Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“Good shooting, Ramirez!” Dekker yelled as he swapped out magazines.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ramirez sag against the barrier then fall over onto his back. The soldier’s legs twitched as he pissed himself, and Dekker realized Ramirez had been shot in the face.

Gunfire rained down on Dekker’s position. The Huey thundered past with the door gunner leaning out, his machinegun depressed as far as it would go. The gunner stitched a line of fire right in front of Dekker. The heavy rounds blew open one of the barriers, and a torrent of warm water gushed onto the concrete.

The gunner kept firing, slashing rounds through the line of barriers and ripping them open. He continued to the smoking hulk of Nomad Two, and Dekker caught a glimpse of the two wounded soldiers there being savaged by the gunner’s last salvo before the helicopter broke off, banking to the left.

The Huey exploded as a Hellfire missile slammed into it. The flaming wreckage tumbled end over end as it fell to earth, where it crashed into an intersection of taxiways, not far from where Nomad One continued to smolder.

Downrange, two objects raced toward the airport, rotors flashing in the sunlight—two AH-64D Longbow Apaches. Dekker had always thought the attack helicopters were one of man’s ugliest creations, but right then, they were lovelier than an image of Scarlett Johansson waiting for him in bed wearing nothing more than an inviting smile.

He straightened and fired at the approaching Klowns, who were ignoring all the activity. Only a few were left, so he and the other soldier managed to contain them, their M4s barking as they fired into them, dropping them where they stood.

“Tomcat, this is Nomad! Over!”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. We’re on station, where do you need us? Over.”

“Tomcat, Nomad. If you can put a couple of Hellfires into the terminal building to our south, that would help a lot. Be advised, the Klowns have AT4s. Over!”

“Nomad, thanks for the heads-up. Roger that. Party in ten. Over.”

The Apaches slowed their approach and drifted to the right, keeping the building’s roof between them and any potential attackers. In less than ten seconds, one helicopter loosed a Hellfire. The missile climbed sharply upward then nosed down as it accelerated toward the terminal with a hissing roar.

The missile slammed through the roof, and a gigantic thunderclap ripped through the structure. A second Hellfire found its way to the target, and another explosion almost eviscerated the structure. One end of it collapsed into smoking ruin.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. What’s the BDA from your side? Over,” the Apache pilot asked. BDA was Army shorthand for battle damage assessment. In short, the pilot was asking Dekker to declare the attack a success.

“Tomcat, slap another into the northern side of the building, just to be sure. Over,” Dekker replied. He looked to his left and saw the other soldier was tending to Ramirez. The fallen cavalry trooper was still moving, so that was a good sign.

“Another ten seconds on that, Nomad. You guys might want to keep your heads down, you’re going to get some blowback. Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcat.” Dekker got to his feet and sprinted over to the two soldiers. “Fitzpatrick, we need to get Ramirez out of here!”

Together, they grabbed Ramirez’s harness straps and hauled him away, keeping to a low crouch as they moved. An M4 barked, and Dekker saw another soldier from his unit had climbed into the bed of one of the snowplows and was giving them covering fire. Another explosion ripped through the terminal building, sending a shockwave of debris rocketing across the airfield. Something inside the ravaged building started to burn, and thick, acrid smoke rose into the air.

“Nomad Three, SITREP!” Dekker shouted into the radio.

“Nomad Three, we’re holding up over here. Charlie Emplacement is still secure. These fuckers aren’t showing any fear. They’re running right up to the fence where we can shoot ’em. Over.”

“Roger that, Three. Maintain your scans. Don’t let them flank you. Break. Nomad Four, SITREP. Over.”

“Six, this is Nomad Four. We’re engaged at this time with intermittent contacts. Looks like they’re trying a flanking move. Over.”

“Four, any chance you can break off? Ramirez is down. I want to put him in your vehicle. Over.”

“Ah, tall order, Six. Your call. Over.”

Dekker thought about that. He was down to around nine troops now including himself, which meant holding the refueling site was more than just a dicey proposition. As he and the other soldier dragged Ramirez into the area, another soldier ran toward them—Sergeant Edwards, the platoon medic. He was a skinny, narrow-featured black kid from South Carolina.

Dekker spoke into his radio. “Four, hold your pos. Will get back to you. Over.”

“Roger, Six.”

“How bad’s he hit?” Edwards asked.

“Took a round to the face,” the other soldier said.

“Get him out of the open, guys,” Edwards said, pointing toward the lee of a nearby building.

Dekker and the other soldier dragged Ramirez to the shade of the building. When Edwards crouched over Ramirez, Dekker turned to look at Nomad Two. The MRAP was canted to one side, still smoking. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“We’ve got two more down by Nomad Two,” he said. “You guys stay here.” He keyed the radio. “Tomcats, this is Nomad. You guys have enough juice left to give me some top cover? Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat Four. Roger, make it quick. We’ll need to set down in a couple of minutes. Over.”

“Tomcat Four, Nomad. Roger that. I’m headed out on foot to the MRAP closest to our position. Over.” Dekker sprinted back the way he had come, his M4 in both hands.

He kept low, his big rucksack bobbing slightly on his back, making his gait a little clumsy. Water sloshed around inside his CamelBak. The Apaches moved out over the airfield, the chain guns mounted in their bellies chattering as they fired on additional targets. One was aiming at the remains of the terminal building, while another targeted something in the opposite direction. That surprised him, and he looked across the airfield to see what the second Apache was shooting.

A pickup truck had crashed through the fence on the far side of the airfield and was speeding across the field toward them. Thirty-millimeter cannon fire ate into its body, and in less than two seconds, the carcass was spread across the grass. The Klowns in the back got the same treatment as the withering fire walked through them, rending flesh from bone.

Fuckers are all over the place, Dekker thought as he ran to the shot-up line of barriers. He realized then that the cavalry platoon and its attached Air Force security team and Black Hawk unit had been surrounded the entire time. The Klowns just hadn’t moved on them until they started making noise.

He climbed over the barrier and ran to Nomad Two. The vehicle’s rear door had been blown open, and inside, black smoke seethed as something smoldered. Dekker knelt beside the two soldiers who had been providing ground security for the vehicle. Both were dead, killed either by grievous shrapnel wounds or machinegun fire from the Huey. He contemplated the dark interior of the MRAP, then decided there was nothing he could do for the driver and gunner. They were gone. Dekker’s heart ached. He’d been with the cav unit for two years, and he knew all of the fallen personally. He glanced toward the Air Force emplacement farther out, but it had been essentially deleted by the AT4 attack. He saw a decapitated head lying in the grass, eyes blown out, mouth open.

We’re getting wiped out.

“Nomad, if you’re done, we really need to set down,” Tomcat Four said over the radio. “Over.”