Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians) (44 page)

             
“It’s only a kilometer and a half,” I pointed out.  “If they pay attention they shouldn’t get lost, especially if they are from this city.”

             
Hussein Ali listened politely, then replied curtly.  “He says that the combat situation will disorient some of them.  He says that they will have to move much more carefully and slowly toward the target.”

             
So our timeline was already fucked.  That wasn’t my biggest concern, though.  What I was worried about was giving the enemy more time to get ready and hit us again.  We needed to move faster, not more slowly.  We’d already let the pressure off by letting them pull back while we got our shit together.

             
“Hassan, you stay with Hussein Ali,” I told him.  “Make sure you have radio contact with me at all times.  I’m going to take our teams up ahead, on foot, to clear the way as best we can.  We cannot leave the opposition with too much time to get their balance.  We have to keep pushing.”

             
Hassan rapidly explained the plan to Hussein Ali, who nodded emphatically when he understood.  “He says it is a good idea, but says not to get so far ahead that the enemy gets between us.”

             
No shit
, I thought but didn’t say.  Over-penetrating was a good way to get cut off and killed.  I had no intention of letting the bad guys into our rear.  But we needed to move, and quickly, or we’d lose any momentum and initiative we might have left.

             
I clapped Hassan on the shoulder, shook Hussein Ali’s hand, trotted back to the truck, and climbed in.  “Push,” I told Larry, “but only to the far side of the square.  We’re moving on foot from there.”  I gave a quick rundown of the new plan, sending it over our team tac channel at the same time.

             
“I like it,” Larry said.  “We were sitting ducks in these vehicles anyway.”

             
“I’m bringing the PKM,” Bryan hollered through the open window in the back.

             
“You’d better not leave your rifle,” I told him.

             
“I won’t,” he replied, barely audible over the sound of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires as Larry led the way at high speed across the open ground, trying to get us to the buildings on the far side of the cloverleaf before we could take more fire.  We bounced up onto the hardball road with a bone-jarring shudder, then back down onto the dirt and then we were in among the ramshackle brick buildings set haphazardly in the swampy low spot below the road.

             
We all piled out, grabbing rifles and go-bags as we did, as the other trucks bounced and rattled up to join us.  I ran over to Mike’s HiLux, and found him levering himself out of the passenger seat.  “You handrail Route 8, and we’ll take Tamuz Street,” I suggested.

             
He took a look around as he thought about it, placing the routes in his head.  He nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.  We’ll keep in radio contact; if one gets in a furball, the other team can hook around and come up on a flank.”

             
“That works.”  I punched him in the shoulder.  “Good hunting, brother.”

             
He grinned.  “You too, man.”  I jogged back to where Jim was checking that we hadn’t left anything vital on the trucks.  Bryan was standing by the bed, his OBR across his back, the PKM held in his hands, and several belts of linked 7.62x54 draped over his kit.  It looked a lot heavier than I’d want to carry.

             
“You sure about carrying all that shit, Rambo?” I asked him.  “We’re going to be moving a lot.”

             
“I’ll take the weight if it means having the firepower,” he said.  “This is the second time somebody’s shot at me with one of those fucking cannons, and I want to fuck up
their
shit for once.”

             
“Fine, I won’t argue with having more firepower.  But if you can’t keep up, you dump that fucking shit in the nearest canal, understood?”  He nodded with a smirk.  Bryan was in pretty good shape; I wasn’t too worried that he was going to get worn down anytime soon.  On the other hand, urban combat can be a bitch, even lightly loaded.  And we were wearing plates this time, thanks to the closer quarters.

             
I got the thumbs-up from Jim.  By then, the entire team was in a rough perimeter, mostly in the prone or on a knee at the corners of buildings, covering 360 degrees, or as close as we could get under the circumstances.  Mike was still getting his team together.  I called Hassan on the ICOM I had stashed in a cargo pocket.  I needed to find a better place for it; I didn’t want the damned thing banging against my knee for the rest of the day.  “Hassan, radio check,” I called.

             
“I hear you, Mister Jeff,” he replied.  “Our contact is good.”

             
“Roger,” I said.  “If we start losing contact, I am going to stop and strongpoint until the militia can start to catch up.  We have to stay coordinated.  That also means I need you to keep me informed about where Hussein Ali and Daoud al Zubayri are taking their men.  Understand?”

             
“Yes, I understand,” he said.  “We will stay in contact, Mister Jeff.”

             
“Good.”  I signed off and dropped the radio in my dump pouch.  It might get in the way when I had to drop spent mags in it, but it was better than a cargo pocket.  We had to get moving.  I pointed to Nick, since Bryan was loaded down too much to want to put him on point, and gave him the go ahead.  He nodded, got up, and led off.

             
The back streets were quiet and empty.  Parked cars and trucks still lined the streets, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen.  Most of the area was somewhat industrial, but there were some houses around the corners.  None showed signs of life, except for the odd furtive glance out a window that was promptly covered as soon as they saw one of us looking back at them.  The locals were spooked; at least the ones that didn’t want to get caught up in the slaughter.

             
The emptiness of the streets didn’t mean things were silent.  Gunfire burst out, then faded.  An explosion echoed somewhere off to the west.  The city was restive; our own sortie was only part of the violence brewing between at least three general movements.  This was going to get ugly.

             
We were moving more quickly than the militia would have, but that didn’t mean we were rushing or getting sloppy.  We paused at every crossing, swept every door and window.  Every movement was planned and executed, every danger area covered by at least one rifle.

