Mike tossed and turned in his bed. He mumbled in his sleep. He was trapped in a memory.
Mike's feet pounded the concrete, and wind rushed in his ears. He was sprinting through a railyard in Philadelphia, away from the scene of his first kill. He was halfway to HQ when he met a squad. They have to be investigating the shots. “HALT! STOP RUNNING GODDAMNIT!” Mike stopped a few feet in front of the squad of soldiers; their weapons were pointed at him.
Mike was struggling to breathe.
The point man asked, “Identify yourself.”
Mike answered, pausing between breaths. “2nd Lieutenant Mike Anderson. C company. 2nd platoon.” He patted his pistol as he inhaled. “I shot to warn. We’ve been infiltrated. They are bulletproof. I killed one. Its body is 500 meters.” He pointed behind him, “that way.” He turned around, “Call in the contact.”
One of the men began to reach for his radio before the point man interjected. “Hold on that.”
Fucking dickhead.
Mike angrily said, “That was a fucking order.”
The point man, a sergeant, was unfazed. He asked, “How did you kill one if they’re bulletproof?”
Mike answered, “I stabbed it.”
The sergeant frowned and paused for a moment. “Take us to the body.”
This motherfucker...
“Look at me with your flashlight.” The sergeant started to open his mouth; Mike cut him off furiously. “DO IT GODDAMNIT!”
The sergeant acquiesced. He turned on his weapon light and flipped up his NODs. As soon as he saw Mike in color, his eyes widened, and he slowly bleated out, “Jesus H Christ.”
Mike growled, “Give me a fucking radio.”
If you want something done, you gotta do it yourself.
Without any more hesitation, a private unplugged his headset and tossed his radio over. Mike started to jog at an easy pace. He looked behind him and shouted, “With me!”
The men looked at the sergeant, who stood for a moment and then started scrambling after him. Mike was headed for the motor pool. He started calling on the radio.
Alarm first…
“All stations, this is Charlie-2-6. Flash message. Hostile infantry have infiltrated the AO. I repeat, hostile infantry have infiltrated the AO. Be advised, hostile infantry are hard targets; they are bulletproof but can be stabbed. I repeat, hostile infantry are hard targets; they are bulletproof but can be stabbed. Out.”
Now the contact…
He got on battalion HQ’s frequency.
“Warchief 6, this is Charlie-2-6. Contact, one hostile infiltrator. In the storage lot, aisle three, row forty-niner. About six mikes ago. The hostile had full coverage armor that was resistant to rifle fire, but I was able to stab through it. Intel should send someone to pick up the corpse. Over.”
The radio cackled back to life. “Charlie 2-6, this is Warchief 6. SITREP. Over.”
“Warchief 6, This is Charlie-2-6. Wait, over.”
Mike turned to the sergeant, “Unit?”
The sergeant answered, “Squad 4, 1st platoon, Bravo company.”
Mike brought the radio back up to his face and said, “Warchief 6, this is Charlie-2-6. I grabbed Bravo-1-4 and am Oscar Mike to the ASP to get AT weapons for Charlie. Relay to Charlie-2-7 for SITREP on Charlie 2. More to follow, over.”
Mike had a plan hatching in his head.
Mike turned to the squad he’d requisitioned and asked, “How many of you can drive stick?”
Three men piped up.
Mike was relieved; he couldn’t drive a manual, and his plan wouldn’t have worked for the whole battalion with only JLTVs.
“Warchief 6, this is Charlie-2-6. Request permission to make a new ASP and start AT resupply for the whole AO. Over.”
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Before he got his answer Mike shouted, “DOWN!” as he heard a scraping hiss. He dove into prone and heard grunts as the rest of the squad did the same. Just moments later, Mike was deafened by ear-shattering booms. The ground shook as the railyard was rocked with explosions.
Mike cringed as his ears rang and small debris rained down on top of him. The barrage lasted thirty seconds. After it stopped he quickly asked, “Anyone hit?”
The sergeant looked around and answered, “No. We're good.”
Mike sighed in relief and keyed his radio. “Warchief 6, this is Charlie 2-6, acknowledge. Over”
He waited for a minute.
Shit… Not this…
“Warchief 6, this is Charlie 2-6, acknowledge. Over.”
He was met with no response.
“Charlie 6, this is 2-6, acknowledge. Over”
Nothing but static. Despair started to settle over Mike.
Mike switched to the open channel and asked, “This is Charlie 2-6, is there anyone out there? Acknowledge, please. Over.”
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Mike slammed his fist into the ground and screamed, “FUCK!”
Mike took a deep breath. He got up. “Let’s move!”
No matter what happens, we’re fucked if we can’t shoot back. Mike prayed that the lack of secondary explosions meant that the ammo dump hadn’t been blown to hell.
Mike and his commandeered squad raced to the motor pool. Thankfully, it was still intact.
Mike stopped and turned, “Hold here.”
