Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Phoenix!” called Larry. “Phoenix! Get back here—there could be more explosions!”

He ignored his uncle and approached the crater made by the C-4 blast. Ignoring the smoke and smell, he nearly trod on a wounded man lying in the weeds next to the road. The man was almost unrecognizable as human—the skin on his face was blackened and cracked, oozing yellowish pus. The man’s shredded clothing continued to smolder and his right foot was turned completely around at the ankle joint. Phoenix realized that the man was still alive and trying to communicate, his lips cracking with the effort. Phoenix was fascinated with the man’s mouth. One side of his face was gone—the cheek, the eye, and part of the nose—and it gave Phoenix a good view of the man’s remaining teeth and his tongue, which lolled in his mouth, trying in vain to form an intelligible sound.

The wounded man’s voice was wet and thick and otherworldly, matching his alien appearance. When he tried to touch Phoenix’s shoe, Phoenix calmly unholstered his nine-millimeter and shot the man through the head. He lifted the radio to his lips.

“Luke, do you copy?”

“This is Luke—I read you loud and clear. Over.”

“What’s your team’s status? Over.”

“We have sight of the men on the road, sir. We’re chasing ’em down. Over.”

“You catch them, Luke! You hear me? Over.”

“Yes, sir. We’re running hard. Send everyone you can spare as backup, sir. Over.”

“Oh, I’m sending ’em all, Luke. Over.”

“Copy that. Tangos are running hard up the mountain. They’re ’bout a half mile ahead. We’ll engage when we’re in range. Over.”

“We’re no more than five minutes behind you, Luke. We carved a path for the trucks around this mess. Over.”

“Understood. Over and out.”

Larry Reed joined Phoenix while he talked on the radio.

“Is it safe enough for you, uncle?” he asked sarcastically. His uncle nodded, not trusting Phoenix’s mood enough to exchange words with him.

“I want every man that can walk and pull a trigger heading up that mountain right now. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” answered Larry. “What should we do with this mess?” he asked, gesturing to the flaming eighteen-wheelers.

“Leave it for the rats to clean up,” said Phoenix.

Larry began to give orders into his radio and, after several minutes, nearly the entire army shifted to the south toward the Laurel Highland Mountains.

“Uncle! I wanna crush that pack a rats! They’re mine!” Spittle flew from Phoenix’s mouth as he paced back and forth. Fifteen men showed up from the rear and they began to retrieve the bodies from the explosion. To Phoenix, it was wasted effort and he considered telling them to forget it and pursue the enemy. But he reconsidered, figuring he’d look bad as a leader. He took a different tack. “Line ’em up, boys!” he yelled. “If you bury one of your friends, you should kill three of your enemies. Strive for that, boys—kill as many as you can.”

The men around him nodded, understanding his fury. They gave him a wide berth as they tended to and stripped the dead. They found another man slammed into a guardrail by the force of the blast—he was alive, but unable to stand and he made it clear he wouldn’t be able to continue.

“Hey! You,” asked Phoenix, pulling his weapon and walking over. “What good are ya to me?” he asked, aiming his weapon at the man’s head and calmly pulling the trigger. He turned to the group that was left. His voice was calm. “You assholes need to get moving. The guys who killed your buddies are running up the mountainside—go catch ’em.”

They stared at him blankly and he turned to his uncle. “Larry! Your fucking men need to be moving! Right now!”

“I’m on it, Phoenix.” He rushed among his men, giving instructions to help them settle into a focused pursuit of the enemy. “We lost ninety-eight men to that C-4 shit, Phoenix. That leaves us with 317 men. 179 are cavalry and I’ve instructed all to pursue—they’re rolling now and we’ll capture that MacMillen and annihilate him.”

“Remember, I want that asshole in one piece.”

“I know you do. If it’s feasible, I’ll do that.”

“Uncle,” said Phoenix, “if you bring that bastard to me alive, you can name your own price.”

“I’d love to, Phoenix. I don’t know what he has planned—we need to set a reserve group in case we hit another snag.”

“I meant to ask you,” said Phoenix aggressively, “why do we keep hittin’ snags against a twenty-man team? You know why? I’ll tell you why, Uncle. We played their game—playing like we’re pussies. No more! Fuck your reserve—we’re gonna bury these cocksuckers. Right now!”

“Okay, but let me hold back forty men.”

“No. We bury ’em now. Right here, right now.”

“It’s your army.”

“You’re fuckin’ damn right, it is.”

“Here they come, Mac. Over.”

“Copy that. Do your thing, guys. Over.”

Marty’s sniper rounds zipping across the ravine filled the relative quiet. Each spotting cue from BB shifted Marty onto another target. Connor had no doubt that ninety-nine percent of those rounds found enemy flesh or bone. The enemy force had rounded the curve in the roadway and Marty and BB had let a dozen of them appear before beginning their systematic elimination. Marty made each of twelve shots count and when the approaching army retreated to cover, they left behind twelve bodies.

“They’re bringing up their armored trucks, Mac. Over.”

“I read you. It’s what I would do. Take out their tires and radiators. Over.”

“Copy that. Over.”

“Surf Boy, they have a few fifty calibers in that mix based on Captain Daubney’s intel. Make those your priority for now. I don’t wanna have to deal with those big bastards. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’m sure they’re there somewhere. Over.”

“I hear ya, Mac. I’ll keep an eye out for ’em. Over.” BB had taken control of the radio—Marty was fully engaged with the advancing force.

“Don’t miss a chance to take out the drivers of those trucks. Over.”

“Copy that, Mac. Over and out.”

Connor focused on the duo through his binoculars and they were already creating some havoc among Phoenix’s army. Marty shot the driver of one of the trucks through the windshield and the truck lurched forward and nosed into the cliff, crumpling the front end and spewing steam.

The enemy army retreated behind the curve in the road, presumably to consider their options. Connor was on the verge of giving the order to move up the mountain when he caught sight of a flash. “RPG launched!” he yelled into his radio. “Take cover!”

The shot was high, passing the picnic area and hitting the trees a hundred yards beyond their position.

“Here comes another!” Connor yelled.

This one was aimed with more accuracy and came within seventy-five feet of their position, but it was shot too low and exploded below the rim of the ravine.

“The shooters are behind the truck, left of center!” radioed Captain Daubney. He had caught sight of the supine men and their launch tubes, but was unsure how many they had.

“I’m engaging, Surf Boy!” said BB. He gently rested the spotting scope on the ground.

“C’mon, then!” yelled Marty, “I’m okay for now. I got some RPG tangos in sight. Come back and spot ASAP.”

“Yep. I knew it! You need me.”

“Go!”

Though at the edge of the maximum effective range of his M-4, BB grabbed his weapon and carefully let loose a full clip at the truck. His shots held true in the target range striking the cab and front grill. Immediate return fire bellowed forth from the front line of Phoenix’s army. Several rounds landed mere inches from BB. He snatched the radio.