Ed peered over the wall again, heart hammering in his chest. He had a good view of the patrol and didn’t like what he saw. He counted five men on foot on either side of the street, on the sidewalks and with proper intervals. There were three in the Growler, a driver with two bored-looking men in back. It was an open-topped Growler, not one of the up-armored hardtopped models he was used to seeing in the city. One of the men inside was probably the ranking officer, but they were too far away to read insignia. As for the IMP, it had a driver somewhere out of sight behind the narrow slit filled with thick armored glass that provided him protection in exchange for poor visibility. The roof gunner was the only other occupant of the personnel carrier Ed could see, but he was well aware there could be more inside. The rear hatch was open, but until the vehicle passed his location he wouldn’t be able to see into it.
Between the IMP and the Growler, in the street and on foot, were two more soldiers. That made at least seventeen men in the patrol, versus his poorly armed seven. One of whom was a cherry who’d never pulled a trigger on another human being, but Ed didn’t want to think about that now. He signaled seventeen plus to Weasel, who shook his head.
“You stay the hell away from that window boy,” Early murmured, his voice so low Jason almost missed it. The inside of the house was like a cave, even with the big window in front and half the south wall gone. The two of them stood in darkness to either side of the empty window frame, peering out past the overgrown bushes and over the long grass.
Early’d snuck a peek up the street and had seen what was coming their way, but Jason was on the wrong side of the window to see anything but the street back the way they’d come, and then only if he craned his head out. His quivering body was wedged tight into the dark front corner of the room, hands so sweaty he was afraid his rifle would slip out and bang onto the floor. All he could do was listen to the ominous growing sounds.
Early stole another glance out the window—yep, still coming. He didn’t know what kind of patrol it was—they didn’t seem to be checking the houses to either side—but they definitely had his boys outnumbered and outgunned. But weren’t they always? Though he hated to do it, best thing would be to hide and hope they kept on going. He moved back into the dark corner and glanced at the boy, who looked ready to wet himself. Early’d already told him to hug the wall no matter what, unless he saw him start shooting. Well, whatever happened, happened.
There was a big hole in the far wall of the small house. Through it he could see the bungalow next door, also crumbling, sunlight, and a lot of waist high weeds. He was pretty sure Quentin and Mark were in there, but things had been pretty hectic there for a few short seconds and he wasn’t totally sure who had scurried where. Ed and Weasel were most likely near that raised porch across the street, but he hadn’t a clue as to where George had disappeared to. He just hoped that if any shooting started that nobody found themselves in a crossfire.
Mark had almost popped Quentin as he came crawling in through the jagged hole in the side of the house. They each had a window to peek out of and neither liked what they saw. They caught sight of the IMP about the time the Growler made the turn, and both faded back away from the windows, trading hand signals. They stayed on the ground floor of the house—on the ground, you could always retreat out the back. On the second floor, if someone got in the house the only options were to fight your way down the stairs or jump out a window. Mark had had to do that once, and didn’t wish to again. His knees were already in bad shape, and even with only half a belt of ammo left the SAW was not light.
As the IMP and dismounted soldiers drew closer George cursed his own judgement and tried to disappear into the undergrowth. He was dressed in earth tone clothing, his plate carriers tan, his Springfield AR painted a nice camo pattern, backed into a privet bush, behind a big, seven-foot yew, standing in thigh-high grass and day-lilies that reached past his belt, but still he felt naked.
The IMP rolled inexorably on and in a few short seconds had drawn abreast of the house next door. George stood frozen in the bushes as the soldiers on foot drew close. The grunt on point was a few steps in front of the IMP and glanced at the space between the houses but never left the sidewalk. George was just starting to breathe a little easier when the second man in line broke formation and walked straight toward him.
As the IMP grew close Ed set his rifle on the porch and slowly unslung the grenade launcher. The one round they had for the stubby weapon was already loaded and his hands clenched the wooden stock nervously. Weasel eyed the weapon and squirmed, perhaps hoping that with enough effort he’d be able to dig through the porch’s concrete with his knees and elbows.
Ed’s eyes darted this way and that, gauging, calculating, as the IMP rolled sedately on. His head sunk down until just half of one eye showed over the wall.
George was afraid to blink as the soldier stopped right in front of him, fiddling with the button-fly of his fatigue pants. He was young, not much older than Jason, but the rifle slung over his shoulder made his age meaningless. George could have reached out and touched him, he was that close.
“Whaddaya doin’?” one of his squadmates called out to him. The soldier turned halfway back, still fiddling with his fly. George’s right hand, unbidden, left the grip of his rifle and crept up toward the knife strapped upside down over his left breast.
“Takin’ a piss.” George’s hand froze, five inches short, as the soldier turned back.
The two men were so close George didn’t know how the soldier couldn’t hear his heart thumping in his chest, much less the ragged breathing he labored to subdue. They were practically eye to eye, and George knew if the young soldier looked up he’d be caught for sure. The soldier, however, was more interested in playing his urine over the grass and daylily blossoms. George felt drops hitting his boots but didn’t dare look down, instead slowly closing his eyes to mere slits so that when he did have to blink the movement would be less noticeable. He prayed he didn’t stink so badly the soldier could smell him.
Even though every cell in his body was telling Ed to get the hell down behind the wall, rationally he knew that none of the soldiers would spot his sliver of skull and eyeball behind the patchy shrub. Not unless they started up the steps to the porch, which was why he needed to keep a lookout. If any of the troops on foot headed his way he wanted to know about it before the man stumbled over them.
As to what kind of patrol it was Ed couldn’t be sure—the open-topped Growler confused him—no armor, and not even a roof? He had no way of knowing the troops inside weren’t happy about it either, but fully a third of the Army’s up-armored Growlers in the city were down for repairs, and the others were out with other patrols.
The soldiers weren’t searching the houses to either side, that much was clear. If their goal was just to make their presence felt in the outlying neighborhoods, Ed would’ve thought they’d all be packed into armored Growlers and cruising along at ten or fifteen miles an hour. Cover a lot more ground that way; he’d seen it done more than once.
The troops Ed was watching didn’t seem to be especially on edge; in fact, they looked rather bored. Bored, and painfully young, although maybe that was just him. They were wearing their ballistic helmets, though, even in the heat and humidity, which gave some indication as to their discipline. It also looked like they all had on the standard body armor with composite plate inserts at chest and back. As they kept coming Ed could see they were all sweating buckets. It was damnably hot, but this late in the season they should have been used to the heat. They were either new replacements or spent too much time in air-conditioned barracks.