Upton unbuckled his combat belt and, getting ready to go out, whispered a plan. “Sergeant, listen. They don’t know you’re in here. In the hall, there’s a ceiling trap door. Grab a broom from the coat closet and use it to push open the door. A cord will drop. Pull on it and a stair ladder will descend. Climb up and pull the ladder up behind you. Hide there until after they leave. Later, head for Bunkerville as planned. Once you get there, use the satellite phone in your pack. Let them know what happened and get home safe.”
The loudspeaker boomed again. “One minute!”
“No, they’ll find me. Better if I we go together,” said McMichael, now standing.
“Negative, take these,” said Upton, and he unclipped the two grenades from his belt and turned McMichael around, dropping them in her pack.
“Go,” he said, and he pushed McMichael towards the closet. Not waiting, in one motion, Upton dropped his belt and holster onto the tile. Then he removed his helmet and placed it next to the other items. All the while, satisfied with his decision, he noticed McMichael respond. Good. She grabbed a broom from the closet and, without looking back, raced down the hall.
Relieved by her actions, Upton waited a few seconds.
“I’m coming out!” he yelled through the door. Then he counted to ten, giving McMichael more time. Satisfied, he twisted the knob and opened the front door.
Although not quite dark, a floodlight hit him. Without thinking, he raised an arm to protect his eyes.
“Hands above your head. Walk forward, now!” commanded the loudspeaker.
Eyes squinting, Upton didn’t play games and raised both hands. Then he moved towards the searing light.
“Stop, lay flat, spread-eagle, now!” boomed the loudspeaker.
As he dropped to his hands and knees, the movement jarred his ribs causing a bolt of hot pain to take his breath away. Doing his best to ignore the discomfort, still wearing his combat vest, he leaned forward and went prone.
Limbs now spread, the artificial grass felt warm on Upton’s cheeks, but the pressure on his ribs brought tears. Scared and in pain, he thought of McMichael and hoped she remained hidden. Heart thumping, he determined to keep her a secret, no matter how they questioned him. But he knew it was a lie. The enemy was known to use advanced interrogation techniques, and under enough duress, he’d cave, as would anyone. Still, to give McMichael an opportunity for escape, he vowed to hold out for as long as he could.
Over the idling engines, he detected heavy footsteps.
“Give me your name, soldier!”
Upton shuddered at the command. He lifted his head off the grass and through the spotlight spotted a silhouette. A man stood hovering a few feet away holding an assault rifle.
“Master Sergeant Corey Upton, ROAS Army of Defense,” he said before dropping his head. The soldier didn’t respond. Instead, Upton detected mumbling and guessed the bastard was passing along the good news. A few seconds later, Upton lost hope.
Over the booming loudspeaker, Lieutenant Peck announced, “Sergeant McMichael! Lisa McMichael! We know you’re in there! Master Sergeant Upton is in custody, and if you look out the window, you’ll see a platoon sergeant covering him with an M27 assault rifle. You have two minutes to surrender, or Master Sergeant Upton dies for aiding and abetting your escape. Save him by coming out with arms raised. Leave your weapons inside, surrender, and no one gets harmed. Your two minutes start right now!”
Deflated and defeated, Upton couldn’t fathom how they knew. He guessed it stemmed from their earlier experience with the Custer. Either way, it didn’t matter. Now the focus was on staying alive.
McMichael had just pulled up the stairs, frantic, and was working to replace the attic cover when the loudspeaker bellowed her name. Hopes faded, and she slumped. Somehow, they knew about her. Hiding in the attic was pointless.
With great reluctance she pushed the flimsy cover aside, dropped the stairs, and descended into the hallway. Alive with fear, she approached the foyer and the open front door. Just out of sight, she pulled off her pack and placed it on the tile. Next to it, she pulled Kinney’s Glock from her belt and laid it aside.
Committed to the inevitable, she took a final deep breath and stood tall. Determined to stay strong, she walked through the front door, raising her hands. Then, all hell broke loose.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WHAT THE HELL?
Commander of the ROAS Special Forces Army Recon Company, Captain Jason Bowen, over the last four days had kept his team hidden and ready. But it hadn’t been easy.
As a precaution, Bowen and half his company, three operational detachments totaling thirty-six highly skilled operators, were pre-staged in Mesquite. Excited about the prospects of war, but unsure of the mission, his team deployed with a wide array of tools and weapons. Hidden, their job was to stay prepared and out of sight until issued orders by CENTCOM.
Yesterday, hiding inside an industrial warehouse big enough to hold his team and supplies, they became agitated when the sound of guns erupted along the border. Even with the fight raging, begging to join in, their orders remained the same: stay out of sight and wait. Frustrated, they remained hunkered down and later became angered when they learned the fate of the ROAS battalion protecting the border.
Then, with guile and bravado, as Mesquite filled with US troops, Bowen’s team focused on survival by remaining unseen.
Still, his team itched for a fight.
At last, this morning, they received orders to prepare for a mission to support a new effort, Code name Operation Heavy Metal. Stoked by the news, his team poured themselves into planning and preparation.
Five hours later, everything changed again. Bowen received a direct call from General Story with a different set of orders. They learned of a new, higher-value objective only a half-klick away.
Since the call, his team shifted their planning efforts and went into high gear. For years, his Special Forces operators had trained for this day, and now the opportunity to test their skills against real, live adversaries was at hand. Bowen committed a full ODA to the mission, a total of twelve Special Forces operators. Throughout the afternoon, the team bustled with activity and excitement.
Once ready, Bowen and his ODA slipped out of their warehouse hiding place.
For over an hour, the team slow-crawled through desert brush, not sure what they’d be facing, but understanding their objective was under direct enemy aerial observation. Throughout the ordeal, the threat of detection persisted. If spotted, they were to scatter. In that case, his remaining force left inside the warehouse was to destroy their well-stocked supplies, create a diversion, and run.
Protected against visible and overhead detection by state-of-the-art active camouflage ghillie suits, Bowen’s squad stopped often to review the latest target satellite imagery. As they neared the objective, looking at the latest pictures, they realized their fears and desires. The enemy was moving, in force, against the same target. In a surge, the squad moved faster.
Now, as they set up positions in the desert scrub seventy meters from the target, a sense of relief passed over the group. They’d arrived without being spotted.
Still, the situation was perilous. Almost at once, the team eyed enemy troops on nearby rooftops. To mitigate the threat, Captain Bowen passed along new orders.
Instructions in place, Bowen signaled for Sergeant Major Sean Ekin and Sergeant First Class Acquon Mason to follow his lead. The rest of the ODA remained in place, spreading out, while the trio slithered forward through the thick brush.
After a five-minute crawl, Captain Bowen gave another signal, and all three men stopped twenty meters from the street fronting their objective. Silent and lying prone, their ghillie suits blending into the scrub and protecting them from thermal recognition, they readied their weapons.