. The branches from both sides now intertwined with each other, creating a thick canopy above. The overhanging branches made the moonless night even darker and more imposing.
The sheriff’s Suburban was followed by two full-sized, four-wheel drive pickups. Sheriff Greene had brought his three deputies and six volunteers with him on the raid. The man that Clayton had managed to capture had told them that there would be eight men at the camp, but they were not certain if he had been truthful. They could not even be certain that they were not being led into a trap.
The men were all solemn faced and anxious. Some of the men had lost loved ones because of the group of interlopers that had invaded their once-sleepy town. One of the men had nearly lost his own life to them, but had successfully escaped. The face of the intruder that had stood over him was still seared into his mind.
Sheriff Greene had selected the men precisely because of what had happened to them or their families. He needed men that had a reason to stand and fight, if it came to that. He had also sternly warned the men that there would be no revenge killings. They were deputized lawmen, not vigilantes. None of his men were to fire unless it was in self-defense. They were here to make arrests, not to satisfy vendettas. The men had all swore an oath to the sheriff’s terms. As far as Greene was concerned, this was not the Wild West, not yet.
As they rounded the final curve of the paved section of the road, Sheriff Greene glanced over at the tiny graveyard that was nestled in a small grove to his left. Spanish moss hung from every limb of the oak and maples that grew in the cemetery. The headstones were crudely constructed and covered in green moss. The markers mostly represented three or four families that had lived in the area during the nineteenth century. The headstones bore deaths ranging from the 1830s to the 1870s. The sheriff wondered what the men and women that chose to live in such an isolated place so long ago were like. He wondered if the people who lived here now had the strength and courage to survive if a world like that was realized once again.
***
The shallow-draft boat silently trolled up the narrow slough nearly three meandering miles from its mouth at the river. The slough had widened somewhat, but was still very constrictive. The mouth of the slough was almost invisible along the river, unless one knew exactly where to look. Clayton reasoned that of all the camps on the river that he knew of, and he knew of them all, this was one of the most secluded. He had always admired the camp’s strategic location. It was accessible by land in all but the worst of floods, the river never dropped low enough to restrict access of a boat like his and almost no one knew it existed.
He could tell they were getting close as he began to notice various landmarks. Clayton always made a point to remember unique features of the swamp around him such as peculiar looking trees or sharp bends. He was not nearly as familiar with this area as his own enclave, but he was more familiar with it than most.
He smiled as he looked at his boys sitting in front of him on the dry well. Their presence made him feel complete. Not knowing if they were safe during the past few months had left him with an emptiness that he had not been able to fill. They each were wearing night-vision goggles and had their rifles resting beside them. One would occasionally nudge the other as they pointed to some distant item of interest around them. Despite their many differences, Clayton was amazed by how much their mannerisms were the same. Their posture, gestures and facial expressions were nearly identical.
After they rounded the final bend of their journey, Clayton silently eased the boat to the water’s edge and dropped anchor. There was one final meander between them and the camp, but the water on each side of the sharp turn was merely separated by a narrow finger of land less than fifteen feet wide. From their location, they could see through the tiny, wooded peninsula and to the camp nearly three hundred yards beyond.
As Clayton dropped anchor, the brothers unfastened the dark-green kayak that had taken up nearly all of the room on the boat. They had almost lost it earlier on the open waters of the main river as a gust of wind had gotten underneath it and threatened to blow it skyward like a plastic missile. Jake had dove on top of the kayak to save it as Geram laughed and exclaimed that he was lucky Kate had been fattening him up, otherwise both he and the small boat might have blown away. Jake simply grinned and slapped his flat stomach. He knew that one of the few standards by which he could be called fat was by a Navy SEAL’s standards.
The brothers eased the squat, twelve foot kayak into the dark water beside the boat and Geram gingerly transitioned into it. The sit-on-top kayak would not track in a straight line for long or turn as easily as a traditional kayak, but it would be very stable and Geram would be able to transition in and out of the boat with ease.
Geram silently paddled up the narrow slough to the rear of the camp. Jake’s AR pistol was balanced across his lap. The milk crate that was strapped to the back of the kayak behind him was filled with extra magazines and a first aid kit. With a steady rhythm, the double-sided paddle cut through the water without a sound. As he urged the boat forward, he surveyed the camp and its surroundings. The unexpected size of the structure impressed him.
The camp was built nearly thirty years ago for a hunting club that encompassed several thousand acres. The club mostly consisted of doctors, lawyers and old money. No expense had been spared in its construction. It was on large timber piles that rose higher than normal from the muddy ground below. Geram estimated the structure itself to be close to three-thousand square feet, not including the large wrap-around deck.
