Reckoning

Into the Night

As the Stryker speeds across the darkened landscape, running through fence lines as if they didn’t exist, Greg wonders what damage the Stryker has taken. So far it appears to be running as it should and he hopes that will continue. The near misses have surely stripped everything off the top. They had managed to almost fill their tanks, so they have some mileage available to them, but Greg hopes they were also able to retain some of their fuel canisters.

“Make for the crossroads,” Greg tells the driver. “And don’t let off on the throttle.”

The engine strains as the Stryker powers up a small hill. As they top the rise, they find themselves on a small airfield and speed across a narrow, paved runway. Greg thinks of how perfectly set up the two groups were. It’s as if they knew exactly where he was and, more importantly, where he was heading. He hopes they don’t have a drone aloft, or worse, a direct satellite feed. He and his group are already at a disadvantage. If he’s not able to maneuver tactically, if his position is constantly known, then it is only a matter of time.

Fuel, a breakdown, bad timing; any of these will eventually lead to them coming within range of the large caliber guns again and wiped from the face of the earth within minutes. For now, the only thing they can do is run and hope they make it to the crossroads first. After that, it’s a crap shoot, and they’ll just have to take it as it comes.

The few buildings comprising the airfield facilities vanish from view as the Stryker races down a runway covered with a fine layer of dirt, piled in small drifts in some places. Reaching the end, they descend the hill where the airstrip is located and enter more fields. Not too far ahead, past a couple of fenced-in fields, are the buildings which surround the crossroads. From there, highways stretch north, south, east, and west.

In the distance, to the north and east, along their respective roads, Greg spots the dim lights of the two other groups as they make rapidly for the same crossroad. He gives a sigh of relief when he sees the distance of the other vehicles. Greg’s decision to head cross country and make directly for the intersection, coupled with the difficulties the other groups had, have given him an advantage. Barring anything unforeseen happening in the next few moments, Greg and the others will reach the crossroads first with enough distance separating them from their pursuers.

Slamming up and over a small dirt lane, the Stryker crashes through a chain link fence that surrounds an industrial lot. Powering across the dusty lot and exiting from an entryway, they enter the highway. At the intersection, Greg engages the smoke generator. A thick cloud erupts from the vehicle, billowing outward and filling the cold air. Mixed with IR defeating particles, the smoke cloud will hide the thermal image of the Stryker from those making their way rapidly toward them. It may not hide their path, as there are only two to choose from, but it’s the only thing Greg has at his disposal. The highway south immediately enters into a pass. There is an off chance that they can be hidden by the time the other group works their way through the smoke. That may give Greg and the others some additional time…and distance.

Turning south, they enter between steep mountain walls rising directly from the highway. The hills aren’t as tall as those they came through earlier, but it’s still rough terrain. Snow hasn’t settled on any of the peaks as yet, but if the cold mountain air is any indication, that time isn’t far away. As the mammoth tires of the Stryker roll over the pavement, Greg is thankful they don’t have to deal with icy conditions in addition to being pursued by an armored force.

The crossroads behind are quickly lost from sight as the road meanders through the gap in the highlands. Before rounding a corner in the highway, which pushed the intersection out of sight, Greg wasn’t able to verify if the pursuit continued in their direction. For now, he can only assume that it does and continue their flight.

His plan is to run south through the night toward Santa Fe and Albuquerque. If they haven’t heard from Jack by that time, they will turn west, fleeing to the northwest and safety. He regrets not turning to the northwest when they had the initial choice. Every mile they drive south is taking them farther away from the compound. Greg knows there is only a small chance of linking up with Jack in the morning. And even then, the odds are remote that they’ll be able to create enough separation so that the 130 can land and pick them up. And that’s if there is a good place to land should they come into contact with Jack.

Yeah, I should have turned north, Greg thinks as they race between the hills.

