Читать книгу On Guard For Thee - Murray Snow - Страница 3

Former Republic of Yugoslavia

4 December, 0655 Hours

Morgan sat with his head and shoulders sticking out of the commander’s hatch of the Cougar, and his thoughts wandered back to the beginning of the deployment.

As the battle group disembarked from the flight that first day, they saw the desolation and destruction caused by years of civil war. The scene was the same almost everywhere: bombed-out buildings, crater-filled roads, and an almost palpable fear emanating from the locals.

Driving to the compound a few kilometers outside the city of Bihać, many found tears welling up as they passed the refugee camps. Here, they saw an even deeper desolation in the eyes of those most affected by the long battles. The innocence and hope of those on their first international deployment were instantly dashed, yet they still looked forward to doing a real job.

Croatian and Serbian forces had agreed to a cease-fire shortly after the PPCLI arrived, and other than a few vehicles hitting stray mines, things were relatively quiet. However, a major Serbian offensive two weeks ago ended the cease-fire. Several hundred peacekeepers around the country had been taken hostage, and from day to day, nobody knew what to expect. While the kidnappings were militarily unacceptable, it was a better solution than what followed. While attacking a UN outpost, Serbian soldiers killed five French peacekeepers.

France led the cry to rescue and avenge its compatriots. The UN reluctantly backed out and NATO moved in, bringing with it new rules of engagement. The blue berets and helmets, UN symbols of peace, disappeared.

NATO was there on a “peacemaking” mission. It was at war. As the indigenous factions quickly realized the change, the kidnapped peacekeepers were released unharmed and tensions returned to a more acceptable level.

#

The roaring of the Cougar’s diesel engine and the sound of its six wheels crushing everything they touched dulled his senses. “Who’s up for a little bet?” Morgan called over the intercom. He shook his head to ward off the stupor he felt creeping over him.

“What’s up, Cap?”

“Leeanne let me keep an extra twenty bucks this month. I say we get home with nothing happening to us. Who wants to be a pessimist?”

“Shit, Dusty,” Morgan’s gunner, Corporal Frank Emerson, said over the radio. “You know most of my money goes home. After Connie’s alimony and the support for my little Jinny, I get crap, but, then again, I’m only a corporal so that’s about what I start out with.”

“Wimp.” Morgan looked out upon the foreign terrain. He couldn’t help but wonder how his own family was faring. Not a day passed when he didn’t think about his wife. Her picture sat by his bed, and her letters reminded him that, this time, someone was waiting for him at home. There was always a hello and a kind word for his men in those letters. Leeanne may not have been actual family to them, but they adopted her shortly after she married their “Dusty.”

As the Cougar rumbled through Bihać, James’s mind registered gunfire in the distance. “Gunner up,” he ordered sharply. With only a moment’s hesitation, the forward gun came up. “I hear rifle fire in the distance.” He was staring into the heart of the city before he fully realized that the fog had cleared. Ramshackle, bombed-out buildings met his forceful gaze.

He could see puffs of smoke coming from an upper window of the “The Ritz,” a seven-story building that once housed eighty families. Now it was simply a target. Both sides used it. Both sides blamed the other, and the Canadians who protected the area were unable to stop it.

“Turn left at the next corner.” Morgan looked behind him. “Oh, shit!” The other vehicles hadn’t come out of the fog yet.

They were alone.

Demolished buildings lay all around him. Two men and a woman, all elderly, ducked behind the Cougar and trotted along as they crossed an intersection. Snipers had become a routine part of the day, but after some adjustment, life went on as usual for most of the city’s inhabitants. Grocery shopping was still necessary, and the protection afforded by the occasional armored vehicle rolling through the city made shopping that much safer.

Morgan lowered his seat and closed the hatch. “Left turn on my mark,” he ordered. A part of his brain was fixed on the apartment building while he scanned the remainder of the city through the periscope. He sensed movement before he actually saw the streak of grayish white smoke blister from The Ritz. “Mark!” he yelled, and braced for the sharp turn. The Cougar darted between two houses.

The trail of a 76 mm antitank rocket streaked past the exhaust plumes and exploded fifteen feet from the Cougar. The rear wheels briefly lifted off the ground as shrapnel, rocks, and dirt rained down.

“Where are we going?” Corporal Boyce yelled from the driver’s hatch.

