“Where’s the sentry?” Jessica replied. She motioned for Cindy to spread out, and they slowly approached. Boyca sank to the ground, her head up, ears back. She let out a low growl.
Clark leaned over the chart and frowned. “They punched through here,” Rockne explained, touching two DFPs. “Whiskey Zero-Five and Zero-Six.” The radio net blared at them as the fire teams on the secondary line came under attack.
“BDOC, Whiskey Zero-Five,” Paul radioed, his voice barely audible. Rockne’s head came up. “Troops coming through the fence at my location. Battalion strength.”
Rockne looked at the chart, his mouth a grim line. “Aren’t you going to acknowledge?” Clark asked.
“No. He’s ratholed and already off the air. He doesn’t need a radio squawking at him.” He paused for a moment and then keyed his radio. “All mortar teams commence firing on Whiskey Zero-Five and Whiskey Zero-Six.” He dropped the mike and stared at the floor. “Shit-fuck-hate,” he muttered.
“There wasn’t a choice,” Clark said. “But it will slow them down.”
“Not for long,” Rockne answered. He pulled himself up. “We’re gonna have to withdraw to the runway and blow the fuel dump and weapons-storage area.”
“From Whiskey Ops,” Clark said. He nodded. “Blow it on my command. Not before.”
He nodded and hit the transmit button on his mike. “Zulu Zero-Two. Say position.”
“Zulu Zero-Two is outside Whiskey Ops,” Cindy answered.
“What’s wrong with the inside?”
“It’s occupied, and we don’t think they’re friendly.”
Clark went rigid. “You better get over there. We can handle it here.” The other two security cops manning the BDOC nodded in agreement, neither anxious to leave the security of the bunker.
“Tell Zulu Zero-Two I’m heading their way.” He slapped his flak vest closed, and grabbed his helmet and M-16 as he hurried out. Then he stopped and pointed to one of the sergeants. “You’re with me.”
The two men ran outside and jumped into Rockne’s pickup. The steady whomp of mortars from across the runway reached out and demanded their attention. “Chief, do we have to do this?” the sergeant complained.
“You bet your sweet ass.” Rockne gunned the engine and raced for the other side of the base. The speedometer touched sixty miles an hour when they crossed the runway. He slowed to make the turn onto the dirt road leading to the bunker. A long burst from a submachine gun cut into the right side of the pickup’s windshield. Glass sprayed over the two men, and a single 7.62-millimeter round hit the sergeant in the neck, killing him instantly. The impact threw his body against Rockne, which probably saved Rockne’s life. Two more slugs slammed into the sergeant’s vest. The last round hit Rockne’s helmet and ricocheted off. But the force of a round fired at short range is enormous, and it rocked Rockne’s head back and twisted his neck, momentarily knocking him out. The truck careened out of control and rolled onto its side as it skidded to a halt. Another burst of gunfire cut into the underside and punctured the gas tank.
Rockne climbed out and staggered away from the truck, keeping it between him and the gunfire. But that was all he had. He sank to his knees, too dazed to move, as another burst of gunfire ripped into the truck. He tried to stand but sank back to the ground and vomited. Jessica saw him as he collapsed. “Cindy, it’s the Rock! Go!” The two women ran toward him as the truck exploded. A soldier stepped around the burning truck and saw Rockne kneeling on the ground. He never saw the women coming his way as he walked over and held the muzzle of his submachine gun inches from Rockne’s head. Jessica skidded to a stop in the shadows, still fifty meters short. She raised her M-16, but she couldn’t take the shot. Boyca was in the way.
Boyca was a blur as she barreled toward the soldier. She let out a single bark and kept coming. The soldier looked up, not believing what he saw. He swung the muzzle of his submachine gun around just as Boyca’s powerful hind legs dug in. She leaped at him, fifty-six pounds of concentrated fury. The soldier fired a short burst. The first two rounds missed, but the third struck Boyca in the chest. She crashed into him, and her jaws clamped down on the soldier’s left arm. He screamed in pain when the small bone in his forearm shattered. He fell to the ground as Boyca jerked her head back and forth, refusing to let go. Then she released him. The soldier rolled free of Boyca’s lifeless body and reached for his weapon, only to look directly into the muzzle of Jessica’s M-16. She shoved it into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Cindy was there. “Jesus, Jess,” she breathed. Together they helped Rockne to his feet and dragged him into the tree line.
“Call BDOC,” he groaned, still too dizzy to stand unassisted.
Cindy keyed her radio. “BDOC, this is Zulu Zero-Two. We’ve got the Chief, but he’s injured.”
Clark answered. “Zulu Zero-Two, tell the Chief to blow the weapons storage area and fuel dump ASAP.”
“How do we do that?” Jessica wondered.
“Get me into the Whiskey Ops bunker,” Rockne rasped.
The two women looked at each other, not sure what to do. Suddenly Jessica ripped off her helmet and dropped her webbed harness, shedding over thirty pounds of fighting load. She grabbed a grenade and pulled the pin. “Cover me,” she said. She ran for the bunker, darting from shadow to shadow and keeping in the trees. A burst of gunfire flashed from a firing port, but she kept running. Cindy snapped off four rounds, chipping at the sandbags around the firing port. Another burst of gunfire and Jessica went down. Just as quickly she was up and running again, now less than thirty feet away. A long burst of gunfire swept the area, and two rounds cut into her. She pitched forward and threw the grenade. “You muthafuckas!” she screamed. The grenade arced true and sure into the firing port. They heard it detonate, and the gunfire stopped.
Rockne was on his feet, a little more stable. “Go!” Cindy propped him up, and they hobbled toward the bunker.
Each second was an eternity as Clark waited. She never took her eyes off the base defense chart as each firing team checked in when they reached the DFPs near the runway. A loud explosion shook the beams overhead, and she looked up. But it didn’t die away and continued to build as it rippled through the weapons storage area. Another boom, this time from the fuel dump, punctuated the rolling thunder. But there was little fire, as the tanks were dry and contained only vapor. It was enough, however, to set the trees on fire. Wave after wave of intense heat belched out of the fuel dump as the tanks exploded, adding to the conflagration. A compulsion she would never understand drove her outside. She had to see. The entire eastern horizon was on fire, explosion after explosion sending sparks and smoke into the night sky.
Rockne steadied himself against the wall of the bunker and took a shallow breath. His neck ached beyond belief, and he was certain someone had driven a spike into his skull. He connected the last two firing wires to the firing device and twisted the small handle. He braced himself as another detonation shook the bunker. “We got to go,” he told Cindy.
But she only rocked back and forth, bent over Jessica’s body, as tears streamed down her face. She looked up at him. “She was my buddy.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”