Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“Yes, sir,” Urena said. “We have qualified personnel to sustain the company, sir.”

Cassidy nodded. “He’s right, we’re good to go. We’ve got some good people, and the Bushmasters has the best FSO in the Division, sir.” FSO was the military acronym for fire support officer, an officer whose mission was to coordinate the company’s firepower in support of the commanding officer’s plan of attack.

Lee searched his memory, but he could not recall who might be Bravo Company’s FSO.

“All right, just so long as you’re up to speed on what you need to do. I just wanted to make you familiar with what’s been going on, since they’re your men.”

“I appreciate you stopping for the face-to-face, sir. I’ll make sure everything’s handled, and we’ll be available to take our next assigned phase line,” Cassidy said. The guy was all business, even though he’d just been handed a fifty-pound bag of dicks. Several dozen guys he knew, including his commanding officer, had been zeroed, and he had to pick up the pieces. There was nothing to do but embrace the suck.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Lee said.

“Will do. You should probably get back in the column, sir. We won’t be holding this position for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that. Good luck,” Lee said, directing the wish at Urena as much as Cassidy.

“Thank you, sir,” Cassidy said. “From both of us,” he added, to which Urena nodded without looking up from the map.

Lee headed back to his waiting Humvee, shadowed by the anxious Corporal Sienkiewicz.

It was going to be one hell of a road trip.

S tarter switch energized. Clock started. Hands trembling. So much laughter. It’s all so God damn funny.

DC Voltmeter check. Fourteen volts DC current registering as N1 passes through ten percent. Two rotors with huge chords attached to a teetering rotor head are already starting a slow spin overhead, casting flickering shadows across the cockpit through the eyebrow windows. Copilot giggling over the ICS. Verify voltage continues to increase as N1 picks up.

Exhaust gas temperature is rising normally.

N1 acceleration is normal. Main rotor blades are fully turning now, at fifteen percent N1.

Engine oil pressure light winks out.

Add fuel. THUMP! The big T53 turboshaft engine catches alight, starts delivering over eight hundred ponies to the main rotor shaft. It’s hilarious, thinking about little ponies running on their sides, their little hooves kicking at a main rotor shaft. Release the starter switch once N1 climbs into the forty percent range. Rotors are beginning to slash across the sky, more like a circular wing than two really big boards tied together. Voltmeter reading increases. Transmission oil pressure light, fire warning lights: out. Rotor thumping now. Throttle twisted to ground idle.

“I’m fucking Italian!” the copilot screams over the intercom. “You know how you can tell? My helicopter goes WOP-WOP-WOP!”

Old joke, but it’s suddenly funnier than anything Dangerfield, Carlin, or Louis CK ever said.

Across the flight line, eight other UH-1H Hueys are spooled up, ready for action. Four are loaded with troops. Four are mostly empty, except for the bladders full of piss, puke, and jizz.

Everyone’s laughing.

Everyone wants to kill.

The first full-on ambush occurred just after the convoy left the overpass to Interstate 495 in its dust.

Rawlings sensed it coming. She didn’t know how, but she did.

The terrain wasn’t exactly optimal for an attack as it was mostly flat, except for the rise to their right, where a road came within a hundred or so feet of Route 2. The eastbound lanes were a mess. There had been some sort of pileup involving a bus and a tractor-trailer, and traffic had come to a dead halt. People were everywhere on that side of the highway, watching the military convoy roll past, their faces filled with panic. Apaches wheeled overhead, ominous and threatening, their rotor beats slamming out Death’s own soundtrack. Someone in the truck had fired up a boom box. Its speakers pounded out Dope’s “Die Motherfucker, Die,” a true warrior’s anthem she had listened to countless times during her tour in Afghanistan. Even in her motor company, it had been the go-to song, despite the fact that the most hazardous things they had to deal with—aside from the generally ineffective insurgent attacks—were grimed-up oil filters, flat tires, and leaking fuel bladders. While other troops were out delivering the Taliban and AQ their orders of whamburgers and french cries, Rawlings and the rest of her compatriots were relatively safe, all things considered.

But the wrongness of the current situation was practically slapping her across the face. She was tense, coiled like a spring ready to unload, and she couldn’t figure out why. She shouldered her M4 and twisted around, aiming the weapon at the northbound lanes. She peered through the 4x optical sight mounted to the upper rail. None of the stranded motorists seemed to be laughing, and they looked normal enough—but she knew the crazies. They could playact for a while until the moment was right for the mask to come off and the laughter to begin.

“Shoot me. Shoot me now.”

I did, Wade, and now you’re dead. Shut the fuck up.

“You feel it too, huh?” Muldoon asked.

“Feel what?” Rawlings asked, still scanning the opposite side of the highway.

“Don’t go all belt-fed on us, Nasty Girl,” said one of the lightfighters on her side of the truck. “Belt-fed” in this circumstance meant the soldier thought Rawlings was getting too buggy, too excited beyond what the present situation merited.

“I’m not,” Rawlings replied. In the near distance, more smoke billowed. Then, something exploded, causing an angry mushroom cloud to appear. A gas station or something similar had just gone up. Pieces of fiery debris arced through the air, trailing smoke. The deep rumble hit her a moment later, causing a vague stirring in Rawlings’s gut. She turned and looked across the truck at Muldoon. The big NCO peered at her for a moment then pushed his sunglasses up on his broad nose.

“She’s on to something,” Muldoon said. “You guys need to suit up. Now.”

“Come on, Muldoon,” a bucktoothed soldier with a perpetual grin said. “You taking tactical cues from a weekend warrior , man?”

“Skeeter, you don’t gotta listen to me,” Muldoon said, reaching for his MOPP overgarment. “You were never worth a pile of shit, anyway.”

Behind him, people moved amid the trees. Rawlings brought up her M4, and Muldoon frowned at her for an instant before putting it together.

The soldier seated to Rawlings’s right saw it as well.

“Klowns to the right!” He raised his rifle just as a Molotov cocktail arced through the air.

Rawlings fired three rounds so quickly it sounded as if she were ripping off a burst on full auto. One of the figures among the trees faltered, then fell face-first to the ground. The area to the right of the column was slightly elevated, not by a lot, but enough to give the attackers a small tactical advantage. As Muldoon ripped off his sunglasses and pulled on his MOPP overgarment, several other troops began firing as well, sending dozens of rounds ripping through the trees, bushes, and infected that were moving toward them.

A Molotov cocktail struck the side of the Big Foot’s bed and shattered, spreading gasoline everywhere. Flames enveloped the last half of the truck, and men shrieked in fear and pain. The attackers were held at bay, not by the soldiers’ return fire, but by the chain link fence that separated the road from the turnpike. That gave the soldier manning the M240B machinegun atop the truck’s cab enough time to spin his weapon around and open up, slashing at the Klowns with a withering stream of bullets.