“Papa Charlie One, this is Bravo Niner. Contact! Wait out.” Morgan took a deep breath and looked at the map he pulled out of his pocket. Just once, he hoped, headquarters would move before thinking. He held his finger on the map and looked to the sides for the grid reference. “This is Bravo Niner. We are taking small-arms and rocket fire from The Ritz.” His voice was strained, but under control. “Request immediate support on grid two-three-five-six, four-eight-one-three. I say again, grid two-three-five-six, four-eight-one-three. Out.” He switched to the patrol’s own channel and called the other vehicles. “Bravo One. Bravo Two. This is Niner. Where the hell are you guys?”

“This is Bravo One. Where’d you go, Niner?”

Morgan shook his head. Another rocket landed close by and violently rocked the Cougar. “Head for The Ritz. We’ve got a sniper and rockets on the south side.”

“Hello Bravo Niner,” a British voice called over the radio. “This is Victor Seven. We are under fire from rockets and small arms. One vehicle is disabled. Can you help?”

“Victor Seven this is Bravo Niner. What is your location?”

“Victor Seven here. We are on the north side of The Ritz taking fire—sweet Jesus.” James heard a gunshot over the radio before it cut out.

Several rounds from a machine gun rained down on the cougar. “Victor Seven! Victor Seven!” he yelled. There was no reply. “Boyce! Get us around this goddamned building, now. Victor Seven. Victor Seven. This is Bravo Niner.” He shook his head. “Bravo One, Bravo Two. Approach from the north. We’re going in from the west.”

Morgan looked behind him when there was no answer. He swore and threw the microphone down. Two of the antenna wires were severed. He didn’t know how, but the possibilities were limited to faulty equipment or enemy fire. The way things were looking right now, he chose the latter. He had no means of communication outside his own vehicle.

Morgan spun the periscope from side to side as the Cougar sped between the buildings. As they neared the end of the street, a plume of black smoke rose less than one hundred meters away. “Get as close to that smoke as you can.”

The smell of burning diesel permeated the vehicle. Morgan scanned the area and finally focused on the two vehicles in front. They were Saxons, British versions of the Cougar. Smoke poured out of one, but the second seemed undamaged.

“Boyce. What kind of cover we got?” he called out.

“Shit.”

“Take the gunner’s seat. Keep a steady stream on those windows. Emerson! See what happened to that vehicle. I’ll cover and go to the second one.” The sound of the machine gun began to echo inside the vehicle. They pushed the heavy doors open and rolled to the side of the Cougar. Empty casings rained down as Boyce fired short, five-round bursts.

Emerson ran forward as Morgan trained his rifle on the building. He tried the latch, and then pounded on the metal doors. Nobody opened them.

“Emerson, see if the commander’s hatch is unlocked and get inside.” Morgan moved forward and pounded on the back hatch again. “NATO. Open the hatch.” Nothing. He spun around and started firing at the windows. He wasn’t sure what he was firing at, but he had to cover his man. He could feel the Saxon move ever so slightly as Emerson climbed up, and within seconds, could hear movement inside. The handles moved and Emerson opened the door, coughing violently as thick black smoke billowed out.

“How many?”

“Six,” Emerson croaked.

“Boyce! Spin around and cross load. We’ve got to get these boys out of here.”

The machine gun stopped as the Cougar reversed. James ran for the second vehicle and saw the radioman slumped over the console—a hole in the side of his head told the story.

Morgan wiped the sweat from his brow. “What the hell is going on?” The sound of a single shot echoed off The Ritz, and he ducked back inside the Saxon. “That wasn’t at me.” He poked his head out and looked around. A second shot echoed off the houses. He ran crouched to the edge of the building, and peeked around the corner.

For a split second, the scene before him didn’t register. “Sonofabitch.” He brought his rifle to his shoulder, fired several quick bursts, and moved into the open; his rifle still trained on the enemy. Most of the Bosnian soldiers that stood over the British Saxon crew only moments before now lay dead on the ground.

Two British soldiers were dead. The remaining six were on their knees, hands bound behind them. “Drop your weapons!” Morgan ordered the Bosnians still standing. The British turned their heads to the new sound. “Drop ’em! Now!” The Bosnians swung their weapons toward him.

Morgan fired. Both men fell. He looked down. The rifle bolt was jammed halfway forward.

Morgan ran forward and dropped the rifle beside him. His breathing was labored and he was scared, but his movements were smooth. He pulled the bayonet from his webbing and cut the wire around the British soldiers’ hands. Pulling the blindfold off, he asked, “You okay?” The man nodded. “Grab a rifle and watch my back. Your vehicle is just around the corner.”

The British soldier started to nod. “Look out!” he yelled.

Morgan spun around and brought his arm up to protect himself. A searing pain swept over him as the blade of a bayonet plunged into his forearm. His own bayonet swung up and buried itself in his assailant’s chest. The two men fell to the ground, their eyes locked together, and were still.

