Leapfrog

After the funeral, we had to come back to the real world, and we threw ourselves into the work.

A few fights had taught everyone the same lesson: a pretty plan mattered less than backups — Plan B and Plan C — waiting at every position.

Spare magazines. Spare guns.

They knew to stage a shotgun on every tactical route and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every exit, and to keep what they carried separate from the ammunition laid out for each firing point.

Working through the prep, we came to understand something about the more than ten thousand gallons of diesel sleeping on this farm. It was more than fuel. It was the water of life that would let us endure this brutal winter and hold on for whatever world came next — a resource we had to protect at all costs.

Walking the property, I was struck all over again by the scale of the place. Weapons aside, there was genuinely nothing they didn't have. Tractors and a skid loader, every tool you'd need for fabrication and repair — and enough drones and high-end radios to run the farm.

In a corner of the barn sat an old pickup that could still technically roll, though you wouldn't have blamed anyone for sending it to the scrapyard. We decided to use it as a camouflaged post in the OP sector. We also planned to throw it across the road as a barricade the moment the enemy was fully committed to the approach — sealing their way back out.

Then we checked our weapons one more time. Every adult man ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now carried an automatic rifle with a pistol as a sidearm, and shotguns were staged at each position for emergencies. Sarah and Raven were issued submachine guns like the MP5 — low recoil, easier for them to handle.

I emptied one magazine of my Saiga-12 and loaded it, round by round, with slugs. Unlike buckshot, which sprays a cloud of small steel balls, a slug is a single massive projectile — more than enough to stop a man, and enough to punch through a vehicle's wheel or engine block.

When everything was ready, Frank grabbed a quick bite and his weapons and headed out to the OP, half a mile away at the highway off-ramp.

Then Frank's voice came through the radio, clean and clear. The open flatland made reception as good as it gets.

Dave's voice had been hoarse, the usual cheer gone from it, replaced by a heavy, genuine worry for his friend. Frank had heard it too, and answered without a trace of playfulness. Mike had tried to lighten the mood with that hearty laugh of his. Gunner had shut it down, the way he always did.

When lunchtime came, Dave's mother Eleanor, Sarah, and Raven put their heads together and laid out a generous meal. It was the best comfort they could offer us, worn down in body and spirit. The table was loaded with crispy fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, rich gravy, corn roasted in butter, and bacon — classic, old-fashioned Southern home cooking. For the first time in a long while we sat down to a real meal, and for a moment we forgot the war and tasted peace.

Gunner finished eating in a hurry, stood up, and said,

"I'll go relieve Frank."

As he left, Mike gestured for me to wait a moment, then came over and spoke quietly.

"Boss. I think Gunner should stay on the operational position. And leaving just one man at the OP is dangerous. We need two on watch."

"Yeah, I suppose..."

"The whole operation hinges on timing. You leave one guy out there, he lets his guard down for a second or looks the wrong way, and they show up — then what?"

"..."

"The farm access road is half a mile long. If they put their foot down, they can be at the gate in a minute. Miss the timing and the whole thing falls apart."

He had a point. I nodded.

"Understood. When Frank comes back to eat, we'll send Dave out with him."

I glanced at Dave, still drowning in grief. Giving him a job. It might be the only way to get a grieving man back on his feet. When I had lost everything and left Korea, what saved me in the end was a mission by the name of survival.

Frank came back, bolted his food, and got ready to head out to the post with Dave. Then he said to me,

"Hey, Chan. That wire trap you had rigged on your truck. If we can reuse it, wouldn't it be better to pull it off and set it up at the entrance?"

His words jogged something I'd forgotten.

"Thanks, Frank. I'd lost track of that."

"What? There's more?"

Frank's eyes went wide.

"You know me. I always stock more than I need."

Dave and Frank headed for the OP, and I dug through my trailer and came up with twenty leftover tripwires. We loaded all of them with buckshot.

With help from Dave's cousin Jake and from Cody, we drove two low stakes firmly into the ground on one side of the road just in front of the farm's main gate. Then we carefully fanned ten tripwires off each stake. I turned to Jake.

"Those drones in the warehouse — can you fly them?"

"Yes, sir. They're a bit iffy for overwatch, though. Flight time's only about fifty minutes."

