Ignoring her own injuries, McMichael couldn’t help it and looked across at the corpse. Staring at the mutilated soldier, a wave of sympathy mixed with survivor’s guilt caused her to cringe. Then she spotted a missile launcher lying next to the bloody mess. Staring at the weapon, she realized it wasn’t over. The enemy must be fast approaching, coming to kill her. From deep inside, her training and instincts took over. She needed to act. Now!
In a manic move, she crawled across the shell hole and avoided looking at the dead female. Reaching the launcher, she pulled it close and examined the weapon. The missile was armed and ready. Still bleeding from the mouth, helmetless, she stood up and pulled the heavy launcher against her shoulder.
Peering over the shell hole, she saw targets, lots of them, close. Tanks driving in defensive patterns, fighting vehicles on their heels, all the armor in the world. So many targets to choose from! She hesitated before spotting something different. Off to her right hovering in the air was a tantalizing foe. Decision made, she lowered the Javelin III missile and confirmed it was set for direct-fire mode. Satisfied, heavy in her hands, McMichael re-shouldered the weapon and flipped off the safety. Placing the sights on the vertical-lift aircraft, the acquisition indicator turned green, and she depressed the firing trigger. The warhead released with a whoosh, and the rocket motor fired, causing the missile to soar into the distance. Blood dripping down her chin, McMichael lowered the weapon and watched.
To her alarm, the targeted vertical-lift aircraft seemed to sense something. The ugly bird lifted its nose and turned towards her. She was about to duck when the missile struck. A bright light rippled across the fuselage, and then an explosion blew out the side of the aircraft. Yes! Finally, she’d done something right.
McMichael dropped the spent launcher and without thinking raised her arms in jubilation. Fascinated, she watched the burning craft spin and descend out of control until it crashed into the desert. A moment later, the downed machine burst into flames.
Against the heat of the explosion, McMichael raised her hand and stared in disbelief. But there wasn’t time to enjoy the sight. Intense machine-gun fire erupted, and the air around her began to sing with the sound of incoming supersonic rounds. Towards her front, she saw tanks advancing. She remembered the smart bullets. Not hesitating, she dropped inside the shell hole and rolled to her left and sat up.
Her back against dirt, large-caliber smart projectiles pounded into the ground where she had stood a moment before. Other rounds continued to zip overhead, some striking the opposite side of the shell hole and sending chunks of sand and rock high into the air. The unexpected joy from downing the aircraft evaporated, and she trembled. She wondered if the battalion was fighting back. But the sight above the trench line convinced her nothing could stop what was coming. Soon they’d kill her. How could it come to this? And why would her government leave her to die alone? Without answers, feeling hopeless, in near panic, something caught her eye. Exposed in the middle of the opposite dirt wall, the jagged end of an exposed pipe beckoned. It was wide enough that she could imagine herself fitting through. Just then, an overhead shadow crossed the shell hole, and the sound of rotors emerged above the din.
Fueled by instinct, in a mad dash for survival, McMichael fast-crawled past the dead soldier, and half stood. Behind her an explosion erupted. The force of the concussion drove her towards the pipe and, arms extended, reaching for it, the lights went out.
Chapter Ten
MOP UP
Across the battlefield, all firing ceased. Over the scene, skirting back and forth, the US vertical-lift aircraft hovered. Beneath them, the ROAS trench system and pillboxes smoldered. The only ROAS movement was in the far rear of the lines where a marked medical tent stood fronted by a group of people waving a white flag. The US held the field, the only loss, a single Custer.
Time for the ground pounders. The order went out, and two armored M1170 Assault Breacher Vehicles, nicknamed Shredders, moved forward.
The first Shredder, like a tank but with a bulldozer front end, rolled down Highway 15 and knocked aside the smoking wreck of Colonel Rourke’s ROAS Humvee. Coming to a stop, the huge vehicle fired a line charge two hundred meters down the highway past the rubble of the destroyed ROAS point pillbox. When the line charge and attached C4 explosives settled atop the blacktop, the Shredder hit the detonator. In response, a continuous explosion occurred along the entire two-hundred-meter roadway, destroying any active mines. A second Shredder came up, pulling past the first, and continued along the just-cleared highway. By working together, within an hour, the plan called for Highway 15 to be cleared of explosive devices all the way through Mesquite.
Behind the Shredders, two armored infantry fighting vehicles followed, providing overwatch security. Upon reaching the ROAS medical facility, both vehicles stopped and took the surrendering personnel into custody.
Along the rest of the front, US Army M2A6 Stuart infantry fighting vehicles stopped twenty meters in front of the devastated ROAS trenches and disgorged squads of infantry. Assigned to clear the ROAS point pillbox and attached trench, US Army Squad Leader Sergeant Raymond Flood dismounted and hit the ground running. Charging towards the enemy defensive works, Flood waved at his following squad and fanned them into a thin line. Assault rifles at the ready, the men ran the final few paces and hurled themselves against the sandy berm of the trench line. Hunched down, the berms provided cover against whoever might occupy the other side.
Panting against the trench, squatting, Flood felt better. Pleased to reach the first goal without taking any incoming fire, Flood hoped the good fortune would continue.
Looking both ways, determining his men were ready, with another wave Flood ordered the squad forward. Without hesitation, his troops scrambled up the trench face, leaned over, and scanned for targets.
From his position atop the trench closest to the point pillbox, Flood swung his assault rifle back and forth. Nothing moved. A complete lack of fire; no one was shooting. He relaxed further and examined the trench beneath him. Craters and cave-ins dotted the landscape. Off to his right, sticking above the rubble, a bloody hand protruded, frozen in death. Farther away among torn equipment, a twisted body lay atop a heap of ragged concrete. Even at a distance, Flood spotted flies buzzing above the corpse. To his left, one of his soldiers dug in the rock and sand, uncovering a twisted missile launcher. After examining it, the grunt tossed it over the trench towards US lines.
Satisfied, with no perceived threats, Flood stood erect. On either side, farther out along the enemy lines, he clocked other infantry squads working trenches and mopping up. In the distance, two shots rang out. His men froze. A moment later, the radio reported a mercy killing and gave the all clear.
Before he could relax, a sudden unexpected rumble emerged, and he bent lower. Along the highway, a dust cloud plumed, and Flood realized the Shredders were at work clearing the highway. Everything was fine, and he stood up a little embarrassed by his over-reaction.
It was warm. Mid-afternoon in the desert and even though early May, already the temperature was nearing ninety degrees. Flood’s Head Protection Systems aggravated the heat. Lifting his faceplate, he wiped his brow and lowered the tinted protection back in place. For seven years, he’d been in the Army. He’d fought up and down South America in worse heat, but damn it was hot. Thinking of the conditions, he knew it wouldn’t take long for the bodies to decompose and the horrible stink to rise. He wanted to finish quick and hoped they’d set up bivouac in town—a good meal, maybe a solid roof, and a double beer ration. Even better, he expected a nice payout. Experience told him a decisive fight like today would invariably mean a bonus. Everybody would be in a great mood, retelling their part in the battle, most of it bullshit. Still, fighting was a way of life, sometimes a good life.