A stewardess chimed in over the intercom, her voice smooth as butter. “Please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We’ll serve refreshments once we’ve reached cruising altitude. Relax and enjoy your flight.” The shapely middle-aged woman winked at some young troopers in the back cracking dirty jokes and blowing her a kiss. Still a tamer lot than the drunk tourists she usually managed.
Walker came up behind her and snatched the intercom. “Listen up, Blackjack. We aren’t going on vacation here. Clean your weapons and rack out, because you won’t have a chance when we get to New Orleans.”
The whole flight groaned. “Not even a one day pass, ma’am?”
Lieutenant Walker clucked her tongue. Did these idiots take anything seriously? “Soldier, there’s a high probability the Big Easy will be a hot LZ by the time we arrive.”
That shut everyone up. The stewardess gulped. Walker turned to her. “If you serve them alcohol, they’ll be hell to pay.” Walker paused and ripped a first aid kit from the wall. She shoved it into her ruck.
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me honey, we’ll need this more than you.”
“Hot damn! I’m sorry I doubted you, Sergeant Major.”
As promised, both diesel trucks waited outside an empty farmhouse, only a kilometer away from their tunnel exit. Each with keys in the ignition, a topped off gas tank, extra fuel cans in the back and twenty sets of URA uniforms and weapons.
While the other escaped cons dressed, Brown reached inside the glove box and seized the most important item: a map with overlays. He tossed a jacket over his head to shield the flashlight. Under cover, he perused the detailed routes from their desert camp to the friendly South Dakota border. He had to trust that following these directions exactly would keep them clear of any rebel patrols or checkpoints. Seemed unlikely the URA spooks would let him down after going through all this effort.
Brown didn’t look the other escaped POW in the eyes. He was never a good liar. “Yeah, those… civilian sympathizers sure came through. Now it’s up to us to make their hard work pay off.”
His smooth escape was all part of the plan. At least for Brown and a small group of prisoners. What wasn’t part of the script was Brown leading his band west instead of east.
They stopped at the first shipping yard they came across. Brown kicked in the only door with a light on inside.
“Twenty empty trucks, with double trailers, please.” The terrified night watchman simply stretched one finger towards a locker full of keys, afraid to open his mouth and startle the rifle muzzle pressed against his cheek.
Thirty minutes later, four pissed off rebel camp guards climbed out of their shallow bunker. Their sergeant pulled his night vision goggles down. “Screw our orders. Didn’t you hear that racket?”
Getting ordered out of their guard shack at the gate and into an air raid shelter was common practice, but never for so long. For nearly an hour now, they’d huddled in the dark for an attack that never came. The base commander even recalled the tower guards for some reason.
The soldiers brought up their rifles and wearily scanned the camp behind them. Sure, the prisoners were all locked in their barracks, but it was a risky move for the base commandant to order every guard to take an hour off. Fucking paranoid officers.
One of the guards turned his back on the camp and started towards the gate. His mouth dropped open. Both 12 foot, retractable fences lay twisted on the ground, smashed from their hinges. A line of semi-trucks idled on the road. The first one had strands of razor wire wrapped around the grill from the fence it rammed.
“Main gate breac—” A shot from the darkness ripped out his jugular. It took his voice, but not yet his life. The young soldier fell to his knees, clutching his throat. Around him, a torrent of fire cut down the other three guards in the open. The bleeding survivor could only watch helplessly as a bunch of guys he recognized ran from bunker to bunker, stuck their rifles in each one and blazed away at his fellow guards. Fish in a barrel.
As the last shots faded in time with his last few drops of blood, he wished it had been an airstrike. That would have at least been over quickly.
Sergeant Major Brown stepped up behind some whimpering rebel guard, squirming on the ground in a sea of blood. “Sorry, buddy.”
He raised his weapon and put the dying fellow out of his misery.
Brown gaped at his rifle with wide eyes. When did this thing get so damn heavy? He’d lugged one of these guns around for nearly twenty years. He’d put it to use more times than he could count. So why did it suddenly weigh a ton? The hot muzzle whispered dark, intimate fantasies at Brown. The barrel twitched in his hand, totally out of control.
“Oh no, no, no… Hey you! Take this!” Brown shoved the M4 into the arms of some random POW running to the semis.
“Uh, you sure, Sergeant Major?”
Brown shook off the weakness, but couldn’t look at the weapon.
“Yes. I’m done with the killing.”
Even as he said that, he knew it was a lie. There was still one more man that needed to die. Just one more death to bring meaning to all the others.
In a nondescript office building on the outskirts of Sacramento, an ex-CIA agent slammed down his phone. “We found the bastards. That arrogant ass is following the escape route we gave him, but he won’t get far. I have an air assault unit converging on the convoy now. Brown’s about to find out what happens when you cross us!”
“You will do no such thing. Call them back and stick to the plan.”
“Sir, are you sure? Escaping with the whole camp, a thousand fucking federal POW’s, was not part of the plan! This is insane.”
“We needed a hero. That was the point. I can’t think of any better way to guarantee he’ll be awarded a Medal of Honor.”
“Christ. I hope you’re right. Seems like a high price to pay just to get some unarmed guy in the same room as the president.”
“No, not just anyone. You haven’t met Brown. Trust me. This is worse than smuggling a bomb into the White House.”
Mr. President!… Look over here!… Kick their ass!… Whooh!
The president of the United States could barely see the riled up crowd behind his escorts, but he waved and pumped his fist anyway.
“What the hell are all these civilians doing at the front?” His lead Secret Service agent, abandoning a suit in favor of tactical gear, a rifle and Kevlar helmet, pushed the president back into his vehicle.
“Don’t know sir. They just poured out of the woodwork as soon as we showed up. We need to get you out of here. I told you this was a dangerous idea. Let’s go! Get POTUS back to the airfield!”
The president was tempted to accede to his demands, but then some Army colonel spoke up. “They’re all volunteers, sir. Thousands of them helping us finish the Mississippi River fortifications before the rebels get here. Most are planning to stay and fight.”
The president blinked and climbed out of the military JLAV serving as his temporary limo. “Well, if they’re willing to risk their lives to buy us some time, I’m sure as hell not going to turn tail now. The least I can do is say hello.”