"That's fine. Not for overwatch. When the fight turns into a melee, get one in the air."

"Ah! After the lead vehicle stops, you mean?"

"That's it. Once the front and rear are blocked, Gunner and I have to get up onto the road. That's when I need you calling out enemy positions."

"Understood. I'll have a drone standing by on the roof."

"Appreciate it."

Then Gunner came back from his watch rotation and walked over. We had one last thing to do: sync our movements.

"All right. Let's lock in the tactics."

I drew the access road in the dirt with a stick.

"The second the OP radios that the enemy is coming in, you and I move down below that eastern berm on the approach."

I scratched two lines in the dirt.

"Gunner, you move to those buckshot tripwires I just set. I push another hundred meters forward, to a position where I can take the rear of their column."

"Wilco."

"Good. When the lead vehicle is almost at the farm gate, you pull that tripwire yourself. That's the signal. Everything starts on your mark."

Gunner's eyes lit up.

"Manual detonation. Solid."

"Right. On your signal, Mike and the boys at the farmhouse dump everything they've got on the lead vehicle from above. And I smash the rear vehicle and seal their escape."

I looked toward the outpost where Dave and Frank were.

"Even if I miss, Dave and Frank's pickup will ram them from behind and block the road. By then Jake will have a drone up, calling remaining contacts over the radio."

"Hell of a kill zone."

"Once they're trapped on the road, you work their flank along the berm-and-road line, and I clear from the rear forward. When we link up near that curve, we leapfrog up the road together and kill everything that's left."

Gunner seemed to run it through in his head, then smiled and nodded.

"Perfect."

Like old comrades, our thinking and our movement were locking perfectly onto a single objective.

And then time seemed to stop.

Dave and Frank at the OP at the mouth of the access road. Gunner and I in the farm shed by the front gate. Everyone else in the farmhouse. We waited in our positions for an enemy that wouldn't come. Boredom was a harder torture than tension.

As the sun slid west and the world drowned in a deep blood-red, Frank's weary voice came over the radio.

Dave's random comment cracked the channel up. The tension eased a little, and I was glad to hear him starting to climb out of his grief.

That was the moment.

Frank's voice tore through the radio, sharper and more urgent than anything we'd heard from him.

I locked eyes with Gunner. No more words needed. We threw ourselves into the shadows, toward our assigned positions.

Then Frank's last shout came through.

Bent at the waist, running below the berm, I lifted my head and confirmed the approaching column. I couldn't help being stunned.

Six, seven, eight... nine. Holy shit. That's a lot of them.

I mapped in my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head the point where the column would have to slow hard, and glanced back. Gunner was already in position near the buried tripwires, exactly as planned. I confirmed it and put on a little more speed.

Beneath a gray sky, the last of the sunlight was dying. This dusk. This hour of limited visibility — it occurred to me that this was exactly the environment that favored us, the ones with fewer numbers.

I shifted the SIG XMS Rattler on my side and unslung the Saiga-12 from my shoulder, bringing it up — ready to drop the heavy shotgun and switch weapons at any moment.

Before I'd even reached my intended position, their lead vehicle shot past in front of me. They were coming in a lot faster than I'd simulated in my head.

The very moment the last vehicle in the column — the rear — came within about fifteen meters of me, a roar erupted behind me.

KWA-KWA-KWA-KWANG — KWANG KWANG!

The buckshot traps detonated like a signal flare, and from the second and third floors of the farmhouse, Mike and Dave's cousins opened up with a massive volume of concentrated fire.

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TANG-TANG-TANG-TANG...

I saw the lead vehicle stop in a burst of fire and sparks.

Right then the driver of the trailing vehicle read the situation, and with a squeal of tires he shifted and tried to reverse off the road.

I didn't hesitate. Half-leaning out onto the road, I pulled the trigger, and the Saiga-12 belched fire.

KWAKWANG — KWAKWANG — KWAKWANG — KWAKWANG — KWAKWANG —

The slugs shredded his rear tires. The rounds that followed smashed into the engine bay. The reversing vehicle twisted a half-turn and stopped.

Then a welcome sound reached me.

Buzzzzzzz.

A drone climbing off the farmhouse roof.