A Triple Thriller Fest (73 page)

At a point on the road where there was no oncoming traffic, the black panel truck passed the three Suburbans.  As the panel truck roared past each Suburban, their drivers quickly checked out the truck.  The occupants of the Suburbans all quietly picked up a weapon and armed it, carefully holding the weapons underneath the windows of the trucks.

As the black panel truck roared by on the narrow road, all that the occupants of the Suburbans saw was a middle-aged Caucasian male, apparently in a hurry to get somewhere.  The black panel truck roared off into the distance.  The palpable tension in the three Suburbans eased as the panel truck became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.

In the rear of the third Suburban, a lance corporal scanned the traffic that followed the convoy.  He saw two vehicles, a yellow Cutlass with a plumpish white female driver and what seemed to be two small children some distance from the convoy and a white truck even farther behind with the name, Catonsville Furniture & Bedding.   In the far distance, he noticed a blue civilian Bell Ranger helicopter apparently heading a different direction.  The Marine concluded that the helicopter was either a corporate or news aircraft, nothing to worry about.

The Marine reported to Major Bernstein, “Major, I don’t see anything unusual just a woman with two kids, a furniture truck, and some general aviation stuff.”

“Keep looking, we can’t be too sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

1300 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

After rounding the bend in the road several miles ahead of the convoy, along a deserted stretch of highway bounded by woods on both sides, Jerry Mitchell pulled his black panel truck off the road onto a small unmarked dirt trail and parked it deep into the woods.  Working quickly, he took out the small rocket launcher from the back of the truck, set the launcher behind some brush, armed the surface to surface missile and waited amongst the tangle of brush and scrub pines.  The launcher, little more than four feet in length, was camouflaged.

Mitchell started to sweat.  His years of training and his even longer years in deep cover had come to this.  A family man and a likable lumber yard worker, Mitchell had received the telephone call early this morning.  He hurried to get dressed and looked in on six year old Sarah and eight year old Tommy still asleep at that early hour.  He had told Tommy that he would help him with T-Ball after work, but Mitchell knew in his heart that there would be no way he would be able to keep that promise today, maybe ever.

Leaving for work, Mitchell had paused to kiss his wife, hoping she wouldn’t note the worry.  Walking out to his black panel truck which he had bought used two months ago, Mitchell had fretted that he should have painted over the stenciled name, but that was neither here nor there given his duty today.

The lead Suburban rounded the bend on Huntersville Road.  As the vehicle approached his location, Mitchell counted off the ticks emitting from the sonar range finder that had come with the rocket launcher.  As the ticking sound started to become individually indistinguishable, Mitchell pushed the button on his remote control.

1315 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

Following the convoy and noting the upcoming bend in the road, the young driver put his foot down on the accelerator on his Ford F-100 truck, swung into the opposing lane and quickly passed the Cutlass with the plumpish woman and her two kids.  He rapidly closed in but was careful not to give the impression that he was trying to catch up with the convoy.

Inside the back of the white F-100 Ford truck, twelve men sat on the floor.  The seriousness of the situation was painted on each face.  They had practiced such an exercise, but the feeling gnawing at the stomach of each man told them that this was it, this was real, this was the why they existed.

Each man was a trained agent, periodically summoned for training by John Trent, their commander and their connection for news from home.  For some the news was of families left behind.  They had lived for years in this hated alien place, waiting for this day.

Trent, in turn, received his orders directly from the leader.  The identity of the leader was a closely held secret.  He communicated to group leaders like Trent through elaborate schemes.  Direct contact such as the early morning telephone call to Trent at his residence was most unusual.

The weapons resting in the laps of the twelve had been purchased through mail order houses or from the countless gun shops that seemed to proliferate in rural Maryland.  Their skillful weapons man had converted the semi-automatic weapons to automatic.  Some of the men had obtained coveted Israeli Uzi machine guns, but most had Colt AR-15 rifles.  One fellow cradled a Striker 12.

