Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Yes, sir,” said the captain, saluting quickly and turning his mount to lead the charge downhill. He spoke into his radio, prepping his men.

The commander turned to John McLeod.

“Major McLeod, I’d like you to go into the garrison and find Colonel Truesdell. You need to tell him what you’ve told me. Excuse me for a second.” Colonel Bastin spoke into the radio, issuing commands, the ferocious tone left no room for discussion. Listening to the response, what he heard on the radio obviously surprised him. He turned to John McLeod, amazed at the new information. “ Now , I’m told we have us a military helicopter coming into the mix down there. Starkes and McLoy are down there! It seems the president of the good ol’ United States is actively engaged in a firefight to extract Connor Mac. Well, shit, don’t that beat all… Sergeant McCann, you’re with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commander radioed to Captain Goldman.

“Captain, I want a sit rep every five minutes. You’re not moving fast enough! I can still see your sorry ass!”

“Moving faster, sir!”

As the commander and McLeod looked on, the heavy pounding of cavalry hooves on asphalt echoed.

“Uncle, take cover!” yelled Phoenix. The helicopter edged around due south of their position on the mountain road and Phoenix realized the bitch colonel was about to fire another Hellfire missile at them. Exiting the truck, his self-preservation kicked in and he ran for his life. He had made it fifty yards down the mountain highway when a massive explosion pushed him violently forward.

He rolled into several men after the Hellfire hit. Rising quickly, he ignored the flaring pain in his foot. Larry Reed tumbled to a stop next to him and Phoenix quickly grabbed the older man by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.

“Where were our RPGs?” he screamed at his uncle, spittle flying from his mouth. “Where the fuck were the men who were supposed to protect us from that shit?” he yelled, pointing up the hill where the road had disappeared.

Larry Reed struggled in his nephew’s grip, stunned by Phoenix’s incredible fury. “They were pursuing your Rat Pack, Phoenix! They were under your orders!” he yelled back, nearly matching Phoenix’s anger.

Phoenix let his uncle go and concentrated on the sound of the helicopter’s rotors. He looked into the sky and saw the bird maintaining its position south of the road. He recognized the flashes from the port and starboard sides of the helicopter as long-range rifle fire. He re-commenced his run down the hill.

His men were following his example, running hard down the hill, and Phoenix watched several drop from fatal wounds. His fury added to his speed, but the pain in his foot was too much and he tripped forward, sliding face-first over twenty feet on his hands and chest. A young soldier stopped to check on him and fell over Phoenix, his neck spurting blood. Phoenix pushed the man’s legs from him, but remained still for a moment. When he determined it was safe to stand, he watched in horror as more of his men succumbed to the uncanny accuracy of the rifles shooting from the helicopter.

Phoenix took cover behind an RV and had a brief moment of satisfaction when a few RPGs launched toward the helicopter. Picking road grit from his bleeding hands, he was disappointed to see the RPGs land well short of the mark. Larry Reed caught up to him. “We need to pull back now and regroup, Phoenix.”

“No! Attack! Send your fucking men up that hill right now, uncle! I want that fucking bird shot outta the sky. Now!”

He limped slowly back up the hill, ignoring the broken men and horses. His eyes were focused on the area where he last saw his enemy.

Marty dove to the ground as the bright yellow fireball swallowed the highway curve four hundred yards below him. What he had seen through his scope told him that he would die shortly. How could he possibly avoid the flaming death coming his way?

He ducked low behind the rock he used as a shooting platform and tucked into a fetal position, his hands interlocked behind his head with his wrists covering his ears. As trained, his mouth was opened to lessen any explosive percussion on his eardrums. Bracing, the heat came in a rumbling wave, singeing the hair on his exposed skin and giving him the feeling his body had caught fire. The intensity was only there for a few seconds and then it was gone, leaving warmth and the awareness that he was still alive. His first thought was of his rifle.

He had dropped it when reacting to the explosion. Straightening, he retrieved his rifle nearby, and brushed the dirt from the barrel, checking the weapon closely for any damage.

“What the hell was that?” he asked Captain Daubney who was recovering in his spot tucked behind a vehicle twenty feet away. Like Marty, he too, checked his weapon for damage.

“That, my man, was a Hellfire. A Hellfire!” Captain Daubney yelled, his zeal at being alive well accounted for.

Both men looked down the hill where their enemy once was. The advancing force had used the curve in the road to hide from Marty’s accurate sniper fire. The enemy cluster wasn’t there—nor was most of the road. Faint screams of pain echoed after the Hellfire and Marty wondered if the screams were faint due to distance or if his hearing was still impaired from the blast.

A silence crept in immediately after the explosion. The cries of pain and dying men faded. The burning gasoline from vehicles bled off and the screeching metal and high-flung road debris settled. For several seconds, the eerie quiet was almost complete. Marty caught the sound of a few small rocks tumbling down the hill, loosened by the explosion. Ecstatic, he realized his ability to hear drew his eyes to the motion. “Damn!” he said.

“Yeah,” said Captain Daubney. “The colonel returns.”

The devastation from the single Hellfire weapon was incredible. The road was passable, but only without vehicles—there was too much debris to pass with a truck or quad, though any horses and dirt bikes could still make it.

The enemy continued advancing on their position and were much closer than Marty had realized and, as he tried to keep track of them all, two dozen rose to their feet and raced uphill, firing while they came.

“We gotta haul ass now, Marty,” said Daubney, “Let’s go!”

“Let’s pick some of ’em off. I want the guy that shot Mac. I want ’im”

“There’s too many—we need to move! Now!”

“Okay, okay. Go!” yelled Marty. He knew that reaching their horses behind the van uphill would be a challenge. He turned and sprinted and though Daubney was running twenty feet ahead of him, he quickly passed the man.

He focused on the men in front of him. BB labored up the hill under the weight of Connor MacMillen and Lieutenant Edgars turned at intervals to provide return fire. As Marty watched, all three collapsed to the ground, apparently hit by enemy fire.

“No!” yelled Marty, running hard. It was forty more yards to BB, Mac and Edgars and Marty felt like he was running up a down escalator.

Captain Johnny Goldman and Lieutenant Phil Carpenter sprinted the thirty-man Summit cavalry unit down the mountain highway with the two SUVs in reserve. First Sergeant Mickey McGuire was already several horse lengths ahead, intent on returning to the battle and assisting his men. As the cavalry unit came around one of the many curves in the mountain road, a helicopter hovered in the distance. Mickey McGuire yelled behind him and his drill instructor voice carried above the rumble of hooves and helicopter.