Krandle hears rounds zip through the tall grass. He feels the pressure of one round passing just in front of him. Not slowing one bit, Franklin aims his carbine haphazardly in one hand and fires. The rounds go wide, but it causes the attackers to take cover. Miller shoves Blanchard away with his good hand, grabs his arm on the wounded side, and continues running toward the bluff edge.
Blanchard unslings his M-4 and adds his rounds to the fray. Krandle and the remaining two fire as they race across through the tall grass. Mindful of their limited time remaining, Krandle sacrifices his aim to keep pace. It’s now a pell-mell race for the edge as they try to outrace time itself. Krandle and the two with him catch up and pass Miller and Blanchard close to the bluff threshold.
The edge looms near with nothing in sight beyond except the ocean far below stretching out to the horizon. Their pace doesn’t slow. Rounds continue to pepper the air around them, following their mad race. Only a few feet separate the team from the long drop.
“Over we go, gents. Slide down,” Krandle shouts.
A couple of feet from the rim, they sling their M-4s and go to the ground like they were sliding into second. As their feet go over the edge, they roll onto their stomachs. Their legs slam into the rocky sides of the cliff and they begin skidding down. Stomachs, chests, knees, and elbows scrape against the rocky outcroppings as they scramble to grab hold of something to arrest their fall down the cliff.
The angle of the bluff at the top allows them some control and Krandle manages to grab hold of a rock projecting out of the steep wall. His feet find purchase on a small ledge and he secures himself. He looks up in time to see Miller falling past him, unable to catch himself with his one free hand. With a firm foot and hand hold, Krandle reaches out and grabs a handful of shirt. Miller screams in pain as Krandle has grabbed the shirt near his wounded shoulder. Krandle feels his feet slip and his hand aches holding onto the rock, but he doesn’t let go. Miller’s slide stops and he manages to secure his footing. With his good arm, he finds a handhold. Miller looks up, the pain evident in his eyes, and nods his thanks.
Krandle secures his grip on the cliff face once again and looks over his team. They have all found holds of some sort, but they are all hanging precariously to the side of the cliff. Just a few feet below them, the angle they slid down comes to an abrupt halt and plummets straight down onto a rocky shoreline two hundred feet below. Krandle begins to feel a little more secure in their situation as long as those above don’t appear at the edge and begin firing down on them. His watch chimes as the countdown ends.
Krandle hears a sound rising above the roar of the surf below, similar to that of a low-flying jet. This is followed quickly by a storm of explosions. The cliff wall shakes from the multitude of blasts above, each detonation sounding like a mortar round going off. The thunderous explosions are indistinguishable from each other and form a continuous, rolling barrage. The shaking precipice on which they only have a tentative hold threatens to knock them loose. The ten feet between them and the straight, two hundred foot drop seems to shrink. Rocks shaken loose pelt the team members and continue past them over the edge.
Krandle hugs the wall, trying to push farther into its solid exterior. As quickly as it began, it’s over. Krandle feels his heart beating rapidly and hears his hoarse, panting breath as he exhales into the cliff, blowing dust away with each breath. He feels small rocks and grit fall out of his hair, and sand makes its way into his collar. Looking up, he sees dark smoke roiling above the ridgeline overhead.
The stunned team waits several seconds, expecting to see figures materialize, outlined on the ridge above. When the anticipated forms and subsequent volleys of fire don’t appear, they start climbing slowly up the cliff wall. Krandle helps Miller who grunts and grimaces with pain with each extension of his arm but they eventually crest the ridge.
The landscape ahead looks nothing like what they left minutes ago. The house they were in and the ones to either side, along with those across the street are smoldering ruins. Smoke drifts up from the rubble of timber, red slate, and stucco to join with the dark clouds hanging over the area, created from the explosions. A breeze catches the dark mass and carries it inland.
Between the houses stand shredded bushes and trees, many with snapped limbs, some hanging limply toward the ground. Small fires blaze in places in the dry grass and begin to spread. The team hoists themselves into this area of destruction, alert for any surviving members of those that engaged them. Blanchard takes Miller on his shoulder which he thankfully accepts this time. Nothing moves, and the only sound is the crackling of the spot fires and the groan of broken houses settling farther.
“That was…interesting,” Speer says, breaking through the team’s silent inspection of the area.
“Which way?” Franklin asks.
“I don’t really want to traverse the neighborhoods again. There might still be others and they won’t be happy with us. Let’s try the break in the cliff you spotted earlier,” Krandle answers.
The team starts along the cliff edge, alertly guarding against any remaining assailants. Krandle looks to Blanchard asking after Miller’s condition. Blanchard nods, indicating that he’ll be okay.
“We need to get back soon, though,” Blanchard says.
“Noted. That we do,” Krandle says, sweeping his hands through his hair to clear the remaining debris.
The others look like they’ve been hauled across the ground tied behind horses. Each and every one of them has a coating of dust and is covered with cuts and scratches. The grit has staunched the flow of blood from Krandle’s forehead and cheek forming small ridges of dirt over the wounds.
As they walk, avoiding the spreading fires, Krandle sees scraps of clothing and parts of bodies spread liberally on the churned up ground. He’s thankful they made it out when they did. He can’t fathom what it must have been like to be in the midst of that attack. Of course, it’s not like anyone would have felt anything as the darkness of the other side would have come immediately.
Krandle digs sand out of his ear and contacts the Santa Fe, giving them the situation and their wounded.
“Glad you made it, Chief,” Leonard responds. “We’ll have a medical team on standby when you return.”
“We’ll be there in a little over an hour barring any further interruptions,” Krandle replies.
They reach the break in the bluff. It’s a ravine which leads steeply down but a path through the middle makes it navigable. They stumble some of the way, Miller groaning with each fall. The team makes it to the rocky shoreline after slipping most of the way down. Glancing nervously at the tall ridge above, they make it to the raft and put out to sea. The sleek sub rises quietly from the depths as they near its location. The wounded are brought aboard and treated. Miller and Speer will be out of action for a time as they recuperate. With all safely aboard, the Santa Fe slides below the waves and turns south.
Hung Out To Dry
Greg stands in the turret opening watching the buildings of McConnell AFB grow smaller as they head away from Jack and the others. He understands Jack’s desire to get his son back home given that he had experienced the effects of an injury from a night runner. He also knows the need to continue with the search for the families. Time is running short for such operations. Knowing those things doesn’t make the thought of traveling across unknown territories for an extended period of time with only one team at his disposal any better. He feels self-conscious about the prospect, having experienced too many close encounters.