James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“I would expect nothing less,” she shot back.

Parker sighed. “Let’s head back over to the hangars.” He looked at his S3. “I want someone posted here. I don’t want this place trashed any more than it already is. Don’t want any cameras or parts walking off.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Parker stared unseeing at the bulkhead of the IMP as they traveled south to the aircraft hangars. The IMP parked just north of the hangars on one of the helipads. Parker jumped out of the back of the IMP and stomped over between the two hangars.

He stared furiously at the burning, mangled carcasses of what used to be his air assets. Chamberlain saw the dark look on his face and knew better than to comment. He simply stood nearby, waiting for questions or commands.

Abruptly Parker strode toward the street bordering the hangars on the south and grabbed the Commander of a Toad sitting nearby, securing the area. For whatever good that did. What was the phrase, closing the barn door after the cow had already escaped? He had the man show him the tunnel in the parking garage of the adjacent apartment building.

The narrow tunnel didn’t extend very far into the earth, six feet in he could see the wall of dirt where it had been collapsed by explosives. “You said you got some?” Parker asked the Toad Commander, still staring at the tunnel entrance with his hands on his hips.

“Yes sir,” the Commander replied. “In the parking garage next door. Four dead. Well, three, but the one still alive, I doubt he’s going to make it.”

When he emerged from the building he saw his S2, Major Paul Cooper, had walked over from the nearby Ops Center and joined the rest of his command staff in front of the IMP. Cooper looked like he’d eaten something sour. He had a tablet in his hands.

“What is it, Coop?”

“I’ve got the initial casualty reports, Sir, if you’d care to hear them.” Parker, in fact, didn’t want to hear them at all, but instead he nodded.

“Well,” Cooper began, but then there was pain and the ground wheeling around to hit him, the taste of blood, distance, echoes, light ebbing and flowing like a tide, and, very distantly, a woman screaming.

Renny cycled the bolt. He’d lazed the distance exactly—524 yards down from his perch on the 20 thfloor of the building across to the hangars. His Ventus doohickey had done the math for him and told him to dial in his elevation for 507 yards to adjust for the down angle, but it was the wind which was always the worry. He was inside an office, sheltered from the wind, so any device he had to measure it was useless. Luckily smoke was pouring heavily out of both hangars, and it told him both wind direction and speed. Five, maybe eight miles an hour, but at an angle, so it was only half value. Reading the wind was as much art as science, but as he got back on target he saw his aim had been true. The big 250-grain A-Tip had taken the taller officer through the neck and gone on to hit the other command officer, the one with the tablet but no body armor, somewhere in the upper chest. Both men were down.

A woman was standing there, hands to her face. Maybe screaming? He wasn’t sure, but what was clear to him was her uniform. She wasn’t just a Tab soldier, she was an officer. Not wearing armor, apparently, either. He fired his second shot less than four seconds after the first. The bullet took just over half a second to travel the distance from his muzzle to the woman’s upper back, entering at an angle. She spun around and hit the concrete with her arms spread and legs crossed and didn’t move.

The soldiers on the ground nearby were now running in all directions, diving behind cover. “Sniper!” he was sure they were yelling, but whether they had guessed his direction or even heard his shots was the question. He’d reloaded his suppressed Glock and blown out the window prior to getting on his rifle, but twenty floors up the noise hadn’t been loud. He’d been worried about the glass giving him away when it hit the ground far below, but no one, apparently, had heard it.

He peered back through the scope. Soldiers were crouched down behind the IMP, looking around, trying to spot him. But they were on the side of the vehicle facing him, so apparently they had no idea where he was. Not yet.

He fired again, worked the bolt, looked through the scope. Another hit.

Lots of soldiers down there. He could see everything between the apartment building where Eagle Eye had positioned themselves to the Army headquarters building and everything in-between, including the hangars and helipads. The only question was whether he would run out of ammo or die from blood loss before they pinpointed his position and rode up in the elevators to kill him.

Ed stared at the city sliding by outside the windows of the Growler. He hadn’t looked at the city through the window of a moving car since the start of the war, and it made him feel very odd. It took him a while to identify the sensation, but he finally had it—nostalgia. But there was something else, and that took him even longer to pin down.

Hope.

He studied the printout of satellite exposure times provided by LTC Morris, then looked at his watch. They were in blackout for another eight minutes. He peered out the windshield. Early was deftly maneuvering the Growler around massive potholes, windswept piles of garbage, and rusting vehicle hulks. The few noncombatants they saw scurried away at the sight of the Army vehicle. Early barely touched the brake, and inside the big vehicle they swayed from side to side.

“There!” Ed said, pointing. “Under there.” He checked his watch again. Seven more minutes of blackout.

Early slowed down and checked both directions out of lifelong habit, then powered across the intersection and into the gas station parking lot. He pulled between the pairs of vandalized pumps and the five men climbed out, guns up. Two people were walking along the street in the distance, but nothing else was moving.

Ed took the time to study the men with him. They’d automatically assumed a defensive perimeter around the vehicle. Early and Mark, while a bit battered and bloody, were as solid as they’d ever been. Seattle, Morris’ man, had proven himself time and again on the run north. And Jason… Jason… after a week with the dogsoldiers, patrolling and fighting behind enemy lines, he’d shown himself to be brave, smart, and motivated. The teen was covering his sector automatically, M4 shouldered, bloodied head scanning back and forth, hearing finally coming back. He’d fought as hard and as well as any of them. Ed knew he mostly had George to thank for that.

Ed looked up at the aluminum roof above their heads. It would hide the Growler from any satellite. “Leave the doors open, keys in it,” he told Early. With any luck the vehicle would be stolen by a local. He knew it was equipped with GPS, so it wouldn’t go missing for long. He hadn’t seen any sign of a drone since they’d holed up in the McDonald’s, but even if it was still up there, the Tabs didn’t seem to have any more forces available to send their way.

“How are we on time?” Mark asked, glancing at the paper in Ed’s hand.

“Five minutes, plus or minus.” He folded the paper and put it away.

“You need help?”

“I’ll let you know.” And with that Ed set off quickly, limping badly, the stabbing pain in his foot making his heart race and sending flares of heat throughout his body now that the adrenaline of the not-quite-last-stand had worn off. Mark was at his side, his gait just as compromised. They made for the alley behind the gas station and spread out in patrol formation, Jason automatically taking point. Seattle and Early covered their rear, even walking backward able to easily keep up with Ed and Mark.