“Copy that, sir,” Horace responds.
“We’ll give ‘em hell, Jack,” Greg responds. I’m thinking the M-240’s on top will give them something to think about. I see Horace and Greg fall further behind as they slow up.
“Are you ready on top?” I ask Henderson.
“Fucking right, sir,” he answers.
“Give them a short blast and then be ready for a turn to the right,” I say.
I hear the M240 begin to bark and send rounds towards our unwelcome guests. Tracers reach out towards the vehicles and merge with them. McCafferty makes a slight turn to the right negating our pursuer’s angle. The group turns with us. I alert Henderson of another upcoming “bump” and we hit hard on the other side of yet another raised path. Henderson alerts us to the twinkle of return fire coming from the trucks. Apparently they didn’t like the tracers we sent in their direction.
Horace and Greg have fallen back considerably to the point where I really only know where they are by the clouds of dust they are kicking up. I measure the distance, through McCafferty’s mirror, of those that do not terribly like us near their nest and Horace through my own mirror. They look to be about even. That means Greg will be behind them. I catch a sight of winking lights from the trucks but there is no way they can come close to being accurate while on the go across these fields. That’s where tracers and heavy calibers come in handy. There is also the fact that our guns are mounted and we have better training. I’m still stunned they are chasing us. The why they shouldn’t have will become quite apparent to them in about a minute.
“Get ready to turn,” I tell McCafferty. “Cut to the left and we’ll come across their front.” She nods while gripping the wheel tightly to hold the Humvee along its path. I give a heads up to Henderson.
“I’m ready, sir,” Henderson responds.
“Horace, Greg, start your turns. Time to teach these bastards some manners,” I call out.
Horace’s Humvee comes charging out of the dust cloud directly at the flank of the group of vehicles pressing in on us. She immediately turns to parallel the hard-charging trucks and quads, staying directly beside them. In the rear, Greg’s Humvee races out of the same plume just after Horace’s and angles toward the rear. I don’t see any indication that they’ve been noticed as we seem to have their undivided attention. That will soon change.
Tracers arc from Horace’s Humvee reaching out toward the unsuspecting group. They aren’t a stream due to the fact that we’re still racing across a field but it looks accurate enough. The red streaks arc upward slightly and intersect one of the quads charging at us. Yeah, a quad versus a Humvee. I still don’t get it. I’d hate to be the one charging after an armed Humvee on an ATV. The driver of said quad finds out about that unfortunate inequality.
The meeting of the M-240 rounds and the quad isn’t pretty. The rider is thrown from his seat causing the ATV to turn sharply and begin rolling violently in a cloud of dust and debris. Greg’s tracers enter the fray and more dust clouds are created as his rounds find their mark. Still, the vehicles press onward. Looking at the action as best I can with the bumps and small windows, I’m guessing the majority of them still don’t know they’re under attack. I watch as another ATV goes end over end and throws the rider high into the air.
I see the trucks slew slightly off to the side, some toward Horace and some away. I guess she’s been noticed now. If they think Horace was a startle, won’t Greg be a big fucking surprise? I think watching their once pristine line become a tangled mass.
“Okay, it’s time to do our thing, McCafferty. Turn left but keep angled so we don’t catch any stray rounds from Greg,” I say warning Henderson. I am pressed to the side as the Humvee slews to the left.
Our top gun barks as Henderson adds his rounds to the fray. The scene is a lot of dust flying and bursts of tracers streaming towards vehicles which are now in disarray. I watch as the red streaks reaching out from our vehicle strike solidly on the front of one of the trucks. The truck digs down on its front wheels, turns slightly to the side, and flips tossing people in the bed into the air; their arms and legs flailing as they try to gain some sort of equilibrium and failing miserably. They land hard and bounce across the field of dirt.
Ahead and to the left I notice another line of dust clouds heading our way. I’m guessing it must be vehicles from another road block on the other side of town coming to help. The group that was chasing us has given up trying to keep up with us and are now trying to evade the heavy rounds streaming into their vicinity; rounds that are finding target after target. Any cohesiveness they might have had is lost. Most are trying to make it back to the roadblock but having a hard time getting by Greg who is firmly entrenched in their rear — yes, the analogy does hold true here.
“Horace, Greg, let’s finish this up here. We have more company coming in from the east. Give those fuckers a last shot so they think twice about coming back and rejoin on me,” I say and direct McCafferty to turn and park with our rear to the oncoming vehicles. They are still a distance away but closing quickly.
“Copy that, sir,” Horace says. “We’re on the way.”
“Be there in a sec,” Greg replies.
The rounds from both teams cease and what remains of our wannabe pursuers hightail it towards their roadblock location. A light dust hangs in the air over the fields; thicker where we engaged the vehicles. Plumes of smoke rise from stricken vehicles and bodies lie on the ground. Some crawl slowly seeking refuge. Many lie unmoving on the dry, brown field. I wish I could have just loaded up a Stryker. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t tear after a Stryker with a fucking pickup truck and a deer rifle.
Horace and Greg drive up and stop in line with spacing between. Our rears are to the oncoming vehicles in order to present the narrowest target and offer the best cover. We’re ready to break away and flank if we need to. The dust cloud draws closer and I begin to see individual vehicles ahead of the plumes. It appears to be the same mix as the other group; several pickups and quads. Looking to the side at Horace and Greg, I see their guns trained on the advancing vehicles. I glance to make sure the first group isn’t turning about but it looks like they’ve had enough.
Time seems to stand still for a moment. The dust cloud still billows but it seems as if the vehicles causing it don’t draw any closer. I feel the stifling heat inside the Humvee but it is stowed in the background given the flow of adrenaline coursing through my body. Rivulets of sweat pour down my forehead and temples. Gonzalez and Denton in the back gaze out of the small hatch window. McCafferty grips the steering wheel and is looking out of her rear view. I would love to add our own personal rounds to the upcoming fray but that only increases our exposure and minimizes our mobility options. Here on this lonely, dusty field in the middle of nowhere, a battle is about to begin. We are close to engaging yet another hostile force.
The feeling of slowed time vanishes. The trucks rush onward as if they were suddenly vaulted ahead and become clearly visible. They must have some radio communication and know about what happened to the other yet onward they come. I shake my head and press the transmit button in my hand.
“Open fire. Target the trucks on the outer edges and work your way in,” I say.
The M-240 overhead opening up drowns out any other sound. Brass casings fall inside and are barely heard hitting the metal floor over the bursts of the large caliber gun. Tracers once again reach outward from Horace’s and Greg’s Humvees; streaking for and merging with the trucks racing our way. We’re idle so this time the red tracers become streams of fire. Not a solid stream like the fire from an AC-130 but potent nonetheless.