Foreign Enemies and Traitors (64 page)

“Can you get over this fence with your pack on?”

“Yeah, I can, as long as the boards are steady.”  They were whispering, crouching nearly nose-to-nose, as Jenny also studied the green dial of the compass.  “Zack, I’ve got to ask you.  How did you lose your rifle?”

He looked away, embarrassed.  “It…it was on top of my pack and my clothes.  I thought it was on there good.  I kind of slipped on some rocks, and I almost went over.  I caught my balance, but my rifle slid off.  My hands were full holding my pack, and I couldn’t grab it.”  He paused.  “You must really think I’m some kind of a dork.” 

“No, that’s not why I asked.  I just wanted to know.  Come on, let’s go.”  Jenny put a boot on the middle rail, climbed up and swung her leg over while holding the top of the post.  She had to be careful not to squeeze the baby against the top rail.  Zack grabbed her pack and steadied her.  She turned around, straddling the top rail, swung her other leg over and hopped down, facing him.  She knew that if an enemy was out there somewhere with a night scope on a rifle, they’d be easy targets.  The distant firing continued, low pops and thumps indicating the shooting was some miles away.  Orange reflected off the low clouds to the west, the direction of the shooting.  Still whispering close, she asked, “What’s that light?”

Zack studied the reddish glow, and answered, “Fires.  They’re torching houses, that’s what I’d guess.”

“How far away do you think they are?”  Beyond the fields that lay in that direction, trees and rolling terrain blocked their view.

“I don’t know…maybe a mile?  Maybe more.  It’s hard to tell.  Let’s keep moving.”  He climbed the fence and jumped down.

****

Phil Carson scurried forward in a crouch. 
The dark hulk of the armored vehicle was clearly visible in the moonlight.  The other ASV and the pair of men in between were illuminated by the first vehicle’s side-mounted spotlight.  He speed-walked while hunched down, holding the big Glock .45 in both hands in front of him.  The borrowed carbine was slung over his back, barrel down.  His pack was left back at their last position, where Boone and Doug were watching the scene with their night-scoped rifles.

It was at least 100 yards from any cover to his final approach position, which was on a line dead behind his target.  With its four fat wheels and angled plates, it looked like the American armored cars he had seen in Vietnam.  ‘Commandos,’ they had been called.  They were made by Cadillac, or so he remembered.  These looked like modern versions.  Boone had explained that the remaining crewman in the vehicle, probably the commander in the right front seat, could not see directly behind them.  The big mirrors extending out from both front corners were usually covered with mud flung up from the protruding front tires, Boone had said.  Also, the vehicle commander’s night vision would be impaired by looking into the spotlight’s white beam to his front. 

In any case, the commander’s attention would be focused on the operation in front of him, between the vehicles, and not behind him.  Since the turret gunner had climbed out to help drag the retrieval wire forward, the vehicle would have a blind spot straight to the rear.  The turret’s guns were still trained back toward Carson as he made his approach.  Maybe there was a fourth crewman riding in the ASV, who was up in the turret.  If the turret moved to aim its big guns at him, he’d be dead before he heard the bang.  He wondered how low that .50 caliber could be depressed, and how close he would have to creep in order to be under its deadly arc of fire.

The driver and commander in the front of an ASV each had a hatch above them.  The driver’s hatch was opened outward to the left side like a small steel wing.  From his angle, Carson could not tell if the commander’s hatch was open or closed, or if he was even standing up through the hatch.  One man had to drag the steel cable’s hook, but another had to stay inside, to push the winch button to pay it out.  Boone had been sure of this.  Either the driver or the commander still had to be up front.

Carson made it to the blind spot straight behind the ASV undetected.  There was enough moonlight to see the armored car clearly.  The turret had not moved during his approach.  It seemed that nobody was manning the big turret guns, and he felt some of the immediate dread float away from him.  Diesel smoke blew out through angled steel grates on the back of the vehicle, faintly visible against the white light cast forward by its spotlight.  Because of the vehicle’s idling motor, his approach didn’t need to be perfectly silent, just unseen.  Between the left wheels was the open two-part crew door.  The top half was swung rearward, resting against the armored hull.  Carson held the Glock in his right hand, slid along the side of the armored vehicle, and peered inside.  Dim red cabin lights provided faint illumination.  The middle of the vehicle was taken up by a circular cage, a tower of metal grating that protected the gunner as he rotated with the turret.  It was empty.

