Kurt Schlichter: People's Republic

Larsen looked down at the dirt, considering, but a split-second before his pause could have been considered defiance, he relented. He keyed his mic.

“Bravo, you two, slowly , move forward and occupy that rest position. If anyone’s still there, take him or her out, over.”

“Look for any gear, anything they abandoned,” Rios-Parkinson said. “Tell them.”

“And look for anything they left behind. Out.”

The two PBI troopers advanced, first one moving ahead five yards, then the next, always with the other in overwatch. Ahead, behind the clump of bushes where the trackers said their quarry had rested, there was no movement. At the edge of the bushes, the pair came on line, and silently counted down from three. On zero, they burst through the vegetation into the small clearing, sweeping it with their weapons.

No people, but lots of tracks and disrupted dirt. They had been here. And a small brown backpack was leaning against a shrub.

“We got a day pack here,” said the team leader, advancing.

Rios-Parkinson keyed his radio first. “What is inside?”

The PBI officer picked it up. There was something in it, something heavy, and there was resistance, but he tugged hard and the resistance suddenly disappeared.

Larsen’s hand flashed to his mic, desperately shouting. “Don’t touch…!”

The pack came free and the PBI officer saw that two 18 inch lengths of OD green 550 cord were tied to the trunk of the shrub. At the other end of each were tied two round metal rings that were now falling to the ground out of the underside of the backpack.

The two frag grenades detonated about a foot from the first tactical team member and about three feet from the second. Their respective distances were immaterial; both were blown apart.

Rios-Parkinson and Larsen watched slack-jawed as the clump of brush detonated, showering them with dirt, rocks, bits of vegetation and, likely, their two former companions.

“Fucking idiots,” Larsen spat. He turned to Rios-Parkinson. “He’s waiting over there for us, just waiting for us to come over. So the way we get him – the only way – is to hit him from the side and front simultaneously. So I am going down there” – he pointed south – “and I am going to slip over and come at him from his flank.”

Rios-Parkinson stared, confused.

“His side. I’ll come at him from the side and when I radio you, you send the other five guys over the crest spraying full auto. He’ll get one or two of them, but the others can pin him down and then I’ll be able to close in and take him out. Do you understand?”

Rios-Parkinson nodded.

“Tell me, what are you going to do?” Larsen said, no respect at all in his voice.

“I – you, you are going to go down there and sneak over and come at him from the side. When you call me, I send them all over firing automatic. They pin him down and you close in and finish him.”

Larsen nodded. “When I call, the second I call, you send them all over.”

Rios-Parkinson nodded again, a cold fury welling up inside him at the insolence, the lack of deference, the contempt in his deputy’s voice and manner. If Larsen survived this encounter, there was no assurance that he would survive the one coming once they returned home.

Larsen bolted toward the south, and Rios-Parkinson called over the surviving members of his team to give them their new mission.

Turnbull had kept Amanda’s backpack and now he took a knife and cut two small slits in the back. Next, he cut two lengths of the OD green 550 parachute cord and tied the ends to the trunk of a bush. He took out two of his M67 hand grenades and unbent and straightened the pins so they would pull out smoothly. Then he ran each 550 parachute cord line through a hole, slid the grenades inside the pack, and tied the ends of the cords to the metal rings. Carefully, he zipped up the bag and leaned it back against the bush, ensuring the 550 cord remained hidden.

No one who fought guerillas for a living would mess with such a tempting find before checking it out very carefully, but maybe guys whose job was shooting civilians would.

He turned and scrambled low over the ridge, taking care not to silhouette himself on the crest.

The little valley was down a steep grade, with about 25 yards to the line of bushes and shrubs. He went straight downward and found a tree whose branches swayed slightly in the dry breeze. Using his hundred mile an hour tape, he attached the tracker to a branch. It would not sway much, maybe a foot or so, but on their tracker it might look like it was moving around a little, like it was on a person shifting around in a hiding place.

He then went north about 25 meters to get off the centerline and started looking for a position with good concealment to keep out of sight. Ideally, it would have cover too – that is, protection from small arms fire, but the rocks were too small and the bush trunks too thin. His best protection was going to have to be remaining hidden.

He moved through the brush as quickly as he could, favoring the broken rib and his sore hip. He considered several spots, finally choosing one about a yard back from the brush line under a shrub with a nicely shaped “V” in its trunk that would provide support for his M4 as he covered the crest of the ridge. Turnbull dumped his backpack there, along with his water bottle.

Next, he went farther east and broke off several branches with small leaves, then brought them back, using them to obscure the position a little more. Another branch he put down flat on the ground in front of the “V” – it might help keep down the dust when he fired.

Going out and around, careful not to trample any of the vegetation, he viewed his hide site from the perspective of the hilltop, where they would be coming from. Merely okay – not particularly good, but his time was limited.

Next, he looked to the right and left of the position. There was a dry wash running generally parallel to the ridgeline, and it would provide a high speed avenue of approach for an enemy right into his sides. This was why being alone sucked – there was no one to cover his three and nine o’clock. He figured he had about ten minutes to create a field expedient solution to defend his flanks.

Finishing that, he moved another 25 yards north and slowly crept up the eastern face of the hill, pausing to pat dust into his face to at least try to help subdue any shine from his skin – it was already scorching and he was sweating.

He found a small pile of rocks near the top, probably the best he would be able to do, and carefully peered around them toward where he had come from.

The enemy was closing in, though they were moving slower than he had estimated. They were out about 200 yards, still in clusterfuck formation. They were fixing on the clump of trees where he and his group had rested, and on the tracking device that was taped to a bough directly to the east over the hill. Turnbull was off center to the north. They were not looking at him.

He hoped.

He counted twelve guys in black tactical rig, with about eight of them spread across an uneven 100-150 yard wide frontage about 225 meters or so from the ridge. All carried M4s with optics, and they were scanning and panning with their weapons as they advanced. Behind them another 25 yards were four more PBI guys. Two had carbines up. Another was looking at a screen – that had to be the tracker operator. And then another was stumbling along without a long weapon. Rios-Parkinson? Turnbull figured the Director had to be in a helluva a lot of trouble if he was coming out personally to fix it.

To fix him .

Turnbull observed them as they came forward. He noted who was giving hand signals and verbal cues, and who was listening and obeying. It looked like the eight guys in the skirmish line were divided into two fire teams – it was easy to peg the team leaders. The closest one was second in on the right from his perspective.