The Day After Never - Covenant (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 3) (30 page)

He was ordering another ten men forward on foot when the percussive booming of an M2 echoed from the other end of the canyon. Men around him dropped from their horses, their flak jackets useless against the high-velocity slugs. He estimated the range at over six hundred yards and yelled for his fighters to take cover among the rocks as the stream of rounds from the big gun cut them down like a giant scythe. Jude’s fighters answered the shooting with fire of their own, but at that range the M2 had them badly outgunned. He called to the nearest man with an AT4 strapped to his back and the gunman crawled toward him, staying low. When he reached Jude, he looked frightened but determined.

“See the muzzle flash up there? Probably six hundred yards, at least,” Jude said.

“I make it about that.”

“What’s the best you’ve ever done with an AT?”

“They start to fade at four, but I might be able to do it with a few tries. Have to adjust for the drop, but they’ll hit something.”

“He’s got us pinned down here. I’ll get as many tubes as it takes, but you’ve got to take him out, understand?”

“I’ll do my best…” the man said uncertainly.

“Make it happen, or we’re all dead.”

The man nodded and freed the antitank weapon while Jude transmitted a call for more AT4s on his handheld. Several minutes later, two more Crew fighters reached him during a pause in the shooting – no doubt while the sniper was changing belts – and handed him their AT4s.

The first projectile sailed in an arc that struck fifteen yards below the machine-gun position, exploding harmlessly against the canyon wall. Jude gritted his teeth and handed the fighter another tube, which he adjusted for the range and fired as the Browning began its deadly song again.

This time the projectile sailed over the position and exploded well past it, in the valley. The fighter shook his head and blinked away sweat as the last tube was thrust into his hands. Rounds chewed the ground around them, blowing chunks of rock into the air, ricochets whining as he leveled the tube and peered through the sight.

A splatter of warmth struck Jude’s face and he gasped as the man fell forward, most of his skull gone and the AT4 unfired. Jude was reaching for the antitank weapon when shooting from behind him drew his attention – different caliber than the AK-47s his men used.

He realized too late that he’d been lured into a trap and was now boxed in by shooters on both sides; he could tell from the distinctive chatter of AR-15s and M4s picking his men off from above and behind while the big gun ahead obliterated everything in its path.

For the first time in the fight, it dawned on him that he might ultimately fail Magnus, and it was with that thought that he wiped the blood from his face and pointed the AT4 at the M2 position, determined to end the onslaught or die trying.

Chapter 53

Lucas glanced at the sky outside the cave when the howitzer resumed shelling. Elliot was with him, and his face went gray at the first incoming explosion.

“So much for the plane idea,” the older man said.

“Worked for a while,” Lucas said, his expression grim.

“Arnold was right about the shelling. It’s going to destroy everything if it keeps up. I should have listened to him.”

“Too late now.” Lucas paused as another shell whistled several hundred yards away before exploding on one of the slopes. “Don’t see any way around dealing with it up close and personal. Is there another way out of the valley on that side that doesn’t take me past the Crew force?”

“Colt’s watching the entrance of a trail that skirts the ridge to the south,” Elliot said. “It’s treacherous going and too narrow for more than one rider at a time. No way they’d know about it.”

“Then that’s the way I’ll go.” Lucas looked at the stables. “Poor horses. I hope Tango’s okay.” He paused. “Don’t suppose you have an antitank weapon handy? Or some grenades?”

“All the AT4s have been deployed, but I’ll radio to see if there are any spares. I think we’ve got some grenades in the complex.” Elliot raised his radio and sent a message, and a response came back within a few moments. Elliot nodded and murmured an instruction, and then turned to Lucas. “An AT4 will be delivered to the stable along with a grenade. Sorry we don’t have more ordnance available, but pretty much everything’s in the field.”

“As it should be.”

Elliot eyed Lucas as he moved toward the stable. “Good luck.”

Lucas didn’t respond and instead picked up his pace.

