Bambi pulled magazines out until her arms were full, then ran back, dumping them by Amy. Thumper, meanwhile, dragged some of the ammo vests off the bodies and carried those, and some loose magazines, back to the room, the vests dripping red as she ran.
“What, I don’t get any ammo?” Mike asked, plaintively. “After all I’ve done for you girls? Nobody loves me.”
“Here,” Amy said, laughing and sliding some of the magazines across to him.
“I think they might try grenades or satchels next,” Mike said as there was another distant thump. Suddenly, the lights went out to a series of screams from the girls in the room. “Thumper! Do you know where your flares are?”
“Got it, Ghost,” Thumper called.
“I call you, Bringer of Fire,” Mike yelled, triggering one of the flares and tossing it down the corridor. “But you’ll always be Thumper to me. Anyway, if it’s grenades, just flatten yourself into the doorway. If it’s a satchel charge, I’ll call ‘satchel.’ Roll all the way in the room, cover your ears and open your mouth, got it?”
“Yeah,” Amy said. “Although my hearing’s already going from this damned AK.”
“Speaking of which, the next ammo run we need to get Bambi and Thumper to get us some more guns,” Mike said. “There’s going to come a time when we won’t have time to reload.” He watched the stairs for a second and then rolled back. “Grenades!”
The frags went off with sharp cracks and then feet could be heard on the stairs. He rolled back up and had to laugh. There were so many bodies on the steps, and so much blood, that the soldiers coming down the stairs, who were lit up by the flare but couldn’t really see beyond it, were having to pick their way forward. It made them perfect targets and before Mike and Amy had to reload the newest wave of assailants had fled.
“Have the girls cross-load this one,” Mike said, sliding his partially spent magazine across after he’d reloaded. “We’ll wait until after the next attack to send out Bambi and Thumper.”
Amy snickered and he looked over at her quizzically.
“Bambi,” she half whispered, half mouthed, “real liberal.”
“Good,” Mike said. “But we’ll make a conservative out of her, yet.”
“CETCOM, General Bulder.” General “Dutch” Bulder had been going nonstop for nearly thirty hours in the scramble to prepare for the upcoming mission. Rarely did the U.S. military snap-kick an operation, but this one was going to be a snap-kick and in any scramble, shit happened. It had been happening nonstop for thirty hours and he was afraid that when they finally did get a “go” on the target, it was only going to get worse.
“General, Major Rischard in Predator Central,” the voice said. “Sorry to break chain, but you might want to look at the take from Drone Four, sir.”
The general keyed his computer to bring up the take from the Predator that had been snuck into the mission area and blanched. Soldiers were running across the compound, heading towards the loading area. As he watched, a blast of smoke blew into the air and the south section, where the loading area was, collapsed into a smoking crater. The gas that washed over the soldiers was apparently toxic, or at least irritating, since they scattered away from it apparently blindly.
“Okay, I’m going to call the NCA,” the general said. “Good call on the direct, Major, you’re covered.”
“Sir,” the major answered, hanging up the phone.
Bulder turned and picked up a red phone.
“I need the President or the secretary, immediately.”
“So is this an industrial accident, or did Harmon decide to start the game early?” the President asked, looking at the take from the Predator.
“Expert in demolitions,” the defense secretary said, shrugging. “Which ever it is, I’ve started the pieces moving. The Spirit is in the air already. The Rangers are about two hours out, so they don’t have an immediate play. The Alpha Strike is coming up and the combat elements of the Fourth ID are moving into jump-off positions near the Syrian border. Normally we set up forward logistics systems but in this case we didn’t to try not to tip our hands. We’re taking an operational risk on that, but one I think is worth it. And we have airmobile and airborne forces standing by to assist, if the situation in the air becomes even mildly survivable.”
“When will we know what is going on on the ground? With the girls I mean,” the President said.
“The Spirit is up and the SEALs are depressurizing,” the secretary said. “That will take nearly three hours, and that’s pushing it to the point that some of the SEALs may get the bends anyway. An hour flight to the target. Some time on the ground. Say five hours. And it will be at least that long to get the full Alpha strike in place.”
“Five hours for them to kill the girls,” the President said, his face white. “Christ, I wish I knew what was going on in there.” He paused, puzzled, and then his face cleared. “Look at that,” he said, grinning.
On the video from the Predator, soldiers could be seen spilling out of one of the side entrances where they’d been gathering. The last two were carrying a body of a camouflage-clad figure.
“He could be a casualty from the damage in the facility,” the National Security Advisor said. “But I’d suspect that he was dead from direct fire.”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had been called in to advise since most of the management of the operation was being handled at a lower level. His phone buzzed and he picked it up, speaking quietly for a moment and then hung up.
“Mr. President,” he said, his face working. “That was a report from an analysis team. Their analysis is that there’s a fight going on in reference to that door. Over sixty personnel have entered it in the last forty minutes, but only fifteen have emerged and some of them appeared to be wounded. Their analysis is that one or more persons are resisting, somewhere below ground level.”
“Harmon found the girls,” the national security advisor said. “And found out what was going on. And, somehow, sabotaged the facility as a signal to start the mission.”
“How many troops?” the President asked.
“A battalion of Syrian commandos,” the Chairman answered. “And they’re not, generally, the Keystone Kops you get with most Arab armies. They fought the Israelis to a standstill in the Golan Heights in ’73. And an unknown number of mujahideen.”
“They’re forming up again,” the national security advisor said. “They’re getting ready to rush the door.”
“I don’t normally input at the tactical level,” the President said, “but…”
“I’m making the call now, Mr. President,” the Chairman said, picking up his phone. “More or less to ensure that everyone has the information and knows the target.”
“Get them support,” the secretary said. “Get them support as fast as we possibly can.”
“Target,” Mike said, firing at the first figure on the stairs.
The soldiers were not bothering to pick their way through the bodies and a couple of them, who hadn’t been hit, tumbled down the stairs. But the rest kept coming, firing wildly but filling the air with lead nonetheless. Three of them paused on the landing, obviously picked marksmen, and tried to target the defenders in the gloom as the rest rushed Mike and Amy’s position.
“I’m out,” Amy said, rolling into the doorway.
“Babe!” Mike yelled. “Grenades!” He slowed his fire, dropping three in the front rank, and then felt the bolt lock back. He quickly grabbed another weapon, but by then two of the soldiers were nearly to the door and he had to fire up at them. One of them managed to get off a burst of “spray and pray” in his direction, and he felt a searing pain in his back and chest.