James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

“General, I’ve got some news.”

Parker looked up from his paperwork. “Tomahawk Two-Bravo have some luck chasing down those guerrillas that shot them up?” The patrol had taken fire a few hours earlier, but only suffered one minor injury, probably from a ricochet. They’d seen at least two insurgents and given chase on foot while their Growlers had driven ahead to box in the enemy. The pursuit had very quickly turned into a house-by-house search.

“No news on that, Sir. They’re still doing a grid search. We’ve got a second enemy contact.” He stepped to the large map of the city and its environs Parker had tacked to the wall. He pointed to a spot north of the city. “Kilo One-Three, one of our Kestrels running low and slow, reported an enemy contact here. Two trucks full of Tangos. Then they went radio silent. The two other birds we had on deck rotated over there ASAP and reported Kilo One-Three down and burning in the middle of the Ditch—”

“Shit,” Parker swore. He got up and moved around his desk to peer at the map.

“Yes sir. Ground units arrived on site fifteen minutes ago. It appears Kilo One-Three was downed with an RPG, both pilot and co-pilot dead in the bird, but not before he lit up the two vehicles. Initial reports are eight enemy KIA, two vehicles destroyed. However, it seems clear some enemy combatants survived the attack.”

“How many?”

“Unknown, sir, but first aid was attempted on one of the dead, and the RPG was fired a distance from that body, so best guess is at least three or more survived the attack and are on foot in the area. Our guess is that they were heading south, and whoever survived the contact continued in that direction or went to ground nearby. I’ve got two birds in the air, looking, and two platoons in Growlers and IMPs heading to the area. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you.” Parker thought for a bit. “Is this related to the other incident this morning?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Not directly. This was two miles north of the city, the other incident was in a suburb as well, south of the city.” The Colonel pointed. “They’re nearly twenty miles apart.”

Parker huffed. “I still don’t like it. I want us to find these fuckers, Coop. North and south.” He waved a hand at the map. “I’m getting tired of this shit. I’m glad that aircrew gave better than they got, but it’s still a tragedy.” As was the loss of the Kestrel, he could have added. “Any insurgents killed or captured at either of those locations, I want to know. Or if anything else pops off in the city. AARs on my desk tonight either way.”

“Absolutely.”

“Sir, if this was your daughter, I would ask you for its hand in marriage,” Mark said, hoisting the curve of watermelon rind aloft. It was his third, and his lips and fingers were wet and sticky with the juice of the fruit. He hadn’t had fresh watermelon in forever. He wasn’t alone.

“Nothing seasons like hunger,” Ed said. He’d heard the phrase years ago, and had found it to be unerringly accurate. He looked at their host, missing the strange look Jason threw his way. “And you’re taking one of those birds as a thank you.” He pointed at the pigeons Weasel had field dressed while they’d eaten and rested.

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

“This seems like a nice neighborhood,” Quentin said. He was still trying to forget the smell of Bobby’s blood, the sight of the boy’s shocked, pale face as he died.

“It’s quiet. I enjoy my gardening. And I get a lot of reading done.”

“Not at night,” George observed. Even in midday the house was gloomy due to a lack of windows.

Russell chuckled. “I get up and go to sleep with the sun. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do anyway, get up at the crack of dawn and eat dinner in the middle of the afternoon?”

“So I’ve heard,” George replied with a smile. He checked his watch, then pointedly looked at Ed, who nodded.

They’d been inside the house for an hour. Longer than Ed had first intended, but they’d heard Kestrels passing nearby twice, and he was loathe to head outside when helicopters were in the air close enough to hear.

“Haven’t had electricity but three weeks this year, but the water’s running two or three days a week. ‘Course, you still have to boil it. I’d offer you some, but it’s been four days since I got a trickle out of a faucet. I would like a favor to ask of you boys, though, before you leave,” their host said from his chair. “Might sound a bit odd.”

“Try us,” Early said, leaning on a door frame, letting Willis lick the watermelon juice off his fingers. The dog was very friendly as well as being seriously arthritic.

“If any of you feel the urge to do your business before you get on the road, I’d be obliged if you could do it around the corner,” he pointed, “where I’ve got a compost pile. Every little bit helps.”

Early’s face split in a huge smile. “Well, Sir, folks have been telling me my whole life I’m full o’ shit, it’s about time I finally put that to good use.” George snorted and Ed shook his head.

Before they headed out, Ed took a moment to talk to the entire squad. They were all hurting, some more than others. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a casualty, but it had been quite some time since Theodore had suffered a loss, and they’d all been feeling lucky. Untouchable. Especially after Weasel’s close call with the Toad.

“Bobby was a good man, and he will be sorely missed,” he said to their solemn faces. He traded a look with Quentin, and squeezed Weasel’s arm. “As will everyone we lost today. Franklin was as good as they get, and if it wasn’t for Arnold, that magnificent bastard, we’d all be dead too.” He paused. “A whole squad, plus one, is a stiff price to pay for a Kestrel, but don’t think they scored a walk-off home run on us. Maybe losing that one bird, that one thirty million dollar bird, will put a hole in their air coverage that will save lives tomorrow or the day after. Either way, we don’t have time to grieve. Not now. We’ve got a mission.” He paused, then his voice got steely.

“Are you dragging? Are you tired? Sad? Want to quit, go home, take a long nap, have a good cry? Make it personal. Remember the names of the men who died today, fighting for freedom. Remember their jokes, their laughter, the things they did that annoyed the fuck out of you. Remember their bloody, burned faces. Bring that pain, that hurt, that outrage at the unfairness of it all with you wherever you go. Make it personal. Because if you don’t keep that fire in your belly, the enemy will kill you, and getting killed is about as personal as it gets.” He looked around the squad, and Jason was shocked by the anger on the man’s face. “And if we all keep our heads on straight, maybe we’ll get an opportunity to fucking avenge them. We clear?” He got a chorus of yessirs and thumbs up.

Half an hour earlier they’d heard the muted rumble of several Growlers rolling down a street nearby to the north, but then nothing. “Haven’t heard a Kestrel in ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” Early said, staring out the window. “And it was way the hell off, at least a mile and a half.” All of them had become experts at gauging the distance of armor and aircraft.

“Twelve minutes,” George said, glancing at his big watch. It was solar powered and GPS enabled, although several times a day it lost all connection to the commercial GPS satellites. He didn’t know if that’s because the army was jamming their signal, they were being routed away from the city, they’d been downed as part of the war effort… So many questions, so few answers.

“We’ll separate into two groups, but I want to stay line of sight. Leprechaun is just a couple hundred yards west of here,” George told them, using the nickname for the major road that paralleled “The President” a mile to the west. “I want to cross it, then start heading south.”