Tango was obviously frightened and skittish, and it was all Lucas could do to get the saddle on him with the help of one of the stable hands. A youth entered the barn, carrying an olive green tube and a grenade, and handed them to Lucas, who slung the AT4 over his shoulder and dropped the grenade into his flak jacket pouch. He led Tango from the stable and was relieved to see that the shells were striking further from the compound than earlier – so maybe the plane had been able to damage the targeting optics sufficiently so it was firing blind.

He galloped across the valley to the spot Elliot had indicated and found Colt behind a sandbagged embankment, with two AR-15s by his side and a dozen spare magazines lined up like sentries. Colt looked better than he had earlier in the week, but was obviously still recovering from his ordeal.

“You’re headed out?” Colt asked.

“Somebody’s got to tackle the gun. It’s wreaking havoc.”

“I’m monitoring reports from the canyon. Crew’s getting its ass handed to it so far. Can’t believe they came straight at us instead of using one of the alternate routes.”

“They might be doing both. Warn the teams on the other approaches not to let down their guard.”

“We mined those gulches too, so they’d get plenty of advance warning. Apparently those Bouncing Betties are doing a number.”

Lucas nodded. “Anything I need to know about this trail?”

“Pretty steep in places, and a sheer drop about halfway down. It lets out just north of White Rock. Then straight ride up the Rio Grande to the bridge from there, maybe three miles.”

“Any other way across the river?”

Colt shook his head. “Not really. Some shallow spots, but with the rains…”

“Got it.”

As Lucas guided Tango down the ravine, the sound of explosions and gunfire from the north informed him that the battle had been joined for real. He trusted the big stallion to set a pace he was comfortable with until they were clear of the trail and could gallop to the river. The descent was hair-raising, the track little more than a ledge along a canyon wall, but after an hour it widened and the worst was over. Lucas urged Tango faster, and the sounds of fighting diminished as the stallion cantered to the water, the regular roar of the howitzer growing louder as they neared the bank.

It was getting dark as they traced the river north, and Lucas scrutinized the surging current, searching for a place to cross. Tango was strong, and if he could find a spot where the water was only a few feet deep, he would manage.

The sun dropped behind the mountains, and Lucas spotted a promising spit of gravel where the river widened considerably, the rush slowing with greater width to accommodate the volume. Lucas directed Tango onto the moist gravel and the horse obediently plodded into the river with tentative steps as the water rose to his belly.

The stallion almost lost his footing on the slippery stones twice but recovered quickly, and then they were across, no more than a mile south of the gun. Lucas rode as close as he dared and then dismounted and tied Tango to a tree before disappearing into the dense brush along the riverbank.

Ten minutes later, he had the Crew base in view from the rise along the river. There were only a few gunmen in evidence, a pair guarding a large tent and the rest working the howitzer, four men hauling shells from a nearby truck while three loaded it. Lucas freed the AT4 and sighted on the gun, estimating his range at no more than two hundred yards, and debated inching closer. The risk of detection was minimal, given the cover from the plants, so he edged along the rise until he was as close as he dared.

Lucas drew a bead on the howitzer and squeezed the trigger. Instead of a projectile streaking to the gun, he was rewarded with a snapping sound and a fizzle. He tried again and nothing happened.

After a third attempt yielded no better result, he set the AT4 down and felt for the grenade. Nothing about this adventure had been easy so far, and he wasn’t surprised that things were holding true to form. Now he’d have to do it the hard way, which would involve evading the guards, taking out the gun crew, sabotaging the howitzer, and making it to safety without getting killed.

He considered tossing the grenade at the artillery position, but that wasn’t a sure thing, depending on where it landed. He needed to get close enough to guarantee the gun’s destruction, and the best way to do that was to drop the grenade into the recoil mechanism so it couldn’t fire. That meant much more risk; but he saw no other choice and so removed his hat so he’d be mistaken for another Crew member as he approached the artillery loaders and skirted the encampment, sticking to the shadows while evading the guards who ringed the command area.

Once clear of them, he strode toward the howitzer, M4 in hand, rubbing his face so he looked like another tired Crew gunman. The artillery team barely glanced at him as he approached, and he was no more than twenty yards from them when another shell blasted from the howitzer and he opened fire, cutting the shirtless men to pieces with three-round bursts he hoped would be masked by the echo of the howitzer detonation.

