The remaining seven men from Alpha broke into two teams. One team of three—John, Moss and Benson—would make their way onto a nearby rooftop and try to identify which building was being used as the barracks. The final team of four would carry the mortar and head north.
Moss pointed to a cell tower. “If you can handle heights, that’s probably our best bet.”
They made their way up the tower, leaving Benson and his M249 at the base pulling security. Near the top, John felt a strong wind trying to push him over. He held on with one hand and brought his binoculars up with the other.
“See anything, boss?”
“Not a whole lot,” John said. “Town seems emp… wait a minute. I got a group of four soldiers heading down the main thoroughfare.”
“A patrol?”
“Looks that way.”
“At least now we know someone’s home.” John paused. “Two, maybe three Caucasians. But it’s hard to be sure.”
“Colonel, come in,” Reese squawked over the walkie.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve got eyes on a Wal-Mart west of your position with lots of activity. I’ve counted at least two dozen soldiers coming and going.”
“Are they carrying anything?” John asked.
“Only their weapons. I’d say a number of ’em are Americans too, over.”
“So you think that’s the barracks?” Moss asked.
“That’s my guess, and probably the local headquarters too.”
John spoke into the walkie. “Reese, stay put and keep your eyes on that front entrance.”
“Hold up, Colonel,” Reese said at once. “Eight to ten spooks in black fatigues just entered the store.”
“Same boys who hit us near Knoxville?”
“Hard to say,” Reese replied. “But they sure are dressed the same.”
“Okay, keep eyes on. We’re moving around front to support you.”
John then ordered two members of the team to the north to redeploy atop a hill about three hundred yards from the store. The other two were to cover the exit around back. That way anyone coming or going would be under fire.
“Any ideas?” Reese asked once they’d climbed down and redeployed. One by one, his men radioed that they were in position.
John felt that familiar twitch in his belly. “I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Colonel. We can always employ the old pheasant-hunting tactic.”
“Enlighten me,” John said, intrigued.
“A sniper trick used by the Russians in Stalingrad. They’d identify a German command post, send in a few mortars in to loosen things up and when the German commander and his lieutenants came scrambling out, they’d drop ’em dead.”
“The rest of you get that?” John asked the team.
They replied in the affirmative.
“But watch your fire. I wanna do everything we can to avoid American casualties. Your main targets are the special ops troops in black camo and the People’s Liberation Army soldiers. Leave the Americans to me.”
And with that John called in three high explosive rounds on top of the store.
The first round fell short about ten yards to the left, destroying four rusted hulks still in the parking lot. A black puff of smoke rose up from the impact site. Since the store was in visible range for the mortar team, they immediately adjusted their fire. Seconds later the next round struck the roof. The detonation echoed off the surrounding homes. A yellow and orange gout of flame rose up from the roof. Right away, a handful of Chinese troops came swarming out of the improvised barracks.
“I got tangos all kinds,” Reese called out. “But it’s hard to tell the Americans from the Chinese.”
Two special forces soldiers emerged and John and Moss engaged them right away. Both dropped before they knew what hit them. But now the enemy could see where the rounds were coming from.
“Colonel, two more spooks just came out the back of the store,” the rear team reported.
“Take them out,” John shouted back.
The sound of gunfire erupted all around them.
Reese, positioned in the upstairs of an abandoned house, had knocked out a few panes of glass which he used as a loophole. He’d even positioned a filter screen to help mask his position. Even someone staring directly at his location would never know he was deep inside the room.
A muffled report from Reese’s Remington sounded a second later, followed by another special ops soldier dropping in the parking lot.
“Send in two more mortar rounds,” John called over the walkie. “Place these toward the back of the store. We wanna send them all out the front.”
John used his binoculars, scanning over the small clusters of Chinese troops firing back at them from behind rusted cars in the parking lot. They had the sun in their eyes, which explained why many of the shots were zipping over the heads of Alpha team. That was when John spotted a group of Americans. Ten soldiers, huddled behind a row of shopping carts. Their weapons were at the low ready, but they weren’t firing.
“I need to get closer,” John told the others. “Cover me.”
Before Moss could stop him, John high-crawled out from cover and worked his way toward the parking lot. The sound of AK rounds whizzing by pushed his head lower to the ground. He needed to get into shouting distance. By the time he reached the concrete the rate of fire coming toward them intensified. Some of the special forces were firing from their own concealed positions. The consistent thud from Reese’s suppressed rifle reassured him his men were still firing back.
“Moss, call in some mortar rounds on that clump of trees at the other end of the parking lot. There’s at least one spook back there.”
“Aye, aye.”
Just then came a loud crack as a sniper’s bullet impacted the butt stock of John’s AR. He rolled behind a clump of bushes.
“Reese, we may have a cuckoo on our hands,” John called in over his walkie.
A cuckoo was military slang for a sniper in a tree. During the Second World War many snipers were left behind in this way to cover the retreat of German troops from Russia.
“Scanning,” Reese called back.
Another shot hit the ground by John’s right arm. Pinned down with nowhere to go, it was only a matter of seconds before the next shot finished him off.
Seconds stretched into hours before John caught the silenced report from Reese’s rifle.
“Sniper down,” Reese said. “You were right about finding him in a tree. Saw a dark shape in the leaves of a maple and let him have it.”
With the enemy sniper out of action, John pushed himself up to his knees. The firefight was far from over and bullets were landing all around him. From behind him, Benson’s M249 and Moss’ M4 laid down an impressive volume of covering fire.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, John shouted, “American conscripts! The camp near Jonesboro has been liberated. There’s nothing anyone can do to your families.”
That was when the special forces commander, a red star adorning his helmet, rolled out from behind a nearby car. In that instant, John realized with horror he wasn’t going to have enough time to raise his AR to defend himself. Time slowed and the hatred and determination on the commander’s face left John with the utter conviction he was about to be killed.
Both of his arms swung down by his right side. That was where his assault rifle dangled from a two-point sling. His muzzle was halfway to the target when the commander’s chest exploded. For a moment, his eyes registered surprise and then frustration. There was no third emotion.
The remaining Chinese soldiers rose to flee and were cut down by the American conscripts.
John patted himself, searching for the wound he was sure he’d taken. Finding none, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked up to find a group of Americans in strange uniforms standing not ten feet away. Among them was Brandon.