Warlords Page 9

  Just then the radio crackled and John was certain it was another plea from his men to help Charlie Company.

  “Bravo six nine, this... Charlie... over.”

  The signal was bad, but John recognized Donavan’s voice. Donavan was the radio man for Charlie Company.

  “Bravo... Charlie Company. Do... read? Over.”

  “We read you loud and clear,” Lewis replied. “You sure did take your sweet time dialing in.”

  More static, then. “Under... heavy... fire. Need air...”

  “You’re breaking up, Whiskey Lima,” Lewis shouted. “Please say again.”

  “Air support. Call in... right away.”

  “Roger that. What is your position? Over.”

  They waited agonizing seconds without a response.

  Robert Forest, the Bradley’s driver, turned to Lewis. “Don’t be an idiot, man, they’re trying to hold their bridge just like we are. The ragheads are dug into the buildings picking them off. I can hear it from here.”

  “Whiskey Lima,” Lewis repeated. “What is your position?”

  This time the response was terrified screaming and a burst of gunfire. John and the others recoiled.

  “What do I do, sir?” Lewis asked.

  John felt his intestines being squeezed to jelly. That last transmission sounded like they were getting slaughtered. “I can’t sit by while they’re being killed.”

  “Why don’t we send some men from Bravo to help them?” Forest asked.

  “Because our orders were to stay put and hold the bridge,” John told him. “Besides, most of our Bradleys are stuck in the mud.” He looked at Lewis. “Call in the air strike.”

  “But what coordinates do I give them?”

  “If they’re doing their job, they’ll be holding that bridge over the Euphrates just as we are. Do like Forest said. Tell the Warthog pilots to pepper the buildings north of the bridge and tell them to watch Blue Force Tracking for friendlies.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” John barked, “now do it.”

  Lewis called in the strike as John climbed out of the turret of his Bradley to watch the planes fly in.

  He heard the sound of their engines before he saw them. There were two of them and they made successive runs on the target, strafing with their 30mm cannons and firing missiles. The soldiers trying desperately to help free the stuck vehicles stopped briefly and cheered. Even John felt a smile come over his face at the thought of destroying the enemy that was threatening his men in Charlie Company.

  Lewis was back on the radio.

  “Whiskey Lima, do you copy? Over.” After trying twice more, he turned to John. “It’s still dead.”

  Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, John strained in vain to see. But it was the sounds he was hearing that were making him feel suddenly unsure. The distinct rattle of AKs and RPKs had resumed, as though the men attacking Charlie Company hadn’t been hit that hard from the strafing and bombing run after all.

  Then another message over the radio, this one intended for the A-10 pilots. “Check your fire. I... rep... check your fire. Friendlies in... area.”

  John and Lewis exchanged a uneasy glance.

  “Charlie Company, come in, over.” Lewis’ voice was barely a whisper.

  “Friendly fire! Friendly fire!” came Donavan’s voice. “Requesting immediate medivac. Thirteen wounded. Ten KIA.”

  The airstrike they’d just called in had killed their own men and John’s heart felt like it was about to shatter.

  Chapter 22

  Brandon pulled out the compass from his pocket and studied the needle as it swung back and forth and finally settled on a southwesterly direction. They’d been sprinting and walking from one scrap of cover to another for close to an hour since they awoke this morning. They’d been forced to take shelter in an abandoned car they found along State Route 211 once they realized they wouldn’t make Dyersburg before sundown. After discovering the car’s power seats wouldn’t recline, Brandon had told Gregory to sleep in the back while he made do sitting upright in the front. The explosions from the front, only a few miles away now, were loud enough to drown out the sound of the crickets. They had spent the night shivering, cold and afraid. It had been one of the worst nights of their lives.

  When morning broke, the two had set out at once. It had taken a while before Brandon was able to free himself of the knot that had formed in his back.

  Whenever they caught the distinct sound of a helicopter approaching, their hearts began to race. Although he would never admit it, Gregory was normally the first to react. His eyes would scan the skies and he would run a few steps toward the nearest tree line or building. Only once he saw that Brandon wasn’t following would he stop and look guilty. The truth was, Brandon wasn’t playing the tough guy, he simply couldn’t see where the chopper was and, more importantly, who it belonged to. Part of him would have loved to see an Apache streak by as it raced to give the enemy some payback.

  Payback or not, the carnage he’d witnessed at the train was still fresh in his mind. As the morning wore on, more and more survivors from the attack joined the trek toward Dyersburg, many walking in small scattered groups and all of them looking like something from one of those old-fashioned zombie movies.

  A sign up ahead welcomed them to Dyersburg, but what kind of a welcome would they find when they arrived? Would they all be branded as cowards for having run for their lives? What was considered brave when the people around you were being hit with 23mm rounds from a Chinese attack helicopter, their bodies literally exploding before you? It was the Z-10 helicopter. Brandon remembered the sleek design and tail wheel from a video game he used to play.

  During the attack, he’d wanted so badly to stop and help whoever he could. But that chopper, circling overhead, spitting out death all around them had made that impossible. The event had offered them their first truth about war. Sometimes you didn’t have a choice other than to save your own skin.

