He donned his Kevlar and dashed out the school, rifle at the high ready. Most of the Guardsmen he served with as a young enlisted man were long since dead. As an officer, he had never been able to forge close bonds with the soldiers under his command. Fraternization was strictly forbidden for a reason. So he sure didn’t have much in the way of friends in the room. He never looked back.
A couple hundred yards down the street, Donaldson spun around with his rifle up to engage the clanking sounds sneaking up on him. Every one of his soldiers followed in two files on each side of the street. Exact five meter spacing, proper rear security and steadily trotting to catch up despite lugging 70 pounds of body armor, ammo and gear.
Damn, he didn’t deserve soldiers like this.
“Are you sure you all want to do this, Sergeant?”
Dore’s perpetual ‘roid rage eased a bit. Was that even a grin on his face? Dore punched him (playfully?) in the back. “Fuck no! We aren’t sure about anything, sir. I still think you might be a moron, but you’re at least genuine. Can’t let such a rare breed of officer go off alone and get himself killed, now can we?”
Donaldson didn’t know what to say, so he stuck to the plan. “All right. If we take that intersection and establish a blocking position, we’ll be able to delay Fed reinforcements for hours. The best thing….”
Sgt. Dore brought his rifle up and looked around. “What is it, sir?”
The incessant helicopter thumping overhead had abruptly stopped. The Apache gunship is quite loud if the rear or sides are turned towards you. There’s only one direction where the chopper is designed to be extra quiet… if the damn thing is facing you directly.
Like countless insurgents in Afghanistan and Iraq, Donaldson and his fighters never knew what hit them. From half a mile away, it was child’s play for the sky-hunter to rain down dozens of 30mm high-explosive shells on them with pinpoint accuracy. As the whole world disappeared in a cloud of smoke around them, Donaldson snagged Sgt. Dore by the collar and dragged him under a parked pickup nearby.
Surprising how light the giant Dore was to carry. Reaching back to tuck him completely inside, Donaldson realized why. Both legs were missing. How many thousands of hours of squats and sprints just went to waste? Two more soldiers slithered under the truck, knocking Donaldson out of his funk. “Get some tourniquets on him! We can’t stay here forever. I’m going to run down the block and draw their fire. You two move him, and anyone else you see, into these nearby houses. Give me 30 seconds, and then make your move.”
Donaldson didn’t waste a moment with goodbyes or good luck. He just rolled into the open and took off running. Only corpses scattered the road, but not enough to be everyone in the unit. Good. He saw quite a few boots sticking out here and there from under cars. At least a dozen of his people were still alive. Maybe his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. The pickup trucks and SUV’s couldn’t stop one of those 30mm rounds, but they hid his troops’ thermal signature well enough. Fifty terrifying strides up the block later, Donaldson didn’t wonder why he was still alive. Time to push his luck further.
He stopped and spun in the general direction of the helicopter. Sure enough, the Apache had crept closer. A second one even joined in the hunt. Fuck it. Donaldson whipped his rifle up and emptied the magazine at both birds nearly 600 yards away. No chance in hell of taking them down, but surely they wouldn’t ignore an active shooter.
Actually, that’s exactly what they did. Having nothing to fear from this crazy guy and his potshots, the Apache gunners focused their attention on where he came from. That street was chocked full of heat signatures moments ago, but not now. They had been just about to give up finding new targets when this skinny dude slipped out from under a civilian car. “Of course,” muttered one of the Apache gunners. He lined his crosshairs up on an F150 truck and tapped the red button on his joystick.
Donaldson screamed in impotent rage and reloaded a fresh mag when the truck with Sgt. Dore underneath exploded. Then the next car along the street, and the next. So on and so on, the birds methodically blasted each hiding space. Each had a soldier or two cowering underneath and gritting their teeth. To run out in the open was suicide. They’d just die tired. Staying put gave the trapped soldiers the chance that they might be overlooked in their hidey-hole.
No matter how much they prayed, the hovering death machines didn’t overlook them. Almost out of ammo, and completely out of stomach, Donaldson couldn’t watch the slaughter anymore. So he ran.
Bump Bump Bump. Only seconds ahead of the Apache gunner’s burst slamming just behind him, Donaldson kicked in the front door of the nearest McMansion. Crashed through the mostly glass door would have been a better description. Inside, he knew he was safe. These flimsy wood and stucco homes wouldn’t stop the shells, but they had their own magic armor. All civilian structures were restricted fire areas.
Which only protected him from the big guns though. Several Humvees roared down the street and halted outside. Man, they were fast. Donaldson ran out the back patio door. Pausing to give those bastards a little surprise, he yanked a frag grenade out and started booby-trapping the door. A whimper from the dining room halted him.
“Shit!” He smiled weakly at the terrified woman and child huddled under the dining table. Giving them a thumbs up, he just pocketed the grenade. Enough time wasted already. Donaldson vaulted the low privacy fence out back and smashed in the rear door of the next house. On and on he went through the suburban maze, leaving a wake of shattered glass and splintered hinges. From the air though, he was practically invisible.
His luck ran out about six streets later. The Feds had a much wider cordon than expected. Too tired to pay attention, Donaldson opened an unlocked back door and blindly ran down the hall. As he reached for the front door handle, he collided with a federal soldier coming out of the living room. “What the fuck?” yelled the Fed, even as he butt-stroked Donaldson to his knees. Three more troopers peeked over the man’s shoulder to see what was happening.
Donaldson’s rifle skidded down the hall, but through the stars swimming in his eyes he noticed the grenade rolling out of his pocket. Snatching it up, he ripped out the pin and held the spoon tight. When the soldier reached down and rolled him over, Donaldson rolled the grenade between the enemy’s legs and laughed up at him. “See ya’ in hell, you Nazi!”
Just his luck, Donaldson ran into the hero type. Without hesitation, the federal soldier dived on the grenade. With predictable results. Taking advantage of the brief shock while his buddies brushed pieces of the hero’s body off them, Donaldson crawled down the hall and grabbed his rifle. Laying exposed on his back, he just flipped on 3-round burst mode and sprayed through the drywall.
Donaldson savored the silence as his empty magazine locked the bolt to the rear. Nothing stirred. At least until the radio started squawking. “Give me a Sit-Rep, 1–6! What the hell’s going on in there?”
Donaldson forced himself to rise and walk over the pile of bodies. A rush of activity followed by silence out front was not a good sign.
Some other team was stacking on the door.
Donaldson risked a glance out the window. He couldn’t see the four guys ready to breach the house, but judging from the two MRAP’s outside, the heavily armored replacement for Humvees, he was screwed. No way for one man to fight them…