With nothing else pressing, she sat in the darkened living room and waited. Her mind kept going back to the previous day: the attack and horrible shelling; shooting down the helicopter, Specialist Kinney squirming. She wondered how many she’d killed. Then she thought of the men and women in her squad—horrible explosions and ear-splitting noise, high-velocity rounds ripping through flesh, digging into the ground under relentless attack.
She felt awful and wished Upton was awake so they could leave. But she knew he needed sleep. So she tried thinking of her kids, Samantha and Jonathan, but that increased her anxiety. Trying to stay positive, she shifted her thoughts and imagined getting out of the house and making it back to ROAS lines—the joy of returning, the danger lifting. Before she knew it, it was time, and with a sense of relief, she got up and headed towards the master bedroom to wake her partner.
“What time is it?” asked Upton, opening his eyes.
She’d checked the battery-operated kitchen wall clock before heading to the bedroom. “17:45. We need to call in soon.”
With a grunt, Upton sat up and got off the bed. As he strapped on his combat vest and belt, he asked, “Everything okay? The drapes across the way still open?”
“Yes. All’s quiet. It’s like the entire neighborhood is empty: no cars, no people, eerie,” she said.
Upton checked his belt and holster and made a slight adjustment. “Good, let’s contact CENTCOM.”
As they walked through the house heading towards the garage, Upton leading the way, McMichael glanced through the small opening in the patio window. The drapes across the yard remained undisturbed. So far, so good.
In the kitchen, before entering the garage, facing west, Upton cracked the kitchen window shutters, and both soldiers bent low to peer outside. Bright in their eyes, the sun was on its descent. Through the glare, the street remained empty, and the houses across the way appeared empty. Satisfied, ready to move into the garage and make the call, McMichael stood straight. However, Upton continued to stare hard out the window.
Concerned about the prolonged concentration, McMichael asked, “What is it?”
Upton didn’t answer and kept staring. After a few seconds, he closed the shutter and pressed himself against the kitchen wall. McMichael, sensing danger, did the same.
“What,” she whispered, fear and adrenaline mounting.
“There is someone on the roof across the street. I saw the tip of a rifle.”
“You positive?” she asked. She hadn’t seen a damn thing.
He frowned, “Yes. You turned away too soon.”
“Now what?” she asked, feeling a sense of panic and dread.
Upton appeared unsure, but she believed him. They were being watched.
She needed time to think. In another hour, darkness would descend. If they could wait until then before making a dash to escape, their chances might improve. The most promising escape route was through the front door. A quick burst to cross the street into the desert sage. Once there, they could work their way to safety. Still, she couldn’t fathom why the enemy had positioned someone on the opposite roof instead of just barging in with guns blazing. Maybe the rifle on the roof had nothing to do with them? No, too coincidental. Her thoughts turned to CENTCOM and what they might do when they didn’t call in as expected. It didn’t matter. Right now, they had bigger problems.
McMichael explained her thoughts. “We need to get out of here. It’s possible the enemy is surrounding us, and we can’t call CENTCOM from inside the house. We need line of sight, but going outside and opening the garage door to make a call, with a rifle on the roof across the street, isn’t an option.”
“Yeah, this house is a trap. Dammit. Rus should have warned us by pulling the drapes. I guess our neighbor friend gave us away. My fault: I shouldn’t have let him leave the house.”
“No one’s to blame. We need to think,” said McMichael. As her mind whirled, she spoke her thoughts out loud. “We can act like we’re surrendering. Walk out the front door with our hands held high. If they don’t spot us for a few seconds, then we can dash across the street into the desert. Once we’re hidden, we can call CENTCOM. Of course, if they do spot us right away, we’ll be forced to give up.” McMichael felt bad about suggesting the possibility of surrender, but she felt exposed, a sense of doom filling the house. Surrendering had popped into her mind earlier. In the pipe, before she killed Specialist Kinney, she considered giving up. At that moment, fighting back seemed instinctive. Now, with time to rest and reflect on the horrors of the past day, if cornered, giving up seemed logical. She didn’t want to die in a futile escape attempt.
“We could go out guns firing, but no, I like your plan better. I’m not ready to die in a blaze of glory. But to give us a better chance, I wish it was dark. Right now, in broad daylight, they’ll spot us for sure. Of course, it might not matter, as they could storm the house at any moment.”
“Sergeant, I’m sorry, but if they storm the house, we need to surrender. There’s only two of us against God knows how many. I’m willing to give it an hour, let it get darker, then we go out with our hands up. If nothing happens, we make a run for it.” In saying the words, her hands trembled, the memory of the pipe and shelling rumbling through her gut.
“Fair enough. I’ll sneak into the garage and pick up the satellite phone. Then, let’s get our packs loaded and be ready to move. We’ll huddle near the front door. In an hour, near sunset, we head out. If something happens before then, we try to survive and, if necessary, surrender.”
“Sergeant, you don’t think we’ve done anything wrong, do you? I mean, you think they’ll treat us as prisoners of war and not as murderers?” asked McMichael, the question troubling her.
Upton looked at her and seemed conflicted. Then he nodded. “I expect they’ll treat us with respect. We’re not criminals. But we’ve still got a chance to get away.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SURROUNDED AND SURRENDER
May 9, 18:42 (PDT)
Inside the M2A6 Stuart infantry fighting vehicle, Sergeant Flood sat pissed off. His Section B, Third Squad squatted in reserve, a half-mile down the road from the real action. It wasn’t fair. After all, Flood was the reason for the mission. Without his efforts the two enemy combatants wouldn’t be on the radar. Now he sat on his ass, waiting.
At first, when Flood learned about the mission from platoon leader Lieutenant Peck, he was excited. The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, after reading the intelligence reports on the target, had recognized Flood’s earlier involvement. In a show of good faith, Paulson tasked Flood’s platoon with the honor of executing the capture. But when it came time to hand out squad assignments, Lieutenant Peck, known by the men as Lieutenant “Prick,” fucked up the tasking. The platoon leader was angry at Flood for the loss of Kinney and took it out by posting him in reserve.
Lieutenant “Prick” decided that Section A, with First and most of Second Squad, along with their two fighting vehicles, would conduct the actual capture operation. Not needed, Flood’s Section B, along with Third Squad and their two fighting vehicles, would stay in reserve.
So now Flood sat stuck, guarding the main street leading into the target subdivision. Sitting on his ass, waiting and upset, Flood was in no position to avenge the death of Specialist Kinney. Even worse, the guilt from losing Kinney gnawed at his guts. Only by taking revenge did he imagine the pain going away.