Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

That put a different light on things. But Mac was still reluctant to use the Apache, knowing how much collateral damage could result. “Where’s the Caterpillar dealership?” she inquired.

“It’s on the main drag,” Esco said, as his index finger landed again. “Two blocks from the ramp.”

“Okay,” Mac said, as she rose. “I’ll give the problem some thought. Thanks for the heads-up. Do me a favor, Sergeant… Keep the Shadow up high, where those scumbags will be less likely to spot it.”

“Roger that,” Esco said.

It felt good to escape the crowded confines of the Humvee and breathe some fresh air. Mac had a lot to think about as she made her way forward. The Marauders were mercenaries, and mercenaries get paid, so why fight the bikers? But Mac couldn’t shake the image of the crosses. Besides, Esco was correct. The gang wouldn’t let them waltz into town and take some Caterpillar engines without putting up a fight.

Mac climbed up onto Roller-One and told Sparks to pass the word. “Let’s get going… We’re headed to Contact, Nevada. Tell Peters to meet us there.”

It took forty-five minutes to reach Contact. It was little more than a house and a clutch of outbuildings on the east side of the road. There was a turnout on the west side of the highway, and that was where Mac told Garcia to stop. The helicopter was on the ground, and the JP8 truck went out to meet it.

Evans took a squad over to secure the house. Could the people who lived there communicate with the folks in Wells? If so, Mac didn’t want them to do so.

Once the area was under control, Mac ordered the unit to hide all of the vehicles with the exception of the Strykers behind the outbuildings. Then, with machine guns positioned to cover the highway and the gun trucks ready to roll, she felt confident the group could defend itself.

Mac still felt qualms, however, since dividing the company in half entailed some risk. But what choice did she have other than to do nothing? Taking civilians and soft-skinned vehicles into Wells would be insane.

Once everything was as good as she could make it, Mac called a meeting. A cold wind whipped her hair around as she explained the necessity of going into Wells, the way the plan was supposed to go down, and contingencies if it didn’t. Once all of the questions had been answered, it was time to mount up.

Mac chose to ride in the Stryker designated as Roller-Seven. She was standing in the front air-guard hatch with a light machine gun positioned in front of her as the truck took off. Like the other top gunners, Mac was wearing a brain bucket, sunglasses to keep the airborne grit out of her eyes, and a pair of gloves to keep her hands warm.

It took forty minutes to reach Wells. The ESV was in the lead by then. The vic swayed as it completed a hard right-hand turn, the other Strykers followed, and the column started to accelerate as it hit the straightaway. Mac eyed the scene ahead. There were clumps of trees; low, one-story buildings; and dozens of frozen mud puddles. It would have been better to attack at dawn. But Mac feared that the bikers would get word of the vehicles parked at Contact and have time to prepare.

As Seven followed the ESV into town, the external speakers came to life. Suddenly Mac found herself listening to “The Imperial March” from Star Wars . It struck Mac as corny at first, and she was about to order the truck commander to kill it, when she changed her mind. This is it, Mac thought to herself, this is how Strykers are supposed to fight. We’re going to kick some ass.

The town hadn’t been fortified, and as far as Mac could tell, the bikers didn’t have lookouts. From their perspective, it must have seemed as if the Strykers came out of nowhere. Tires screeched as the ESV led the other vics through a series of turns and onto Sixth. There was a long line of custom bikes parked side by side on the right. Lamm was driving the engineering vehicle and knew what to do. The dozer blade was up and angled to the right. Metal clashed with metal, and the hogs fell like dominoes.

Bikes were parked side by side on the opposite side of the street, too. And that gave the gunners an opportunity for some target practice. Mac fired her machine gun in long, sweeping bursts—and was rewarded by the sight of falling bikes and exploding gas tanks.

Mac felt Roller-Seven slow, swerve to avoid the wooden ramp, and speed up again. The gang had started to react by that time—and bikers opened fire as they poured out of bars, cafés, and other buildings. They were armed with a wild variety of weapons—and Mac could hear the ping, ping, ping of bullets striking armor as she adjusted her aim. A man with white hair and a potbelly aimed an AR-15 at her and jerked spastically as half a dozen 5.56-by-45mm rounds tore his torso to shreds. The chatter of machine guns and the ominous music combined to create a symphony of death and destruction.

But just as Mac was beginning to believe that the battle was over, the situation took a turn for the worse. Not all of the motorcycles were lined up on the main drag. Mac heard a throaty roar and turned to see a trio of hogs accelerate out of a side street and join the fray. Roller-Three was the last Stryker in the column, so they went after it first. But Three was far from helpless. The lead bike went down as a burst of bullets chopped the rider’s left arm off, and sparks flew as the hog slid west.

But bikes two and three managed to avoid the wreck and pull up beside Roller-Three. As Mac looked back, she could see that each motorcycle had a passenger. One of them fired a pistol at the Stryker’s rear gunner, while the other leaned in to slap something onto the vic’s protective birdcage. “Watch out, Three!” Mac yelled into the mike. “They…”

The rest of Mac’s words were lost as the charge went off. The explosion produced a flash of light and a loud boom. The force of the blast was sufficient to lift the wheels on the left side of the Stryker up off the pavement. They came down with a thump, but the driver managed to retain control, and Three trailed smoke.

Mac had to change her focus at that point as more Harleys appeared, and the rear gunner engaged them. “This is Six actual,” Mac said. “All units will proceed to the objective and secure it. Talk to me, Three… Can you make it? Over.”

“That’s a roger,” came the reply. “We have casualties, though…”

“Got it,” Mac replied. “One-Eight will respond. Do you copy One-Eight?”

Doc Obbie was riding in the ESV. “Copy,” he replied. “Over.”

The Cat dealership was impossible to miss, thanks to the huge sign on the roof. Seconds after the ESV pulled in, Sergeant Poole’s soldiers surged out to secure the building. Mac’s truck slowed and stopped, with the fifty pointed at the street. It began to chug as half a dozen bikes roared past. Obbie ran forward as Three pulled in.

Mac forced herself to switch focus. “Roller-Seven-Six to Flyby-One… Clean the streets but avoid structures to whatever extent you can. Over.”

Peters’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Roger that, Six… Pop smoke. Commencing gun run. Over.” The Apache came in from the southwest. It was flying just above the rooftops and looked scary as hell. The ship’s 30mm chain gun began to fire as Peters followed Sixth, staying south of the red smoke. The shells blew divots out of the concrete, tore already damaged motorcycles to shreds, and pulped a gang member stupid enough to fire at the helicopter with an M-16.

The Apache ceased firing as it roared over the Caterpillar dealership, only to resume on the far side. About twenty bikers had gathered northwest of town and were preparing to attack. When the gunship appeared, they turned, opened their throttles, and took off. That was a mistake. With no houses to worry about, Omata was free to fire rockets at them. The result was two overlapping explosions. None of the gang members survived. Shredded flesh and metal lay everywhere as Peters turned back.