The fuel situation will have to work itself out. Those behind will have to stop and refuel as well. Having more vehicles, it will take them longer to accomplish which is one advantage Greg and the others have. They escaped the trap with almost a full load of fuel, so they won’t have to worry about that until somewhere near Santa Fe. The others, having the same type of vehicle, will have to stop before then. Stopping for fuel where they did has given him the advantage fuel-wise.

Greg feels his head drooping and his eyes involuntarily closing as weariness sets in. They are all tired and he tells the others to rest as well as they can. They’re going to need it in the coming days. Greg knows the driver has to be exhausted and the last thing they need is to run off the road. He has another soldier switch places with the driver. The things they can control, they will.

“Sir?” one solider says, getting Greg’s attention.

Having almost fallen asleep, Greg snaps his head up. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” the soldier asks.

Others in the compartment nod, the same question running through their minds. Hearing the question, Greg can’t imagine how the ones they rescued must be feeling. To be rescued from the caves, and almost certain death, only to be thrown into this wild chase must be traumatic for them.

“No…no, I do not,” Greg answers wearily.

“Any guesses, sir?”

“Well, we obviously pissed someone off pretty bad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was my ex. In lieu of that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“How long do you think they’ll come after us?” another soldier asks.

“They don’t seem to like us much, so I’m thinking they mean to chase us to the ends of the earth. If they were merely safeguarding a base camp, they would have stopped their pursuit long ago. The fact that they’ve chased us so hard and for so long gives me the impression that they’ll continue to do so. Sorry, but that’s the straight skinny as far as I see it.”

“What are we going to do, sir?”

“We’ll run south, to Albuquerque if necessary, then turn west and make our way back to the compound. We’ll fuel up whenever the opportunity arises. They’ll have to do the same, so we’re at least even with that. If Jack makes contact with us, we’ll find a place for him to land and haul our sorry asses out of here. Until then, we keep our heads on our shoulders and conduct a strategic withdrawal…at high speed,” Greg replies.

The last draws a few chuckles from the soldiers. Strategic withdrawal means retreat. It’s the military vernacular for ‘get the fuck out of Dodge’. The expressions of those they rescued ease to a degree. There are still lines of tension etched around the eyes, but there is some relaxation knowing there is at least a semblance of a plan, and that Greg isn’t entirely making it up as they go. Of course, there really isn’t anything to plan, or make up for that matter. It’s just run and try to stay far enough ahead. Kind of like a deadly form of tag…but in this game, there are no tag backs.

There is one thing that Greg has kept in a corner of his mind, which he doesn’t mention and has him worried. There is the second group that split off from their pursuers, the one that went south at Pueblo. They are unaccounted for, and he hopes they took that direction to cover the possible avenues Greg could have taken. If there is communication between those behind and that group, well, that wouldn’t bode well.

After the initial twists and turns, the mountain pass levels out and they are able to make good speed, even with having to drive on thermal imaging. The trip through the passage is a short one and they soon find themselves driving past lower hills, eventually spilling out into a long, gradually widening valley. So far, Greg hasn’t seen any sign of their pursuit, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there as the winding road prevents any distant view.

They drive out onto the flat plain of the valley and the road runs straight for miles. Greg looks back and is dismayed to see their pursuit emerge from behind the hills. The chase so far hasn’t enabled him to gain any separation, but the others still haven’t been able to close the distance either. Greg reasons that the armored column following them must have had to refuel by this time.

Perhaps they’re doing it in a series, refueling some while the others pursue, Greg thinks, feeling his eyes begin to close again. That way they can leap frog each other and continue the chase.

Greg, knowing he’ll need his wits with the coming day, trades places with a soldier. With instructions to wake him should the situation change, he gets as comfortable as possible and closes his eyes. He is soon fast asleep.

Carrying its crew of very tired people, the Stryker continues its journey south. Any apprehensions they have about the dangers are lost in the blur of exhaustion, especially among those who were rescued. They’ve been through a lot…and it shows.

