Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

The machinegun opened up, hurling 7.62-millimeter rounds at the closest Huey, now just over eight hundred meters away. The chances of it being hit at that range from a moving truck were damned low, but Muldoon didn’t care.

Crais leapt to his feet. “ What the fuck are you doing ?” he shouted at the gunner. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The gunner ignored him. If anything, he tightened up on the M240 and tried to get the lead just right. Crais barreled up the small aisle in the center of the truck’s bed. He shoved Rawlings out of his way, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Cease fire! That’s a direct order! I’m in charge here!”

Muldoon grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders. “Lieutenant! Shut the fuck up for a second!”

Crais gaped up at him. Muldoon was a good seven inches taller. “What did you say?”

“Stop. The. Truck,” Muldoon said.

“Why the fuck would we want to do that?” Crais tried to look past Muldoon as the M240 opened up again. “God damn it, Christensen! Cease fire !”

“Everyone open up!” Christensen called. “They’re closing!”

Muldoon pushed Crais away, and the lieutenant stumbled across another soldier’s boots and fell on his bony ass just as the first Huey raked the truck with return fire. Men cried out as they were struck by rounds that defeated their body armor and tore through their bodies.

Muldoon heard a crack! as a 7.62 round ripped right past his head, and he ducked instinctively. It was a good call. The next burst from the approaching Huey zoomed right through the space he’d been occupying. Several rounds tore through Christensen and the M240, continuing on through the cab of the M925A1. Not all of the Bigfoots were uparmored, which meant the soldiers up front were about as well protected from machinegun fire as a scrumptious bagel might have been in a clear plastic bag after it had been spied by a famished Orson Wells.

The truck suddenly lurched to the right then plowed through the guardrail on the edge of the two lane highway. It bumped across an overgrown field for a few dozen yards before jerking to a halt. Soldiers shouted as they flew in all directions. Muldoon bounced right over the side of the truck. He crashed to the ground on the other side, and his wind left him in a rush.

All he could see was blue sky, scattered clouds, and the waving tops of tall trumpet weeds. A peculiar sense of déjà vu descended. For an instant, he was a young boy again, lying in the tall weeds in a field outside his house in Pennsylvania, playing soldier with his friends. Only he wasn’t playing. It was for real.

The weeds parted suddenly, and Nutter’s goggle-eyed face appeared as he bent over Muldoon.

“Duke, you all right?” He had to shout to be heard over the Huey thumping nearby, its machineguns rattling against what Muldoon could tell was only sporadic fire from his troops.

“Just fucking fine,” Muldoon gasped.

“Well, hey, it’s not a bad day.” Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s harness and tried to haul him to his feet. “At least you got the truck to stop.”

Major Walker watched the truck that had survived the ambush suddenly swerve out of the formation. He knew that the incoming Hueys were hostile, but Wizard Six hadn’t yet responded to the threat after the Apaches had handed off the engagement mere seconds ago. Soldiers went flying through the air when the truck slammed through the guardrail then bounced across the uneven terrain of a field overrun with tall weeds.

“Shit, those guys are taking fire!” said the driver, an older NCO wearing the stripes of a staff sergeant.

“Fire on the Hueys!” Walker ordered.

“With what, sir?” one of the soldiers behind him asked.

Walker groaned. His Humvee was unarmed.

The radio came alive. “Wizard Six to all commands—Hueys are red air, fire at will! Red air, red air, red air! Over!”

“Blaster One, this is Wizard Seven. Fall out of the column for engagement. We’ll form up on you for security. Over.” That came from Command Sergeant Major Turner, who was in a vehicle several spaces ahead of Walker’s.

For a moment, he couldn’t recall who the hell was designated Blaster, and then it came to him. A Stinger platoon had been assigned to the battalion, sourced from 60 thAir Defense Artillery Regiment. It was an odd posting, and Walker couldn’t really remember a time he had seen troops slinging MANPADS around the battalion since Iraq in 2004. He was happy to learn that Turner had remained aware of their presence.

Walker picked up the radio microphone. “Wizard Six, this is Wizard Five. Over.”

“Five, go for Six. Over.”

“Six, we have a truck that’s been hit, probably disabled. I’m falling out of the column as well to check them out. Over.”

“Five, this is Six. Don’t stay for long. Get them some help, then get back in formation. Can’t have you and Seven dismounted at the same time. Over.”

“Roger, Six. Five, out.” Walker replaced the handset.

“We’re pulling over now?” the driver asked.

Walker checked his M4 to ensure the weapon was ready as the driver slowed the Humvee. His mouth felt dry, and his hands and feet tingled. He was about to expose himself to a combat situation for the first time in years. He thought he’d left the dirty business behind him once he’d been promoted to O-4, but the world had changed in the past few weeks. Combat had never suited him. Walker had always been more interested in the political regime of command, not in proving he was a war god. The Army was full of combat leaders, and Walker didn’t have much of what it took to excel at warcraft in its purest form. He’d traded his rightful place as battalion commander with Harry Lee just to keep his distance from the bloody work of running the unit. He had wanted to stay in the background and influence circumstances by whispering into Lee’s ear when the time was right.

So what are you doing now? Stay in the Humvee and move on, his sense of self-preservation murmured. These are extraordinary times, and you’re not an extraordinary soldier.

Walker frowned. The temptation to move on was momentarily overwhelming, but he felt a keen desire to fight his caution. No, not caution.

Cowardice.

Walker couldn’t be seen as a coward in front of the men. He was the battalion executive officer, and he’d already indulged his survival instincts by getting Harry Lee to take all the hard knocks on the chin. The chances of Walker getting out of the current fray without having to suffer some body shots was out of the question, so he figured he might as well suck it up and get it done.

The driver pulled the Humvee out of the convoy and onto the shoulder. Behind Walker, the two soldiers in the rear of the Humvee—both battle-hardened NCOs that Walker had pulled from the operations pool to ride with him—got ready for contact.

“Sir, we should go MOPP,” Weide Zhu said.

The hard-faced Chinese master sergeant didn’t much care for him, but Walker had specifically chosen Zhu to ride along because he was one of Doug Turner’s favored troops, a twenty-five year veteran who had served in every theater of operations since JUST CAUSE in 1989. It had been another choice in the name of self-preservation. With the battalion on the move, the danger meter was pegged at 10.5, and Walker wanted to ensure the troops around him were the best.

“Roger that,” Walker said, removing his helmet. He struggled into his overgarment and hood. It took him almost a minute, and by the time he was done, the other soldiers were already manned up and waiting for him, even the driver. Walker felt a flush of embarrassment, a weird counterpoint to the fear that thrilled the edges of his consciousness.