John and Devon positioned themselves along the southern treeline while Devon found a clump of bushes north of the tracks. Once security was in place, Heller and Gardner got in place and went to work. Two loud whacks with the sledgehammer made John wince.
“How’s the coast?” he asked Reese over the radio.
“Still clear. Wait a minute.”
John’s heart froze in his chest. He signaled for Gardner and Heller to stop and drop down. “What do you see?”
“Hmm, maybe nothing. I got a group of women about two hundred yards west of your position. Looks like they’re carrying buckets of water up from the river.”
“River water near a big city,” Moss said. “I guess that’s one way to kill yourself.” He leaned into John’s walkie. “Do they look hot?”
Reese snickered. “Negative. Unless you’re into women who look like men. Either way, they’re gone now, so tell Moss if he wants a shot at them he’ll need to give chase.”
“All right,” John said, giving the two on the tracks the all-clear. “Maintain radio silence unless you see something.”
Gardner and Heller were digging gravel out from under one of the rails when a series of shots rang out. Rounds thudded into the ground around Heller and Gardner, dinging off the gravel and the railroad tracks. Then came what sounded like a stick smacking a wet rag as a bullet struck Gardner in the temple. Blood and bone sprayed Heller, who was kneeling beside him.
“Get back,” John yelled as he depressed the actuator on his walkie. “Reese, we’re coming under fire. We have a man down and no visual on the enemy.”
Heller’s chest exploded in a red mist as he turned to flee. Blood dribbled from his lips as he slumped over the train tracks. Now Devon was opening up to the west, presumably the direction from which they’d been fired on, but the truth was, in the chaos it was hard to tell what was coming from where.
Moss jumped up and charged out to grab hold of Heller. John edged out from the wood line and peered through his scope. A group of men in black fatigues were hugging the wall of a nearby building as they moved toward them.
“Reese,” John called out over the walkie. “I’ve got three tangos on your three o’clock, red-brick building. South side.”
Reese didn’t answer, but his Barrett did. The distinctive boom of his sniper rifle sounded just as John was laying down his own covering fire. The .50 cal round impacted the first two men, who were standing in a line, painting their insides against the wall next to them. The third soldier ran for cover. A second blast from Reese’s Barrett killed the third man. Although the sniper’s fire was helping to suppress the enemy, the deafening percussion was threatening to give away his position.
Moss pulled Heller back to the tree line as more fire came in, this time from the east.
“They’re all around us,” Moss gasped, checking for signs of life.
“What about Gardner?”
“He’s gone. Took a direct hit to the head. Didn’t feel a thing.”
John called out to Devon to cover the east.
“We don’t get out of here soon, boss, we never will.”
John nodded, scanning through his ACOG for the source of the fire they were taking.
“Colonel,” Reese said, “I’m taking fire from somewhere west of you. My position’s been compromised.”
“Don’t wait for us, Reese. Soon as you’re off that roof, hightail it back to Oneida. We’ll meet you there.”
“Affirmative,” the sniper said, the sound of rounds pinging off the metal siding before him nearly drowning out his words.
“We’re gonna need to make a break for it,” John told Moss. “You grab the horses while Devon and I lay down some covering fire.” He turned to tell Devon to cover the western approach when a round went straight through the young soldier’s neck. Devon’s eyes grew impossibly wide as he dropped his weapon and clamped his hands down over the wound. The next shot was fatal and Devon fell face forward into the brush.
The human part of John wanted to scream. The blond young man had started as a member of Moss’ security team and had become something of a surrogate son to John. Staggering back on legs weakened with disbelief, John untied his horse and grabbed the reins of another. They would need to leave one horse behind. He and Moss charged out from the forest’s edge, without any covering fire. The rounds came as soon as they hit the train tracks. The brown mare John was holding with his right hand took a hit, whinnied and dropped. Bullets seemed to be coming in from every direction as he and Moss leapt over the tracks and into the woods beyond. For a moment the firing stopped as the gunmen gave chase.
With three of his best men lying dead and their own fate yet to be decided, one thing was clear. This hadn’t been a case of bad luck. Someone had been waiting for them.
Chapter 49
Knoxville, one hundred and sixty days before EMP
“You mentioned looking for a job, John,” Tom Bukowski, his VA counselor, said. “How’s that going?”
John removed his 278th Armored Cavalry ball cap and rested it on one knee. “Pretty good, I’d say. I’ve always been pretty handy, so I guess it seemed natural to start a small general contracting business.”
“That’s great. And what about the drinking?”
Nodding, John rubbed his lips with the tips of his fingers. “Some days are better than others. I haven’t touched a drop in weeks. But I don’t think alcoholism was ever my problem.”
“Really?”
“Drinking was an easy way of numbing the pain. Could as easily have been oxycodone if I’d been more seriously wounded, like some of the men I served with.”
Tom nodded and smiled.
Nearly seven months before, after Diane had confronted him about his drinking, John had taken her advice and paid a visit to his local Veterans’ Counseling Center. He’d explained that he was having trouble readjusting to civilian life. After a short wait, they’d introduced him to one of the counselors: Tom Bukowski, a former Army intelligence officer who’d been deployed to the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia and Bosnia as well as North Africa. He was round-headed and quick to smile. John had taken to the man. They’d even served in some of the same theatres of operation, which had helped to put his mind at ease.
John’s greatest reservation about getting help had been being labelled a coward and letting down the men he’d served with. Although he had known on some level that something inside wasn’t right, he’d never had a name for it. He hadn’t spent more than a few minutes describing the feelings plaguing him before Tom had suggested he might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. During the Civil War it was known as the soldier’s heart; in World War I, shell shock; and in World War II, battle fatigue. Differing names aside, the symptoms had largely been the same. Lack of sleep, loss of concentration, increased irritability, drinking and drug use and in some cases violence or suicide.
The explanation had made him think immediately of his former JTAC Christopher Lewis. Had his friend gone to seek help? John doubted it. If he had, he would likely be alive today. Struggling, as most frontline combat veterans were, but alive nonetheless.
The two men sat on soft folding chairs facing each other in one of the session rooms when they spoke. It was meant to be relaxed and informal.
“You know how important it is to stay active,” Tom told him, clicking the end of his pen. “In the months we’ve been meeting, you’ve opened up about the guilt you carry around over the death of men under you. That feeling might never go away completely, but it’s important, at least for now, that you keep pouring your energy into something positive.”