Through the night, the Stryker maintains its flight toward Santa Fe, passing through the small townships of Villa Grove, Moffat, Hooper, Alamosa, and others that flash by in the blink of an eye, barely noticed before they fade from view. The tall peaks edging the long valley are darker shades against the night sky. The seemingly abandoned small towns, the twinkling stars above, and the faint lights sporadically visible behind are the only company as they race under the velvet of the nighttime sky.

The eastern sky above the peaks lightens with the impending arrival of the dawn, gradually turning a lighter shade of blue, outlining the dark shapes of the mountain tops. Somewhere in their run through the night, they passed the sign welcoming them to New Mexico.

Greg feels his shoulder being shaken and, as if from a distance, he hears someone calling him. He opens his eyes as consciousness slowly rises from the depths of his exhausted sleep. Across from him, on the opposite bench seat, soldiers and those rescued rest their heads on each other, trying to sleep while constantly being jostled from the motion of the Stryker.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake. What is it?” Greg asks, gazing blurry-eyed at the soldier who awakened him.

“Sir, we’re approaching a large city. It’s nearly dawn,” the soldier responds.

“How’s our fuel?” Greg asks, rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to banish the fatigue.

“We’re getting low, just under a third of a tank.”

“Anything on our pursuit?”

“They’re still behind us, sir. We haven’t gained or lost any distance from them.”

“Okay, good job. Get some rest,” Greg says, rising.

He wakes the driver and has him replace the soldier currently manning the position. Clambering over and around a tangle of legs, Greg resumes his position in the commander’s station. Looking at the map, he orients himself to their location and what they are facing ahead.

Sunlight illuminates the very tops of the mountaintops to the west as the team enters the beginnings of a once-inhabited town. It may still be populated, but whether that is by any remnants of humankind, night runners, or a combination thereof is unknown. The map shows several towns built next to each other. They surround the confluence of several streams, the waters having originated from the surrounding elevations.

Pursuit isn’t too far behind. Greg has few choices. They’ll need fuel within the next one hundred miles, and this may be the last chance prior to Santa Fe. If they don’t refuel now, they’ll be running on fumes by the time they reach the large metropolis, at which point, any choices will be taken away from them.

They are on the outskirts of a city large enough that they could possibly lose their pursuers within the myriad of streets. The last time didn’t work out very well, but there’s a better chance within the larger urban sprawl. If the armor behind passes them by, Greg can wait until they’re out of sight and flee to the north. To do that, he’ll have to make sure they all pass and aren’t operating in a leap-frog fashion as they refuel…and that they don’t have airborne surveillance.

The third option is to continue driving south in the hopes that they outrun those behind. He’s not comfortable continuing a chase of this manner in addition to running low on fuel.

Pondering the choices, Greg knows that the immediate priority is fuel. If they are to make a run back to the compound and safety, they will have to stay on top of the fuel situation.

The trick is how to accomplish that feat. It will have to be out from sight from the main thoroughfare with ready access to an escape route. They can’t use a gas station; that will take too long to set up. That leaves siphoning fuel from a semi-tractor or other large, diesel-driven piece of equipment.

Turning to the group, most of whom are now awake, he tells them, “Okay, folks. We’re going to need to fuel up here. Hopefully we still have some fuel canisters. If so, then we’re going to do it the same way we did it last time, three pouring fuel and the rest siphoning.”

Previously, on entering or approaching any town, they exhibited a tremendous amount of caution. Now, with the danger on their back trail, they can’t afford that luxury. Driving through the city, Greg looks down streets shadowed in the early morning light. Observing one such street, he sees a flash of yellow sticking out from the edge of a building.

“Driver, take the next right,” Greg orders.

A block past a major intersection, the Stryker turns into a dusty lot, entering a back street on the other side. Greg knows their tracks through the lot may be found but hopes that the group behind will turn down the highway rather than drive onward.