Forward of the turret cage were two large bucket seats.  Four slit-like windows, two in front and one on each side of the crew compartment, provided front and side visibility to the driver and commander.  In front of the empty left seat was the steering wheel.  On the right side, a soldier was standing up through his roof hatch, invisible to Carson above his chest.  The spotlight threw its white beam forward, to where the two Kazaks struggled to drag the wire through the muck.  The presumed vehicle commander shouted something to the men in a guttural language that Carson didn’t recognize.

Boone, with his night-scoped sniper rifle, could see neither into the vehicle nor forward of the turret.  That’s why I’m here, thought Carson.  One man had to go forward on foot, to eliminate the unseen commander and any other Kazaks inside the armored car.  Quietly, with just a silenced pistol.  Boone hardly knows me, to send me on such a critical mission.  Nine out of ten men will balk at cold-blooded close-range pistol work, but Boone trusts that I won’t.  He has faith that I’ll pull the trigger, and that I won’t miss.  This trust could only have come to Boone from his father, the original Viking, so I must not fail, he thought. 

Carson pressed himself against the angled steel of the vehicle’s hull, and put his right foot on the metal step of the lowered hatch section.  It was happening.  He held the Glock in his right hand, and with his left he grasped a vertical steel hand grip and pulled himself up so that he could see across the top of the ASV, forward of the turret.  He peeked over the open driver’s hatch.  The open hatch had to lie flat to the outside, so that it would not interfere with the turret’s traverse.  This was the moment of truth.  He took it on faith, without even thinking consciously of it, that Boone and Doug at this very moment had their rifles aimed at the Kazaks on the other ASV, just fifty yards in front of him.  Hopefully, the white spotlight shining in their direction blinded them from seeing him.  Certainly the vehicle commander, only two yards away, had no sense of the danger lurking behind him to his left.

Carson’s eyes edged above the top of the vehicle’s hull, and around the front of the turret.  His left hand kept its grip on the crew’s grab bar, his right held the Glock.  No pistol sights were needed at this range.  Fortune was with him.  The commander’s head and shoulders still extended out of his open hatch on the right front of the vehicle.  He shouted another order at his two crewmen, who were trapped in the glare of the spotlight’s beam.  The remotely controlled spotlight was mounted on top of the left rearview mirror’s metal frame, just in front of Carson.  The soldier standing in the hatch was wearing a tanker’s helmet with built-in radio earphones, beneath an abbreviated hard shell on top.  A single-tube night observation device was tipped up on the helmet, out of the way. 

Afraid that the Kazak’s head might disappear back inside the hatch, Carson aimed over the suppressor and squeezed the trigger.  Recoil was mild for a .45; the sound was no more than a loud handclap.  His shot took the man in the neck below his earphone, in the inch of white flesh above his soft body armor.  There was no need for a follow-up or security shot.  His chest and shoulders fell forward, over his windshield segment and down onto the front of the vehicle.  His head lay twisted sideways as his blood pumped onto the steel, shining black in the moonlight.  Carson crouched by the side of the turret and stared at the unmoving Kazak.  Satisfied, he pumped his left arm up and down.

****

Boone’s rifle sight was already trained on the turret gunner
of the trapped armored security vehicle.  His SR-25’s ten-pound weight was supported across the top of the stump he was using for cover.  The enemy gunner was the key to their success or failure.  If the gunner dropped inside the turret and opened fire, he could chew them to ground meat with his machine gun and his automatic grenade launcher.  Their own rifle bullets would bounce harmlessly off the ASV’s armor plates. 

Doug was using his rifle’s night scope to keep watch on Phil Carson as he crept along the left side of the recovery vehicle, keeping Boone informed with a whispered commentary.  “He’s looking inside.  Now he’s climbing up.  Now he’s by the driver’s hatch…  He’s leaning around the front of the turret…”

Boone’s glowing crosshair reticle was centered on the face of the more distant ASV’s gunner.  The Kazak mercenary was standing through the turret hatch, looking back toward the men with the retrieval wire.  The ASV gunners’ hatches opened to the rear, and stood vertical when open.  The turret of the stuck ASV was still facing forward, away from Boone’s line of sight, so the vertical open hatch shielded most of the gunner’s torso.  But a few inches were enough, at this range of just less than 200 yards.  He could tell that the gunner was wearing an American combat vehicle crewman’s helmet, with its built-in earphones, intercom, and night vision device swung up on top.  Was there nothing that our American traitors didn’t provide to these Cossack mercenaries?

