After rescuing her at the other end of the pipe four hundred meters distant, he’d put McMichael on a blanket and used it to pull her all the way back here. Just behind them, twenty meters away, was the only bend he encountered in the entire length.
What to do next?
Based on the time displayed via his head protection visor, they had about five hours until daylight. He hoped to be moving, with McMichael in tow, before sunrise. Once out, he figured they’d make their way through the desert into the outskirts of Mesquite and hide until the next evening.
Over the last hour, he’d taken a mental inventory of their supplies and weapons.
First, he considered what McMichael had, which wasn’t shit: no helmet, pants, pack, assault rifle, combat belt, boots, or socks, just a combat shirt—complete liability. So that meant he was it.
Water was most important, good news there. He carried his own camelback and another he’d stolen from the enemy. Although he’d gone through a lot of water while in the pipe, and shared it with McMichael, he figured they still had enough to last a full day.
As for food, he still had two unopened MREs in his vest pouch, not much, but water would be the bigger issue.
From a weapons standpoint, his KA-BAR combat knife was ankle sheathed, and he carried a hip-holstered SIG Sauer M18 handgun with a fully loaded seventeen-round magazine. In his combat vest, he carried another full mag. Clipped to his combat belt, two multi-purpose grenades dangled. Most distressing, he’d lost his assault rifle at the start of the fight when a HEAT round had hit his pillbox and hurled him through the air into a nearby drainage ditch. Somehow, during that tumultuous event, landing hard, he hadn’t died but lost his rifle.
Stunned, he’d been lying in a ditch when a massive artillery barrage hit with a ferocity he never dreamed possible. To survive, he scrambled for his life. No time to search for his rifle, he came across a large, exposed drainage pipe. Grateful for the protection, upon entering, he crawled deeper inside as the ground shook around him. After a while the shelling stopped, and things grew quiet.
Back then, as the shock of the attack wore off, he began to feel a sense of dread and guilt. He considered rushing out the way he’d come, to rejoin the fight. Little did he know that at the opposite end of the pipe, Sergeant Lisa McMichael was fighting for her own life.
Pushing away the thoughts, depressed, Upton turned onto his side, and through his night vison, observed McMichael stretched out behind him. She slept on the blanket he’d used as a makeshift sled. To provide her with a modicum of decency, across her groin he’d draped her discarded combat pants.
Before she’d regained consciousness the first time, he had checked for and tended her wounds. She had some deep scratches, but other than an obvious concussion, to his relief her injuries appeared minor. It’d taken a lot of work checking and treating her wounds. Squirming around in the tight pipe, his six-foot frame was challenged by the small dimensions. But with his first aid, kit he’d done it, and the work had kept his mind occupied.
Now, watching her, with time creeping by, he once again grew anxious. Although tired, the anxiety kept him awake, and he was thankful for that. Still, they needed to get going.
But he wanted to give her a little more recovery time. When he rescued her, she’d been unconscious, and he hoped she carried no memory of the attempted rape. If so, he intended to keep it that way.
With time to kill, his mind wandered.
He agonized over the course of events. Earlier, with all communications down, he hadn’t been sure of the outcome. But now, based on what he’d heard moving along the highway, the soldiers assaulting McMichael, the horrific pounding from earlier in the day, he was confident in the outcome, and it wasn’t good. He deduced the enemy had won the fight and now occupied the area. For how long? Maybe forever.
Still gazing at the sleeping form, he tried to remember more about Sergeant Lisa McMichael. He recalled she was from Las Vegas. When their battalion had moved into position two months earlier, McMichael was one of the Junior NCOs designated as a pillbox squad leader.
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.”