Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) (89 page)

Enemy gunmen were making their way to their location, shooting as they went.

Reyes had a fully loaded .50-caliber machine gun waiting for them to get a little closer before he opened up on them. They appeared to be shooting at Hammel and Stevenson as they made their approach to the top of the monument. The incoming gunmen seemed oblivious to the heavy machine-gun presence until Reyes placed his thumbs on the triggers that unleashed a torrent of high-velocity rounds. The links that held the rounds together were falling on the roof of the HMMWV as approximately 750 projectiles per minute were being sent through the muzzle of the weapon, each with a speed of about 2,500 feet per second.

The approaching enemy were dropping like flies, but others were approaching at different angles, allowing for some to regain their composure and continue the advance. Some would turn and run away, others would maintain their momentum, but a few were beginning to gain ground.

“You’ve got to get us out of here,” Reyes shouted to his assistant gunner.

“I’m on it,” he replied, running around the vehicle to get in the driver’s seat. All the while, Reyes kept firing on the enemy until the .50 cal jammed up. He knew the barrel was hot and had to be swapped out. Machine guns like the .50 cal could only withstand a set amount of rounds being blasted through the muzzle. When that predetermined amount had been surpassed, the barrel was at risk of overheating and jamming up, as was the case for Reyes. As his driver drove around the lawn of the monument, he put on a pair of heat-shielded gloves so that he could safely trade out the hot barrel for a fresh one.

Bullets continued to zing at the HMMWV, some making impact, and some missing. Reyes was busy trying to lock in the fresh barrel when the HMMWV suddenly crashed into a tree. Immediately, he felt the pain of the impact as the turret dug into his hip and thrashed his neck and back.

“You alright?” Reyes asked the driver. There was no answer. Bullets continued to pollute the air as Reyes ducked into the HMMWV and saw that his driver had been shot and was dead. He quickly went back into the turret and fed a new chain of ammunition into the gun. He chambered the first round and began shooting back at the approaching enemy.

Across the street, in Lafayette Square, Captain Richards and Rory Price were still together and engaged in an immense firefight. They were with a company-sized unit of soldiers, who were engaging forces positioned on the north lawn of the White House. The UN soldiers had barricades established and walls of sandbags to defend against patriot resistors overtaking, and regaining, the White House. Once operational tanks, now destroyed, sat as makeshift cover for a few UN soldiers to use as protection against the incoming gunfire.

Captain Richards had been trying to contact the general for assistance, but it seemed they were in a dead zone for communications. They had no knowledge of the jammer that Hammel had found the location of, and was currently working to reach, for the re-establishment of communications.

“We’re going to have to advance at some point, Captain. We can’t sit here and keep wasting ammo,” Rory yelled at Richards, taking his helmet off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “They’re dug in too deep, and direct fire’s not doing the job.”

Captain Richards, always concerned for Price’s welfare, scolded him, saying, “Keep your helmet on your head, preacher. You’re likely to catch a bullet if you’re not—” His rebuke was interrupted by a bullet through his helmet. There was a loud
ting
sound and Captain Richards’s helmet wobbled a bit just before his whole body dropped limp to the ground.

“Captain,” Rory shouted. “Captain,” he shouted a second time, pulling him over to his lap. There was an entry hole in Richards’s helmet, but no exit hole. He took the helmet off and found that Captain Richards had been shot through his protective helmet. The bullet had entered his skull and lost the momentum to make an exit. The highly fragmented round had no other place to go but around and around the inside of his head, scrambling his brain.

Rory didn’t miss a beat. He laid the captain’s head gently on the ground, took his ammunition, and said a short prayer.

“Lord Jesus, I know that you are Lord of all the earth. Give me the might I need to see this through, to vanquish the enemy, and to restore our God-given right to honor you as we will.”

He refilled his magazine, took a couple additional shots towards the UN soldiers, and began his advance.

Sergeant Banks was with a couple of weapons company units that were attacking the occupants of White House from the south lawn. He feared the complications of advancing on the house without communications. The anxiety he felt over the issue was that of possible friendly fire. The division had the White House completely surrounded, but they were back to back, taking fire from a building that neighbored the White House lawn. Some of the division had made advances to take over those buildings, but it was slow coming.

