Stephen Knight: Slaughterhouse

Sorry, lady.

Marsh kept an eye on the convoy’s progress. Humvees, more M925s carrying soldiers, monstrous HEMT tanker trucks full of diesel and aviation fuel, generator trucks, water buffaloes, a few M997 ambulances that were based off the venerable Humvee platform, more trucks that serviced the mortar team. It was an entire battalion’s worth of rolling stock, followed by a string of civilian vehicles they had brought along from Hanscom. The convoy took ten minutes to make it around the rotary, and by that time, phase line bravo was already under control. Marsh was heartened by that, since it meant the aviation units and the next company in the chain, Charlie Company, would be leapfrogging ahead to secure the next phase line objective.

Alongside the gas station, a Gulf tanker truck slowly rolled into the station parking lot, diesel engine clattering, air brakes hissing. It pulled past the gas pump islands and lurched to a halt. Another tractor-trailer rig followed. To Marsh, it looked like someone had finally decided to try to fill up the gas station and get things moving again. That was fine by him. The more people who could get out of the greater Boston area, the better.

“Bushmaster Two-Six, this is Wizard. Over.” This time, it was a faceless RTO making the call. Lee apparently had better things to do than correspond with his rear guard.

“Wizard, this is Bushmaster. Go ahead.”

“Bushmaster, Wizard. Convoy has reported clear. Everyone is moving downrange on Union Turnpike, confirmed by aviation. Fold up the tents and follow the order of movement. Over.”

“Roger, Wizard. Break. Bushmaster Three-Two, you guys are clear to retreat from your position. Over.”

“Two-Six, this is Three-Six. Roger that. We’re mounting up now. Over.”

“How’s the traffic over there?” Marsh called up at McNeely, who was still manning the Mk 19. Standing in the Humvee’s cupola, McNeely had a commanding view of the area.

“Getting busy,” McNeely said, pointing toward the traffic on the other side of the circle. “What the hell are these people doing coming toward Boston?”

“Don’t know,” Marsh replied.

“What?”

Marsh waved the question away. “Never mind, McNeely. Stay eyes out.”

More vehicles rumbled past, heading up the turnpike. Bushmaster Three-Six’s element moved out, closely followed by Lieutenant Haberman’s element. An Apache moved uprange overhead, providing top cover for the two groups as they abandoned their blocking positions. Marsh looked over and saw Lieutenant Haberman shoot him a thumbs-up from the lead Humvee’s front passenger seat. The guy was out of sequence. He should have been the lead element onto the highway, not the tail, but Marsh was too tired and wound up to worry about it. He’d straighten out the lieutenant later.

“Erskine!” Marsh shouted.

Second Lieutenant Erskine turned from his position beside the M925A1’s impressive front bumper. His M4 was pulled tight to his shoulder. “Sir!”

“Have your men mount up. We’re joining the column!”

“Roger that!” Using hand signals, Erskine motioned his senior leaders to round up the men and have them rally back at the waiting Big Foot.

Marsh looked over at Weir and Kragen. They were maintaining their positions on the other side of the Humvee, keeping the vehicle between them and the traffic bottled up by the element.

“Stay on your rifles,” he shouted first to Kragen then to Weir. “Cover the rest of the troops. We’ll mount up last.” The soldiers responded with quick “okay” signals. Marsh shouldered his M4 and watched as the lightfighters mounted the waiting 6x6, the rattle of their gear lost amidst the cackling of idling diesel engines and the dull roar of the traffic to his right. He scanned the blocked cars and trucks, and frightened faces stared back at him through various windshields.

The single Apache slowly floated downrange, staying away from the turnpike, its rotors flickering in the sunlight. Marsh was hot, and the heavy perspiration that dampened his uniform was making his skin itch, especially under his arms and body armor. He could feel sweat pooling inside his M40A1 face mask. At least he knew the seal was still tight. The temperature was approaching eighty degrees, and at least ninety percent humidity. If he wasn’t able to take his gear off soon, the great seal would probably have him drowning in his own sweat.

Behind him, the air was torn asunder by the cacophony of rending metal, squealing tires, and shrieking car horns.

Marsh took two steps back and crouched while turning toward the gas station. At first, he had figured he had heard something as simple as an auto accident. There were lots of distractions to captivate a driver’s attention, what with the maneuvering soldiers, orbiting gunships, competing traffic, and columns of smoke rising into the air from various locations. But the din continued, and as Marsh brought his rifle to his shoulder, he saw why.

The second tractor-trailer rig he had watched pull into the filling station across the street was charging right across the parking lot, slamming into the cars and SUVs and, hurling them aside as if they were children’s toys. Metal crumpled, fiberglass fractured, and glass shattered. Luggage, family pets, and people were torn from the vehicles and sent cartwheeling through the air. The tractor-trailer bounced and heaved as it plowed through the sea of sheet metal and fiberglass like some bizarre, chrome-grilled yacht crossing a turbulent ocean. It was tracking just north of his position, slicing through the traffic with a raucous clamor. The entire front clip of a car flew into the air and bounced along the truck’s long trailer, disintegrating as it went. A severed arm followed it, trailing a thin plume of blood as it tumbled along.

And leering through a windshield already cobwebbed with fractures was a man, shaking with laughter behind his sunglasses.

“ Open fire! Open fire! ” Marsh shouted. Most of the men didn’t react to his order, not even Kragen, who was standing right beside him. Even with the voice emitters built into the mask, the noise coupled with the mask’s muffling capability made communication almost impossible. But when Marsh started firing his M4, the troops joined in the fun, hosing the truck’s cab with everything they had. The driver disappeared behind an explosion of glass and sparks as dozens of 5.56- and 7.62-millimeter rounds punched through the compartment. The driver’s side mirror exploded, and the door window disappeared in a waterfall of cascading glass. The driver’s body, held in place by the seat belt, jerked to and fro as it was chopped up by the gunfire. The muted thump-thump-thump of the Mk 19 reached Marsh’s ears. Sparking explosions rippled across the front of the tractor-trailer, blasting off its hood cowling and flaying open the engine compartment all the way to the firewall. The diesel engine screamed as it died in a puff of oily smoke. More explosions rocked through the driver’s cab, demolishing what remained of the windshield. Half the driver’s door was blown away, and a geyser of seat padding and body parts erupted through the newly created opening. The truck’s front tire blew, adding frayed rubber to the melee as the truck slammed into the minivan that had approached the blocking force earlier and drove it into another sedan.

Finally, the truck came to a halt. Smoke boiled from its engine compartment and from inside the cab, which had been redecorated with bloody gore. The troops continued spraying the vehicle. Bits and pieces of sheet metal and fiberglass whirled through the air.

Marsh shouted for them to cease fire, but none of them heard. He slapped Kragen on the back of his helmet then ran around the front of the Humvee, waving for the soldiers to stop firing. He made a point of signaling McNeely. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to fire an M430A1 high explosive grenade into one of the truck’s saddle tanks. Marsh breathed a sigh of relief when the last soldier secured his weapon.