Curled tight, Flood heard the killing projectiles whistle past. Many of the shrubs around him shook as darts ripped through the vegetation. At least one dart glanced off his head protection system, two others ricocheted off the back of his liquid body armor, while another embedded in the heel of his right boot.
Still cringing in a ball, Flood waited a few moments for more explosions. Nothing. Other than the sound of rotors, it grew quiet.
Unscathed, he sat up and tried to shake off the shock. He’d been damn lucky. Then, the radio calls started coming in. Pleas for help and medical attention from his squad. On the verge of panic, trying to keep his wits, knowing the Custer could attack again at any moment, Flood called into the company net.
“Catcher Actual. Catcher Squad Three has sustained a blue on blue attack! Call off the Custer, cease fire. We are friendlies. Repeat, we are under friendly fire. Over!”
“Catcher Squad Three, Catcher Actual copies. Ceasing fire. Out.”
Flood dropped his head and took a deep breath. Unabated screams and urgent calls for “medic” filled the air and his headset. Angry and upset, Flood got back on the radio.
“Catcher Actual, Catcher Squad Three needs immediate medical support, we have multiple WIA, repeat multiple wounded. Over.”
“Catcher Squad Three, Catcher Actual copies. Standby for ETA. Over.”
“Catcher Actual, get them here quick. Out.” Flood slumped. Ever since jumping in the shell hole the prior evening, everything had gone to shit.
Angry, exasperated, Flood stood and looked towards the sky. Off to the north, where he last spotted it, the Custer hovered. Right then he hated the sight. The son of bitch lacked any fire discipline. Flood made a silent vow to find the pilot, hunt him down, and make him pay. But first, his men needed help. Disgusted, all thoughts of the enemy gone, slinging his assault rifle, and with a sense of dread, Flood headed for the closest calls of distress.
Paulson was surprised when Barton, seated next to him, swiveled in his chair and jumped up waving his arms. “Cease fire, cease fire!”
Not waiting, Paulson ordered the Custer to hold and await further orders. Just then, an urgent radio call came in from Third Squad confirming the horrible reality. Barton answered and confirmed the cease fire. A few seconds later, a second call came in for a medivac.
Paulson stood and stared down at Barton with anger. The captain glared back. Spinning on his heels, Paulson pointed an accusing finger at Cone. “You, sir, are the cause. Your constant interruptions in the middle of complex military maneuvers led us astray. I’ll be reporting your actions to General Gist and holding you responsible. Now get the fuck out of my command post!”
Cone stepped back in apparent shock. Inside the command post, the trailer full of staff went quiet. After several seconds, Cone shook his head. “Colonel, I didn’t issue any commands, you did. If anyone is to blame, you are. I’ll leave, but I expect you to complete the mission and capture the objective. Either way, I will brief the president.” Cone, tablet in hand, turned and strode to the nearest door, pulled it open, and slammed it shut behind him.
Captain Barton, his voice dripping with sarcasm, asked, “What now, sir?”
Paulson clenched his fists. The impertinent captain was trying to undermine his authority and disrespect him in front of staff. Ready to explode, he caught himself and paused. He sensed the room listening and observing. There was nothing to gain by losing one’s composure. Besides, he never lost. In a confident voice, he replied, “We find and kill the enemy as planned. Nothing’s changed. Now, let’s get back to work!”
The room remained quiet, tense. Sensing the mood, Paulson took a seat and called out, “Back to work. Everyone. Now!”
Staff, seeming to get the message, returned to business, and the volume in the room increased.
Just then, Paulson raised his finger as another call came into his headset. A new development. The Air Force was on the horn. AWACS reported a bogie inbound, rotary based, big. Maybe an ROAS Chinook, hugging the Virgin River coming in low. The big chopper popped up high enough for the AWACS to get a positive read. ETA to Mesquite, two minutes.
Paulson didn’t need to ponder the sighting as the big picture crystallized. An ROAS exfiltration bird was on the way. Wherever the transport helicopter landed, the enemy small unit was sure to follow.
Bent over the satellite imagery on his monitor, Paulson noted the Virgin River ran half a kilometer south of the target house. To avoid detection, the location was an obvious place to ingress and egress. Paulson thought for a moment and decided. Now it was his turn to spring a trap.
Chapter Thirty
EXFILTRATION, NOT
After reaching the rest of the team, the sound of rotors emerged, and Bowen guessed a Custer was on his tail. He waved everyone to ground. Shit! He checked the time displayed in the upper-corner of his head protection visor and determined the Chinook was due. His ODA of Special Forces operators needed to get moving, but the night optics of the Custer were exceptional. He was debating the best course of action when he heard a swish and a quick series of explosions. Behind him, he risked a look, he could see the desert lit with three rounds of expended ordinance. For an unknown reason, the Custer had attacked something with rockets. He couldn’t fathom what the enemy was targeting. Regardless, he needed the damn bird to go away.
Still debating what to do next, to his relief, Ekin, Mason, and a limping Upton arrived. He nodded to the men as they took a knee. Checking the time again, the team needed to get going, but the damn Custer continued to hover nearby. If the group moved, the advanced optics of the Custer might spot them, even with their active camouflage. On the verge of giving the order and risking it all, to his great relief, the Custer lifted, turned, and flew away.
As they waited for the Custer to disappear, a new sound emerged. Horrible screams and yelling emanated from the area hit by the rocket attack. Captain Bowen wasn’t sure why the aircraft had departed but guessed the damn thing had fucked up and attacked its own people. His first urge was to assist the stricken troops, but he was in no position to help. Instead, he needed to take advantage of the unfortunate opportunity.
Bowen rose into a crouch and worked his way among the team. Tapping folks on the shoulder as he went by, he waved for them to follow. In a moment, his entire group, along with the two rescued targets, were on the move and working against time.
Following the sound of pain, Sergeant Flood worked his way through the desert brush and found Corporal Dalton squirming on the sandy soil. His fire team leader alternated between moaning, panting, and outright screaming. Bending low, Flood tried to hold the thrashing man still when he saw the source of the problem. Two steel darts protruded from Dalton’s right shin, buried far into the bone. Even worse, the corporal tore at another dart, this one penetrating through the bone of his left forearm, the far tip protruding through skin.
Flood assessed the wounds, spoke reassuring words to Dalton, and observed light bleeding. Good, no major arteries appeared compromised. Still, the corporal writhed in uncontrolled pain, the steel darts embedded deep within bone, beyond painful. Not knowing how to extract the darts without causing more distress or damage, Flood shifted to pain control.
After removing Dalton’s head protection system, Flood dug around inside his own combat vest, pulled out a small medical kit, and extracted a Fentanyl lollipop. One of only two suckers in his possession, he knelt over the thrashing man and tried to explain. “Dalton, bear with me, calm down, open your mouth so I can give you this.” Flood waved the medicine on a stick in front of the corporal. In agony, Dalton continued to thrash, but at last, the corporal opened his mouth.