Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Surf Boy,” said Connor in a cracked voice.

“Mac?” Marty had tried to weigh his options, but Connor’s voice pushed everything else out of his mind.

“I took shots… in the back. My ribs… they hurt.”

“You know, Mac, I’m a little busy here. When you’re done crying about your ribs, maybe you can give me a hand.”

Connor tried to laugh. “Ahh… can’t breathe. ‘Kay… hold on.” He tried to lift himself to his elbows and raise his weapon, but it was apparent he could barely move.

Captain Daubney, BB and Edgars had slipped back down the road to assist Marty, firing as they came at the steady onslaught of men gaining on them.

“BB, take Mac!” yelled Captain Daubney. “Marty and I’ll hang here. Edgars, provide covering fire for Mac and BB. Go! Move!”

“Yes, sir!”

BB picked up Mac in a fireman’s carry and Edgars matched his pace while running backward, firing short and accurate bursts at the enemy. Captain Daubney focused his fire on a group of men trying to flank them from behind the guardrail.

In the meantime, Marty waited patiently for Wolf to show his ugly face. He wanted one chance to see the hairy head pop up from behind the Chevy. Just one chance, he thought, and I’ll blow that asshole’s head off.

Marty saw him appear, but forced himself to slow his breathing and take his time. He wanted this man’s head to explode like the fresh watermelons they used for practice in boot camp. Wolf had lifted his head above the hood of the Chevy to take stock of what was happening. He was speaking into a radio and, through his scope, Marty saw him as if he were only a few feet away. Now was the time—if Marty wanted to kill this guy, he had to do it now.

He exhaled slowly and increased the tension on the trigger. His crosshairs were centered on Wolf’s nose when a yellow fireball lit up the highway and shook the ground. Marty’s ears deafened and his shot at the Wolf was gone.

“I need to speak to your commanding officer immediately,” said John McLeod.

“Who are you?” asked the young man, his weapon unwavering.

“I’m Major John McLeod and I’m here on behalf of Colonel Connor MacMillen. He needs your help—him and his men are about a mile and a half down the hill and they’re taking heavy fire.”

“Wait here,” said the man. He lowered his weapon and spoke to someone on the other side of the gate. By the time he turned to face John McLeod’s party, the gates began to open with a protesting squeak.

John McLeod turned to look down hill and saw Lieutenant Rice approaching. “Lieutenant, come up slow and join us!”

Rice nodded and started up the middle of the road. He held his weapon neutral and moved slowly so the gate could assess his approach.

McLeod’s small group took a few steps back as the gate opened. Ten horses ridden by armed men exited and surrounded the group in a loose circle. Two others road out to Rice and warily followed him as he approached the group. A Range Rover came out of the gates after the horsemen were in position and came to a stop. The front passenger door opened and a tall man with a look of irritation walked to within a few feet of John McLeod.

“Commander Grant Bastin,” said the man as a way of gruffly introducing himself. “Are you in charge?” he asked, offering McLeod his hand.

John shook. “I am. Major John McLeod, commander. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Yes, yes, it’s a true pleasure, major. What’s going on down the hill? Fill me in.”

“Oh, right,” said McLeod, gathering his thoughts. “There’s an enemy force of at least 500 men, last rough count, attacking my group of five soldiers, one of whom is Colonel Connor MacMillen.”

“Mac’s down there?” the commander asked. The intensity of the commander’s stare was unnerving—even more so for John McLeod who thought of himself a person beyond such intimidation.

“You know Connor Mac?” asked John.

“I asked if Mac’s down there, major.”

“Yes, sir, he is. He’s with the others—there’s five of them and they held back to give us time to reach the gate.”

“What type of enemy force and weapon strengths are we talking about, major?”

“You should speak with my sergeant for that information, sir. Sergeant Mickey McGuire, this is Commander Grant Bastin.”

“Sir!”

“Top, good to meet you. Now tell me about the enemy force.”

“It’s a large force, sir, at least 500 or so strong, after we rigged and explosion at the base of the mountain that trimmed them down some. And we bottlenecked ’em pretty at a curve down there. I’m sure we took out a bunch more since they couldn’t fit more than twenty men up the road at a time and we were pickin’ ’em off as they came around the curve just below that Lick Hollow picnic area. That’s where the colonel is. I don’t know how long he can hold them off, sir.”

“I know the spot. Tell me about weapon strength of the enemy force.”

“From what we know, they have at least two fifty calibers mounted on pickups. The pickups are lightly armored. They’re using RPGs, but I’m not sure how many of those they have left. They have a shitload of cavalry, still close to 20y mounted for sure, a few quads and bikes. And all the foot soldiers I saw were armed with M-4’s and sidearms, sir.”

“Commander,” said John McLeod, “Jackson here is wounded, sir—do you have a medic on hand?”

“Yes, we do, major.” He spoke briefly into his radio and a young man came out from the gate. “Take this man to triage and tend to his horse.”

“Yes, sir,” he said leading the horse quickly into the garrison.

The commander turned to Rhonda nearby and attempted to soften his stern expression. “Ma’am, can you take the children into the garrison? Someone will meet you inside the gate and they’ll take care of whatever you need.”

“Rice, go with them,” said John McLeod.

“Yes, sir.”

Rhonda nodded her consent and, without a word, led Gabby, Renaldo, and Cody into the garrison. They had to stand aside for twenty more horsemen exiting.

“I’m sending them boys down. Would you prefer to join them, major?” prompted the commander.

“Well, I think I’d like to—”

“Sir, I request permission to join in your assault,” said Mickey.

Both the commander and John turned to face Mickey.

“That’s fine by me, Top, if it’s okay with your major,” said Commander Bastin.

“Yes, of course, Mickey, go ahead.”

The commander began issuing orders with his trademark fury and loud, booming voice. There were thirty men on horseback and another three in the Range Rover. Another SUV pulled near, waiting for orders. “Top, we can spare some ammo.”

“I could use a few clips, sir.”

“There’s plenty in the back of the Rover. Help yourself, Top.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The commander caught the attention of Captain Goldman mounted and waiting nearby for final orders.

“Captain Goldman, see to it that Top has a mount for the ride back down the mountain.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain pointed to a private and made it clear to give up his mount to Mickey.

The commander turned to John McLeod. “Major, tell me again where the men are located and how many there are?”

“Five men, sir. Connor Mac, Marty, BB, Daubney and Edgars. They’re set up in Lick Hollow.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Listen up, everyone!” yelled the commander. “We have an enemy army approaching the garrison. Well armed. Mostly cavalry. Two fifty cals are mounted on pickups and some RPGs are flying so keep your heads in the game. Our current objective is to provide assistance to five friendlies folded in at Lick Hollow and trying to hold ’em off. They most likely need our help. Let’s go! Captain Goldman, you and your men have point. Keep Top close during final assault and recovery. Go!”