A few turns later, just as he hoped, Greg sees a school. The buildings surround a central courtyard with entrances to the middle at each corner. The Stryker, barely fitting between two of the buildings, enters the enclosure. Near one of the encircling wooden buildings sit four school buses. Classroom windows look out over the square which is filled with swirls of dirt mixed with debris. Grime covers the panes of the classrooms and buses alike, rendering them opaque.

Greg has the Stryker pulled up next to the main building, effectively hiding the armored vehicle from view. It’s really the perfect setup and he can’t think of anything he would improve, other than the diesel instantaneously moving itself from the bus tanks to his own.

Chill air rushes in as the ramp lowers, the metallic clang echoing off the buildings enclosing the courtyard. Through the dust swirls, there are faint lines showing where small feet once played hopscotch and others where mighty games of four square reigned. To the side, a lone metal pole stands with an ochre ball still attached to a thin cord.

The inside empties quickly as everyone rushes out, their warm exhalations producing small clouds of vapor in the motionless, cold air. The exhaust from the idling Stryker emits the same, dissipating quickly as the fumes reach the same temperature as the surrounding atmosphere.

Soldiers scramble to remove a couple of fuel canisters that survived the near misses. With the exception of a tattered tarp and a few tools, the rest of the top has been swept clear of their supplies. Luckily, they still have a few cartons of MREs and bottled water inside.

Greg stations two soldiers at either end of the main building looking out toward the road. He warns everyone to stay out of sight of the highway. While the refueling operation begins, he walks around the Stryker looking for damage. Bright metal shows where shrapnel impacted and dented the sides. The large tires have some of the rubber missing but they are, for the most part, intact. The damage that worries Greg the most is that the antennas have been severed. Should Jack fly into the area, there is no way they will be able to communicate. Jack could fly mere miles away and not even know Greg’s team is in the area. If he sees the 130, he’ll try using a signal mirror to contact them.

Noting the exhaust plumes of the Stryker, he looks to make sure that their heat signature is kept within the confines of the square and doesn’t rise above the single-story school. Satisfied that they are in as good of a position as they possibly can be, Greg helps carry full fuel canisters from the buses.

As the seconds tick by, Greg keeps expecting to hear from the scouts that they’ve been spotted and that armored units are closing in. Each minute means more fuel. Tension fills him knowing their vulnerability, mixed with the hope that the others will pass them by. He notes the same anxiety with the others. They are carrying out their tasks quickly and quietly. Plumes of breath follow each person as they lug the heavy canisters to the Stryker. The only sound is the idling engine and occasional ringing as the metal cans contact the ground or vehicle.

Ten minutes… fifteen minutes. The first rays of sunlight begin penetrating the valley floor. Greg begins to relax in the hope that they might have given the other units the slip. If that’s the case, they’ll wait a while and slip back out to the main road and strike north, retracing their route and continuing toward the northwest, hoping to eventually arrive back at Cabela’s. Any thought of continuing their mission is long gone.

“Sir, two Humvees are heading in our direction. Four Strykers and a lot of other Humvees just passed on the main highway heading south,” the northernmost lookout calls.

“Fuck. Everyone inside, now!” Greg calls.

As he runs for the ramp, Greg again wonders how they were found. They didn’t travel down the road on which the two Humvees are approaching so there’s no way the others saw their tracks, yet they are making a beeline right at them. The only way that could be is if they have some form of airborne surveillance. And that makes anything they do a straight out fight for survival. In a way, it makes decisions about what they have to do easier. There’s no second-guessing about how to lose their tail, they won’t. They just have to finish this race in first place. First though, they have to extricate themselves.

Two soldiers are lugging a heavy canister laden with fuel across the lot. Knowing the importance of the fuel, they aren’t giving up their load. They make it up the ramp and it closes as the first Humvee barrels into the north opening opposite the one Greg’s Stryker entered. With a squeal of breaks, it partially slides to a halt. Another fills the second opening on the north side seconds later.

