Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

It happens that fast.

Any glass that’s left in the windows below shatter.

We’ve been compromised.

Heart racing, I grab my radio and contact Chris. The gunfire is ridiculously loud, making it almost impossible to hear anything on the radio.

“Alpha One,” I shout, “our position has been compromised!”

“What do we do?” Sophia yells.

“Standby and stay hidden!”

The radio crackles to life. I have to shove it up against my ear to hear Chris’s response. “Leave your position, Yankee,” Chris says. “Regroup and pull back.”

I tuck my rifle close to my chest and slide down the slope in the roof, stopping in a crouch near the gutter. “Come on, move it!” I shout to Sophia over the din of the gunfire. I swing myself off the roof, landing on the sidewalk. Sophia and Alexander quickly do the same. We round the backside of the building. By this time I’m furious.

“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “Why did you turn on a flashlight ?!”

“It was an accident!” Sophia replies, on the verge of tears. “I’m not used to the new equipment.”

“Well, get used to it,” I snap. “That almost got us killed. And the mission has been compromised.”

I’m surprised at the venom in my voice. I’ve never gotten angry with Sophia before. Then again, I’ve never been in a situation like this before. My radio crackles.

“Yankee, what the hell is going on over there?” Chris asks.

“Our position has been compromised, over,” I repeat. “We need to abort.”

“Negative, Yankee. Proceed with the plan.”

“But…” I slam the radio back into its holster, knowing better than to argue over the radio. “Come on, guys! Let’s go.”

Alexander looks pleased with my command. We fall back from the building, making a dash across the street towards another abandoned business. This one is a former sushi house. From the roof of the distribution center, Chris’s sniper platoon opens fire. Because the Omega patrols are busy trying to figure out where we are, they’re taken completely by surprise by the sudden attack. Explosions detonate along the fence line, compliments of Max and Derek. A huge blast destroys the main gate. It’s the same old same old. The sound of warfare. The shriek of gunfire. The screaming, the panic. The taste of gunpowder in the air.

I use the gutter on the side of the sushi restaurant to haul myself up. I climb onto the roof, staking out in the corner. This is farther away than I’d like to be, but I’ll take what I can get. I lie down on my stomach, tuck my rifle against my shoulder and peek through the scope. Fire has erupted on the east side of the camp. Omega is switching on their generator-powered backup lights. It makes it easy for me to sight enemies, tracking them through my scope. Chris’s team of snipers is so well concealed that I can’t even see them from my vantage point on the roof.

Of course, he can’t see us, either.

As long as Sophia doesn’t turn on a spotlight again, we should be good.

Our National Guardsmen assaulters rush the blasted ruins of the front gate. It doesn’t take much for them to push through, since there’s not a lot of security and we’ve already taken them by surprise. The prisoners, taking advantage of the distraction, begin flooding out of the camp. I cover their escape, sniping any Omega soldier that starts shooting at them. Sophia and Alexander are doing the same thing, but I can tell that Sophia is rattled. Her mistake with the flashlight has shaken her up.

I’ll have to talk with her later.

Her hands are trembling on her weapon, and the color has drained from her face. She’s not merely scared — she’s embarrassed. I feel a pang of regret for yelling at her, then remember that it’s my job to keep my men disciplined. I can’t feel bad for doing something that keeps us alive a little longer than the bad guys.

One of Max’s detonations lights up the night sky no more than a hundred yards away from us. The force of the explosion is like a physical wall of heat. It slams into the sushi restaurant and washes over our heads. I duck down and cover my scalp with my hand instinctively, the heat singeing the tips of my hair.

Lucky I’m wearing a hat.

The flames lick at the edges of plastic bins and piles of trash, lighting trails along spilled gasoline and diesel. It doesn’t wander further than the edges of the parking lot, though. There’s not a lot to burn around here.

I hear a thud behind me and spin around, grabbing my handgun on my belt. An improvising — and unusually clever — Omega soldier has climbed up on the roof behind us. He’s got his weapon out, ready to kill the first person he sees. Which would be me, obviously.

I nail him in the chest. An unhesitating reaction — pure instinct now. But I quickly realize that I’ve made a mistake. He’s wearing a vest, and although the impact of the shot knocks him backwards, the bullet doesn’t penetrate the vest. I stay crouched, shoot again. This time I shoot at a slight angle, right in the weak spot: the armpit. A bulletproof vest can only cover so much.

It’s a clean shot. A perfect shot. He drops dead, the bullet probably cutting right through his heart, into his lungs. I swallow a gag. Killing people — regardless of whether or not they are enemy soldiers here to kill me — is difficult for me. Especially when I can see the look on their faces as they die. When I am a sniper, I’m killing from a distance. It sounds horrific — and it is — but I’m not as traumatized when the job is done in a detached way. It helps separate me from the death.

But up close there’s no escape. These are the faces I see when I sleep at night.

Well. Try to sleep.

Within minutes the prisoners are free and the Omega troops are either dead or wounded — or fled. Some of them ran away during the firefight. I climb down from the roof and approach the camp. Everything happened in a mad rush. A contained rush, but a rush nonetheless. Bloodstains and black smudge marks line the pavement. Sophia says nothing. Neither does Alexander.

I do a headcount of the men in my platoon. Everybody here? Good. I didn’t lose a single soldier. Great news, especially since it’s my first mission as a Lieutenant. A tall, lean young man with cropped black hair is standing at the back of my platoon. I don’t know his name. He’s holding his left arm, his hand covered in blood. Concerned, I walk up to him.

“What’s your name, soldier?” I ask.

“Andrew, Ma’am,” he replies, grimacing.

I look around for a field medic. They’re occupied with other soldiers that are more badly hurt. I roll up Andrew’s shirtsleeve. He’s been shot through the arm — looks like a clean wound, though. In and out. A flesh wound.

“ You are a very lucky guy,” I murmur. “This didn’t even scrap bone.”

“If you say so, Ma’am,” he replies.

I flip my knife out of the pocket in my boot and cut away a strip of cloth at the bottom of my black undershirt. I’ve got a tiny emergency first aid kit on a pack nestled snugly on my back. I whip it around, unzip it, and open up some alcohol wipes. I swab the wound. He winces but doesn’t complain. I wrap his arm in clean bandages, tie the strip of cloth around that, and nod.

“You’re good to go,” I say. “Check in with the Medical Staff when we get to base.”

He smiles. It’s a kind, sweet smile.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he replies. “For everything.”

I’ve never known what to do with gratitude, so I just remain silent, zip up my little packet and sling it across my back. And I leave. I gather my platoon into one spot and watch as Chris approaches me through the crowd. He’s flushed. He’s mad .