CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The fight ahead would be difficult if not impossible, but Max and Shayde enjoyed the element of surprise if nothing else. Each joked about fighting without night vision or communications, laughing off how spoiled they were in Iraq. But inside, each worried over uncertainties, and neither sergeant knew how the night would turn out. They agreed a bit more moonlight would have certainly helped their chances, but their combined force equaled twenty—not nearly enough if their intel proved wrong.
“We have to move in quickly,” Shayde insisted, “and obtain our checkpoints before they reinforce the perimeter.”
“What’s their total strength?” Max asked.
“They have ten sentries up at all times, and scouts reported rotating shifts every six hours. That means forty soldiers.”
“But it’s an airport, so there’s gotta be sniper nests in towers and atop the buildings,” Shayde’s corporal added. His voice betrayed a slight New Yorker accent.
“Chad’s right,” Walters agreed. “I figured they’re the lucky ones who don’t patrol but keep watch. Figure on ten or twenty more either rotating or running to station during an alert, so that buys us about five minutes once we’re spotted. Thankfully they won’t have night vision either.”
Max let out a slow whistle. “So its twenty against sixty heavily armed men. If we get bogged down, we’re toast and no one else is coming for us.”
“Congrats,” Shayde said with a grin, “you just got promoted to captain.”
“How so?” Chad asked, clearly confused. “He’s only a sergeant.”
“Dickweed here just called me Captain Obvious,” Max said with a spat.
The corporal laughed out loud and Shayde grinned back.
“How close did the scouts get?” Chad asked. “Do we even know where the guns, ammo, and food supplies are kept?”
“Food is easy enough to guess, given there’s a small, centrally located food court in the terminal. This is Evansville, not Indianapolis, so we literally have one terminal to take.” Shayde explained.
“That means the rest has to be above ground level baggage claim,” Max pointed out.
“How do you reckon?” Shayde asked.
“It’s the most secure location. Airports are designed to keep non-passengers from the terminals and tarmac, and that’s easy to do when fully manned by TSA. But without their presence, the most vulnerable spot remaining is baggage claim. It always opens up to street traffic on one side and the flight crews on the other, so they shore it up pretty good. So good in fact, the walls in newer buildings are blast proof. When was this one built?”
Both the other men shrugged.
“Well, I’ve been there once or twice and even flew in directly after the war. The terminal looks like it may have been put up in the 50s, so the baggage claim would have been reinforced later with steel doors. Our best bet is to open a door in the wall. Shayde, please tell me we have C4.”
Walters grinned. “I’ve got it right here, Devil Dog! Blowing holes is my favorite part of the gig.” He’d kept that a secret the entire night.
Max nodded. Their chances for success had improved, even if their odds hadn’t.
“Let’s say we’re successful,” Corporal Chad asked, “how do we get the guns and ammo back to the coliseum?” The question was a good one, even Max hadn’t considered. “I saw a couple of horses along the way. I could fetch ‘em,” the corporal suggested.
“We don’t need horses,” Shayde said dismissively. “How much could they actually have? They weren’t prepared and stockpiling for years like the Colonel, and we beat them to most of the stores once the looting started. I’m sure we can carry it on our backs.”
“Regardless, if there’s more than we can carry we’ll have to neutralize what we can’t. Leave nothing but food, or they’ll fight back harder next time. This is the Colonel’s conquest phase, which means we have to strike terror, remove their ability to defend, then leave a shred of hope to deal peacefully when we return. He wants to lead everyone into reunification.”
“Right,” Shayde agreed.
“Let’s talk about entry into the terminal then. Here are the drawings the scouts provided,” Max said, pulling out crudely drawn maps. “Baggage claim is on the northwest side of the building. To get there, we need to clear the parking lot and secure an overwatch. A few years ago the city started building solar parking canopies. Those will give us a slight advantage before the breach. We’ll set up sharp shooters under cover of those and pick off the rooftops. After that it’s a gun battle and round up of civilians. We wrap it with a mop up of building offices for intel.” He looked to Shayde. “Who are our best shooters?”
“Jack and Dan both served, and Dan can shoot the eye out of a pig at a hundred yards, but neither could clear a parking lot as quietly or quickly as we need. It could get messy and shooting would sound the alarm.”
“Then I’ll accompany them and clear the lot. Send my team to join me once I’m under the panels, then move to breach. We’ll wait till you reach the entry point before moving to ours.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Shayde agreed.
“Not much of one, unfortunately, but it is a plan,” Max said with a sigh.
*****
Walters watched Max lead the sharpshooters toward the open lot. It was littered with abandoned cars, mostly buried under snow and ash. Though tracks would be easy to follow, there were too many nooks and crannies in which patrols could hide. It would take several minutes to get through this first line of defense, with no telling how many soldiers they’d find hiding beneath the solar canopies. Thankfully a storm had moved in, and the falling snow cloaked Max’s approach.
