Brothers in Arms

Matthews was still shouting five minutes of hope over the radio, but the reality in front of us was hell. Those were long minutes. Emptying a thirty-round magazine from an M4 carbine took two or three seconds; a hundred-round belt from an M2 or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an M240 was gone in ten. It felt like the last round of a boxing match, when your legs are about to give out — and that round just would not end.

The enemy was slipping cleverly between the low hills scattered across the open ground, drawing their encirclement tighter like a vast net. Up on the hilltop position, men were scrambling to swap out barrels glowing red-hot from ceaseless fire and to restock ammo cans that had run dry.

A young soldier who'd come pounding up the hill with a full load of ammunition tore his helmet off, gasping. Unfrozen sweat poured from the liner, and from his soaked hair, white steam rose like a tongue of flame.

Then it came.

At the observer's urgent report, I swung my binoculars that way. Sure enough, far out across the desert, three Humvees and several pickup trucks were sweeping a wide arc around us.

They clearly meant to circle the entire open ground and hit our flank — or our rear. But I couldn't just yank firepower off the hilltop on a whim. The instant our frontal fire slackened even a little, the enemy's main body would come pouring up the road ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like a wave. That much was certain.

At my order, several soldiers grabbed an M240 and sprinted for the right side of the hill. At the same time I shouted down toward the hatch beneath the turret.

"Carlos, fire up the truck! At the right edge of the hill position, swing the chassis to the right!"

I wanted to explain more clearly, but there was no time — and Carlos was already running for the driver's seat. His hurried footsteps pounded through the trailer, and a moment later the Kenworth roared to life and began to move.

In the meantime, reports came in of the enemy exploiting the dip in our frontal fire.

KA-KA-KRAANG.

The second Claymore detonated. That meant the enemy had tried to push to within fifty yards.

Even then, Carlos moved the truck as if he'd read my mind. As the chassis swung ninety degrees, the turret's firing arc lined up dead on the flanking enemy. I left the front of the position to Evans and squeezed the trigger of the Mk.19 grenade launcher once more. In that same span, Carlos cranked the truck another ninety degrees to the right, putting the trailer's rear toward the enemy.

In that brief moment I thought: this kid has a natural combat instinct. The move didn't just cover the turret's blind spot — it also cut down the truck's target profile.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The 40mm grenades arced out, but hitting vehicles racing laterally across our right flank was no easy thing. Then the repositioned M2 heavy machine gun opened up from our position, and the enemy changed tactics.

A gun truck with thick steel plate welded across its front pulled into the lead, soaking up our fire with its whole body, while the rest of the vehicles swung even wider, slipping out of our lines of fire.

A chill ran down my spine.

If they get around behind the position... it's over.

With fire pouring in from both the front and the flank, the position was a breath away from collapsing. Until now, we'd been used to facing the enemy from a single direction. But once they dispersed tactically and ran a diversion, it was obvious our desperately thin numbers weren't enough. It was a moment of life and death.

They'd used the lull in our frontal fire to come right up to the foot of the hill. To engage anything immediately below, a man had to expose himself on the crest — and that meant the soldiers were about to be even more exposed.

Then a soldier screamed into his radio, his voice tearing.

Then Evans's urgent voice came through.

BOOM! KA-KA-KRAANG — bang, bang, bang.

The Claymores Evans had emplaced detonated in a chain. That was the last card we had for defending ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the position.

Matthews, you said five minutes!

I found myself muttering it, a note of accusation I couldn't quite swallow.

And right then, from behind us, a familiar engine roar came thundering in, shaking the ground. Then the voice I'd been waiting for burst through my earpiece.

Four TSP Humvees came boiling out of a sandstorm and didn't even slow down — they punched straight into the right side of the hill position, to the right of my truck. From the roof turrets of each vehicle, four 12.7mm M2 heavy machine guns opened up at once.

Dug-dug, dug-dug-dug, DRRRRT, dugdugdugdugdugdug—

A wall of fire on a completely different scale from anything we'd had a moment ago poured a rain of steel onto the flanking enemy.

Matthews jumped down from his Humvee, the Carl Gustaf already on his shoulder, and took aim.

FWOOSH!

The rocket screamed downrange — SHHHHHHHHHH — and then KA-KRAANG! That welcome launch, and the lead gun truck that had been soaking up our fire bloomed into a giant fireball. Up on the hill, the soldiers — adrenaline surging at the arrival of reinforcements — were pulling their triggers even harder.

A soldier with a gunshot wound in his right arm was firing with his left. Another, hit in the leg, was rolling himself along the hillside, dragging ammunition. On another stretch of the line, a comrade came running to treat a wounded man —

"Hold your position!"

the wounded soldier shouted, then pulled a trauma kit out with one arm, tore the sterile gauze packet open with his teeth, and packed his own wound.

I still couldn't hear the armored vehicles' engines. Matthews and Ryker had probably chosen speed of support over keeping formation. With the TSP detachment's help we were holding the enemy off our flank and rear — but I was worried about Gunner, still isolated at the ambush point.