Their blitzkrieg idea worked great getting them into the capital, but now they were feeling vulnerable and exposed, with not much cover but their vehicles. If they were to keep advancing, without comm, they might unintentionally cause damage to their own as each side advanced inward, with the White House being the central objective.

Without the use of modern communications, Sergeant Banks called as many men together as he could. Word of mouth spread along the south side of the White House until it reached Colonels Barker and Barnes.

Together
, they rallied two companies of Marines and began coordinating an attack. The problem with their position was the gunners on the rooftop of the objective point. There were several machine guns firing down upon them, and the south lawn was a wide-open space.

“That’s a death zone, gentlemen,” Colonel Barnes said to the Marines. “We’re going to have to risk life and limb to get a message to the men on the north lawn to either move in or get out of the way.”

“What do you have in mind, Colonel?” Banks asked.

“We’ve got mortarmen here. We need to use them. But if they overshoot, they’re going to take out our boys on the north lawn. My recommendation is send a messenger to the front yard ASAP, and tell them move it or lose it!”

“Understood, sir,” Banks said.

On the north lawn, the American soldiers were advancing on the White House. They had gained enough ground to take cover behind the destroyed tanks that the UN soldiers were once using to shield themselves against the Americans. Heavy fire was coming from inside the house and from the rooftop. They were now pinned down behind the modest cover of a few trees and a couple of disabled tanks.

“Well, now we’re in a bind,” one of the soldiers said to Rory.

“I’m open to recommendations, Corporal. I’m no soldier.”

“We’re going to have to—”

His recommendation was also cut short by a volley of bullets that were shot from the rooftop. The soldier dropped dead, and Rory tucked his head and tightly gripped his rifle. He had no other visual than that of a young man resting against the tank with a stream of blood running down from beneath the cover of his helmet.

Colonel Howard had a few of his Super Stallions lighting up the buildings that the enemy forces were shooting from. It was a matter of chance that a couple of the Stallions had made their rounds and approached Rory’s area just in time to aid him in his escape.

Rory took notice of the choppers and began formulating an escape route. About that time, smoke grenades were tossed between the north lawn and the White House. Rory didn’t know where they came from, but they were a welcomed sight. A Marine came running and took a knee next to Rory and the soldiers.

“C’mon, we need to clear this area,” the Marine said. “We’re getting ready to light up the rooftop with a mortar attack.”

No sooner than he had said that, one of the choppers took a direct hit from an RPG and went into a tailspin toward the earth.

Rory and the soldiers followed the Marine away from their position and toward cover fire coming from a CAAT unit on the road. Once they had joined up on the south lawn, one of the weapons company units began launching mortar rounds onto the rooftop. This allowed those who were still in the rearmost area of the north lawn and those on the south lawn to make their advance toward the White House.

Nathan and Denny were working their way toward the uppermost floor of the executive building. They had found several noncombatant personnel in the building and had them detained and moved out of the combat area for questioning. The resistance was getting tougher the further they made their way up. Once they had advanced to the second-to-last floor, Nathan again looked out of one of the east-looking windows. He saw the top of the White House from that window and observed several UN soldiers taking cover from incoming mortar attacks, one of which appeared to be the Fist.

Nathan was completely shocked and doubted his own eyes. “Denny,” he called out.

Denny turned around from what he was doing. “Yeah?” he answered.

“I just saw the Fist on the White House.”

“Not possible, boss. We left the Fist back in O’Hare, remember?”

“We don’t know that. He wasn’t in the plane, we haven’t seen him since, and there were planes flying overhead all night. He coulda been in one of them.”

Denny was looking at the White House roof, but it was masked in dust from the mortar rounds and holes littered the surface of it.

“I don’t see him,” Denny said.

“I only looked away for a moment. He may have fallen into one of those mortar impact holes,” he said.

“Do you guys have some business I should be aware of?” the redhead asked.