Shayde scanned the terminal roof, moving slowly and watching for reflections of light through his scope. There were so many shadows he had no way of knowing which were people. He silently cursed the absence of night vision or thermal scope, but at least he had attached an oil can suppressor to mute any shots he took. But even that wouldn’t last long when prolonged silence was needed.
He also wished for a better rifle, feeling more like a civilian than ever with his over modified Armalite. In the Marines he’d carried actual assault weapons but now was only playing soldier with a city-slicker’s juiced up gun. He never would have added these modifications on his own before the war, not without red tape and ATF headaches. With bump stock and binary trigger, one would think he’d have the same firepower as the fully automatic piece he carried in war, but this wasn’t even close. The belief that military grade meant better killing was a fallacy, created by those who never truly held a real piece of hardware. Military grade meant overpriced junk.
How he acquired this piece was a story all to itself. It was in the first days following the missiles, when he scouted his first pharmacy. He turned a corner, startled to find an equally surprised gangster stealing opioids. Luckily the dumbass had never fired it, and loaded the rounds backward. It jammed and Shayde dropped him with a sidearm. He kept the man’s rifle more out of sentimentality than anything and mourned that day as his first civilian kill. It served a constant reminder the criminals always have the really bad guns, obtained in places law abiding citizens would never tread.
He hoped Max would finish clearing the lot quickly, watching the three shadows move up and down the rows. The all-clear was a reflective piece of cloth waved after returning to the southern edge. Corporal Chad watched closely for their signal.
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“Hey, Chad,” Walters whispered.
“Yeah?” the boy asked.
“What the hell is your last name?”
“Pescari.”
“Is that Italian? It sounds mafia.”
“Yeah, and probably why my granddaddy moved from New York, and why I only go by Chad. Another row cleared, Sarge.”
“You should use it. It would make you sound more badass than Chad. As is, it seems like you should be complaining about pumpkin spice lattes.”
“Maybe, but I don’t like my last name.”
“So you’re a city slicker moved to the country?”
“Pretty much.” A second handkerchief waived. “Rankin’s halfway through.”
“So what did you big city types do around here? Hang around the cement pond all day reminiscing about smog and subways?”
“Funny.” He didn’t really think it was. “No, Pop bought a horse ranch just north of the river. He and Mom weren’t home when the bombs dropped. Never came home. They were in Indianapolis and probably aren’t comin’ back.”
“That sucks. Why’d you leave the ranch for The Shelter?”
“When the river flooded, it covered the entire property—drowning the horses in their barns. I just walked away from it, right into town. Yous guys were the first I ran into.”
“Yous guys... You aren’t from here, are you?”
“I said I wasn’t.” Chad paused then remarked, “Damn, that was close. He just took down three guys without a shot. This guy’s a badass, Sarge!”
“I know, how’d you think he bested me?”
“I thought that was a made up story so we’d forget he killed Spike and Mole.”
Shayde tensed. “Where’d you hear about that?”
“Some of the officers are telling everyone, saying not to trust him and someone should do something when his back’s turned. But nobody cares but the skinheads.”
“What skinheads? I’ve never seen any in the Regiment.”
“They’re not like you see in the movies, they look like normal guys. I only recognize what they are because we had a lot of them in New York. They keep quiet about their beliefs, though, and no one pays them attention.”
“How bad is it? A few? Several?”
“Only a handful like those officer brothers Hank and Steve. I’ve seen them guys hanging out with ‘em for sure. I’ve seen Jack with ‘em, too.”
“Jack? The Jack we just sent with Max?”
“Damn. I hadn’t thought about that, Sarge.” He shifted his weight, following the trio with his scope. “Lot’s cleared, and they’re moving toward the solar canopies. You think they’re safe to be teamed up with?”
“I hope so, but we can’t keep watching over him. Scan the rooftops, we’re about to move.”
Shayde rolled over and signaled the men laying behind the berm. Two minutes, he warned. The squads would split as soon as they advanced. Max’s would join him and the overwatch team, then move to the west entrance. He and Chad would cross with their crew to the eastern entrance, and the two squads would meet again in the middle before pushing into the gates.
“Sniper,” Chad warned.
“Does he see Max?”
“I can’t tell, but the team can’t cross while he’s there.”
“We’re running out of time and can’t let him fire first. Keep your eye out for Max’s signal.” Shayde scanned until he found him. It was only a teen, a young black male with a rifle and scope scanning the parking lot. The glint off his scope followed movement down range. I have to take it, Walters knew, and let out a breath.