And a moment later the engine noise I'd been waiting for came in at the edge of my hearing, and the vibration traveling up the road sent a thrill through my whole body. Two Stryker armored vehicles, dispatched from Hawthorne Base, arrived in all their heavy, imposing bulk.

From the turret, I shouted toward the vehicle commander who'd popped the hatch of the lead Stryker.

"Vehicle commander! There — eleven o'clock, two hundred fifty yards, below the hill. Friendly ambush team is cut off. Move immediately, cover them, and pull them out."

The Stryker commander gave a hand signal of acknowledgment and dropped back inside the hatch. One Stryker roared forward, kicking up dirt as it went to extract Gunner's team. The other took position on the right, where Matthews's TSP detachment had set up, and began pouring 30mm autocannon fire onto the flanking enemy.

THOOM. THOOM. THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.

Not long after, Gunner's brief radio call came through my earpiece.

The Stryker carrying Gunner's team immediately climbed onto the road. Even as it reversed toward our position, its turret stayed oriented forward, picking off every enemy vehicle that entered its sights with precise, measured bursts and setting them ablaze.

THOOM— THOOM, THOOM— THOOM, THOOM-THOOM.

A moment later, Gunner and his assistant gunner jumped down from the smoking Stryker.

"Gunner!"

I shouted from the turret. Gunner just gave a casual thumbs-up and immediately ran back up onto the hill position. He was so caked in sweat and dirt that if he'd been lying on the ground, you wouldn't have been able to tell him from the earth.

Just like that, the tide of the battle had completely reversed.

Matthews's voice came over the radio.

The remaining Stryker shifted to the right of the position as well, and the two armored vehicles formed an assault formation, escorting the four Humvees on either side. They advanced across the open ground, picking off the scattered, still-resisting enemy vehicles one by one. Far off, a few of them had already turned tail and were fleeing north.

Some more time passed, and at last the gunfire began to die away. This time, a massive column of vehicles was approaching from the rear.

The National Guard reinforcements that had set out from Carson and Hawthorne had finally arrived. There were several military ambulances among them, and helicopters kicked up dust as they landed to medevac the seriously wounded. Almost every soldier on the hill was hurt, some worse than others.

In no time, US-95 was a snarl of helicopters and vehicles evacuating the wounded — a war of a different kind.

Then Lieutenant Evans, who'd finally caught his breath, came over to me.

"Boss!"

"What's our casualty situation, Lieutenant?"

"Almost every man is wounded, and we have some serious cases... but not a single KIA."

At those words, the tension went out of me.

"Hah... You did well, Lieutenant."

"If we hadn't built this position under your command... I don't even want to imagine it."

He took off his helmet — the bullet scars on it were plain to see — and looked at the sandbags of the hill position as he went on.

We left the battlefield cleanup to the follow-on units and climbed back into the truck to return to Fallon with Matthews's TSP detachment. The moment I went to sit in the driver's seat, Carlos stepped in front of me.

"Boss, I'll drive."

I looked at Gunner without a word. He nodded.

"Kid's a hell of a driver."

I handed Carlos the wheel, and the truck eased into motion. As we passed Evans, the lieutenant saluted the truck, and I returned it in silence, nodding.

Once the truck had settled onto US-95, I went back into the sleeper cabin. Wolf, who'd been curled up in the corner, greeted me with a wagging tail, and I gave his head a firm, thorough scratch.

"You waited well, Wolf."

"Woof!"

I tossed him a piece of jerky along with the praise, but Wolf just kept wagging, prancing in place, and rubbing himself against me.

Then an urgent radio call came in from Bill, who'd been standing by at Hawthorne.

There was real worry underneath the grousing.

When we got back to the Fallon checkpoint, Matthews and Ryker, who'd arrived ahead of us, were waiting, already down from their Humvees. We shook hands without a word and clapped each other on the shoulder, acknowledging the fight we'd just been through.

Then Matthews settled his helmet back on and said,

"Boss, we'll head straight back to Hawthorne. For the Union convoy mission tomorrow morning, it's better if we leave now."

"Alright, Matthews. Good work. I'm counting on you."

Matthews called them to attention. Ryker and the other TSP operators squared up and saluted me. I returned it with equal formality.

After seeing them off, I went back to the trailer and poured Gunner and Carlos each a cup of hot coffee.

"You both did damn well today. Especially you, Carlos. That was outstanding."

At the praise, a smile spread across Carlos's face.

"Tonight, everybody gets a hot shower."

At that, Carlos's face lit up even more. We were savoring that brief respite after a vicious fight when the sound of engines came through the window again. I looked out. More military vehicles.

Lieutenant Colonel Gibson stepped down from the lead Humvee of the column.

I climbed down from the truck. Gibson walked up to me, stopped, and squared himself.

And without a moment's hesitation, he raised his right hand and rendered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me a crisp, formal salute.