The camp’s interior walls were beautiful, cedar planks. Every couple of years the club would have them sanded so the rich smell, unique to the tree, would fill the rooms once again. The floors and exterior railings were crafted from local cypress. The rusty tin roof was still free of leaks and complemented the atmosphere of the camp. Two wide staircases, one in the front and one in the rear, led from the high deck to the ground below.
Geram could see several four-wheel drive trucks parked underneath the structure, and a pair of boats, too large to easily navigate the narrow slough, anchored close by. As he got closer, he could hear loud voices coming from inside the candle-lit camp. He paddled around to the boats, flicked open his folding knife and cut the fuel line leading to each of the outboard motors.
Suddenly the camp’s back door flung open and two men burst into the night. Geram crouched low behind the nearest boat and peered up at the men. They roared with laughter as one slapped the other on his back. The men turned up their bottles, before lighting their cigarettes and leaning against the railing. Geram cursed under his breath; the drunk and raucous group would never give up without a fight, even if they were hopelessly surrounded. On the other hand, at least their reactions and aim would be compromised.
***
Greene continued up the overgrown trail to the camp. Slowly, they were closing in on their destination. The aging sheriff followed the path for another several hundred yards before pulling off to one side. He racked the slide of his shotgun, chambering a load of buckshot.
While the other men carried varying, military-styled rifles and the newest semiautomatic pistols, the old man preferred the feel of his well-worn shotgun and 1911 pistol. They were undoubtedly not the best choices for the situation at hand, but he could find his way around them like none other. He carried what he was comfortable with, regardless of what anyone else thought. The canvas hunting vest he wore contained some additional loads of buckshot as well as a few slugs, just in case.
The group of officers, some newly deputized and others seasoned from years on the job, quietly covered the remaining several hundred yards to the camp on foot. As it came into sight, the men took up positions that surrounded the front and sides of the camp. As the last man got into position, the sheriff radioed Clayton.
“We’re in position Clay, how about you?”
“Ready and waiting.”
The sheriff raised his megaphone and addressed the men inside.
“Attention, this is the sheriff’s department. You are surrounded. You’re wanted for questioning. Please exit the camp through the front door with your hands in the air.”
Greene waited several minutes, but received no response. As he lifted the megaphone to repeat his demand, several shots rang out from inside the camp. One of the volunteer deputies was struck by the volley and rolled onto his side as he writhed in pain. A second deputy was hit in the shoulder and growled as he spun back behind a tree. The sheriff was amazed at the accurate fire that was being returned at them in the heavy darkness. He shouted to his men to take cover and then radioed Clayton.
“Clayton, we’re in trouble.”
“Got it, we’re on it. Hold tight, sheriff.”
***
The men inside were drunk, but still very capable. Three of them were positioned behind sandbags that were stacked underneath the front windows. They had already located most of the sheriff’s men out front with the group’s night -vision equipment and were just waiting for the deputies to show themselves again. The three remaining men inside had taken defensive positions facing the doors, ready for anyone foolish enough to make it up the stairs. The two men on the outside had squatted shoulder to shoulder and hopelessly scanned the darkness below for any signs of movement.
Geram had heard the broadcast between the sheriff and Clayton through his own earpiece and had already retrieved the silenced pistol from his shoulder holster. The larger, AR pistol hung from the single-point sling at his side. As he carefully made his way to the rear of the camp, he heard his father’s voice coming from the earpiece.
“Be careful son, we’re watching you from here.”
***
With the help of the night vision, the men in the camp were able to keep the sheriff and his deputies pinned to the ground. They panned the area in front of the camp, laying down a steady hail of gunfire. Greene and two of his deputies crawled into new positions and readied themselves for the counterattack.
***
Geram leaned against the tree about thirty paces from the two men above him. Through his goggles, he could see their every move. He dropped to one knee and took several deep breaths as he began to count to three.
One.
This had better be flawless, Geram.
Two.
***
The sheriff shouted, “Now!” as he and his two deputies turned on their spotlights and illuminated the front windows. The remaining men leaned out from behind their cover and unleashed a steady hail of gunfire. The sheriff braced for the onslaught; he was now target number one.
***
Three!
Geram leaned out from behind the tree and fired two rapid shots at each man, before repeating the cycle. As he ended the silent attack, he watched the two men collapse on the deck without uttering a sound. He waited for a brief moment to see if anyone else had noticed, but no one appeared. Geram stealthily rushed to the top of the stairs and took cover in the opposite corner from the men. He glanced left and right, before whispering into the microphone, “Go.”
***
The three men at the windows grinned as they fired upon the deputies. It had been far too long since they had killed a cop. Suddenly, it seemed as if they were staring directly at the sun; the light was so bright it was painful. The blinded men retreated behind the sandbags. Immediately after, the entire front of the house exploded with gunfire. Bullets pierced the cedar walls all around them. One of the men shrieked as two rounds tore through his gut. Two men dashed for the back of the camp to make their escape.
