Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Captain, we got a woman claiming the attack was planned. Might’ve said something about Connor Mac and us leaving immediately. Over.”

“Say again, over.”

“We got a woman who got shot busting through the front doors! She’s yelling that we’re under attack. Says the name Connor MacMillen. Said we should leave now! Over.”

Upstairs in the command center, Major O’Malley and Colonel Starkes digested the news. Radio chatter from assigned sniper positions on the top floor reported fast and hard killing of hostile targets close to the building at a pace that would require more available ammo on hand. Repeatedly, they were requesting delivery of a fresh full weapon cache; numerous incoming scout reports from the rear of the building suggested in excess of 400 well-armed men were converging on the premises in very short fashion.

“Dammit!” yelled Major O’Malley.

Calmly, Colonel Starkes evaluated options. With a slight smile, she glanced at the major. “Tell all men to pull back to the ’copter and immediately prep to leave. Primary defense is the bird and our ability to get on it to leave, major. Understood?”

“Ma’am?”

“Connor MacMillen almost made it in time, but did graciously provide a warning that all was not as it seemed.”

“I see. Yes, ma’am.”

“You and Shamus get a gold star on your forehead today, major.”

“Well, umm—”

“Ready full evac, major. Move it. But, and I repeat, but, make sure you extract our scouts and that courageous woman of Connor MacMillen’s. I want all onto that bird with Nicole and CJ, pronto.”

“Understood.”

“I want that new woman… be damn sure to keep her the hell alive. If we don’t, there’ll be some serious hell to pay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Move it people!”

Marty heard the men coming hard up the warehouse stairs. Furious at feeling trapped, he took up final position in his third floor hideout near the far end of the long room. He tried to position himself and stay hidden below a window that led to the roof. A short, but difficult hoist onto the gutter above might buy him further time before one of the pissed off tangos caught up with him. Calmly, he prepped the window for faster exit, slamming it open. Looking around furiously, he dragged two more fifty-five gallon drums into his defensive arrangement. Reflectively, he held small hope that he’d be able to safely exit the window in time, since the armed party of men was nearly upon him. Grimacing hard and highly pissed at his unfortunate predicament, he prepped his Colt, aiming at the door twenty feet away. The first tango peeked into the room, but went down hard after a well-placed .45 bullet pierced his ear.

“Hold up!” yelled a strong voice hidden in the hallway.

Further action stopped. Marty heard the same deep voice whispering decisive orders; they were assessing the best tactical assault approach. Figuring a flashbang might be coming, Marty braced himself. At floor level and near the door for a quick peek, a dark face stole a glance into the room. More whispers ensued. Figuring as much, Marty was ready for the peek, sending a bullet within inches of the face. Gathering a fatalistic resolve, Marty prepared to succumb to their enormous firepower. Optimally, he figured he’d have maybe twenty or thirty more seconds before his last ditch effort to hightail it to the roof; he used his radio for what he truly believed was the last time.

“Mac, I’m honed in on the third floor. Based on sounds, I’d say ’bout ten plus men are ready to take me out, over.”

“We’re here! Comin’ in east entrance behind them. Saw ’em enter. Be there in a few. Hang tight until then. Expend all ammo! Keep them at bay. Over.”

Connor heard a quick double squelch. He and his team scrambled up to the second floor of the warehouse, running hard. Connor exploded with speed that surprised them all and Roger kicked in right behind him. Already, they heard the distinctive sound of a Colt fired at a very fast pace with smooth reloads.

“Shit!”

Connor stole a quick glance down the third floor hallway near Marty’s defensive position. Eleven men, five on one side, six on the other crouched on both sides of a door. They were ready to breach into the room.

“Now, Roger!” whispered Connor.

“Do it!”

Connor burst toward the men with surprise on his side and shot three clean kills running down the hallway, before the remainder of men responded. Roger, with McLeod coming up fast, sent a coordinated spray of bullets into the crouching men until the last man collapsed in his own blood. One man barely got off a shot that hit the ceiling and another bullet whizzed past Connor’s shoulder. At the door, Connor ignored the mostly dead bodies, leaving that task to Roger and John. Energized, he addressed Marty’s position, but did not yet present himself in view.

“Clear!” yelled Connor. “Marty! You okay?”

“Here!”

“You okay?”

“Copy that, Mac.”

Connor stood in the doorway, waiting. He grinned toward McLeod, who stood nearby, almost out of breath. Roger was busy finishing up on one of the combatants who still had some life left in him. Assessing the room upon entry, Connor marveled at the collection of bullet holes. A couple of fifty-five gallon drums were riddled and the scrap wood near the window was splintered and full of holes. He knew Marty was lucky to have survived the barrage.

“Well, Surf Boy, quit lazing around and haul your ass out here! We got shit to do, least of all locate Amanda and that president.”

Edging out from behind the drums and a few pieces of splintered plywood, Marty stood. In the faint light from the window, Marty dusted his shoulders off like he had just noticed some stray cat hairs. His empty handgun holstered, he walked toward his team with his sniper rifle in his left hand. Despite his best efforts, his limp was rather pronounced.

“Huh! ’Bout time you showed up and did something useful, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… yeah. C’mon. Let’s go! We need find Amanda and the president.”

Marty approached with a huge smile on his face and, nearing Connor, he impulsively wrapped his arms around him in a fierce embrace.

“Damn good to see you, sir!”

Connor returned the embrace before pushing off.

“Let’s move it… give me a sit rep on Amanda and the president. Now.”

“Yep. I need .45 ammo…”

Roger gave him half a box.

“Good to see you’re in one piece, Marty,” said McLeod.

“Thanks, John. Hey Roger. Nice shootin’ there.”

“Hey.”

They assessed exiting the building as a team. Refilling his Colt magazines, Marty filled them in on current events. He was not happy in telling the story. At the top of the third floor stairwell, Connor stopped, radioing BB.

“Big Eye to BB. Do you copy?”

“BB here. Over.”

“Update sit rep. Over.”

“Go.”

“Target building is under full assault by an overwhelming and well armed force of over 400 men. Snuff entered target building to warn POTUS of impending attack. Surf Boy provided cover fire from the nearby warehouse. We extracted Surf Boy from a directed enemy assault. Snuff status unknown, but she did enter the building. We’re exiting warehouse and heading to established rendezvous. Over.”

“Copy Big Eye. Status of Snuff? Over.”

“Unknown. Went down, but recovered possibly by friendlies. Over.”

“Damn…”

“Heading to established rendezvous. Big Eye over and out.

“Roger that. We’ll meet you there. Over and out.”

Connor studied the team as they took defensive positions, waiting for his next command. Marty, Jude, and Roger were carefully inspecting outside events through the stairwell window. Marty used his night vision equipment to provide updates. McLeod spoke to Rhonda and Cody; each excited, but still somewhat scared. Connor noted that Rhonda carried the big .45 caliber Smith & Wesson with some confidence, though she’d only put twenty training rounds through it due to the team’s limited .45 ammo.