“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the team.
A scream rises momentarily above the clamor. Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the air.
“Miller’s hit,” he says.
“How bad?” Blanchard asks.
“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a little busy over here,” Franklin replies.
Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway. Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest at the top of his shoulder.
He’s been here before and knows that if they continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.
Several people run from between the houses, attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.
“Miller took a round below the shoulder. He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard reports.
“Can he move?” Krandle asks.
“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.
“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the background.
“He’s mobile, but he’s lost blood,” Blanchard continues.
“Okay. Keep an eye on him and stay there to support Franklin,” Krandle says.
Shouts of “reloading” rise above the tumult as the team, minus Miller, direct focused and intense fire toward the flashes of light. The return fire is reduced as their bullets, tearing through shrubs and ripping into house corners, keeps the opposing heads down. The team has gained a small measure of containment, but it’s the ones that are coming from the sides and possibly the rear that worry Krandle. The openness of the yard around the house allows for good fields of vision and will make anyone approaching more cautious. He knows though that, regardless of how careful they may be, it is only a matter of time before they start receiving fire from the flanks.
It’s nothing. Just a few more minutes, Krandle thinks, looking at his watch.
He repeats this as a mantra while he sends burst after burst downrange. He has Ortiz watching the sides for any sign of those that crossed and reminds Franklin to do the same.
“We have movement near the house next to us. I can identify only three right now,” Franklin calls out.
“Can you hold or do you want Ortiz?”
“We’re fine for now,” Franklin says.
Ortiz catches Krandle’s attention and lets him know he sees movement on their side as well. As if to validate the information, rounds begin to pepper their position from that side.
“Speer, take care of the flank. Ortiz, head to the back and keep anyone off our backside. That’s our only way out,” Krandle calls out.
Ortiz rises and dashes into an adjoining room leading to the rear. Speer adjusts his position to take the shooters on the side under fire. Feeling the effects of his wound and the tightening of the muscles around it, he brings his carbine up slower than usual. However, he starts delivering high-speed projectiles at those attempting to flank their position.
Having to cover all sides diminishes fire they can concentrate in any one area. They are slowly being surrounded, regardless of how much they try to keep their assailants’ heads down to prevent that very thing. Krandle glances at his watch yet again.
Come on, Leonard. Do what you’re going to do and do it soon or we won’t be around for it to do any good, Krandle thinks, having an idea of what Leonard has in mind.
Focusing on those across the street, the sudden sting and burning on his forehead takes him by surprise. It feels like someone pinched him and then held a burning cigarette to his skin. He reaches up to the sudden sensation trying to wipe the burn away with the back of his hand. His glove comes away with a smear of blood soaked into the fabric. The blood mixes with the sweat and the warm flow trickles down his brow. He wipes it away again and continues firing.
“Chief Krandle,” he hears Leonard call over the radio.
“Krandle here,” he answers, resuming fire between clicking the mic button.
He’s the only one delivering fast-moving projectiles to this side of their front and they can’t afford to slack off on their fire. They have to keep the pressure on.
“Five minutes…ready, ready, mark,” Leonard says.
Krandle, having set a countdown timer on his watch, reaches up and clicks a button starting it.
“Copy,” he replies.
“Be sure you’re at a minimum of two hundred meters. Four hundred would be optimal, but two hundred should provide a measure of safety. Not much, but some,” Leonard states.
“Copy. Call you in five.”
“Five minutes. We’re leaving out the back in three plus forty-five. Ortiz, we’ll be coming out your way. Then we’re across the back yard to the cliff edge. Be ready to peel away on my call,” Krandle informs the team on the radio.
“The back is clear for now, Chief,” Ortiz radios.
That will be cutting it close to be away in time but they can’t leave too early as that will give their assailants time to chase them and put the team at a greater risk in the open.
Offshore, in the deeper water of the bay miles to the northwest of the Palos Verdes headland, the rolling swells are interrupted by an eruption. Water is flung upward and out. Through it rises a sleek, cylindrical shape. The roar of a rocket echoes across the bay and the object launches into the sky at an angle, leaving a trail of fire and smoke. With a rumbling roar, it picks up speed as it gains altitude.
A short distance later, the solid propellant rocket that provides its initial boost detaches and falls into the ocean with a splash. The smoke trails off as the turbo-fan motor engages and the object vanishes from sight as it hurtles toward its destination.
Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, watching the small numbers wind down. They hit the one minute, fifteen second mark.
“Everyone empty two mags and then we’re out of here. Blanchard, you start with Miller now. Franklin, Speer and I will follow you out,” Krandle calls.
Krandle fires continual bursts at anyplace that anyone could possibly be hidden in. He hears the shuffling of Miller and Blanchard behind him as they make their way to Ortiz. Replacing his mag, he sweeps the area with gunfire again. A series of rounds impacts the edge of the window near him, splintering the already shredded jamb. He feels a sting as several sharp fragments cut into his cheek.
“Okay, Franklin, you’re next… Go!” Krandle calls, down to the last few bullets in his mag.
Seconds later, as Franklin dashes by, he touches Krandle’s shoulder to let him know he’s past. Krandle fires the last rounds, replaces his mag, and looks at his watch. Fifty seconds to go.
It’s past time to beat cheeks out of here.
“Let’s go, Speer!”
They rise and race toward the back, passing Ortiz on the way. Ortiz follows them out a back door. Franklin, Miller, and Blanchard are part way across the large, open back yard. Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle emerge from the rear door when shouts ring out from both sides of the yard. Gunfire follows seconds later. They are being assaulted from both sides. The team’s unexpected appearance causes the assailants to fire hastily and therefore inaccurately.