James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

The area was either devoid of people or they’d learned long ago to stay out of sight whenever they heard gunfire nearby. Halfway down a block Ed held up a hand and the squad hunkered down. For half a minute they squatted, waiting, watching, listening, then Ed pointed at a house. The squad rose as one man and moved forward.

Ed took the left side of the house, Quentin the right, as the rest of the squad quickly entered the battered abode and checked it. After determining the perimeter was clear Ed slowly backed up to the house. Its side door was half off its hinges and he sidestepped inside.

The brick-sided bungalow was in better shape on the inside than its exterior led them to believe. Although nothing but slivers were left of its windows, and both its front and side doors had been kicked in, the interior walls and floors hardly showed any damage. It was over three-quarters of a mile from the ambush site, and looked unremarkable. It should do. Ed sent Mark to the front of the house to keep watch and Weasel to the back. After dumping their extra gear in the center of the house the two men moved out.

Jason helped a staggering George onto a chair in what had been the dining room. George fought his way out of his pack straps and slid onto his butt on the floor, chest still heaving.

“Christ I’m out of shape,” he murmured. He allowed himself another thirty seconds to recover, then took charge of inventorying their booty. He glanced around, finally deciding the kitchen, with its counters, would be the best spot. “I need a magazine count,” he announced.

Even though he knew his men had already checked it Ed crept up the stairs to the second floor and made sure it was clear. The top floor contained a master bedroom with its own bath and a tiny second bedroom hardly larger than a closet. The roof seemed to be intact, keeping the interior dry except for a leak in one corner which had soaked the mattress there, making the whole room smell of mildew. Ed peered out the windows front and back, then went back downstairs.

Mark was in the living room in the shadows six feet back from the bay window’s empty frame. The SAW was set up on its bipod next to him. Shards of glass littered the stained carpet, glinting faintly in the light. They’d all been cut by broken glass so many times it hardly seemed worth mentioning. George set an ammo can next to him just as Ed was coming down the stairs.

Mark cracked the can open and nodded. He opened the top of the SAW, then unhooked the soft-sided ammunition box from underneath the SAW’s receiver, revealing a belt of linked ammo barely six inches long. From the ammo can he pulled a fresh, gleaming belt of 200 rounds and wound it carefully into the soft-box. After reloading the light machine gun Mark pulled a second full belt of clinking ammo from the can. He sent Ed back to his pack for the spare soft-box he’d kept, never really believing he’d have the ammo necessary to fill it. He wound the second belt of ammo into the spare box.

“Got a better view out the front upstairs,” Ed told him, jerking his thumb at the ceiling. “There’s a wet mattress up there. A soaked mattress will hide you from infrared in the middle of a snowfield in January,” he said, not telling the big man anything he didn’t already know. “Pull it off the bed and set it up so you can dive under it quick if you need to.” Mark nodded and grabbed the SAW, now ten pounds heavier, with a grunt.

“Here,” George said quietly as Ed came back into the kitchen, pointing at a stack of loaded magazines. Ed counted six.

“Excellent,” he said.

“You’re going to get more, I just haven’t finished inventorying everything,” George told him pointedly. The two men looked at each other. Finally George shook his head. “Can you believe that?” he asked.

Ed shook his head and smiled. How they’d managed to not just survive but get through the incident without suffering any injuries, other than the small cut on Weasel’s forehead, was a minor miracle. He grabbed the magazines and began quickly stuffing them into the pockets of his vest.

George had the kitchen counters piled with confiscated gear. Among the many items were three old M4 carbines that had been stripped from fallen soldiers. Ed pointed at them questioningly.

“Spare parts,” George told him. “And maybe one for the kid.” Ed nodded in understanding, then his eyes shot toward the ceiling. The rest of the squad heard it too, and the rustling as they checked their gear ceased.

“Kestrel,” Mark called softly down the stairs.

The helicopter came curving in from the west, a thousand feet off the deck, the pilot aiming for the column of oily black smoke rising slowly in the afternoon air.

“That’s gotta be it,” the copilot confirmed, nodding at the smoke, after checking the GPS.

The big bird circled once high above the smoke, then dropped down low for a closer look.

“Christ,” the copilot muttered.

The pilot keyed his radio. “Hotel Four, this is Lima Eleven, over.”

“Go ahead Eleven.” The Major at the other end didn’t sound like he was expecting good news.

“Hotel, we’ve got one vehicle on fire, another stationary, surrounded by what looks like at least a dozen friendly KIA. Nothing’s moving, no sign of hostiles. It’s over, over.”

“Roger Eleven. Circle the area, see if you can spot the Tangos heading out. I’ve got Lima Twelve heading your way, ETA three, over.”

“Roger that.”

“Hotel to all air and ground assets, per protocol we will be switching to the alternate channel. I repeat, switch over to your designated alternate channel now, over.”

The pilot spoke over his shoulder. “You keep your eyes on that SAM radar. I don’t want to get a Spike up my ass.”

“I thought that was just a bullshit rumor.”

“You mean like the Gators pushing north and west far enough to hook up with the Longhorns?”

“What’s he doing?” Ed called softly upstairs.

“Circling around to the north.”

Ed nodded and went back into the dining room. Early had one of the dead soldier’s rifles and was explaining to Jason how to operate it. “I know it’s an ugly piece of shit,” he heard Early murmur, “but even John Wayne wouldn’t use a lever action in this war.”

“Who’s John Wayne?”

“Do we have satellite coverage?” the Major in charge of the air wing, such as it was, asked loudly, not turning around. The operations center behind him grew quiet.

“No,” the Sergeant tasked with knowing such things answered, after checking his watch. “We’re right near the end of a forty-two minute blackout window.” The blackout windows were getting longer and more numerous. At the start of the war they had numerous Keyhole reconnaissance satellites over the city at any one time. Now they only had coverage nine or so hours a day… spread out over twenty-four hours.

“Goddamnit,” the Major growled. His headset came to life.

“Lima Twelve is on station, over.”

“Roger Twelve. Be advised we have ground units en route, ETA six minutes, over.”

“Roger Hotel Four. Four,” the Kestrel pilot asked, “any chance we have a bird overhead that we can roll back the film on, see which direction the Tangos went? Over.”

“Negative, Twelve. Just checked on that myself. Keep an eye, over.”

“Roger, over and out.” Mike Cornwell, the pilot of Lima Twelve, switched channels to talk directly with Eleven.

“Eleven, this is Twelve, you check south at all?”

“Negative, just done circles north, over.”

Cornwell turned to his copilot. “Now, if you didn’t want us to spot you, where would you go?” He grinned.

“Got two out there now,” Mark called softly down the stairs. The first circling Kestrel had been joined by a second from the north.