It was over in ten seconds, and Lucas bolted for the gun, not waiting to see whether he’d drawn the guards’ attention. He covered the distance in moments and was at the howitzer in a flash. He removed the grenade from his plate carrier and pulled the pin, and then wedged it into the recoil mechanism just as shots rang out from the guards.

Bullets ricocheted as he sprinted with all the speed he could muster, his boots crunching on the gravel as dirt fountained into the air around him. Then the grenade exploded behind him, and he threw himself behind a cluster of rocks as more shots blew chips from the stones. He brought his M4 to bear, wincing at the intensity of the incoming fire.

He jettisoned his spent clip, slapped a fresh one into place, and leveled a few bursts at the guards he could see in the rifle’s night vision scope, but it quickly became obvious that the Crew fighters had him pinned down – it would be only a matter of time before they tossed a grenade at him or, worse, fired an AT4 in his direction and ended the show. His magazine emptied in moments and he fished another from his vest, mind working furiously on an out.

Lucas continued to exchange volleys and paused when he pulled his last magazine from his flak jacket and slammed it home. He continued firing, but he knew in his gut that he would be dead within a matter of moments. More rounds pelted into the rocks around him as though to confirm his assessment, and he ducked down and cringed, secure that he’d at least saved Shangri-La from further shelling.

The shooting accelerated, and then his worst fear was realized when the heavy fire of an M2 blasted at the rocks from one of the Humvees, making it impossible for him to do anything but wait for the end.

Chapter 54

Brett was almost to where the .50-caliber Browning was chewing the Crew apart when an explosion silenced it in a spray of rock and dirt. He continued toward the weapon and stopped at the sight of the two-man gun team, both dead, blown clear of the sandbagged trench. The gun rested on its side, smoke rising from the soil around it. Brett lumbered over to it, his balance precarious as he reeled from his injuries. Other dead Shangri-La fighters lay sprawled along the trench, victims of the intense shooting from the attackers.

A glance over the bags revealed the shadowy forms of hundreds of Crew in the canyon below, who were taking fire from behind from at least twenty of the defense force. He could barely make them out in the growing darkness and knew that within moments it would be too dark to see without night vision gear. He felt for his NV goggles, but he’d lost them at some point during the battle, and he groaned as his fingers closed on a shattered set near the gun – of no use.

Brett heaved with all his might and righted the Browning, setting the tripod crookedly on the rock between the sandbags, and checked the ammo belt, which trailed from an ammunition can that had been blown askew by the blast. He glanced around, spotted another can, and moved to it. A pull at one of the handles confirmed it was full, and he dragged it back to the big gun and opened the top so he’d be ready to reload – assuming he lived long enough for that to be an issue.

He blinked away dizziness and peered down the sights. When he squeezed the trigger, a grimace of fury on his dirt-smeared face, the big gun bucked like a living thing in his hands as he sent a hail of rounds into the Crew’s ranks. The belt was expended in mere seconds, and he rushed to reload as bullets snapped past him, and then he was firing again, controlling the bursts more accurately, showering death down upon the exposed Crew fighters.

When the second belt was finished, Brett searched around in the gloom for more ammo cans, and found one several yards behind him. He hauled it to the gun and fitted the lead round into place, cocked the weapon, and continued the onslaught, killing scores with each salvo.

The Crew fighters were caught in a pincer, defending a low position from a crossfire assault, a recipe for disaster no matter what the circumstances. The Browning blasted away and the Shangri-La assault rifle fire picked them off, there being little cover to shield them from both angles.

When grenades lobbed by the defenders began landing in their midst, the rout grew worse, and soon the surviving Crew fighters were in full retreat, concentrating on clearing a way back down the canyon. They were able to overwhelm the Shangri-La gunmen and make it past, Brett’s fire cutting them down as they ran for the dogleg.

When another belt was exhausted and he could see no more in the darkness, Brett groped in his flak jacket for his radio. He held it to his lips and transmitted. His voice came out as little more than a croak, and his ears howled with a dull ache.