Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

Marty shifted from the riflescope and grabbed his binoculars. “I see an older man coming on the bridge walkin’ towards him.”

“What about ’im?” asked Connor.

“Ahh, I think I might’ve seen that older guy,” said Marty, “Yeah, yeah! He was part of the assault on the Hall of Fame.”

“No kidding?”

“In fact, I think he was leading some of it when all hell broke loose.”

“Huh.”

“I’m almost certain I took a shot at the bastard. Musta missed.”

“Make amends.”

“Copy that, sir.” Marty settled the Leopold scope reticule onto the nose of the man. Listening to his spotter for real-time data, he made adjustments to his shot.

BB took his time to confirm tactical parameters. “Range: 1042 yards. Windage: four mph southwest.”

“Copy.”

BB continued. “Target stationary. He’s settlin’ down on the truck fender. Hold! He’s movin’ again. At the bridge edge. Stationary. You got the shot. You got the shot…”

“Copy.”

“It’d be a heckuva shot, Surf Boy,” said Connor

“Mac, just watch and learn.”

Marty pulled the trigger and the 7.62mm caliber bullet travelled at a muzzle velocity of 2550 feet per second.

“How much longer until you’re done up here?” asked Larry Reed. He handed a beer to Henry Bristol, log-sup supervisor, and sat down atop the fender. Patiently, he waited for Henry to crack open his beer and fill him in.

“Thanks.”

Larry stared at a burnt Cadillac nearby. Idly, he wondered if the occupants—or pieces anyway—were still inside until, a distant but distinct sound on the wind caught his attention. Intrigued, he thought he heard some gunfire above the sound of the three boats cruising upriver to the Point. Slipping off the fender, he walked toward the bridge edge closest to the city and considered the Liberty Bridge in the distance. He stood, taking in the sights with binoculars. He thought the city of Pittsburgh was probably once very pretty. Having never seen the city in person, he was interested in the congregation of boats below, as well as the men and activity clustered around the Point. He’d heard about the infamous “Point” in downtown Pittsburgh, since it was near where the Steelers and Pirates played, but thought it rather unimpressive.

“Pittsburgh’s a shithole now.”

On the other hand, he knew the activity at the river’s edge would be of some value to his nephew and he began to commit the scene to memory. By his best estimate, over 300 people were milling about and there were at least twenty-five boats accumulating in a fairly disorganized mishmash, tied up nearby. After further study, he designated at least fifty men as guards of some type. And, near the center of the action, he caught a tighter pack dancing in a frenzied, yet provocative sway and grind. Focusing, he spotted a few women, one in particular, conveying a heightened sexuality in her dance.

“Wouldn’t mind being over there…” Larry mumbled. He stared at the woman with the long, white blonde hair and took another swig of beer. Henry had followed him, though Larry had forgotten he was there.

“Shouldn’t be much more than another half hour at most clearing up this mess, sir,” said Henry.

“See to it.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks for the beer.” Standing near, Henry slipped the orange and brown bandana off his forehead and used it to wipe his face.

“You can thank Phoenix… his idea. Sorta.”

“Okay, I will.” Henry had a clear question building in his mind, “Larr… we been friends since the nineties, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something that might be a bit outta line?”

“Go on,” said Larry. He braced for the question having some idea of the content. Already, he’d received strange looks from many of the men. The incident with Luke overheard by the brigade leaders had called his authority into question.

To ensure this was a private conversation, Henry moved to stand in front of Larry. He glanced around and confirmed no one else was within hearing range. “What do you plan to do about that piss-boy Luke, huh?”

Larry’s radio squawked. He glanced down at the radio and lifted it to his ear only to look up and watch Henry drop his beer onto the concrete and kneel in front of him. Blood poured from Henry’s neck, as he convulsed.

“Larr—”

“Get down, now ! Sniper!” yelled Larry to all bridge workers. He spun around to assess the area, as he dropped and rolled toward the bridge sidewall. Gathering the radio to his ear, he listened to Luke and the brigade leaders frantic commands and orders.

“Sniper fire! Eddie’s down! Shit, Cheese is down! Take cover. Take cover. Under the ramp. Four men down. Repeat. Roddie. Sammy. Damn. Four down. Taking cover. Copy? Copy?”

“Copy, Luke. Where? Where’s it comin’ from? Over,” yelled Reed.

Two men crouched near the fenders of a Camaro on the far end of the bridge. They collapsed in quick succession. A third went down not fifty feet from Larry. He radioed Phoenix.

“Phoenix! Do you copy?”

“Go, Uncle. We ready yet?”

“Taking sniper fire! Stay down. Luke and his team are hit! We got a bunch of snipers shooting at us! Over.”

“Say again. Over.”

“We got sniper’s hitting’ us on the bridge. Henry took one next to me. Luke’s team is taking fire. He’s got four men down. I got five hit and counting. Over.”

“Shit. Where’s it comin’ from?” asked Phoenix.

There was an excited undertone to his inquiry, rather than concern. Larry provided the general direction of sniper fire and Phoenix jumped out of the passenger seat. He had been waiting for something exciting to happen.

“’Bout fuckin’ time. C’mon, Sinclair!”

Clearing his mind of boredom, Phoenix let his uncanny assessment skills kick in as he ran to the bridge. At the onramp, he visualized both bridges and the position of the dead men lying on the West End Bridge. He calculated trajectories and instantly gauged the range to the Liberty Bridge on his left. His mind began fixating on the higher ridge elevation across the river between the two bridges. This was the likely position of any sniper or snipers.

“Fucker’s over there,” he thought, “But only one man. On that top ridge. Gotta be. One man could do it. Triangulation puts him there. Not enough shots for more than one.” Confident in his assessment, Phoenix yelled to Sinclair, who had just caught up to him. “Go back to the truck and get me those damn binoculars, you fuck!”

Sinclair spun and raced back to the truck, snatching the binoculars from the dashboard. He quickly returned and handed them to Phoenix who calmly studied the ridge. He located the possible semblance of a team hiding on a circular, man-made platform built atop an overhanging structure.

“There you are, my love… there you are.” Phoenix lowered the binoculars slowly and smiled. “Find Smithy. Now. Tell him to bring his guns and spotter guy… ah, Ricky. Now!”

Sinclair ran back toward the convoy.

“I’m gonna kill you, you prick!” Phoenix yelled toward the ridge. He carried his Judge pointed at the ridge across the river as he took a casual and bold stroll up the on ramp. He knew the handgun was of little use, but pointed it anyway simply to appease his frustration. He ignored his men cowering under the assault. Stepping onto the main span of the bridge, he gained further confidence and stood with his left middle finger held high up in the air in the direction of Mount Washington.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” said Phoenix. Not satisfied with his outburst, he planted both feet and fired all five rounds toward the circular platform across the ridge. He knew the bullets would never come close, but did enjoy pulling the trigger on each round.