Greg opens up with the .50 cal before the gunner of the first vehicle can fire. Sparks strike off the roof as the heavy rounds pound into the Humvee. Torn metal flies around the gunner as the rounds find their mark. Blood and metal fill the turbulent air.

“Go, now! Into the corner of the building,” Greg shouts as he shifts his aim point.

A flurry of .50 cal rounds punch into the windshield of the Humvee, tearing holes in the thick glass and sending splintered shards into the vehicle. Blood splatters on the inside of the glass remaining within the frame, coating it red.

The Stryker launches forward as the gunner from the other Humvee opens up point blank. Heavy thuds pound against the armor, sparks flying as the rounds ricochet off. One of the heavy caliber rounds finds its way through the thick armor. It careens through a piece of equipment on the wall sending sparks into the interior. Slowed, but still packing a punch, it collides with the shoulder of the boy they rescued from the crosses the other night, severing his arm from his shoulder. His arm falls limply into the lap of the soldier next to him and splatters those across from him with blood. Several screams punctuate the interior.

The soldier stares mutely at the arm in his lap, not knowing exactly what it means. An arm just landed in his lap and the shock of not understanding the implications causes him to just gaze at it for split-seconds. He lifts it and looks to the boy next to him. The realization hits with full force as he sees the mutilated remnants of the boy’s shoulder. Splinters of bone are all that remain of the arm with blood streaming from the wound. The soldier only heard the boy give a compressed sigh and slump to the side.

Dropping the arm to the floor, the soldier rips off his shirt and stuffs it into the wound, holding it tightly against the injury as others scramble to help.

Greg turns the turret to the second Humvee but, with their surge ahead, its gunner is lost from view. Instead, he sends high-speed, heavy projectiles into the front of the vehicle. Steam billows upward from the punctured radiator. Rounds punch into the hood sending a spray of oil upward as a line is severed. The windscreen shatters as the rounds continue arcing across the Humvee.

The rest is lost from view as the Stryker collides with the wooden sides of the school building. A clamor of boards and glass breaking covers all other sounds as the heavy vehicle punches through the wall. The Stryker tilts as it barrels its way through what once was a classroom filled with the town’s youth.

Portions of the roof collapse as the heavily armored vehicle thunders through the side walls. The Stryker emerges from the other side, leaving a trail of timbers, siding, insulation, and pipes. As it exits, the entire part of the damaged building falls in on itself with a crash.

Turning down the street toward the main highway, with broken boards sliding off the sides, the Stryker accelerates past the disabled Humvee. The shredded remains of the Humvee’s gunner lies half out of the open gunner’s position, draped across the roof. Streams of blood flow down what is left of the windshield and side window.

Passing the road in front of the main school building, Greg sees the core of the opposing armored column about to enter into the courtyard he just exited. Led by one of the other Strykers, he sees the turret swing in his direction.

“Punch it,” Greg bellows.

Making it past the street opening, Greg hears a thunderous roar. A house on the corner erupts in a billowing column of smoke and flame. The snapshot made by the opposing Stryker narrowly missed. Boards and siding are thrown high into the air and tossed outward, fanning across the dead lawn and the road.

They must have had a high explosive round loaded rather than an anti-armor Sabot round, Greg thinks.

The rounds may not penetrate the armored side of the Stryker, but it could tip it on its side. That’s something Greg would very much like to avoid. The column disappears from view as the Stryker continues down the street, picking up speed. Greg has the driver turn down several streets in order to keep them from a direct line-of-sight.

Reaching the intersection of highways, Greg discharges another smoke cloud. The Stryker soon crosses over a bridge spanning a river that divides the connecting townships. Again, Greg wishes for more firepower. Not for holding out against their antagonists, as he knows they wouldn’t last long in a slugging match, but more so that they could damage the bridge enough to slow down the pursuit. Highly suspecting that they are now fighting against an enemy that has airborne surveillance capabilities, he knows that they won’t lose their tail for long. All he can hope for is to create some separation.