Geram was ready when the door flung open and the men burst forth. He silently caught them midstride, hitting the first man in the side under his arm and the second man in his throat. The men stumbled and fell headlong down the stairs and into the mud below. Geram whispered into his mouthpiece again, “Light ‘em up.”
The men inside the house were in a complete panic when their rear exploded as well. The bullets from the back of the house weren’t the same though. They were blowing massive chunks of the cedar planks into the air around them. The men saw one of their friends explode in front of them as a fifty-caliber rounds connected with his upper torso. Upon seeing the display of gore, several of the men flung their rifles and sprawled face down on the floor. The final, armed man crawled across the debris-riddled interior to the back door. He would die before laying down his gun.
Geram was looking high and did not notice the man at first. The sharp pain in his shoulder spun him slightly and caused him to drop the pistol. He glanced down and saw the man peering out of the back door. He winced as the man steadied his aim for the kill shot; Geram was all that stood between the man and his freedom. The man exhaled and began to squeeze the trigger.
The wooden deck exploded from the impact of one of Jake’s well-placed rounds directly in front of the man’s face; splinters flew everywhere. The man rolled to shield his eyes as the pistol fired wide, just missing Geram’s head.
Geram fumbled with the AR momentarily as he reached down and grasped it. As he brought it up level with his shoulder, he felt a wave of burning pain that caused him to cringe. As he strained to steady his aim, a second round from the fifty connected reached the deck, connecting with the raider. The result was gruesome.
Geram breathed heavily as he slid down the railing and sat on the deck, searching for the wound. He could hear his father in his ear again, “Son, are you alright? Where’re you hit?”
“I don’t know; I can’t find it.”
“We’re on our way, hold tight son. You’re going to be alright.”
***
Several of the deputies were making their way up the front stairs to the camp. They split up as they kicked the door in and rushed the room. They swept left and right, searching the interior for any remaining threats. One of the deputies stayed to restrain the men that had surrendered. One by one, they shouted, “Clear!” They radioed their report down to the remaining men.
Out front, Deputy Greene ran over to his brother, Sheriff Greene, to congratulate him. “David!” He exclaimed as he approached the sheriff, “Did you hear that? The camp’s clear! I just heard from Clayton that Geram’s been hit. We need to get him some help quick. Let’s go get the-“
He gasped as he dropped to his knees and scooped his brother up in his arms. The sheriff coughed hard from the sudden movement as blood trickled from his mouth.
“No! No, no, no! Help! I need some help over here!”
The sheriff grasped his baby brother’s hand and looked into his eyes. He tried to smile, but the coughing began again. He tilted his head back slightly and wheezed as he squeezed his brother’s hand tighter. A single tear rolled down the old man’s face and then he closed his eyes.
Cha pter 27
Wyman
Corpus Christi, TX
The high-pitched whine of the F-16 Fighting Falcons, more commonly referred to as Vipers by their pilots, was like a drug to him. Wyman zipped up his flight suit and walked out to his baby. He gently ran his hand along the jet as he performed a final walk around, before climbing into the cockpit. The ground crew was just finishing their checks, but he still preferred to inspect everything himself. He glanced over and observed his wingman doing the same.
The morning was fresh and crisp; perfect for flying. He turned and took a final glance at the airfield before closing the cockpit. As he pulled the helmet over his head, the ground crew got into position and went through the pre-flight functionality checks with him.
He daydreamed as he obeyed the requests to move the various flaps, tabs and rudders on the wings and tail. Wyman imagined his partner in the other jet was wide awake from the ‘go pills’ as he performed the same pre-flight procedures. Wyman preferred to fly his missions with his natural sensibilities, unless the task was so difficult that it demanded more. Not that today’s mission was not critical, but it should be simple enough.
The crews removed the wheel chocks and marched a safe distance away from the aircraft, before turning and giving him the all clear sign. Wyman taxied across the airfield to the runway. Once in position, he accelerated rapidly down the pavement. His exhaust glowed orange and the air behind him was wavy and distorted. The roar of the engine was loud and powerful, and gave him a feeling like none other. A few seconds later the jet gradually lifted into the air. Wyman pulled the control stick closer to himself and the jet climbed rapidly into the cloudless sky.
“Viper One, Texas Air National Guard, on the prowl.”
“Viper Two right behind you, Viper One.”
“Get up here and hold my hand, V2.”
“Roger.”
After leaving Corpus Christi, the two jets rolled east at a forty five degree angle until they were nearly ten miles off the coast. They dropped within meters of the gulf waters and each other and aimed their noses due south. The jets screamed over the water with perfect synchronization. The shadows of the jets bobbed and danced across the waves underneath them as they streaked towards Mexico. Wyman Wolfe, call sign Lobo, could not imagine a more beautiful or exhilarating place to be than right where he was. He leaned back and enjoyed the ride.
