Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“That’s Colonel Starkes, captain! That’s my unit! That’s our Superhawk!”

Captain Goldman tried to make sense of the scene when an air-to-ground-missile was unleashed and, a few seconds later, a yellow fireball blotted out the road below. Yanking violently on his reins, his horse skidded to a stop, prancing in place and snorting displeasure. Lieutenant Carpenter reacted more slowly, passing the captain by fifteen feet before he was able to stop. The entire unit halted, waiting for orders. Lieutenant Carpenter quickly rejoined Captain Goldman and both used binoculars to assess the fracas a quarter-mile further down the mountain. Mickey hesitated ahead of them to assess the destruction.

“Looks like a Sidewinder, sir,” said Lieutenant Carpenter.

“No, more like a Hellfire if memory serves,” said Captain Goldman, “Let’s move! Let’s move now!” The captain waved the men forward and the unit took off down the mountain, resuming the frantic pace. Impatient, the captain spurred his horse for more speed, anxious to engage. Mickey was already further ahead.

“No! Mac! No, BB! Shit, fuck! Edgars!”

Marty scrambled to the fallen forms of Connor and BB. BB was conscious, but Connor was not. Marty glanced at Edgars about fifteen feet up the road, blood pooling around the man’s head. He knew it was a fatal wound. Captain Daubney reached Edgars’ body and checked for vital signs. Furious, Daubney began firing—Marty knew he was angry at losing a man, but did admire the captain’s self-control in deliberately selecting and eliminating approaching targets.

“Took a few¸ Surf Boy!” said BB, grimacing.

Marty turned and focused on BB, who was having difficulty deciding on whether to place his right hand on his left shoulder or left hip. Blood seeped from both bullet wounds, but not terribly so.

“How bad, BB?”

“Shit! Left hip, not sure how bad. Left shoulder. Missed my lung, hit some shit, though. Can’t move it much. Oh, ouch… how’s Mac?”

Marty glanced at the advancing enemy, but returned his focus to Connor.

“I’ll check. Can you provide cover?” yelled Marty over the incessant gunfire.

“Yeah, go, Surf Boy,” BB answered. He shifted into a better position and fired, one-handed, at the enemy, not very accurately, but effectively enough to keep them at bay. Uphill, Daubney dragged Edgars’ body behind the van and continued swapping out magazines in his decimation of the enemy.

Marty ran his hands over Connor, checking for injury. He found three small holes, center mass and ripping Connor’s shirt open, he found three bullets lodged in his vest.

“Fuck, man—”

“How’s Mac?” asked BB. He was having some trouble reloading, but did manage to slam a fresh magazine home. He continued to fire while waiting for an answer.

“He has strong pulse for now. Took three rounds in his vest—that’s what knocked him out again.”

“Yeah? What else?”

“Hold on!”

Marty fired off a full clip at the enemy trying to sneak toward their position while using the guardrail as cover. BB concentrated on the men using the cover of several cars fifty yards downhill. Into the brief lull, Marty continued his triage assessment.

“Mac took one to the left thigh. Shit, it’s close to an artery.”

“Damn!” said BB.

“Blood’s minimal. He took another in his left triceps—this one’s serious, BB.”

Blood poured forth freely from Connor’s left triceps and Marty applied the last of his field dressing—a folded Kotex—to stop the flow.

“BB, can you move?” he yelled.

“I got one good leg, so fuck yeah!”

“Good. I’m taking Mac behind the van—Daubney’ll cover us. Can you make it, BB?”

“I’ll crawl if I have to, Surf Boy.”

“Do it.”

Marty pulled at Connor’s collar, trying his best to stay low and drag him to safety. Daubney provided a great job with cover fire—the enemy was retreating. Wait a minute… how many rounds did the captain have? Marty was close enough to the van to hear the report of the captain’s weapon—there was no way he was providing that much cover fire on his own.

Marty tugged Connor behind the van and risked a glance around him. BB hopped his way along and fired downrange. On the other side of the road stood First Sergeant Mickey McGuire. He fired short bursts at the enemy, changing targets every few seconds. Further up the hill was a cavalry unit and Marty knew that McLeod’s trek to the garrison had been successful. The cavalry had dismounted and was concentrating fire on the enemy below.

BB and Marty hobbled away from the van up the slight grade to the three horses ten feet away. Marty lifted Connor onto the saddle of a horse and then helped BB into the saddle of the other. Holding the horse reins and jumping on behind Connor, Marty saw Daubney quickly strap Edgar’s body on the horse haunches before he then launched into the saddle.

“Now’s the time we best vacate the area,” said Captain Daubney. His anger at Lieutenant Edgar’s death had him teetering on the verge of ignoring the route to safety and turning to seek his revenge.

“I hear that,” said BB.

They were ready to speed away when five mounted men reined in their horses in front of Marty. They all dismounted and three of them took positions behind the van and began firing at the enemy. The fourth man held onto the horses and the fifth addressed Marty. “Sir, I’m Captain Goldman from the Summit Garrison. How can we help?”

“Perfect timing, captain, I’m Captain McCullough—you can help me move these guys up the hill. Those two took some hits. You have medical facilities at the garrison?”

“Sure, but there’s better at Nemacolin a few miles further in.”

“Connor Mac and BB are gonna need the Nemacolin facilities, take us to it. And I do mean now.”

“Did you say ‘Connor Mac’? Is that Colonel MacMillen, captain?”

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

“No, not directly. But people talk about him. Commander Bastin’s gonna be so pissed that Mac’s hit!”

“Not as much as Mac when he comes outta it,” said Marty.

Captain Daubney nodded and interrupted. “Lead us on, Captain Goldman. And, like my friend here said, we do mean now .”

“Let’s go.” Captain Goldman turned to his men, “I’m taking these men up to the garrison. Lieutenant, you’re in charge of keeping those assholes off our mountain!”

“Yes, sir!” said Lieutenant Phil Carpenter.

Captain Daubney turned to the garrison captain. “You have communication to the top of the hill, captain?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, pulling a radio from his belt.

“Call ’em. Tell ’em to expect Colonel Connor Mac and Captain BB. The colonel’s probably got broken ribs, a bullet wound in his left thigh, and a more serious bullet wound in his left triceps. He’s unconscious and took three to his vest. The captain has two bullet wounds, left hip and left shoulder. He remains conscious and fight capable.”

Captain Goldman yelled into the radio as they raced up the mountain.

“Major McLoy, your commander is aware of our presence and objective, correct?” asked the colonel. She stared at the major and his team tucked in tight in the back of the helicopter bay. They were quickly approaching the garrison’s defensible perimeter. Major McLoy clicked his intercom and nodded.

“Yes, ma’am. I told him we’re engaging the enemy and seeking your men running the mountain ahead of the assault.”

“Good, because we’re damn close to that gate and I sure as hell don’t want our asses shot off by friendly fire.”