Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

“Give them a second helping,” Smith said, as he turned to survey the airfield. He felt a sense of panic. Things were happening quickly, he was losing control, and he didn’t know how to reacquire it. Smith swore as a rocket missed the semi and sailed off into the distance. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Renke spoke in his ear. “Aircraft inbound at two o’clock. Over.”

Smith turned to look. What the hell? Did the takers have a plane? Were they going to drop a barrel bomb on the building? Once the glasses came to bear, Smith realized that he was looking at an Apache gunship! What felt like liquid lead filled the pit of his stomach. If the bastards had an attack ship, the whole unit was SOL. “I have radio contact,” Private Tubin announced. “I’m patching the pilot through.”

“Flyby-One to ground unit, Pendleton,” a male voice said, as the Apache passed overhead. “Give me a sitrep. Over.”

Smith felt a sudden sense of hope! “This is Master Sergeant Rollo Smith, Detachment 1, Company B, Forty-first Special Troops Battalion. We’re under attack by a criminal gang that’s trying to capture our weapons. Over.”

“Roger that,” the voice said, as the helicopter circled the airport. “What’s the army motto?”

Smith swallowed. It was a test… To make sure that he was the real deal. “This we will defend.”

“What animal does West Point use as a mascot?”

“A mule.”

“What does FUBAR mean?”

“Fucked-up beyond all recognition.”

“Thanks, Sergeant… Keep your head down. Your people did a nice job. We’ll tidy up. Over.”

A reedy cheer went up from the beleaguered building as the Apache went to work. A Hellfire missile struck the school bus and blew it to yellow smithereens. Then the machine’s copilot went to work with the helo’s minigun. Geysers of asphalt and soil chased the smaller vehicles across the field and overran a black SUV, which disappeared in a bright orange explosion. The surviving vehicles fled in a desperate effort to escape the killing zone. Only one of them made it. The battle was over.

After circling the airfield a couple of times, the Apache came in for a landing next to the carcass of a burned-out Chinook. Smith was there to greet the copilot as she dropped to the ground. The rotors continued to turn, so she had to shout. “My name’s Omata… Warrant Officer Peters is going to remain at the controls in case the bad guys counterattack.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Smith said. “You saved our butts. Thank you. How big is the relief force?”

“There is no relief force,” Omata told him. “We’re attached to Archer Company, First Battalion, Second Stryker Brigade. Our outfit was cut off after the meteor strikes. The company’s CO is a first lieutenant named Macintyre. She’d like to bring the company here and lager up for the night. Would that be okay?”

“ Okay? That would be wonderful,” Smith said. “Strykers… I like the sound of that. The bastards won’t mess with us tonight.”

Omata smiled. “No, Sergeant, they won’t.”

Smith removed a glove and extended a big paw. Omata’s hand disappeared. “Welcome to Pendleton, ma’am… I have some scotch stashed away—and the drinks will be on me.”

Archer Company took some sniper fire as it entered Pendleton. But there weren’t any casualties, for which Mac was grateful.

As a consequence of being cooped up inside the Stryker, Mac didn’t get to see anything until the column arrived and one-two came to a stop. Once the ramp was down, Mac made her way out and onto the tarmac. She was inspecting the burned-out helicopter as two people came forward to greet her. “This is Sergeant Smith,” Omata said. “Sergeant Smith, this is Lieutenant Macintyre.”

They shook hands, and Mac liked what she saw. Even though Smith hadn’t shaved in days and was filthy to boot, his military bearing was intact. He had beady brown eyes, a hatchet-shaped nose, and a pugnacious jaw. “It’s a pleasure,” Mac said. “I’d put you and every member of your unit in for a medal if I could.”

“Thanks,” Smith replied. “But based on what Warrant Officer Omata tells me, we’re cut off.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” Mac told him. “But ‘cut off’ implies that a command structure still exists. And I’m not sure that it does.”

“Let’s go inside,” Smith suggested. “It’s warmer there.”

“That sounds good,” Mac replied. “But I want the tour first… And I’d like to meet your people.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said. “Follow me.”

After touring the area, and pausing to chat with each one of Smith’s soldiers, Mac allowed herself to be steered inside. By the time they sat down in Major Elkins’s office, she had a pretty good idea of how the weeklong battle had been fought. The lights flickered every now and then. “So,” Mac said, “thanks for the hospitality.”

Smith shrugged. “You’re welcome, ma’am. But you’re army, we’re army, so what’s ours is yours. Especially since you’re the ranking officer here.”

“That’s true,” Mac said. “Sort of. But I can’t assume anything. Not the way things are.”

Smith stared at her. “You want our supplies. And you came here to get them.”

Mac nodded. “We did.”

“But you aren’t going to take them?”

Mac smiled thinly. “I hope you’ll give them to me.”

Smith frowned. “Tell me something, Lieutenant… Let’s say that I give you everything there is to give… What will you do with it? And more importantly, what will you do with my people?”

“We’re headed south, Sergeant… To Arizona, where if the ham-radio reports are correct, the weather is a tad better. That’s the first objective. Then, once we find a place to hole up, we’ll try to survive.”

“For what purpose?” Smith demanded. “To wait for orders that may not come? And, if they do come, might instruct you to do something stupid?”

Mac had been thinking about that. And now, for the first time, she put her thoughts into words. “That’s a good question… I don’t think it should be up to me alone. Each person should have a vote even if that isn’t very military.

“That said, I think we have to adapt if we’re going to survive. All of us have seen what the gangs can do. And they’re just getting started. Once the easy pickings are gone—how long before they take control of towns? And battle each other for turf?”

“Not long,” Evans said darkly. “It may have begun. Who knows what’s going on in Kennewick.”

“Exactly,” Mac agreed. “And in the absence of law enforcement, there will be a need for soldiers who can defend the people who can’t defend themselves. But, in order to do that, we’ll have to charge for our services. Otherwise, our vehicles will run out of fuel—and our troops will starve.”

Smith frowned. “ Mercenaries? How is that different from becoming a gang?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “I guess the word ‘mercenary’ would apply. But my notion is this… Rather than operate the unit as a business—we would run it as a self-sustaining nonprofit. The mission would be to keep our soldiers alive, feed their families, and help other people to the extent that we can.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Smith put in.

Mac shrugged. “For a few weeks.”

“You’re serious about the vote? And the mission?”

“Absolutely. Although it needs to be understood that army-style military discipline will prevail. A democracy won’t work. So once a person joins, they will be expected to serve out the length of their contract.”