As the last marines out set the perimeter, Simmons glanced around and saw machine gun fire emanating from a distant hillside. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. There was a pile of rubble about twenty paces from him, and he waited for the fifty cal to rattle away then ran hunched over toward the heap of debris with PFC Wells in tow.
Simmons slammed his back into the jutting blocks of broken concrete, the flak vest absorbing most of the impact. As other marines joined him, Simmons peered over the top of the mound. Gunfire erupted from the distant hill again. The enemy fire didn’t seem directed at them. The PLO might not even know the marines had hit the ground.
A few marines had their moonbeams out, red lights bobbing as a fire team flanked to the right. The flashlights would be noticeable to anyone watching, but minimal fire came their way. “Anderson,” Simmons yelled. “I’ll take my team left. You head up the middle with yours.”
Anderson grinned. “Roger that, Lance Corporal.” Anderson led, and the central fire team hustled after him, weaving through massive heaps of crumbled buildings. Simmons took his team to the left, crawling along open ground until they got to protective cover.
Glancing toward the hillside, Simmons realized they were closer to the city than he’d expected. Vacant buildings lingered in the backdrop of the battlefield.
Simmons further marked the enemy position by the hunter’s moon. It cast beams of light through the abandoned dwellings, illuminating the combat zone.
Rifle fire erupted from the hillside. Numerous rounds ricocheted off the broken concrete. “Get down!” Simmons yelled to his team. The shooting was erratic. Panic fire. It was mainly directed towards Anderson’s team, but Simmons ordered his squad to take cover in case of stray bullets.
When the shooting settled, he peeked around a collapsed concrete stanchion considering the scene. Only the Amtrack’s turret gun had returned PLO fire. The French were taking the rules of engagement to an extreme, if they were even out there in the vestiges of the embattled city.
Simmons strained his eyes to discern if anyone else was on the battlefield. No sign of entrenched allies. In fact, the enemy fire was so sporadic it didn’t appear to be honed in on any one location.
Scanning the heaps of rubble, he tried to spot marines closing on the Palestinian position. He expected his comrades to flank the enemy hill from the right, and plainly saw the red glow of moonbeams bobbing along.
Then he noticed movement down the middle. Despite Watson’s instructions, a couple of marines had forgotten to change their flashlight lens covers over to red. Simmons clearly saw the yellow glow of two moonbeams from Anderson’s fire team. They were huddled close together, likely hunkering down from the last barrage of machine gun fire.
After cutting back toward the center, and moving his fire team closer to the enemy position, Simmons and his troopers held up behind a mass of debris at least fifteen-feet tall, providing enough cover to get a bearing on the other teams.
After the fifty cal had settled down, there was a lull in the firefight. The night turned silent. Had the PLO just given up? The marines would have to abort the foot patrol if the enemy was no longer engaging but Simmons wanted to be sure that was the case before they withdrew. The Palestinians could merely be getting a better bearing on Multinational Force positions.
“You guys hunker down here,” Simmons said to PFC Wells. “I’ll worm forward and get a better handle on what’s going on.”
Wells nodded his understanding.
“Don’t get lax and let someone flank you. They could advance from that position.”
“We’ll move around to get a better visual,” Wells replied.
Simmons smacked Wells on the helmet and then stepped to the edge of the heap. There was a line of broken blocks running for about fifty yards, followed by a couple more mounds. He ran hunched toward the halfway point.
Glancing over the protective rubble, his squad had maneuvered close to the enemy hill. The ancient city loomed large behind them. All remained quiet, but the Palestinians had not called it off. He could hear them chattering nervously in the distance.
Simmons suspected they had sent a younger fighter to scout the rubble. The night was eerily still. A slight chill crept over the desert, bringing with it a sense of dread that caused him to shiver.
A scream.
Loud and fearful. Agonized.
And nearby.
The screaming was accompanied by growling and the macabre sound of… ripping; it was a terrifying noise — shredding clothing and tearing meat. Anxiety turned his stomach.
The growling seemed to multiply. The screams faded to a loathsome wailing. Then pitiful moans. Then ceased altogether. The tearing and chewing continued. The snap of bone pierced through the ruins. Something was feasting upon a soldier in the debris.
The carnage was occurring close to his position, just beyond a massive bank of rubble. The frenzy seemed to be winding down…
A shudder ran through him. I’m being watched. The rest of the squad was behind him. He glanced ahead at the top of the heap. A menacing set of yellow eyes stared directly at him. In the moonlight, the creature resembled a timber wolf: covered in thick fur, with a long snout and pointed ears, but larger than any wolf he’d ever seen. The neck was muscled and its torso extended into long hind legs, almost… humanlike. But that can’t be.
On all fours, massive hand-like claws crimped the rubble. The wolf snarled. Long fangs dripped with saliva. And blood. This was the creature who’d been feasting. A surreal apparition having no place on a battlefield, the ominous wolf seemed wrought from hell. Despite the M-16 in his hands, Simmons was horrified by the beast. Panic raced through him.
The wolf tensed, muscles rippling, ready to pounce but it snapped its focus to something down to the left.
A yell. Rifle fire. The unmistakable sound of M-16s. Corporal Anderson’s team had engaged the enemy. The muzzle flashes didn’t seem directed at the hillside. Firing was erratic. The wolf let out a long, bellowing howl that filled Simmons with dread.
The beast scurried down the rubble, rushing toward the fray. It was joining its pack, and Simmons needed to do the same.
He broke toward the melee. Glancing at the opposing hillside, he expected to see an outbreak of gunfire, but nothing came from the enemy position. The Palestinians were retreating to the desolate city.
Weaving through the rubble, he realized the fifty cal was quiet. The Amtrack crew probably didn’t want to risk hitting the marines with friendly fire. This conflict was small arms versus… beasts. Could the M-16s could take down the wolves, like a .30–06 drops a deer?
Entering the gauntlet, carnage greeted Simmons. His pulse quickened. Adrenalin pumped up his spine. It wouldn’t be that easy. A marine lay torn to shreds. Blood and gunpowder tainted the air. Another marine was firing his rifle directly at a charging wolf. Two more wolves had another marine pinned to the ground, clawing his flak vest and tearing at his neck — the marine was toast.
Rounds zinged about the narrow passageway, ricocheting off the debris. Simmons rushed toward the marine firing at the charging wolf. The creature took direct hits but didn’t slow. It closed the distance. Fast. When it was about ten feet away, the marine switched to full auto.
The magazine emptied into the creature. A yelp and it dropped to the ground, squirming. A stray bullet skimmed through Simmons’ cammies grazing a thigh as his comrade tried frantically to reload. Another wolf pounced. Knocked to the ground, the marine wrestled viciously with the beast.