John O'Brien - Conspiracy

Blanchard looks back from his shooting position. Krandle nods at him in the direction of Speer and Blanchard scurries into the other room.

Krandle concentrates on keeping the front clear. He still sees the occasional tracer coming from Speer’s and Miller’s positions, but they are down to three shooters and maybe two if Speer is seriously injured.

Minutes pass slowly. Krandle sees the outside like snapshots. Flashes of light in the dark spaces across the street. Sunlight shining upon the five bodies huddled in the street to the right, dark liquid mixing with the sand. A glint of light from one of the weapons lying near them. The red-tiled roofs atop abandoned houses. Leaves drifting down from trees and bushes as rounds tear through them — some catching the wind and being whisked away. Feeling the push of the stock against his shoulder as he sends projectiles racing outward. The impacts of slugs smash into the side of the house or zip through the broken window and slam into the walls and stairs behind him. Smoke hanging in the room from the expended shells and the aroma of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The frequent screams of the night runner somewhere above.

Through the tumultuous noise, he can hear his steady breathing as it is inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He feels the curve of the trigger, its hard metal clicking under the ministrations of his finger. Sweat trickles down his temples to run down his cheeks. He is completely in the zone.

“We’re coming back in,” Franklin radios. “And we don’t have to worry anymore about those three. They were trying to come up from the rear.”

“Copy that. What about the cliff?”

“There is a cut in the bank one house over that we can shimmy down. We’ll be exposed from the top all of the way to the exfil though,” Franklin answers.

Blanchard reenters from the side room. “He took a round through his upper left arm. Hit under the bicep and passed through without hitting the bone. He’ll be sore but fine.”

“Is he still able to shoot?”

“Yeah. My parental heritage came into question as I was bandaging him, so I think he’ll be okay.”

Krandle gets in touch with the Santa Fe and informs them of the situation. They are essentially at a stalemate with their attackers. Those firing at them can’t close in, and the team can’t escape. That stalemate will end when the team runs out of ammo or nighttime arrives; whichever occurs first. Shouts carry from across the way interrupt the conversation. Krandle can’t make out the words through the sound of gunfire. He isn’t even sure it’s English. Other shouts are heard up and down the street.

Krandle hears Speer shout to be heard above the barrage. “Ortiz, what are they saying?”

“How in the fuck should I know? I don’t have super hearing powers!” Ortiz shouts, answering.

“You speak that language. Say something to them.”

“What do you want me to say to them, dumbass?” Ortiz yells.

“Tell them to calm the fuck down,” Speer answers.

Krandle thinks Ortiz may be a way to communicate with their assailants and dashes into the room. Just as he enters, he hears Ortiz shout at their attackers.

“Hey, Cabron. Tu madre es una puta .”

Ortiz draws away from the window with a smile and giggles.

Krandle recognizes the word ‘ puta ’ and guesses the rest was just as unpleasant.

Shouts from across the street rise above the din of firing. The volume of gunfire increases sending all of them to the floor. Rounds thunder into the house and decimate the remaining glass in the windows. Thuds against the side of the house shake it, sending splinters and shards of glass into the interior. The curtains hanging at the sides rock backward from the bullets slamming into them. The team folds their hands over their heads to protect from the rounds and volume of glass falling into their midst.

“What the fuck did you say?” Speer shouts from his defensive posture.

“I asked them if they enjoy a good cup of tea,” Ortiz yells back.

“Ortiz! You don’t get to talk from now on,” Krandle states.

Rising to the edge of the window, Krandle peeks out. He sees figures dart across the street to the right out of the range of fire. Franklin informs him that he saw others dash to their side of the road in his direction.

Calling the Santa Fe once again, he reports the change in their situation, giving their coordinates and those of the assailants.

“I don’t think they really like us being here much,” Krandle says, finishing.

“Is there any way you can extract yourself?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We’re rather stuck here,” Krandle answers.

“Will you be able to relocate?”

“How far are you thinking?” Krandle asks, amid the din.

“I would suggest four hundred meters,” Leonard replies.

“That’s iffy at best. But we’ll do what we can. How long are we talking, sir?”

“We’ll do what we can to help. Give me fifteen minutes and then I’ll tell you five minutes out. Twenty minutes total. Can you hold that long?”

“Do we have a choice, sir?” Krandle asks with bullets shredding the side of the house.

“No, Chief. Sorry.”

“Then we’ll do what we need to do. I need that five minute warning though,” Krandle says.

“You’ll get that, Chief.”

“Sir, it needs to be an exact five minute count down. Can we rely on that?”

“You’ll have it.”

Bullets unrelentingly tear into the house. Shredded window panes fall on the backs of the team as they fold themselves into a ball.

Twenty minutes… Fuck! Krandle thinks, knowing twenty minutes in a firefight can seem like forever, especially when holding out for an extraction.

“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the team.

A scream rises momentarily above the clamor. Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the air.

“Miller’s hit,” he says.

“How bad?” Blanchard asks.

“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a little busy over here,” Franklin replies.

Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway. Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest at the top of his shoulder.

He’s been here before and knows that if they continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.

Several people run from between the houses, attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.

“Miller took a round below the shoulder. He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard reports.

“Can he move?” Krandle asks.

“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.

“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the background.