James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

Ed played his binoculars over the front of the mall first, looking for movement or signs of human occupation, then turned to the houses visible along the service drive. The Army had, in years past, set up observation posts of its own overlooking undamaged crossing points of the Ditch. They themselves were usually spotted within twenty-four hours. What followed was a consistent pattern—harassing sniper fire, usually mixed with well-aimed 40mm grenades and the odd RPG, and in a day or a week the Army would abandon the post. The Army tried using tanks or armored fighting vehicles as mobile OPs at some of the crossing points, but anything the guerrillas couldn’t destroy they just avoided, and those OPs never had anything to report.

The house closest to the twisted gas pumps showed sign of having been used as an Army OP some time past; its entire second floor had been obliterated by RPGs. Ed let his binoculars drop on their strap, then on second thought pulled them over his head and held them out. “Let me get on that,” he said to Mike. The young man got up from behind the spotting scope, taking the proffered binoculars, and Ed settled in behind the glass. What it lost in field-of-view over the binos was more than made up for by its thirty-power magnification.

Ed set his glasses on the table so he could get his eye closer to the scope and adjusted the focus on its eyepiece. The shabby houses across the ditch jumped out at him, their siding shimmering in the heat mirage. He studied the black rectangles of their windows, looking for glints of light, movement, anything that might indicate the crossing was under surveillance. After ten minutes his eye hurt and he was starting to get a headache.

He pulled his head back from the spotting scope and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know how snipers do it,” he said quietly.

Mike was standing off to one side, using the binoculars. “Here,” he said. He dug into his pocket and produced a foil-wrapped stick of gum.

“Thanks,” Ed said in surprise. He hadn’t seen any gum in over a year, and even though the stick was initially hard as ceramic he chewed it with appreciation.

George popped his head through the doorway, saw Mike, then found Ed with his gaze. “Nothing new,” he told Ed, referencing the satellite photography. “Tony’s good to go, unless you’ve got something.”

“Probably too much to hope for,” Ed mused. He put his glasses back on and stared out the window. “Other side looks clear. Why don’t you give everybody the heads up. Five minutes.”

“Roger that.” George’s head disappeared.

With a grunt Ed stood and moved from behind the table. “All yours,” he told Mike. He stuck a hand out for his binoculars. “You see anything , you let someone know.”

“Yes Sir.”

The word had been passed—five minutes. Jason wasn’t sure why everybody was nervous, but they were, and it was making him twitchy as well. “Did somebody see something?” he asked Early, as the big man checked his kit.

“If they had, we wouldn’t be standing here with our thumbs up our behinds,” Early said. He pointed at the wall in the general direction of the Ditch. “That road ain’t the city limits, but south a it’s where things tend to get excitin’. Once we hit the border, well, that’s a whole ‘nother world.”

The Ditch was as much a psychological boundary as it was a physical one. To the men in the squads, everything south of the Ditch was enemy territory, even though they were three miles from the actual city limits and plenty of civilians still lived between the Ditch and the Border, as they called the city limit.

“Don’t worry,” Jeff told him. Jason looked at him, a young man not much older than he was. “When the shooting starts you’ll figure out real quick what to do.” Tavon nodded in agreement.

“Or you won’t,” Mark said, fiddling with the SAW’s sling. He looked up at Jason. “Either way it’ll be over quick.” Jason didn’t know how to react to the statement, delivered without inflection. Jeff and Tavon just looked at Mark, then busied themselves checking their weapons.

George stood near the center of the shadowy room, snapping his carbine up to his shoulder, aiming out the empty window frame at a loose brick sitting in the grass about thirty feet away. Tony’s young fighter, Mark, looked on silently in amusement. Tony caught his expression out of the corner of his eye.

“You see something funny?” he snapped.

The young man quickly shook his head and looked away. George glanced around, not sure what he’d just missed, then jumped up and down a few times, trying to loosen tense muscles and make sure nothing in his kit rattled. Ed stepped in through the doorway, blinking his eyes. It was a bright sunny day outside, and in comparison the inside of the small houses were dark as caves.

“Your man in One says it’s all clear,” Ed said. “Time to go.”

“Back into the fire,” George mumbled, so quietly no one heard.

“All right,” Tony said, then cocked his head. “Man? I thought Sheila was up there.”

“She was. John relieved her. Apparently she and Weasel have been getting… reacquainted.” His mouth bent at the corners.

Tony shook his head. “Christ. You think they could have picked a—never mind. We gonna have to wait on them now?”

“No.” Ed shook his head.

George cleared his throat, what might have been a smile coloring his features. “Weasel’s more of a sprinter than a marathoner,” he added helpfully. Mark choked back a laugh.

“Well, let’s get out of here before he gets his second wind,” Tony said. “Jesus. Mike!” he called softly up the stairs. “We’re rolling.”

The two squads piled into their respective vehicles with a chorus of grunts and clanking metal. Weasel’s face was flushed as he clambered over the tailgate of the Ford. Mark grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his armored vest and helped pull him in.

“What she sees in your scrawny ass I have no idea,” the SAW gunner said cordially. Weasel just smiled at Mark and hunkered down in the corner.

“She doesn’t care about your syphilgonertaids?” Mark asked with concern.

“My what?”

Mark smiled and moved on. “I haven’t had sex in so long I should qualify as an honorary virgin,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

“Don’t you have a kid?”

“Yeah, but maybe my hymen grew back when I wasn’t looking.”

“Your what?”

The SUV was already running and as soon as the last of his teammates was aboard Quentin nosed it out from between the two houses. George was wedged between Quentin and Bobby in the front seat and their three heads swiveled back and forth as the overloaded Ford rolled down the short drive. The Toyota pulled out from its hiding place a second later, loaded down with Franklin squad. Jeff, Tavon, Arnold, and Mike sat in the pickup’s open bed, looking in every direction. John was driving, and Ed spotted Sheila with her dimpled smile and tight brown curls in the front passenger seat. Tony and the other Mark were tucked into the rear of the truck’s extended cab. The pickup pulled out right behind the Expedition as Quentin accelerated toward the Ditch.

“Get off my ass!” Quentin growled, as John demonstrated the Toyota’s superior acceleration, his grin visible through the truck’s windshield, but then the truck sank back as Quentin slowed to take the turn onto the service drive. A hundred feet down was the crossover where, once upon a time, westbound cars U-turned so they could hop on the interstate heading east. All eyes, in both vehicles, watched the far side of the freeway, alert for any signs of danger.

Captain Paul Evancho, pilot of Kilo One-Three, kept the Kestrel, the Army’s latest two-seater attack helicopter, two hundred feet off the deck as he followed the snaking pavement at eighty knots. Low and Slow, they called it, looking for trouble. He hated it, but orders were orders—fly low enough that any nearby assholes in the area with guns might be tempted to take a shot—then take them out with rockets and guns. He wished his command structure didn’t have so much faith in the armored glass and titanium that surrounded him, as he would have much preferred to be doing his patrols at 1000 feet AGL. One-Three was one of three birds up on patrol, but Kilo One-Eight and -Nine were south of the city trying to track down a squad of guerrillas that had shot up a patrol that morning. Nobody killed this time, thank God.