1320 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

“Holy shit!” said Lee as he watched the small rocket spin toward his Suburban.  He immediately swung his steering wheel to the right, hoping to evade the heat-seeking missile now bearing down on this vehicle.  The rocket caught the Suburban just under its strengthened front grill.  The force of the explosion tossed the Suburban up into the air and flipped it on its side.   As the mass of twisted steel screeched a spine-chilling cry, the Suburban came to a stop perpendicular to its original path, blocking the narrow, two-lane road.

The occupants in the Suburban were tossed around like rag dolls, except for the Marine seated in the front right passenger’s seat, who was strapped in his shoulder harness.  The explosion’s blast had blown in the front windshield despite the hardened window mountings.  Shards of glass showered the occupants of the Suburban.

Bernstein saw the missile strike the first vehicle and heard the anguished cry of his Marine over the radio, but could do nothing for the men in the disabled Suburban, at least not now.  “Unit 3, this is Fox Leader.  Unit 1 is down and blocking the road.  This is for real!”

The driver of Bernstein’s Suburban slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the overturned vehicle.  Even so, he had to swerve his vehicle violently to avoid a nasty collision.  The second Suburban skidded sideways and was stopped by the first Suburban with a loud metallic crash.  The second Suburban’s front left wheel collapsed from the collision, rendering the vehicle inoperative.  The crumbling metal on metal sounds and gear and bodies being tossed about formed a slow motion ballet to Mike, who was in the second seat.

Despite the collision and resulting sparks, there were no fires.  The Suburbans used by CSAC were all equipped with automatic fire suppression systems activated by sensors for both collision damage and tip over.  When activated, the release of fire suppression gases and gelling agents prevented explosions in the fuel tanks.  Mike quietly thanked CSAC for that small favor.

With the second unit now disabled, Bernstein ordered his men to grab their weapons, Kevlar vests and helmets, and head for cover.  Instinctively, each Marine knew which weapon and grenade belt to grab.  They bolted out of the Suburban and scrambled for the sides of the road.

All that Mike was able to grab was a Colt AR-15 carbine, with two magazines taped together with duct tape.  Mike dove out of the Suburban and headed for the underbrush.

As Mike ran for the underbrush, bullets struck and ricocheted all around him.  The battle had begun.  As Mike reached the woods, he dove into the dense underbrush.

Breathing heavily, Mike muttered, “Shit, I’m getting too old for this crap.”

In the front car, Lee, bleeding from a gash on his head suffered during the explosion and flip over, struggled to control his shaking.  The Marine who had been sitting in the right front passenger seat hung from the seat/shoulder belt, his head hung down in an unnatural position, blood spurting out of a deep gash in his neck, the thick bright red fountain pulsing with each beat of his dying heart.  Dave knew instantly that there was nothing that could be done for him.

“Everyone O.K.?”  He shouted.

“Jones, O.K.”

“Gomez, O.K.”

“Mulligan?” said Lee.

“I’m cut pretty bad, Dave.”

“Can you make it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your gear and get the hell out of here,” said Lee.  The four men grabbed whatever weapons were available, kicked the rear panel doors open, jumped out and headed for the woods.  Lee ran to the underbrush, dove and landed next to Bernstein.

“Damage assessment, Lee.”

“One dead, two wounded.”

The third Suburban was able to come to a full stop.  The door panels of the Suburban now bristled with gun muzzles.  Marine Sergeant Tom Wicker had given his men the command to arm themselves as soon as he saw Unit 1 flip into the air.  Bernstein’s call over the communicator merely confirmed in Wicker’s mind that the convoy was in trouble.

As the sole remaining functional vehicle, Wicker’s unit was now responsible for stopping any heavy duty attack by an adversary.

Carelessly, Mitchell stood up to assess the damage his missile had wrought.  A Marine sharpshooter saw Mitchell raise his head, put a red ruby laser beam on the middle of his forehead, and squeezed the trigger of his Colt AR-15 sniper carbine.  The force of the nine millimeter caliber slug striking Mitchell in the forehead propelled his lifeless body up and back into the air.  The explosion of the bullet created a Roman fountain of red as the bullet found its mark.  The body of Mitchell lay beside the gravel road in a tangle of briar and underbrush.

“Son of a bitch,” said the young sharpshooter.

