Paulson, expecting the lone vertical-lift assault aircraft on station soon, gave in and agreed.
Seated next to him, Paulson noticed Barton and could tell the man wasn’t pleased. The company commander sat frowning with his arms crossed, shaking his head. He sensed that after the first shock of the enemy assault, Barton had recovered his wits. Now, he perceived Barton was itching to get back into the fight and take over, but Paulson wasn’t about to cede his own authority and lose the engagement.
Turning to his left, he watched as the federal inspector typed notes into a computer pad. He guessed the man was writing everything down to cover his own ass and, if needed, blame Paulson for any failures. Paulson felt an urge to lean over and swat away the man’s computer and slap the skinny bastard off the chair, but he refrained. Once the fight was over, he’d deal with the insolent son of a bitch.
With commands issued, Lieutenant Colonel Paulson switched his screen to the live FLIR video feed from the Custer racing towards the scene.
Captain Bowen, with McMichael following, was moving fast, heading towards the rest of his troops and getting the hell away. For the assault, he figured it would take the enemy five minutes to respond and bring in more assets, so he wanted in and out in less than three. On his headset radio, he had just received good news. Ekin and Mason had Upton in tow and were working through the desert only twenty seconds behind.
He kept moving, motivated by the fact he was close to reaching the rest of the team.
Bowen checked the time on his helmet display. Less than three minutes into the assault, well within mission parameters, but the team needed to exfiltrate before the enemy rallied. Through his radio, he gave the word to break off the assault and head to the rally point.
So far, the active camouflage suits had worked and protected them from prying eyes. As he waded through the brush, McMichael right behind him, he hoped their good fortune would continue.
Sergeant Flood and his Third Squad, comprising two fire teams totaling eight infantry soldiers, piled out of their fighting vehicles. He felt relieved. At last, an opportunity to join the fight! To avoid the incoming indirect grenade barrage, he ordered the men to flank the target house by moving down a parallel side street.
Leading the way, determined to avenge the loss of Kinney, it didn’t take long for Flood to reach the final dead-end cross street fronting the target. Upon doing so, he went to ground and waved at his men to do likewise.
Now on his stomach, crawling the last few meters, Flood peered west down the street. Sure enough, he observed two fighting vehicles burning bright in the early darkness. Grenades, not as many, still burst among the houses around the objective.
Flood shifted his focus towards the desert. In listening to the radio chatter, he knew Higher Command believed the enemy attack originated from the south. Through his night-vision visor, he stared across the street into the open desert and tried to detect movement or muzzle flashes. Nothing.
Over the radio, more calls came in from First and Second Squads, reports of KIA, urgent demands for medivac. He thought back to the beginning and felt a twinge of guilt. All of this because two bastards were found knifed in a shell hole. Then he noticed the quiet: no more explosions. The incoming indirect barrage had stopped.
In an instant, Flood guessed the enemy was retreating. Now he had an opportunity to redeem himself. It was time to seize the initiative.
Across the squad network Flood gave instructions. He explained how they would get up and dash across the street. Once in the brush, they were to fan out, keep good spacing and push towards the south. Their purpose: search, find, and destroy any enemy targets.
After issuing the order, Flood stood, and with his assault rifle at the ready, ran across the street and took a knee inside the desert scrub. Around him, his men did the same.
As his squad took their positions in a line facing south, Flood grew excited and could feel the pent-up energy. His night vision was excellent. Even in the early evening darkness, the optics lit up the surrounding terrain.
With his men in position, he switched his comms to the company network and notified Captain Barton of his location and intentions. Good news, Barton acknowledged the call but didn’t interfere or even comment. Meanwhile, both of his section Stuarts had pulled up to the end of the street and were idling near the target house. In an excellent position to support Flood’s assault, they confirmed their readiness to offer fire support. Relieved by the response, Flood acknowledged the message and asked the Stuarts to stand by and remain ready to engage. With everything in place, Flood rose from his knee and issued orders for his squad to move.
Assault rifle at the ready, Flood took off at a slow jog. The going proved more difficult than he anticipated, as thick brush often forced him to sidestep. He began to worry about the men around him keeping proper spacing. Alert and anxious, he picked his way through the desert terrain.
Paulson finished speaking over the radio with the Aviation Battalion, confirming the second bird was about to spin up. Standing nearby, Paulson watched as Inspector Cone scribbled more notes. Oh, how he wanted to strangle the man. Beside him, Captain Barton was on the radio and seemed to be under control. Then Cone looked up from his tablet.
“Colonel, the mission calls for Staff Sergeant McMichael to be taken alive, I trust the objective hasn’t changed?”
The last thing Paulson needed was Cone telling him what the mission parameters were. If the target objective couldn’t be taken alive, dead was the next best option, and he felt no compunction to explain. Not responding to the insolent question, staring at Cone, Paulson’s radio headset came to life. Excellent news: the inbound Custer pilot reported enemy targets in sight and requested permission to engage. The colonel glanced at his monitor where the Custer transmitted a high-definition night-vision scene. An entire squad of enemy soldiers was retreating through the desert south of the target house.
For a few seconds, Colonel Paulson considered his options. Deciding, he authorized the Custer to open fire with anti-personnel ordinance aimed at stopping, but not necessarily destroying, the fleeing enemy. He’d like to take some prisoners, guessing Higher Command would be pleased. After giving the order, he sat back in keen anticipation.
Vigilant, scanning the desert as he jogged, Flood detected the sound of rotors coming from the rear, and he stopped. Turning, he looked up through a break in the heavy scrub but couldn’t spot the aircraft. By his estimation the squad was already fifty meters inside the desert and no one had mentioned air support. The realization of his exposure caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. Before he could get on the radio and remind Barton he was in pursuit of the enemy, he spotted a Custer coming in fast from the north. And then it twinkled.
A shocked realization dawned, and Flood dropped to the ground and curled into a tight ball.
Within a second, the first rocket struck forward of Flood’s left flank, followed by two more rippling across his line. Each rocket detonated just before striking the ground, unleashing a payload of 1,200 hardened-steel darts. Hurled in all directions, the fléchettes were perfect ordinance for the job, slicing through dense brush and embedding in any hard targets along the way.