Ed stepped back to the roof gunner and examined him. The sniper’s first shot had hit the man in the base of the throat and blown his spine out the back of his neck. It was grisly. Ed forced his eyes off the man, glanced around the IMP’s mostly metal interior and grunted. “Two minutes,” he told Weasel. Then he looked down at the ammo cans Weasel had found. “Those full of anything we can use?” he asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Bet your ass.” Weasel hissed loudly, and flipped open the lid of one. There, each nestled in its own slot, were eight fragmentation hand grenades.
“Beautiful. See what else they have.” Ed scurried out the back of the carrier. He climbed up the side of the IMP, using the slat armor like a ladder, to the roof.
“You see anything?” he called down to Jason, who was standing at the rear corner of the rusted vehicle wedged between the IMP and the curb. Jason looked up at him and shook his head.
The squad was moving with directed intensity, systematically looting the bodies of anything of value. George saw Mark digging through one of the soldier’s packs he’d found blown from the roof of the Growler, pulling out items one at a time, and yelled at him.
“No no no, fuck that, we don’t have time,” George told him. He jogged over, and reached up to where his knife should be hanging from his webbing. It wasn’t there. Instead he pointed at the big blade on Mark’s hip. “Use your knife. Cut the whole thing open.” He looked up and around. “Move, people!” he yelled. “We’re living on borrowed time.” Then he jogged back between the houses to retrieve his knife.
A long time ago—it seemed like decades—when he’d first joined up, someone had shown Ed how to operate a belt-fed grenade launcher, but he hadn’t laid hands on one since and couldn’t figure out how to get the belt out of the weapon. He used his knife to pry apart the metal links and laid the rest of the ammo belt back into the oversize ammo can resting on a raised tray beside the gun. He closed it up and moved to the rear of the vehicle.
“Hey.” Weasel looked up, and Ed dropped the heavy can into his arms before climbing down.
“There’s a big water tank on the wall in here.”
“Can we grab it?”
Weasel shook his head. “Bolted in.”
“Fuck.” He thought for just a second. “You done in here?”
“Yeah.” Weasel glanced down and Ed saw the grenade box, three ammo cans, and a battered M4 carbine that probably belonged to the driver all lying on the back hatch. Weasel’s chest rig was stuffed with the extra magazines that went with the rifle. Ed dug out his empty canteen and tossed it to Weasel.
“Form up on the IMP for water and grenades!” he called out to his men. He could see they were almost finished, and he checked his watch. Three minutes already. They needed to move. Weasel tossed the canteen back to him, full.
George staggered up with an extra carbine over one shoulder, his pack stuffed with salvaged gear. Ed was happy to see two grenades hanging from his chest straps. George was too overloaded to reach his canteens himself. Weasel yanked them out roughly and began filling them.
“Some of these guys were carrying M4s, so we can finally grab some ammo.”
“You find any intelligence?” Ed asked George. The taciturn man shook his head.
“Whatever they had was probably on the officer, who was in the back of the Growler.” They both looked at the vehicle, which was still burning fiercely. The two bodies in the back seat were black shapes huddled low in the seats. The pungent odor of burning flesh and rubber filled the street. It was a smell they’d become all too familiar with.
George looked down at the big can of belted grenades on the ramp of the IMP. “What’s that?” Ed told him about grabbing the can off the roof. “No, no, leave it, you can’t use those in your grenade launcher.”
“They’re the exact same!” Ed protested.
“No, they’re hotrodded, like magnums. They’d blow your thumper apart if you could get them to chamber, but you can’t, they’re a few millimeters longer. Leave ‘em.”
“Shit.”
Mark jogged up and hefted his SAW in Ed’s direction. “I’ve only got about five rounds left.” The end of the ammo belt barely extended out of the receiver. He had a salvaged carbine slung over one shoulder but it couldn’t put out anywhere close to the amount of fire that the SAW could.
Ed nodded. “Don’t worry about it now. Right now we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” He jogged around the side of the personnel carrier to Jason.
“Haven’t seen anything,” the young man said before Ed could speak. Ed stared down the street. Blank faces of crumbling houses lined the street, stretching away from the men for half a mile. In the distance the concrete was a shimmering puddle in the heat, the rising mirage making the far houses dance and sway. Ed could see a hundred windows and only a handful of them still held glass. Most of the doorways were gaping, splintered ruins. Every yard was overgrown with waist high grass and weeds and the occasional patch of flowers.
“Jesus, he could be anywhere,” Ed breathed, thinking of the sniper. He tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Go on back and gear up,” he told him. “We’ve gotta move.”
He stood behind the rusting car husk which smelled of charcoal, staring at the street and listening to his men behind him. He could hear the clank and rattle of metal, the gurgle and splash of water, and the groans as they tried to get used to the weight of much-needed gear and water and ammunition.
“Hey. Ow!” Early was just throwing things into Jason’s backpack. Hard metal corners were jabbing at him. Everyone jumped at a nearby gunshot and turned to see Weasel stuffing a snubnose revolver back into a pocket. Jason realized he’d been hearing a low groaning sound nearby, and now that sound had stopped. Fresh blood seeped from the head of the soldier at Weasel’s feet.
Jason turned to Early, but the big man cut him off before he could say anything. “We don’t take prisoners, boy,” he said roughly. Beyond Weasel George was rising from a crouch, a bloody long-bladed knife in his hand. He was cutting the throats of the wounded, as it was quieter and didn’t use any ammunition. Jason was shocked.
Every vehicle in the army’s inventory was equipped with a GPS transponder that broadcast its exact position day and night. As soon as someone in headquarters realized they’d lost contact with the column they’d be able to get a fix on the IMP accurate to within one square meter. They’d see the column was stopped, and when further attempts to raise the vehicles on the radio were unsuccessful a phone call would be made. Airborne reconnaissance would be next, unless another patrol was close by. The column of black smoke rising from the burning Growler would make a spotter’s job just that much easier, but depending on how close the nearest fighter or helicopter was, it might be another five or fifteen minutes before they had eyes on target. The squad needed to be long gone before then.
The Army would probably assume they were using the standard guerrilla tactic of hit and run which meant they’d also assume they’d head back north. At least, Ed hoped so. He swept the street with his eyes one final time, then backed up to the IMP. Quentin grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his plate carriers and hooked the lever of a grenade through a MOLLE strap. Quentin had two hanging from his chest already. Ed smiled at him, then grabbed an ammo can, surprised at its weight. “Let’s go. Doubletime.”
The squad spread out and began jogging down the sidewalk. They didn’t have time to be discreet; what they needed was distance between them and the ambush site. They needed to move.