  A few random buildings dotted Highway 51 which presumably ran through Dyersburg. Of course, none of them knew where they were headed. The plan had been for the train to pull into the station where a sergeant would assign them to units. But in less than five minutes that plan had been shot to ribbons.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Gregory said, dragging his feet.

  The sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing were caked in dirt and singed in places. So too was the t-shirt Brandon was wearing. In the mayhem, they’d even been forced to abandon their backpacks along with the filtered water and snacks they’d brought for the trip.

  To their left were what appeared to be storage sheds, the kind you paid money for every month in order to keep all the stuff you could no longer cram into your garage. Past that a ways was a white pillared building with a sign out front that read “Dyersburg Funeral Home” and etched underneath “Respect, Compassion, Dignity”.

  Brandon pointed in that direction. “Maybe we can find something to drink in there.”

  Gregory didn’t look so certain. “I’m not sure. It looks closed.”

  “Of course it’s closed. Everything is closed now. I went to a funeral in Knoxville when Grampa Appleby passed and I seem to remember a vending machine or two. Worst case, we can drain what’s left in the water heater.”

  Gregory was focused on the road ahead, as though wishing for a better option. In the distance, only the outline of small buildings was visible. But more importantly, the stretch that lay immediately in front of them was a long and empty one. The sun was climbing higher in the sky every minute, cooking their exposed flesh and increasing their already overwhelming thirst.

  When it was clear that Gregory wasn’t interested in checking the funeral home for something to drink, Brandon began heading there himself.

  “Hey, where you going?”

  “I already told you. You keep going if you want.” But Brandon knew exactly what Gregory would do. A moment later, the boy appeared by his side, huffing and out of breat
h. There was no way he was gonna set off on his own.

  “We may get in trouble for trespassing. Maybe we could ask someone coming up behind us for a drink?”

  Brandon stopped and glanced over his shoulder at the people coming this way and spotted a group of three. Two men and a woman who was stouter than both of them. Walking slow and looking dispirited, none of them were carrying any bags, backpacks or otherwise.

  “I think we’re all in the same boat, Gregory. In fact, you just gave me an idea.”

  “I did?” Gregory’s face lit up.

  “Yeah, maybe if we can find some buckets inside, we can fill ’em from the water heater and leave them by the side of the road for the other people coming up behind us.”

  “But won’t the water be bad after sitting there all this time?”

  “Probably,” Brandon answered, “that’s why we’re going to throw in a few droplets of bleach. What funeral home doesn’t have bleach?”

  Gregory let out a nervous laugh. Brandon could tell the kid was worried about zombies or some other form of monster he’d seen in Hollywood movies. But computer-generated bogeymen didn’t frighten Brandon because the horrors of real life were so much scarier.

  Chapter 23

  Shouting pulled John from the dream. All at once, thoughts of Nasiriyah and his old JTAC Lewis were swept away like a fine mist before sunrise. The analogy was apt because early morning light bled into his bedroom from outside, informing him that it was dawn.

  Another sound entered his awareness: a quick repetitive thudding of rotor blades. A helicopter was approaching Oneida and the single question coursing through John’s tired mind as he threw his clothes on and grabbed his AR was whether it was friend or foe.

  Diane sat up in bed with a start. “What is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and craning her head to listen.

  A manhole out near the back door of the mayor’s office led to the storm drain, a location they’d decided to use as the town’s air-raid shelter should the need arise. “Get Emma and take her underground.”

  Diane blinked and then threw the covers off.

  Charging through the front door, John saw heads peering out from windows and doorways. Everyone had the same question on the tips of their tongues.

  Although he hadn’t acquired a visual, John knew what an Apache gunship sounded like and this wasn’t it. Whatever was flying around the airspace above Oneida had a blade rotation that sounded much faster than the Apache.

  Down the street, John caught sight of Moss, who waved him over before disappearing into an alleyway. Darting across the open space and then hugging the walls of the nearest building, John made his way over. When he arrived, John discovered a pickup parked in the alley, the one Moss had mounted with that .50 cal machine gun. Standing on the truck bed clutching the dual grips was Moss, smiling down at John like a giddy schoolkid.

  “I got spotters climbing the cell tower on the edge of town,” he said, “to get a better look at this thing. One of them’s a pilot and aircraft nut who used to fly the bushwhack trails up in Alaska. If the bird’s ours, he’ll know it.” One of Moss’ men sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for orders to move out.

  “You’ve been watching too many movies,” John said, concerned firing on the chopper might only get Moss killed. “Where’s the Stinger?”

  “In the stairwell, by the library roof door. I’ve set a sandbag firing position up there.”

  The sound of rotors grew louder as the chopper thundered by overhead. John maneuvered for a better view.

  “She one of ours?” Moss asked.

  “Afraid not,” John replied, watching it speed by. “Looks to me like a Chinese Z-10.”

  “Just one? Can’t be all that bad,” Moss said, racking the bolt on the Ma Deuce.