There’s a brief moment in time between breath and trigger pull when time stands still. The first time a shooter experiences it, they feel their heartbeat find its way into the rifle itself. Shayde drew the pad of his finger against the bit of metal as soon as the reticle settled. Being a binary trigger, a second shot let loose the moment he released. He stared, watching for signs of life while Chad scanned for witnesses. Luckily, the suppressor muffled the shot.
“Max saw your flash. He ordered the send.”
Shayde’s hand moved, signaling Max’s team to join their sergeant beneath the northern most solar panel. They had two minutes to get into position, giving Shayde and his team one minute of overwatch. In the final minute, every life was in the hands of Max and the three sharpshooters. He counted down in his mind. By the time he reached sixty, he stood and ran. “Go!” he commanded, and Chad and the others followed.
*****
Max waited for his team to catch up. He hated waiting—that’s when you think about what you’re doing. It’s best to keep moving to the next kill once the adrenaline starts.
You’re not a killer, he remembered a sergeant telling him after his first kill in Iraq. You’re a weapon—a weapon in the hand of others. Do you think the rifle thinks about its kills?
The others had joined him alongside Jack and Dan.
“You stay here,” he reminded the sharpshooters, “and watch our backs.” They nodded and exchanged a look. What was it? Humor? Awe? They seemed different since watching him clear the parking lot, killing effectively once unsheathed.
“Let’s go,” he said to the others, glancing to his right. Shayde and his team had reached the southern entrance. Max’s job was to secure the northern.
He took off at a dead sprint, only exposed for a few seconds, but they were dangerous ones. He leaned against a pillar and waited. No movement from within. That was good.
“Get ready to breach,” he said and the others nodded.
The glass doors were boarded, just as the windows all around the terminal. He found a space where the wood had warped and peered inside. The soft moonlight from the upper windows revealed rows of tents and sleeping bags. There was certainly someone living here, and he prayed it wasn’t as the Colonel described.
Why can’t people be better? he wondered.
The plywood moved easily beneath his team’s prybars, and they laid it down gently to avoid making noise. Max moved, spinning, and leading his weapon while scanning the interior. He paused. Something wasn’t right.
Somewhere a rifle exploded the quiet. Shayde’s team had breached as well.
“Stop!” a voice yelled further into the structure, but the gunshots continued.
Max allowed his eyes to adjust. Recon for threat, he told himself. But there was no threat. The dark terminal was filled with rows of tents and staring eyes, but no one had moved to resist.
Where are the interior guards? Where are the soldiers keeping the prisoners from getting free?
“Stop! Cease fire!”
Max identified the voice as Shayde. Someone on his squad was on a killing spree. The sound of a heavy pistol caliber ended that of the rifle, and Rankin pitied his comrade’s only choice.
“What’s going on, Sarge?” one of his own team asked.
“This isn’t a military target,” Max said. “Our intel had it wrong. These aren’t prisoners, they’re refugees! We need to pull back and reassess.” He stepped away from his cover, raising a hand to signal Jack and Dan. One of them answered with a sniper shot.
The pain was instant, way worse than he ever expected a gunshot would feel. Thankfully it hit closer to his shoulder and not a few inches to the left. Max moved out of sight of the shooter and locked eyes with his team. They blinked back, as shocked as he at the friendly fire.
What a stupid oxymoron, he thought, working his arm in its socket, checking range of motion. He’d be stiff and sore later.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted, no longer concerned over keeping the element of surprise.
“Sorry, Sarge,” Jack replied from his post. “We thought you were one of them!”
“Not likely,” Max muttered. He’d deal with them later.
Shifting his weight sparked more pain as he scanned inside. Across the long terminal Shayde and his team had pushed slowly in, checking the tents and braced against resistance.
“Move,” Max ordered, leading while his squad followed.
My squad? I barely know these guys.
He suddenly felt more exposed than ever, but worrying over another bullet in his back would waste his time. “Watch for threats and be careful not to hit noncombatants.”
They stared at the newcomers, watching with exhaustion and starvation.
“Max!” Shayde called from midway down the terminal. “Our intel was bad, Max!”
“I’m seeing that too,” he replied, locking eyes with an old man huddled and protecting three children. An older woman, probably his wife, lay lifeless beside them. The entire family reeked of piss, excrement, and fear. “Who brought you here?” Max demanded.
“What?” The confusion on the man’s face answered his question.
By now Shayde had joined him.
“These aren’t captives, Rankin. They’re evacuees from the city—black, white, brown, there’s a good mix. It’s a community shelter!”
“Then why the armed guards outside? Something’s not right. Let’s split into pairs and search the rest of the airport.”
“You’re shot?”
“Yeah. Not-so-friendly fire from Jack and Dan.”
“We had an incident too. One of my newbies went nuts. He shot five noncoms before I could stop him.”
“Be careful,” Max said to both teams. “Whoever this group is, we’ve not made any friends tonight.”