Guano, his aptly named wingman, was uncharacteristically quiet. Lobo however, knew exactly what his old friend was up to. Guano had slipped the buds of his music player into his ears and was in his own private, techno-trance world. Lobo reasoned it was most likely one of three or four of the same, stupid songs; probably Danger by CIRC. Lobo did not seem to mind Guano’s quirks, though. Whatever kept him calm was a welcome addition.
“Viper Two, What’s your status?”
“Just working on my tan V1. Permission to fence in?”
“Cross the fence V2; V1 crossing as well.”
Both pilots commenced the procedure of preparing their jets for combat. The switches were one by one flipped up or down to the appropriate mode as they quickly approached their destination.
“Turn off the chick music, sweetheart; we’re closing in.”
“Roger Viper One, but I don’t come to your office and call you names while you’re working.”
“Negative, you actually do that.”
“Well, in that case...”
“Alright Viper Two, let’s roll at a thirty and point it due west. ETA two minutes, twenty seconds.”
“Wilco.”
The two jets rolled in a formation so perfect and tight, it was as if they were controlled by a single pilot. They climbed to a couple hundred feet as they crossed the shoreline and flew into Mexico. As they screamed towards Matamoros, their first target was the Soviet-era air-defense system that had been installed just east of the Olympic Park. The jets were screaming forward faster than their approaching sound, they had the early morning sun directly behind them and were flying at elevations that were completely undetectable by the old SA-5 systems that were in place; they were invisible emissaries of death.
“Target located and acquired, V1; awaiting command.”
“Let’s rock their world.”
The low-flying jets were below the effective range of the anti-aircraft missiles. The SA-5 Gammon was helpless against the F-16s. As the pilots released their HARM missiles, they banked hard to the north and briefly danced back into Texan airspace. The missiles immediately detected the Gammon’s fire control radar signal. The HARMs self-guided to their target, achieving MACH 1 prior to impact. The explosion was massive and was amplified by the 500 pound warheads on each of the six anti-aircraft missiles. The early morning impact shook the entire city from its slumber.
“Whoo! Tango Uniform, V1!”
“Roger that V2, let’s roll back south for another meet and greet.
The jets once again banked hard and approached the second system, located several miles west of Olympic Park. As they reached their target, they released another perfectly-timed volley of missiles. Guano, unable to contain himself, roared in triumph.
The jets turned vertical and climbed several thousand feet, before looping back and aiming themselves towards their main target, the park itself. As they shrieked towards Olympic Park, the jets released their Maverick missiles and Mk 83 bombs. The resulting explosions engulfed the entire area, utterly decimating the eighty-plus vehicles stationed there.
“Good job V2, now we just have one final item; hold my hand and let’s pay our friends at the airport a visit.”
“My pleasure; let’s go find some bandit cats.”
As they flew their tight formation over General Servando Canales International Airport, they could see the pilots scrambling to six jets below. The F-5s were over half of the Mexican Air Force’s entire fighter squadron. They continued their path to the east, putting some distance between them and the F-5s and leading them over the gulf. They slowed their pace, allowing the jets time to takeoff and gain some ground on them. After several moments, the first of the blips appeared on their radar.
“Are you going to let me have a dogfight, V1?”
“Absolutely not on my watch; play with your food some other time. Stay beyond visual range and let the am-rams do their thing. Besides, there’s too many.”
“Too many? We might as well be fighting the Wright brothers!”
“The answer is negative.”
“Roger; speed and angels on the left.”
“Speed and angels on the right.”
Speed and angels was the confirmation for the predetermined altitude and velocity at which they would engage the hostiles. They simultaneously rolled in opposite directions and met again, facing the distant but approaching F-5s. They each released two volleys of AMRAAM missiles. The “am-rams” were a fire and forget missile, capable of engaging the defenseless fighter jets from beyond visual range. Nothing the F-5s had in their armament was capable of countering the attack.
Within several seconds, four of the blips disappeared from the radar and Guano released another of his guttural roars. As the F-16s streaked by the remaining two F-5s, one of the Mexican pilots abandoned his jet and ejected into the gulf, nearly a mile from the coast. The abandoned fighter gradually lost altitude as it continued over the gulf, eventually slamming into the surface of the choppy waters.
“I guess that hombre didn’t want to play.”
“I’d hate to have to make that swim to shore.”
“Give me the last one, Viper Lead.”
“Roger; proceed with engagement, V2.”
Guano made his final offensive maneuver and rolled once again to face the last aircraft. With the push of a button, the am-ram was engaged and on its way to its target. After several seconds, the final blip disappeared.
“Sierra Hotel, V2! Now, let’s wrap it up and head north. We’ll need every bit of our juice to get back home.”
“Roger that; lead the way.”
“Drop it low and throttle up. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back in time for coffee.”
“Should’ve had a go pill.”