  “Well, it certainly ain’t good, that’s for sure.” Breaking cover, John darted down Municipal Drive, heading for the library. Unassuming as it was, the building’s three-story height made it the ideal choice for housing the Stinger anti-aircraft missile system.

  As he burst through the front entrance, a group of frightened adults and children were kneeling behind the checkout desk. They’d apparently been using the building as a dormitory.

  “Get yourselves into the air-raid shelter,” John ordered, not caring a whit whether he sounded like some grouchy old dog.

  He wasn’t sure what the Chinese rules of engagement were, but it stood to reason the gunner would need permission from headquarters before opening fire. The fear wasn’t so much that Moss would rush out with his hillbilly technical, but more so that the chopper might spot the sandbag emplacements strewn throughout the town and report back to base. If word got out that there were hostile elements in Oneida preparing against an assault, this Z-10 would only be the first of many paying them a visit. John needed to knock this sucker out of the sky with a single shot before they had a chance to radio back.

  Just as Moss had said, the metal case containing the Stinger was in the stairwell. A missile had already been loaded in the launch tube. The last time he’d fired one of these was on a training exercise, more years ago than he cared to admit, so he grabbed the manual and shoved it into his pocket.

  Slinging his AR over his shoulder, John grabbed the launcher with both hands and charged out onto the roof.

  For now the sound of the chopper had faded into the distance. Had they flown away after calling in what they’d seen?

  Just in case, John put the launcher down and flipped through the manual, his breathing harsh and punctuated by his beating heart. This was not the way he liked to wake up in the morning.

  “‘Place the weapon on right shoulder, grasping the pistol grip to provide support,’” he said out loud. “Okay. ‘Unfold the antenna, and remove the front cap,’” he said, skipping ahead. “Done. ‘Now raise and lock the sight assembly into position.’”

  The sound of rotor blades again.

  “‘Weapon activation occurs when the safety and actuator device is operated.’ Okay, tell me something I don’t know.”

  Growing louder by the second.

  It’s nearly on you, John, hurry! he told himself. If they spot you wielding an anti-aircraft missile, you’ll be dead before you know what hit you.

  He released the safety and actuator device. The launcher began making a sound, like a gyro spinning up. Yes, it was all starting to come back now. With his hand clutching the pistol grip, he turned to his left and spotted the chopper, a thousand feet in the air, bearing down on him. The distant sound of cannon fire came right as he pulled the trigger.

  A whoosh and a blast of white smoke came as the missile was flung from the tube, igniting a split second later. A vapor trail streaked across the sky until it intersected with the approaching chopper. The gunship tried to turn away at the last minute only to take the impact right below the rotor. A burst of yellow flame shot out, then a delay as the sound of the explosion travelled to where John was kneeling on the library rooftop.

  The Z-10 spun in wild circles as it plummeted out of the sky. From the street came whooping and cheering. John went to the edge of the roof to see Moss pull up alongside the building, a group of citizens trailing behind him.

  “Get over to that crash site right away,” John barked. “And bring me back any survivors.”

  Chapter 24

  Finding and then emptying the hot water heater in that funeral home along Highway 104 hadn’t been difficult for Brandon. Finding bleach in one of the maintenance closets and pouring a few drops in the way John had taught him was also easy. But braving the cloying odor of formaldehyde and decaying bodies, that had been something else altogether. The worst room by far, and one they’d done little more than glance in through a porthole-style window, had been packed with bodies, many of them laid out, little more than clothed skeletons with bits of flesh clinging to bony faces and hands.

  It was starting to look as though this place had gone from the town funeral home to the town morgue. Burying the dead was a much better idea,
but Brandon sensed that many of the decisions made by the ones who ran this place as well as those living in the area were the product of wishful thinking. The power was bound to come back on any day now, that was probably the story they told themselves.

  The open floor safe in the office only reinforced that theory. It told Brandon that whoever was running the funeral parlor had still believed paper money had some value. And more than that, it revealed a critical point in time when the dead began piling up and the harsh reality started sinking in that the lights would never be coming back on. And so a funeral home had gradually become a crypt.

  No matter how thirsty they were, the two boys had held off until they were outside and a safe distance from the suffocating odors before they drank. After they had their fill, they left the bucket on the side of the road, a tin cup floating on the surface. A sign written with a sharpie along the side read: Clean water.

  Brandon and Gregory hadn’t made it more than a dozen yards before they turned and caught sight of a ragged group of three men and one woman stopping to have a drink.

  “I’d heard my dad talk about using bleach in water, but I never saw how he did it,” Gregory said with something that resembled admiration.

  “Your dad and I spent a lot of time together when you and the rest of your family were being held by the Chairman.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Gregory snapped, and Brandon realized it wasn’t admiration at all. But what child wouldn’t be sore about their father spending time with someone else’s kid?

  “I never asked for things to turn out the way they did,” Brandon said, offering a kind of truce.

  “Well, maybe if you’d stayed on Willow Creek, things would have been different.”

  “Maybe,” Brandon shot back. “Or maybe we would be dead, along with the rest the neighbors who didn’t make it.”

  “You survived because you ran away to our cabin.”