Doug said, “There’s the arm pump—Phil’s done it.”

Boone squeezed the trigger of his SR-25, and the distant turret gunner’s head whipped violently.  He was flung backward, caught at the waist by the turret’s opening.  His upper body came to rest in an impossibly awkward position that signified instant death to Boone.  Doug’s rifle spat muffled shots beside him.  He had the easier job of killing the two unlucky Cossacks caught out in the middle of the field with the retrieval wire. 

The dead turret gunner was as clearly visible in Boone’s night scope as at high noon, but for the greenish hues.  A security shot went into his side, but caused no reflex action: he was shooting at a corpse.  Boone dropped his reticle down and found the other two enemy crewmembers.  Their mud-trapped ASV was still facing away from the recovery vehicle, as it had been since it had become stuck.  They were standing beside it to watch their two comrades approaching with the retrieval cable.  Then without warning, they saw their comrades fall, and they heard the cracks of passing rifle bullets.

Both Kazaks dropped prone and attempted to crawl into the muck beneath their vehicle.  They were not wearing night vision goggles, and their attempts to hide were almost laughably pathetic.  They had no idea from what direction the danger came.  In Boone’s night scope, enough of them were clearly visible: a leg, a shoulder, a face.  In just seconds, they were both dead.  At times like this, Boone was glad to have switched from a bolt-action sniper rifle to a semi-auto “gas gun.”  He’d taken six aimed shots with his trusty SR-25 in only a few seconds, and killed all three enemy soldiers from the trapped ASV.  Satisfied, he swept his rifle to the area between the ASVs.  Both of the unlucky Cossacks were already down.

Doug simply said, “I got ’em.”

“Both?” asked Boone.

“Positive.”

“I won’t hurt your feelings if I make sure?”  Boone pumped one more 7.62mm round into each of the prone soldiers.  One showed no reaction, but the other rolled over and threw out an arm, so Boone shot him again.  Then he looked back to the stuck ASV and checked again carefully for signs of life, but found the three soldiers exactly as he had left them.  A careful scan of the ASVs, the meadow and tree lines showed no other signs of dismounted enemy.  They had killed them all, and after what Boone had seen at dawn in the ravine, he felt damned good about it.  Exhilarated even.  These six unlucky Cossacks had no idea they were even in danger, and a minute later they’re all dead.  Maybe some of these ASV crewmen had been shooters at the massacre ravine, but probably they had not.  It didn’t really matter.  They were Cossacks, and that was enough reason to kill them.  They were foreign invaders in spite of what the president called them.  They were in Tennessee, and they would all die if Boone Vikersun had anything to do with it. 

****

Carson followed through with the next step of the plan,
crouching and entering the ASV through its open side door.  Sharp cracks from passing rifle slugs told him that Boone and Doug had opened fire.  He had no doubt that the Kazaks would be killed in seconds.  Well, too bad for them—they had no business coming to America as foreign mercenaries.  Death in a muddy field was better than they deserved, after what the Kazaks had done to Americans.

Interior electronic displays, plus the moonlight coming through the open hatches, provided just enough light to see inside the vehicle.  The vehicle commander had been standing on his seat when he stood up through his hatch; now his dead legs dangled inside.  A quick look behind him showed no other hidden crewman.  There were just crates, boxes, and packs piled around the turret cage, the vertical tower of expanded metal grating that enclosed the gunner’s rotating position.  Kalashnikov rifles were fixed vertically to the interior sides of the vehicle just ahead of the open side door, mounted in brackets next to fire extinguishers. 

Carson slipped past the turret cage and dropped into the driver’s seat.  Now he had to learn to drive an ASV.  Boone said it had an automatic transmission, and drove like a truck.  It was time to find out.  The diesel engine was already running.  The seat was as well padded and comfortable as any Cadillac’s.  Warm, dry air was pouring out of vents between the two front seats.  To be warm, dry and comfortable was a stark contrast to his last hours and days, but Carson could not dwell on this sudden and remarkable turnabout.