“Sergeant. Untie the others and then help me with your mates. Grab whatever weapons you can and make sure your boys cover us.” He inserted a fresh magazine into the pistol, reached for the executed British officer, and lifted him onto his shoulders.
Sergeant Micheals stopped him. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll take my captain, if you please.” It wasn’t a request. James gently passed him to the sergeant.
“We’ve got the other crew. We’ll regroup two klicks down the road. Go to forty-three point seven zero on your radio and contact Bravo One and Bravo Two. Tell them what’s going on and get some help in here.” Morgan turned and ran back to his Cougar. It lurched forward as the doors slammed shut and moved toward the outskirts of town, the Saxon close on its tail.
He looked back at the men sitting or lying in the rear compartment. What had happened? Who changed the rules of the game? Who decided NATO was fair game?
Emerson had the first-aid kit out and tended to the wounded as best he could. Their own medic was safely tucked away in Bravo One.
The British soldiers were coming around from the fresh air. Their faces were black from the oily smoke, but nothing could mask the pain of their injuries. Morgan twisted and turned his way back to his seat and looked through the periscope. With The Ritz blocked from view, he opened the hatch. As they passed a small side street, his head snapped to the left and he yelled for Boyce to turn left.
“What is it, Dusty?” Boyce yelled.
“Snipers again.” He let the intercom button go and swallowed hard. The Saxon was close behind. What do I do, he wondered. He opened the microphone again. “Get us to the end of the street and stop.”
Morgan leaped from the Cougar as it slowed and ran to the edge of the buildings. He poked his head out. “No fire,” he said, with a deep breath. He stuck his head out into the open again and there in the distance, five houses away, someone’s leg poked into the street.
“Shit!” he yelled. He hoped he was wrong, but he knew he wasn’t. The sniper was firing at the person’s leg. Bullets rained down and bounced off the street; small plumes of dust marked the shots.
Morgan raced back and began yelling orders as he pulled himself up with his good arm. He slammed the hatch shut. The Cougar began to move, and his gaze strained through the periscope to see around the next corner. They moved around the house, into the alley behind, and sped to the next crossroad. He could see no other alternative. “Get over to that building and block the fire.”
The Cougar raced across the road and skidded to a halt parallel to the casualty. It was a woman, her groceries spread across the street. The Saxon followed, but the Cougar hadn’t allowed enough room for it to pass.
“Gunner up!” Morgan turned to get to the rear. The inside was barely big enough for him on a normal day, but with the six extra men in the compartment, it was next to impossible to move. “Boyce. Discharge the smoke canisters and keep a steady stream of fire on The Ritz. Emerson. Cover me.”
James flung open the right door and leaned to the left as he collected his wits. He hurled himself out of the APC and rolled beside the rear wheel. He listened to the comforting sound of the machine gun at the front of the vehicle. Emerson, with his own rifle, supplemented the heavier gun.
James crawled forward, grabbed the leg of the old woman, and dragged her back to the side of the vehicle. Blood seeped from her side. He ripped the field dressing from his shoulder harness and taped the bandage in place. As he tied it off, he looked around. Two others lay close by.
He pulled the woman over his shoulder, her injury a minor concern now, and carried her to the security of the Cougar. As he placed her on the cold metal floor, Emerson looked down. “Two more out there,” James said breathlessly. Blood soaked through the sleeve, and the arm of his coat was red. A wave of nausea washed over him.
Emerson looked over and handed him the rifle. James nodded and started firing. He finished four magazines before Emerson made it back. There was no bandage as the sniper’s initial shot had scored a direct hit to the elderly man’s head. Emerson gently placed him on the floor and reached for the rifle.
James was out the door as the first shots echoed inside, crawled to the last casualty, and dragged him to the side of the Cougar. Suddenly, the machine gun stopped.
“JAM!” Boyce screamed.
James froze, and his stomach knotted upon itself. His cover-fire was all but gone, and the snipers, sensing the lull, increased their tempo. The pinging became quicker as more bullets hit the vehicle. Small plumes of dust jumped up as bullets hit the dirt. A new area of fire opened up, and this sniper almost had a clear field of fire at the rear of the Cougar.
James was pinned next to the wheel. The last casualty was still alive. They could still save this one. His mind, suddenly fraught with dread and fear, couldn’t force his body to move. The British Saxon, barely visible through the smoke screen, continued to jockey back and forth, trying to land its guns on The Ritz.
The ground was cold on his belly and chest as the winter frost invaded his insulated clothing. He shifted around and rested against the side of the vehicle. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least he wasn’t eating dirt.
All around him, the ground was red and he looked at his coat. The front was stained with blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hope to hell that ain’t mine.”
Sweat drenched his face. He pushed his helmet back and wiped his forehead. A bullet ricocheted off the vehicle only inches from his head. He reached over, wrapped his arm around the old man, and moved to one knee.
Bravo One and Bravo Two rounded the corner four blocks away. He looked down the road. “You’d think they’d be closer by now.” He put the old man over his shoulder.
“Damn it, Dusty! Move!” Emerson yelled.
#
Emerson shook with anticipation. He waited only seconds before bringing his rifle to bear through a small crack between the door and the main hull. He deliberately kept the rate of fire slow: two or three-round bursts only.
As the front edge of the bolt heated from the friction and exploding gases, a small crack appeared just to the left of the extractor pin. It didn’t take long for the barrel to glow from the hundreds of rounds being poured through it.
Emerson inserted a fresh magazine, his last one. He pulled the cocking handle and the bolt slammed forward, picking up a fresh round. He opened fire and concentrated on a window where he had seen puffs of smoke. The sniper, if he was smart, had already moved, but that was Emerson’s last point of reference.
Boyce struggled with the machine gun. Emerson counted the shots in his head as the rounds flew out of the barrel. When he reached nine, he stopped. The bolt slammed forward, picked up another round, and forced it into the barrel. “Damn it, Dusty. Move!”
Emerson pulled the trigger.
The firing pin came forward, striking the primer on the end of the bullet. The force of the backfire ripped the bolt and rifle apart. Shrapnel flew from the ejection port, over the heads of the British soldiers sitting or lying on the floor.
Emerson never heard the explosion and never knew what the blinding light was before shards of metal tore through his face and head.
#
Morgan was three steps from the door; momentum propelled him forward. He heard the C7 fire one more time, but the sound wasn’t right. Nothing followed the single shot.
Nothing but a scream.
Morgan couldn’t stop. His balance was forward, thrown off by the old man on his shoulders. Two steps, he thought. Just two more. Without a sound, he rounded the corner.
His head snapped to the side