John O'Brien - Reckoning

To the rear, Greg sees a dust cloud from their pursuers rising into the thin air. With them so close, he ponders how they are going to refuel the Stryker as they approach Albuquerque. They’ll be running short by the time they arrive.

Maybe it’s time we abandon the Stryker and find vehicles that will give us more speed , he thinks, knowing the firepower they are carrying is useless and the distance they can keep is their only defense. We’ll save on gas and have to refuel less often .

Several miles down the road, as he is going through a plan to quickly transfer to working vehicles, a glimmer catches his attention. He increases the zoom level on the camera for a better look.

Ahead, stretched across the road and out to the sides, armored vehicles are spread in a line. Greg instantly recognizes the distinct outlines of several Strykers and Humvees. He’s found the second group, and the distance between him and this second group is closing quickly.

“Driver, off the road, now! Head northwest,” Greg shouts.

Slowing only a touch, the Stryker turns. Pulled from their focus on the boy, all heads turn toward Greg. Concentrating on the situation, Greg ignores the looks of anxiety, telling them that an armored column is on the road ahead.

Their only escape is to make for the hills. If they can gain the terrain which lies to the northwest, land which will invalidate the use of armor, they may stand a minimal chance on foot. He’ll worry about where they’ll go afterward, but right now, they have to extricate themselves from the killing ground they’ve stumbled into. Greg should have guessed the other force would come against them like this. In the back of his mind, he thought this might be a possibility once he determined the others had the use of airborne surveillance. He just hoped he could outrun it.

The Stryker jostles as it races across undulations in the land. On this section of the plateau, there isn’t a single bush to hide behind. Their only chance is to keep their speed up and, with the angle of their flight, hope that will throw the gunner’s aim off. A thunderous roar lifts the Stryker, canting it sideways and throwing everyone inside against each other. It settles back with a hard bounce. The wheels grip the soft soil and the armored vehicle surges forward once again.

“Fuck!” Greg hears through the ringing in his ears.

He wants to see what the shout was about, but the dire situation they are in commands his full attention. Greg looks for a gully or some large crease in the terrain which will give them a measure of cover. There’s nothing he can see in the immediate area. Their only hope is what appears to be a drop off in the distance.

Another near miss rocks the Stryker. This is followed immediately by a loud clang which throws the heavy vehicle to the side. Violently tossed against the interior wall, Greg feels like his ears are bleeding from the concussive blast. Stunned, he retains enough consciousness to know the vehicle is still mobile.

Another blast crashes into the side, slewing the Stryker. As the vehicle slams back down, Greg feels it settle lower than normal.

“That does it for us, sir,” the driver calls. “The Stryker is done for.”

“Everyone out!” Greg orders. “There’s a drop off to our front. Make for it.”

Greg clambers across a tilted deck strewn with equipment. One of the soldiers is standing next to the wounded boy. With the others clear, Greg can now see the extent of his injury. He is slumped over the bench seat, his face pale and clammy. Bloodied bandages litter the seat and floor. The boy’s arm lies on the seat next to his hip.

Knowing the answer already by the lack of blood flowing from the wound, Greg asks anyway, “How is he?”

“He died a few minutes ago, sir.”

“Leave him,” Greg states, knowing that it’s only a matter of seconds before another shell slams into the Stryker to finish them off.

They hustle out, setting foot on the dusty plain. Turning toward the drop off, the others are running across the flats, the soldiers in the back with the rest ahead. Greg and the soldier run after them, looking to get as much distance from the disabled vehicle as possible. The chatter of heavy machine gun fire erupts in the distance.

Turning toward the sound, Greg sees tracers reach out across barren land. The red streaks converge around the others racing ahead. Heavy slugs rip into the ground sending showers of dirt into the air, obliterating any view of the rest of his team and those they rescued. The dust slowly settles to the ground, allowing Greg the ability to see through the maelstrom. Of the nine who were running for the drop off, there’s not a single one standing. Greg skids to a stop as the tracers halt momentarily and then, start firing in his direction.

“Back to the Stryker!” Greg yells, fear sending a jolt of electricity through his body. The armor of the vehicle will give them more cover from the heavy slugs ripping through the air.

Greg can feel the large caliber rounds slam into the soil as he runs through the soft dirt. The air is filled with dust thrown up by the impacts, obscuring his vision. As he and his teammate race down the side of the Stryker, sparks flash off the sides accompanied by heavy, metallic thuds. In the noise, confusion, and fear, Greg’s thoughts have been reduced down to a single one, get into the cover afforded by the Stryker.

He feels several tugs against his pant legs and vest as some of the rounds narrowly miss. A burning sensation across his back makes its way to his consciousness. As he nears the rear of the vehicle, surrounding by swirling dust and the close impact of rounds, Greg observes, with a form of disassociation, as if he is a mere spectator, a splash of blood wash across the side of the Stryker. He knows, with the same disassociation, that his teammate has been hit. Rounding the corner of the vehicle, he throws himself into the opening.

Landing amongst a clutter of objects lying on the floor, he hears heavy impacts slamming into the sides. Breathing hard, his heart thudding, he looks up. The boy they rescued stares blankly only inches away from Greg. He’s been in a lot of tricky situations, but he has no idea how he’ll extricate himself from this one. The ones firing seem intent on eliminating every last one of them.

A crashing explosion rocks the Stryker. Greg is lifted and thrown against the far wall. He only registers the hard impact before darkness descends.

Having met with Leonard and relaying what we have found out, I feel better and am glad for the arrangement of working together should there be the need. He still has his search to do, and it may be a while before we see each other again. Although we came to an understanding, I don’t get the feeling that he will be joining our compound soon. After all, he has a fuel supply that will last him for years and, provided he doesn’t experience any severe mechanical breakdowns, he’ll be able to travel anywhere with a degree of safety. All in all, he may be better off than we are up north.

However relieved I feel about our working together, there is still a tremendous amount of anxiety. One, Greg is out there and we need to locate him. There is also this other group and the issue of how we are going to deal with them. Then, there are the night runners that are moving out of Seattle and appear to be approaching our sanctuary.

It’s almost too much , I think, as the gear settles into the wheel well with a clunk.

Gaining altitude, we turn east, heading to locate and pick up Greg. Our first stop will be Cannon AFB to pick up another Spooky given that the other one might be damaged. Other than our own minds and teamwork, the aircraft remains our greatest asset as we try to survive. We’ll need to be a lot farther along than we are now if we’re to make it once the Spooky is grounded. We may be able to keep the other vehicles running if Bannerman has some success with the bio-fuels, but as far as flying goes, that will come to an end.