While not getting the fuel load he wanted, Greg is at least satisfied that they have enough to make Albuquerque and to maneuver should the need arise. The road connects with another highway and, after motoring through an industrial area on the outskirts of San Pedro, it swings southeast and then south toward Santa Fe.

As the sun continues its upward trek, the shadows from the mountains slowly edge their way across the valley floor. Standing in one of the open hatches, Greg focuses his binoculars behind. Not able to see far because of intervening buildings, he does make out occasional glimpses of armor crossing the bridges. Not knowing how or why they were able to gain any separation, he is thankful. They aren’t out of the fire by a long shot, and picking up fuel down the road will be perilous if the last two instances are any indication.

Back inside, Greg notes a group of soldiers crowding around one of the passengers. With shock, he sees the splatter of blood on the equipment across from them. Blood drips off the bench seat to a gathering pool on the metal floor. So intent was he on the escape, he had no idea they had sustained an injury. One of the soldiers has an IV bag held high. Positions shift as they are administering first aid and, through a gap of bodies, Greg sees the head of the boy they rescued leaning to the side, his eyes closed. Gathering the attention of one of the soldiers, Greg raises an eyebrow asking after the boy’s well-being. The soldier shakes his head and continues with his treatment.

Rolling toward Santa Fe, the valley narrows as the mountain chains on either side close in. Hundreds of thin ridgelines reach out into the valley looking like fingers trying to take root or pull the valley in toward the mighty peaks. Ravines cut deeply into the ridges, created during the massive runoff from the spring thaws.

More worried about keeping the distance from the armored forces behind than about fuel consumption, Greg has the Stryker racing as fast as the road will allow. In some areas, only a slight rise of the ground denotes where the road is. The dirt of the plains, covered only with scant scrub brush and the occasional stunted tree, has swept over large portions of the pavement. As they speed toward Santa Fe, Greg wonders just how long it will be until the highway completely vanishes.

It won’t be much longer, he thinks as the northern approaches to the city become visible.

Just before entering the massive residential district that covers the northern part of the metropolis, Greg orders the Stryker onto a highway that fully skirts the town to the west. Passing the airport serving the town, the team connects with the interstate leading toward Albuquerque. The vast chain of mountains they were following ends as they enter the flatter terrain.

To the rear, Greg sees a dust cloud from their pursuers rising into the thin air. With them so close, he ponders how they are going to refuel the Stryker as they approach Albuquerque. They’ll be running short by the time they arrive.

Maybe it’s time we abandon the Stryker and find vehicles that will give us more speed, he thinks, knowing the firepower they are carrying is useless and the distance they can keep is their only defense. We’ll save on gas and have to refuel less often.

Several miles down the road, as he is going through a plan to quickly transfer to working vehicles, a glimmer catches his attention. He increases the zoom level on the camera for a better look.

Ahead, stretched across the road and out to the sides, armored vehicles are spread in a line. Greg instantly recognizes the distinct outlines of several Strykers and Humvees. He’s found the second group, and the distance between him and this second group is closing quickly.

“Driver, off the road, now! Head northwest,” Greg shouts.

Slowing only a touch, the Stryker turns. Pulled from their focus on the boy, all heads turn toward Greg. Concentrating on the situation, Greg ignores the looks of anxiety, telling them that an armored column is on the road ahead.

Their only escape is to make for the hills. If they can gain the terrain which lies to the northwest, land which will invalidate the use of armor, they may stand a minimal chance on foot. He’ll worry about where they’ll go afterward, but right now, they have to extricate themselves from the killing ground they’ve stumbled into. Greg should have guessed the other force would come against them like this. In the back of his mind, he thought this might be a possibility once he determined the others had the use of airborne surveillance. He just hoped he could outrun it.