Mike flipped up his NODs and marched inside the little brick building with a sheet metal roof like he owned the place.
“Wha-”
The Motor Sergeant started to talk, but Mike didn’t have the time nor the inclination to listen. The tall lieutenant leaned on the desk and peered down at the motor sergeant. His gore-spattered jaw was clenched, and his stormy blue eyes were locked onto the sergeant. His stare bore a hole into the poor sergeant's soul. “Three trucks, now.”
Mike didn’t explain why he needed the trucks or who gave him permission to take them, but something about his presence exuded enough authority to get the Motor Sergeant to obey without question. Perhaps it was the commanding tone he took or the way he carried himself. Maybe it was his height, piercing stare, or the blue blood that caked most of his body. Something told the motor sergeant that this was not a man whose patience should be tested.
The motor sergeant meekly said, “Yes, sir.” His hands even shook a little as he produced three sets of keys.
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Mike's convoy skidded to a halt just outside the old warehouse that was packed to the gills with ordinance. He leapt from his truck and ran inside, followed by his commandeered squad. A little bit of weight left Mike's shoulders when he saw Martinez and Decker leaning up against a wall.
The S-4 ran to Mike and asked, “What's happening?”
Mike responded, “We got hit, radios are jammed. Help me load up these trucks with AT. After that’s done, I want you to start moving all the AT we have into the row of shipping containers on the edge of the lot.”
The S-4 nodded and started shouting orders. He had heard Mike's earlier call about the enemy being hard targets. Forklifts began to zip through the isles of the ammo dump, ferrying AT weapons by the pallet.
Mike shouted, “Decker! Martinez! With me!” as he ran to help load the trucks.
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Mike was back in the cab of the lead truck in his little convoy. It was soon to be broken up; Mike was in front, going to Charlie 2 with Decker and Martinez.
Mike started ditching his rifle and ammunition.
I won’t need these; I might as well save some weight.
As he was setting his last magazine aside, he was nearly deafened by the roar of hundreds of explosions.
Martinez bellowed, “CHRIST!” as he swerved to dodge a flying container, scraping Mike's side of the truck against the wall of containers with an awful screech.
Martinez screamed, “THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM?!”
The container must have been thrown from an explosion in front of them somewhere.
Mike roared back, “JUST KEEP FUCKING DRIVING!”
Another huge explosion rang out, followed by dozens of smaller explosions, ripping into the night like a Chinese firecracker.
That was the ammo dump…
Sweat ran down the lieutenant's brow as he stared out the windshield, counting the seconds. He could hear the supersonic cracks of suppressed rifle fire.
“STOP HERE!”
Martinez slammed his foot on the brake, and the truck came to a screeching halt inside the perimeter of Squad 1. Mike hopped out of the cab, slamming his NODs back down over his eyes midair.
It was chaos.
Mike nearly gagged at the stench of scorched flesh and burnt hair. He could smell the wounded far more clearly than he could hear them. The hisses of steam from enemy fire and the bubbling splats of molten metal from impacts on the containers almost entirely masked their screams.
Mike shouted, “RESUPPLY!” as he hustled to help Decker get the truck unloaded. He climbed up as the first members of Squad One approached the truck. Mike started chucking AT4s out onto the ground. Sergeant Williams, the squad leader, peered into the truck and frantically said, “Orders, sir?!”
“SITREP?” Mike replied.
The sergeant was a nervous wreck, literally shaking as he spoke. A far cry from the confident man he had given a Kit Kat to earlier. “Contacts across the river. Two dead, four wounded. Mech suit things strafed us and flew to the west. Chang hit one with a stinger, but it didn’t go down.”
“OK. I want you to hold here. If you see a red flare, fall back into the tunnels. Don’t bother shooting them with your rifles. Use AT.”
The sergeant nearly jumped out of his boots as a stack of containers collapsed.
Mike continued, unfazed by the interruption, “Fall back a row if the one in front gets shot apart. Got it?”
Williams stared blankly at him.
Mike hopped down from the truck and asked a nearby private, “Whose 2nd in command?”
The private shrugged, “I have no idea.”
Shit!
Mike led the sergeant away from the others. He grabbed the shell-shocked sergeant’s shoulders. “Keep it together, man. They can die. I’ve already killed one.”
No reaction. Mike cursed and shook the man's shoulders. “WAKE UP! I just need you to keep it together for a few more hours!”
The sergeant looked down and sobbed, “I can’t.”
Fuck! What do I do!?
Sergeant Williams slid down against the wall of the container.
Mike stuffed the string of expletives he had on his mind. It would do no good. Instead, he said, “Just stay here.”
Mike ran back to the truck. “Decker, I need you to take this squad. You hear what I told Williams earlier?”
Decker nodded. “Yeah. Hold, stay in cover, rally at the tunnels at the red flare.”
“OK, good.”
Mike shouted, “DECKERS IN CHARGE!” and hopped back into the truck.
Mike turned to Martinez and said, “Let's go.”