“No, we’re good here,” Denny said, objecting to Nathan’s thought of heading back downstairs and over to the White House to fulfill a personal vendetta.

Nathan glared into Denny’s eyes as if to say, “Fine, I’m going without you,” and that was exactly what he was thinking. Denny knew him so well, he could tell his thoughts in just about any given situation. Nathan turned from Denny and left him, bound for the White House.

“What’s up his craw?” the redhead asked.

“Vengeance,” Denny replied. “He’s seeking to fill the hole in his heart with the blood of a tyrant.”

From five hundred feet in the air, Sergeant
Rick Hammel
could see the entire battle. Super Stallions were circling the District area. He could faintly hear the buzz sounds of their armament shooting at enemy encroachments. Near the river, he saw the Pentagon, and closer to his location, he could see the battle for Arlington Memorial Bridge. The sound of mortar explosions filled the air to his north. He could see the White House was smoking, and all around the area, thousands of men were as ants, advancing on one another’s positions. From this height, everything seemed so impotent.

Looking up, Hammel could now see the jammer. It was a sophisticated piece of technology. It was cylindrical in shape and had dozens of antennae-looking probes sticking out of it, pointing in all directions. It was way out of his reach, so he backed up against the rail of the stairs to take aim at the jammer. As he attempted to do so, he found himself being shot at by the gathering enemy below.

With a quick peek over the edge, he could see thousands of UN men were gathering around the mammoth structure. He saw that his HMMWV had been overrun and taken by the enemy. No sooner than he had noticed it, they began firing the .50-caliber gun at him. Their angle was off; they needed to back up to get more elevation.

In that moment he knew his life was over, one way or another. If they didn’t shoot him dead with his own gun, then his radical plan would end their lives and his. He had heard a similar story in the past; he hoped it would pan out for him, too. Being a communications specialist for command staff meant being privy to secret information. Hammel knew that they had artillery Marines stashed away in a secret location that even he didn’t know where, but he did know how to contact them. The first thing he had to do was disable the jammer.

Hammel risked stepping backwards again to get a good shot at the jammer. He unleashed his M4 in three-round bursts at the hi-tech gadget and watched as it fell to pieces.

“Alpha Arty, from Echo Five Hotel, do you copy? Over,” Hammel said into his mic.

“We hear you loud and clear. Over,”
the artillery platoon responded.

“Alpha Arty from Echo Five Hotel, I am overrun. I repeat, I am overrun. Direct fire to my location. Repeat, direct fire to my location. Over.”

Hammel wasn’t using proper call-for-fire protocol. He was never trained in artillery or how to call for fire. He was winging it, hoping they would fall onboard with his request.

There was a pause on behalf of the artillery platoon. Everything about the call for fire was awkward, but a quick assessment of the situation revealed that there was nothing ordinary about anything that was happening.

“Echo Five Hotel, go with your location. Over.”

This time Hammel paused to make sure the large gathering of enemy forces at the base of the structure were still present. He confirmed that he was still surrounded and trapped on the tower. Several enemy combatants were making their way upwards to his position. They were almost there.

“Alpha Arty, from Echo Five Hotel. This is Sergeant
Rick Hammel
, communications specialist. I am at the old Washington Monument, and I’m signing out.”

Hammel laid his rifle down, leaned back against the monument wall, and looked out over the face of the earth, all the way out to the horizon. He could hear the voices of the enemy nearing his position, but they didn’t seem to have an effect on him. He was relaxed and at peace when the artillery began falling on the monument. On that day, Sergeant
Rick Hammel
 orchestrated the deaths of more enemies than any single patriot since the Flip began.

The division had the White House completely surrounded. There was no more opposition from the rooftop, so the surrounding units were waiting on a command from John James whether or not to advance. The general was preoccupied with the battle for Arlington Memorial Bridge, so he gave the White House battle to Buchanan, who, in turn, told the surrounding units to maintain the perimeter, but not to advance just yet. Buchanan was more of a calculated strategist. He preferred a slow, steady, and methodical plan of attack. Since he was now in charge of securing the White House, he wanted to assemble a team capable of securing the house as safely as possible.