Two Bosnian soldiers ran toward them. Morgan unsnapped the holster and pulled the pistol from its sheath. He fired, emptying the magazine in seconds. Momentum carried the enemy forward until they fell mere inches in front of him, so close that he could see the stitching on their uniforms, the dirt under their fingernails, and each hair of a day’s growth of beard.

Morgan choked back the foul taste in his mouth. The Bosnian soldier he was still lying on was dead. He stood up and wiped the bayonet on his pant leg before sliding it back into the scabbard. His hands shook and it took all his concentration to gather his wits. “Who’s in charge here?” he finally asked.

The British soldier looked at two of his comrades lying on the ground. “I suppose I am now,” he said sadly as he looked at his captain. “Sergeant Micheals, sir.”

“Sergeant. Untie the others and then help me with your mates. Grab whatever weapons you can and make sure your boys cover us.” He inserted a fresh magazine into the pistol, reached for the executed British officer, and lifted him onto his shoulders.

Sergeant Micheals stopped him. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll take my captain, if you please.” It wasn’t a request. James gently passed him to the sergeant.

“We’ve got the other crew. We’ll regroup two klicks down the road. Go to forty-three point seven zero on your radio and contact Bravo One and Bravo Two. Tell them what’s going on and get some help in here.” Morgan turned and ran back to his Cougar. It lurched forward as the doors slammed shut and moved toward the outskirts of town, the Saxon close on its tail.

He looked back at the men sitting or lying in the rear compartment. What had happened? Who changed the rules of the game? Who decided NATO was fair game?

Emerson had the first-aid kit out and tended to the wounded as best he could. Their own medic was safely tucked away in Bravo One.

The British soldiers were coming around from the fresh air. Their faces were black from the oily smoke, but nothing could mask the pain of their injuries. Morgan twisted and turned his way back to his seat and looked through the periscope. With The Ritz blocked from view, he opened the hatch. As they passed a small side street, his head snapped to the left and he yelled for Boyce to turn left.

“What is it, Dusty?” Boyce yelled.

“Snipers again.” He let the intercom button go and swallowed hard. The Saxon was close behind. What do I do, he wondered. He opened the microphone again. “Get us to the end of the street and stop.”

Morgan leaped from the Cougar as it slowed and ran to the edge of the buildings. He poked his head out. “No fire,” he said, with a deep breath. He stuck his head out into the open again and there in the distance, five houses away, someone’s leg poked into the street.

“Shit!” he yelled. He hoped he was wrong, but he knew he wasn’t. The sniper was firing at the person’s leg. Bullets rained down and bounced off the street; small plumes of dust marked the shots.

Morgan raced back and began yelling orders as he pulled himself up with his good arm. He slammed the hatch shut. The Cougar began to move, and his gaze strained through the periscope to see around the next corner. They moved around the house, into the alley behind, and sped to the next crossroad. He could see no other alternative. “Get over to that building and block the fire.”

The Cougar raced across the road and skidded to a halt parallel to the casualty. It was a woman, her groceries spread across the street. The Saxon followed, but the Cougar hadn’t allowed enough room for it to pass.

“Gunner up!” Morgan turned to get to the rear. The inside was barely big enough for him on a normal day, but with the six extra men in the compartment, it was next to impossible to move. “Boyce. Discharge the smoke canisters and keep a steady stream of fire on The Ritz. Emerson. Cover me.”

James flung open the right door and leaned to the left as he collected his wits. He hurled himself out of the APC and rolled beside the rear wheel. He listened to the comforting sound of the machine gun at the front of the vehicle. Emerson, with his own rifle, supplemented the heavier gun.

James crawled forward, grabbed the leg of the old woman, and dragged her back to the side of the vehicle. Blood seeped from her side. He ripped the field dressing from his shoulder harness and taped the bandage in place. As he tied it off, he looked around. Two others lay close by.

He pulled the woman over his shoulder, her injury a minor concern now, and carried her to the security of the Cougar. As he placed her on the cold metal floor, Emerson looked down. “Two more out there,” James said breathlessly. Blood soaked through the sleeve, and the arm of his coat was red. A wave of nausea washed over him.

Emerson looked over and handed him the rifle. James nodded and started firing. He finished four magazines before Emerson made it back. There was no bandage as the sniper’s initial shot had scored a direct hit to the elderly man’s head. Emerson gently placed him on the floor and reached for the rifle.

James was out the door as the first shots echoed inside, crawled to the last casualty, and dragged him to the side of the Cougar. Suddenly, the machine gun stopped.

