“Four kicking around in the quad.” That made eight near the buildings.
Their quarry shouted. The dog growled. The players in the quad stopped.
“Shh.” He pressed his finger to his lips and eyed the dog. The German shepherd quieted.
“Word about our arrival is spreading.” Robertson wet his thumb and held it up in the still air.
Three of them strolled to the side to pull their shirts over their flabby bellies. One laughed, kicked the ball into the air and caught it. He tossed it from side to side while the others stared at him.
“Not everyone seems concerned.” David continued his scan of the area. Fire had raced over the mountain, clearing the vegetation and leaving only a few black scarred trunks. Lice could find better cover on a bald man’s head. Fortunately, they’d experienced this kind of thing in the Sandbox.
In the football field north of the auditorium, humans were caged in chain link pens—half-naked women, bound men, and huddled, silent children. Nearly two handfuls of armed men strolled the perimeter. The dog’s lips peeled away from his fangs.
“Shit-fuck-damn, Sergeant-Major.” Robertson raised his M-4 and peered down his iron sight.
Only a string of three swear words from the private, did he not see the same thing? The scene below was worth twenty at least. David contained the fire of hate. To see such a thing in his own country; when had people become such animals? He sank his fingers in the dog’s fur, felt the quiver of muscle under his hand. “We’ll kill the bad guys. Free the people.”
Black and white; right and wrong.
The private’s finger settled on the trigger. “Give me a minute and I can treat all the fuckers to a dirt nap, easy-peasy.”
“We play this smart; I don’t want civilians used as flesh shields.” Fisting the back of Robertson’s jacket, David scooted back down, dragging the swearing private along. The dog followed; his tail swept the ground as if he waited for instructions.
“I can hit them, Big D.” Despite his ego, the kid was a first class soldier and an even better sniper.
“I’m counting on it.” David squat-walked to the dirt on the side of the road and etched out the layout of the buildings in the ashen powder.
His men crowded around him. The air practically hummed with purpose. Gut clenching in pre-mission jitters, he drew the oval of the stadium. They had to get the targets away from the civilians to minimize casualties. A deep groove marked the crescent-shaped mountain arcing around the school.
“Four up top. Four more here.” He marked x’s on the quad. “Over a dozen on the ground.”
And God knew how many more in the buildings. Too bad the Almighty wasn’t talking.
Ray, the munitions mule, dragged his bags closer. “Which is the high priority target?”
Hell if he knew. But their quarry hadn’t run inside any building to report the counter attack. Either the gunplay had rattled the guy or he wanted to shake the shit out of his shorts before reporting his failure. Then again, there was always option c—the guy with the soccer ball. His balls drew up tight. That settled it.
“Hit the black-haired dreadlocked caucasian wearing dirty jeans, black sneakers and no shirt.” Although he might have put it back on by now. “He has a serpent tat on his left chest and down his arm.”
Robertson gently attached his sight. “I’ll take him out first.”
He nodded. “I want you and Michaelson up on the ridge.” The motorpool PFC was the second best shot in the squad. Together they’d take out any target in the open. Too bad the targets in the quad were animal enough to dive for cover once their scum-sucking comrade’s skulls started flying. “Clean up the quad then the rooftops then go down to the gallery.”
He poked the guards near the prisoners. Lots of open space there, plenty of time to pick off the fleas. They would never reach safety.
Michaelson wiped dust from his goggles then grabbing another clip from the bag. “We taking prisoners?”
Hell no. They barely had enough room in the convoy for people worth saving. These targets didn’t even rate a bullet. But they did deserve to die. Fortunately, it was his job to give anyone who followed the evacuation route a chance to survive. Which meant taking out the trash and sweeping it away.
“We’re sending them to a new detention facility called Hell.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Robertson grinned and leapt to his feet. He kept his weapon at the ready as he charged up the ridge, out of sight of those at the school.
The dog looked at the private before staring at David.
“We’ll radio you once we’re in position, Sergeant-Major.” Puffs of ash rose from Michaelson’s heels as he raced after his comrade.
“Come on boy.” With the dog loping at his side, David jogged across the cracked asphalt and down the hillside. Charcoal twigs and branches crunched underfoot. Arriving at the base, he scanned the area. A drainage ditch sucked at the retaining wall that ran to the school’s entrance. The pink stucco blistered and flaked off in patches. Where parts of it had collapsed, upside down triangles appeared along the length. Near the second and fourth one, the vegetation had been trampled.
If they ran behind the retaining wall, they could get close enough for a little shock and awe. But there was always the possibility they’d lose some hostages. Damn. He ran his hand down his face and crept out just far enough to get a clear view of the parking lot. Not even a stripped car to hide behind.
He’d have to split up his men. Again. From his pocket, he extracted a yellow and gold High Explosive Round and loaded it into the fat M203 slung under the barrel of his M-4. “Vegas and Singleton, wait here until Robertson clears the rooftop. Once we begin the flash/bang, you infiltrate the football field and recover the hostages.”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major.” They both nodded, loading their own grenades and rechecking their weapons.
“Robertson, which way are the targets facing?” David backtracked along the road, keeping out of the line of sight. He hoped, prayed, felt the other three members of his squad ghosting behind him and the dog hunting at his side. Damn, where was the smoke and fire when he needed it? And just why had it stopped raining after that piddling? God, if you’re listening, we could use a break about now.
“They’re still facing your position, Sergeant-Major.” Robertson’s huffs and puffs came through David’s earpiece and rasped inside his skull.
“How close are you to your position?” He trotted farther away from the school. Finally. The bricks folded back on themselves. Rainwater dribbled out of the neighborhood via a concrete channel and emptied into the ditch.
“Five minutes.”
“Anything stirring in the neighborhood in front of the school.”
Time ticked by in heartbeats. He glanced over his shoulder. Another five feet and the targets on the roof would be able to see them. It had been a miracle he and his men hadn’t been picked off running up the street like a bunch of green recruits.
“Nothing stirring, I…” Robertson cleared his throat. “I think it’s a dumping ground, Sergeant-Major.”
“Roger that.” David jumped into the ditch and ran for the opening. Mud squelched under his boots. He ran up the other side, ducked behind the retaining wall then followed it around the corner. He drew up short.
Naked bodies of every kind lay in neat rows along the street. Only an infant in a pink onesy still wore clothes. It stood next to a decomposing couple posed in a sixty-nine position and was held up by the fire hydrant that had no doubt caved in its skull. Here and there men and women rotted in obscene positions. Unattached limbs were strewn across dead lawns, like discarded props in a zombie movie. Soft bellies disappeared in the hunger of flies and predators. From one blackened doorway, two coyotes with blood beards stared back at him.