As the men scrambled from the two damaged Suburbans, the dark blue helicopter began a strafing run.  A gunman leaning out of the opened window of the helicopter sprayed the running men with an Uzi.  One Marine was hit by the fire from the helicopter.  The multiple bursts of fire from the Uzi picked up the Marine and suspended him for an instant as if he were a marionette.  Finally, he fell to the road as if someone had cut his strings.

Bernstein screamed into his handheld communicator, “Unit 3, Unit 3, kill that damn motherfucker.”

“Unit 3, Roger,” Wicker said.  Turning to the Marine at his rear, he shouted, “Get the Stinger out and pop the top.”

That was all the Marine needed.  He pushed a switch and a sliding roof panel opened.  Shouldering the Stinger missile launcher, the lance corporal took careful aim at the circling helicopter.  The Stinger missile launched from its tube with a whooshing sound and sped toward its target, leaving a white contrail.

The helicopter pilot saw the Stinger missile launch from the Suburban and immediately pulled back on his joystick in an attempt to escape.  His attempt to shake the Stinger missile was of no avail once the heat-seeking Stinger had fixed on the exhaust of the turbine driving the rotor.  As the helicopter turned, the Stinger missile followed.

Because of the pilot’s final attempt to escape, the helicopter was caught in a rotation that continued even after the tremendous explosion of the Stinger entering the turbine exhaust tubes.

What remained of the helicopter began a slow, rotating dance to the ground, when secondary explosions of the helicopter’s fuel tanks erased the existence of the helicopter and its crew completely.

Intent on the attacking helicopter, the lance corporal was not aware of the fight on the ground.  The Catonsville Furniture & Bedding truck had slammed to a full stop about fifty yards from the three Suburbans.  The back doors of the truck were kicked open from the inside.  Twelve armed men jumped from the truck and assumed positions around the truck and along the underbrush of the roadside.

One of the attackers, armed with a commercially available Colt AR-15 carbine with laser scope, drew a bead on the lance corporal.  Hoping to prevent the lance corporal from launching the Stinger, the attacker had fired just as the young Marine launched the missile.  Enhanced by the laser sight, the attacker’s accurate shot caught the lance corporal in his right rib cage, below his armpit. The bullet passed through his right lung, savagely ripped the atrial chambers of his heart, and passed up through the left lung before shattering his collar bone and tearing a gaping exit wound in his left shoulder.  The force of the bullet caused the lance corporal to drop the rocket launcher.  His lifeless body fell over the roof of the vehicle, legs dangling limply inside.  The spent missile launcher clattered to the pavement.  The right rear quarter panel of the Suburban was awash in the Marine’s blood.

Inside the Suburban, Wicker shouted to his remaining Marines to haul the lifeless body back into the vehicle.  The body inside, a Marine slammed his fist into the roof switch and the roof panel slid silently into place.  The interior of the Suburban now reeked of the smells of gunpowder and smoke, the residue of fumes from the Stinger missile, the sickening smell of blood, and the closeness of sweating combatants.

The firefight raged fiercely outside.

Mike was firing a Colt AR-15 for the first time in many years.  The kick of the weapon required some effort on his part.  He tried hard to remember his trainers’ admonition not to simply pull the trigger, but to fire in short bursts.  That way, in the words of Mike’s trainer, “You don’t get the walk-up that machine-gun users often experience.”

The attackers fanned out into the woods on both sides of road.  The Marines didn’t know how many attackers were in the woods.  Luckily, the attackers had chosen to ambush the convoy in broad daylight.  This gave the attacked the advantage of seeing minute movements.  The woods crackled with the report of semiautomatic rifle fire.  Occasionally, the loud boom of a Striker 12 shotgun could be heard.  Every once in awhile the woods shook with the explosion of a hand grenade.

In the sole operating Suburban, Wicker reached for the secured radio.  “Base, Base, Echo Fox-trot!”

The scratchy voice over the radio responded.  “This is Base, copy.”

“Base, this is Fox Leader 3, we’re under attack, repeat, under attack.  About fifteen miles west of Highway 235 on Huntersville Road.”