“JAM!” Boyce screamed.

James froze, and his stomach knotted upon itself. His cover-fire was all but gone, and the snipers, sensing the lull, increased their tempo. The pinging became quicker as more bullets hit the vehicle. Small plumes of dust jumped up as bullets hit the dirt. A new area of fire opened up, and this sniper almost had a clear field of fire at the rear of the Cougar.

James was pinned next to the wheel. The last casualty was still alive. They could still save this one. His mind, suddenly fraught with dread and fear, couldn’t force his body to move. The British Saxon, barely visible through the smoke screen, continued to jockey back and forth, trying to land its guns on The Ritz.

The ground was cold on his belly and chest as the winter frost invaded his insulated clothing. He shifted around and rested against the side of the vehicle. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least he wasn’t eating dirt.

All around him, the ground was red and he looked at his coat. The front was stained with blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I hope to hell that ain’t mine.”

Sweat drenched his face. He pushed his helmet back and wiped his forehead. A bullet ricocheted off the vehicle only inches from his head. He reached over, wrapped his arm around the old man, and moved to one knee.

Bravo One and Bravo Two rounded the corner four blocks away. He looked down the road. “You’d think they’d be closer by now.” He put the old man over his shoulder.

“Damn it, Dusty! Move!” Emerson yelled.

#

Emerson shook with anticipation. He waited only seconds before bringing his rifle to bear through a small crack between the door and the main hull. He deliberately kept the rate of fire slow: two or three-round bursts only.

As the front edge of the bolt heated from the friction and exploding gases, a small crack appeared just to the left of the extractor pin. It didn’t take long for the barrel to glow from the hundreds of rounds being poured through it.

Emerson inserted a fresh magazine, his last one. He pulled the cocking handle and the bolt slammed forward, picking up a fresh round. He opened fire and concentrated on a window where he had seen puffs of smoke. The sniper, if he was smart, had already moved, but that was Emerson’s last point of reference.

Boyce struggled with the machine gun. Emerson counted the shots in his head as the rounds flew out of the barrel. When he reached nine, he stopped. The bolt slammed forward, picked up another round, and forced it into the barrel. “Damn it, Dusty. Move!”

Emerson pulled the trigger.

The firing pin came forward, striking the primer on the end of the bullet. The force of the backfire ripped the bolt and rifle apart. Shrapnel flew from the ejection port, over the heads of the British soldiers sitting or lying on the floor.

Emerson never heard the explosion and never knew what the blinding light was before shards of metal tore through his face and head.

#

Morgan was three steps from the door; momentum propelled him forward. He heard the C7 fire one more time, but the sound wasn’t right. Nothing followed the single shot.

Nothing but a scream.

Morgan couldn’t stop. His balance was forward, thrown off by the old man on his shoulders. Two steps, he thought. Just two more. Without a sound, he rounded the corner.

His head snapped to the side as a bullet glanced off his helmet. Instinctively, his right arm came up to shield him. Two more steps and he would be safe. A bullet slammed into his chest. The flak jacket stopped it, but the force turned him sideways.

He fell into the Cougar and bounced on the metal floor. The old man didn’t move. James looked down. His arm wouldn’t move the way it was supposed to. A look of utter amazement came over his face.

I’ve been hit!

The adrenaline flowing through his body slowly diminished and the pain that had so far gone unnoticed took over. Blood gushed from his right side. The pain was unbearable now.

He knew the other vehicles were close. Sounds were growing softer as his breathing became more labored. I’m inside, he thought. The Cougar is muffling the guns. He tried to reach up to undo his helmet, but his arm wouldn’t work.

The Saxon moved forward one last time. Its reinforced front bumper pushed against the Cougar’s front wheel and its engine revved; the Cougar slid out of the way. The Saxon moved forward and brought its machine gun to bear on The Ritz.

With his head raised off the metal floor, James saw Bravo One and Bravo Two speeding toward him. He struggled to his side and reached for his rifle. Breathing hurt now. He stood, the door hinge supporting the weight of the rifle, and he brought the sights to bear on The Ritz.

Bravo One skidded to a halt beside the Saxon and joined in the covering fire. Bravo Two stopped. Its rear doors swung open. It was painful to move his left arm, but he could still pull the trigger. James opened fire, joining the other vehicles. “Move!” he yelled, and then fell to his knees as the magazine emptied.

The medic from Bravo Two sprinted around the corner, his shoulder hitting the door frame as he bounced into the Cougar.

James’ head slumped to his chest as he fell to the ground. A small trickle of blood spilled out of his mouth, and his eyes stared without seeing.