The Stryker jostles as it races across undulations in the land. On this section of the plateau, there isn’t a single bush to hide behind. Their only chance is to keep their speed up and, with the angle of their flight, hope that will throw the gunner’s aim off. A thunderous roar lifts the Stryker, canting it sideways and throwing everyone inside against each other. It settles back with a hard bounce. The wheels grip the soft soil and the armored vehicle surges forward once again.

“Fuck!” Greg hears through the ringing in his ears.

He wants to see what the shout was about, but the dire situation they are in commands his full attention. Greg looks for a gully or some large crease in the terrain which will give them a measure of cover. There’s nothing he can see in the immediate area. Their only hope is what appears to be a drop off in the distance.

Another near miss rocks the Stryker. This is followed immediately by a loud clang which throws the heavy vehicle to the side. Violently tossed against the interior wall, Greg feels like his ears are bleeding from the concussive blast. Stunned, he retains enough consciousness to know the vehicle is still mobile.

Another blast crashes into the side, slewing the Stryker. As the vehicle slams back down, Greg feels it settle lower than normal.

“That does it for us, sir,” the driver calls. “The Stryker is done for.”

“Everyone out!” Greg orders. “There’s a drop off to our front. Make for it.”

Greg clambers across a tilted deck strewn with equipment. One of the soldiers is standing next to the wounded boy. With the others clear, Greg can now see the extent of his injury. He is slumped over the bench seat, his face pale and clammy. Bloodied bandages litter the seat and floor. The boy’s arm lies on the seat next to his hip.

Knowing the answer already by the lack of blood flowing from the wound, Greg asks anyway, “How is he?”

“He died a few minutes ago, sir.”

“Leave him,” Greg states, knowing that it’s only a matter of seconds before another shell slams into the Stryker to finish them off.

They hustle out, setting foot on the dusty plain. Turning toward the drop off, the others are running across the flats, the soldiers in the back with the rest ahead. Greg and the soldier run after them, looking to get as much distance from the disabled vehicle as possible. The chatter of heavy machine gun fire erupts in the distance.

Turning toward the sound, Greg sees tracers reach out across barren land. The red streaks converge around the others racing ahead. Heavy slugs rip into the ground sending showers of dirt into the air, obliterating any view of the rest of his team and those they rescued. The dust slowly settles to the ground, allowing Greg the ability to see through the maelstrom. Of the nine who were running for the drop off, there’s not a single one standing. Greg skids to a stop as the tracers halt momentarily and then, start firing in his direction.

“Back to the Stryker!” Greg yells, fear sending a jolt of electricity through his body. The armor of the vehicle will give them more cover from the heavy slugs ripping through the air.

Greg can feel the large caliber rounds slam into the soil as he runs through the soft dirt. The air is filled with dust thrown up by the impacts, obscuring his vision. As he and his teammate race down the side of the Stryker, sparks flash off the sides accompanied by heavy, metallic thuds. In the noise, confusion, and fear, Greg’s thoughts have been reduced down to a single one, get into the cover afforded by the Stryker.

He feels several tugs against his pant legs and vest as some of the rounds narrowly miss. A burning sensation across his back makes its way to his consciousness. As he nears the rear of the vehicle, surrounding by swirling dust and the close impact of rounds, Greg observes, with a form of disassociation, as if he is a mere spectator, a splash of blood wash across the side of the Stryker. He knows, with the same disassociation, that his teammate has been hit. Rounding the corner of the vehicle, he throws himself into the opening.

Landing amongst a clutter of objects lying on the floor, he hears heavy impacts slamming into the sides. Breathing hard, his heart thudding, he looks up. The boy they rescued stares blankly only inches away from Greg. He’s been in a lot of tricky situations, but he has no idea how he’ll extricate himself from this one. The ones firing seem intent on eliminating every last one of them.

A crashing explosion rocks the Stryker. Greg is lifted and thrown against the far wall. He only registers the hard impact before darkness descends.