             
My radio crackled in my ear.  “Hillbilly, Speedy,” Mike called.  “We’ve got a mix of PPF and irregulars setting up over here by the Y-intersection with Route 6.  It looks like they’re going to try again, this time with better cover.”

             
No sooner had he stopped speaking than Nick, who had moved to a corner to get a view down Tamuz Street, looked back and signaled to me.  It didn’t take much to get his message across.

             
“Roger, Speedy,” I replied.  “We’ve got another element moving down Tamuz Street right now.  Looks like they’re going to try to pincer the militia.  Can you handle the ones on your side?”

             
“It’ll get rough,” he replied.  “I’d rather have some support to hit this many.  We’re talking more than platoon strength.”

             
“Then stand by to hit them when the militia come within striking distance,” I said.  “Let’s use what misdirection we can.  These fuckers are moving, we’re going to slow them down a little.”

             
“Roger.  Good luck.”  Mike signed off.  I reached back and pulled out the ICOM.  “Hassan, this is Jeff.  Mike has found the PPF forces that drew back from Saad Square.  They are setting up defensive positions in the buildings north on Route 6.  Mike is prepared to hit them from the flank as soon as your lead elements make contact.”

             
There was a pause as Hassan relayed this information to Hussein Ali. “Hussein Ali says he understands, and will approach the area with caution.  He says to let his men fire first, before you attack.”

             
“We will,” I said, leaving aside the fact that Mike was the one in position, not me.  “There is also another group advancing south along Tamuz Street.  We will take care of them before they can come around on your flank.”

             
Again, Hassan translated, then said in reply, “Understood, Mister Jeff.  Allah watch over you.”

             
“Thanks.”  I took the prayer for what it was.  I stashed the radio back in my dump pouch and moved up next to Nick.  I leaned around the corner and leveled my rifle, cranking my scope all the way up to 8x for a better view.

             
There were four PPF trucks coming down the road, slowly, their mounted guns tracking to either side of the street.  The men in the beds were facing outboard, their rifles ready.  I squinted.  They didn’t look like AKs or M4s.  I let it go; there wasn’t time.

             
“Bryan!” I hissed.  “You’re humping that damned thing anyway, get over here and get set up on the long axis of the road.  Nick, you and I will stay with him.  Jim, take the rest and get spread out along the side of the road.  We’ll let ‘em get close, then waste ‘em.  Hold fire until we open up.”

             
Jim nodded, then vanished into the back alleys with Juan, Little Bob, Paul, and Larry.  Bryan jogged over, those ammo belts flapping ridiculously, and dropped down in the prone just beyond the corner, where he could see most of the way down the street.  Fortunately, there weren’t any vehicles parked on the side of the main drag.  That meant our line of fire was clear.  It also meant we didn’t have much in the way of cover or concealment.

             
I knelt down next to Bryan, keeping my eyes moving, watching for any outriders or anybody else who wanted to come crash the party.  “You’re initiating, on my go,” I told him.

             
He mimed wiping away a tear.  “You love me, you really love me,” he said.

             
I punched him in the shoulder.  “Shut up, you goofy bastard, and just get ready to kill some people.”

             
He grinned and settled down behind the machinegun, shifting his body to get as much of himself behind the bore line as he could.  That would cut down on the recoil, and let him keep the burst tighter.  I glanced over to see Nick covering our six.  This would be a really bad time for somebody like Jaysh al Mahdi to stumble over us.

             
I kept back from the street, relying on Bryan to keep track of the PPF convoy.  My earpiece crackled.  “Kemosabe, in position,” Jim reported.  I broke squelch twice to indicate I’d heard him.

             
A moment later, Mike called, “This is Speedy.  We have eyes on the militia.  Contact is imminent.”  Another double squelch-break.  Then there was no more time for talking, as Bryan opened up with a long, twenty-round burst.

             
I leaned out into the street, bracing my off-hand against the wall of the compound we were hiding behind, and lined up the lead truck, which was a bare half a block away.  Bryan was working it over, starting to sweep his fire from side to side; there was no one moving on that vehicle.  The truck rocked as his bullets shredded tires and sparks and smoke started to belch out of the engine compartment.  The windshield was gone.

             
I shifted to the next truck back, and got a decent shot at the gunner.  I squeezed off a pair of shots, my rifle cracking thunderously, although it was drowned out by the rattle of the PKM right below me.  The gunner dropped out of sight; I didn’t know for sure if I’d hit him, or if one of the other hundreds of bullets cracking through the morning air had.

             
Gunfire was roaring from the west side of the street, as Jim and the rest popped out of cover and hosed down the convoy with high-powered rifle fire.  A couple of PPF at the rear of the convoy tried to return fire, but I got one with a single shot to the upper chest, and the other one suddenly went silent; I couldn’t see where he was exactly.

             
I let Bryan hose down the convoy one more time to be sure, but any return fire had gone silent and I wasn’t seeing much movement.  I prodded him with a boot to the ribs.  “Cease fire,” I yelled.  “Save the ammo.”  I switched to the radio.  “Team Hillbilly cease fire and fall back two blocks.”  I was about to call Mike for a SITREP when more gunfire erupted off to the west, mostly sounding like our rifle fire.  Mike and his boys had engaged the other PPF force.

             
Bryan picked himself up off the ground, hauling the smoking PKM with him.  He was holding the front by the bipod, to keep his hand off the barrel.  The PKM doesn’t have a forearm stock.  I pointed him to follow Nick, then took up the rear as we got the hell away from the kill zone.

             
We linked up with Jim and the rest only a few minutes later, just short of another wide dirt street running between Tamuz and Route 6—a dirt street that presently had the odd burst of gunfire cracking down its length.