A New World: Conspiracy (29 page)

Speer and Ortiz dart through the archway to
the left. Franklin and Miller dash into the room to the right. A
loud, penetrating shriek erupts from somewhere in the darkened
upstairs causing the hairs along Krandle’s arm to stand upright.
They’re in the light, and as long as they keep it that way, they
should be okay. That knowledge doesn’t make the fact that they are
in close proximity to a night runner any easier. He kneels in
broken glass by the side of the large window that was shot and
looks out.

Across the street, flashes of light appear
from the shaded areas under trees and from bushes. The fire is
coming from more than a few locations, giving Krandle a picture
that they are facing at least twenty people. The solitary twinkles
of light tell him that only single shots are being directed at them
from each location.

At least we don’t have to deal with auto
fire
, Krandle thinks.

“Okay, guys, talk to me? What do you see?”
Krandle asks over the radio.

“I know what I hear,” Speer replies.

“Just stay in the light and we’ll be fine,”
Krandle says.

As if to bring light to the subject, another
loud scream echoes through the interior. Krandle turns sharply
toward the sound but doesn’t see anything in the blackness.

“We’re taking fire from across the street.
They’re at the back of the houses and in the bushes. Nothing from
the sides so far,” Speer says.

“Same here,” Franklin states.

“Anything from our three friends who crossed
the street?”

“Nothing as of yet,” Franklin answers.

“Okay, keep in mind that they’re there. Are
you able to cover the sides from your position?”

“We have good lines of sight here,” Franklin
replies.

“So do we,” Speer chimes in.

A round strikes one of the shards of glass
hanging in the frame next to Krandle’s head. He instinctively ducks
as the bullet streaks down one of the hallways.

“Motherfuckers,” Krandle breathes. “Okay, we
need to take control of this situation. Suppressive fire.”

The sound of breaking glass comes from the
other rooms causing the night runner, or night runners, upstairs to
emit another piercing shriek. Muffled bursts of fire pour out of
the house. Several tracer rounds streak outward and sail into the
shadows between the houses across the street. Making sure to keep
his barrel from poking out of the window, Krandle spins toward the
opening and aims toward one of the bushes across the way. Easing
back on the trigger, he feels the familiar push against his
shoulder as he adds his fire to those of his team.

One of the rounds of his initial burst
contains a tracer. He watches as it sails across the roadway and
connects with the bush. Leaves fly up and he has the impression of
something solid slumping to the ground in the dimness behind.
Leaves slowly settle to the ground and are whisked away in the
breeze. Seeing a flash, he moves his barrel just a touch and sends
another burst downrange.

The return fire slackens but doesn’t stop.
Krandle knows they can hold here for a while as long as they aren’t
hit. Eventually, though, they will run low on ammo and be forced to
make a break for it. They won’t be able to take down the numerous
people arrayed against them. At some point, they’ll have to
extricate themselves. So far as he knows, the only way out is the
way they came.

With the slackened fire and the team having
gained, if not the upper hand, then at least an equilibrium,
Krandle has them switch to semi-automatic fire to conserve ammo.
Keeping the three in mind, he wants to check out the rear of the
house. The dark halls and presence of night runners will keep his
immediate back side clear, but that doesn’t mean that others can’t
approach from the rear outside.

To the front, five figures leave their
concealment and start running across the road to the right. The
lead person falls forward as if he were tripped, followed a split
second later by another crashing sideways to the ground. The
remaining three, seeing their comrades fall, make a mistake and
slow. Tracers streak from Speer’s and Ortiz’ position to impact
flesh and bone. Clothing ripples as rounds find their marks sending
splashes of blood shooting outward. The remaining three are driven
to the pavement under the withering fire, not having made it more
than halfway across.

“Ortiz, Franklin? Do either of you have a
route to the rear that’s lit?” Krandle asks.

“It looks like there’s a way to the back of
the house from here that’s fully lit,” Ortiz answers.

“Franklin, while we can, join Ortiz and
scout the back. Keep your eyes open and see if there is a route
down the cliff from there,” Krandle says.

Krandle nods at Franklin as he passes behind
on his way to Ortiz.

“Speer, Miller, keep up the fire. We need to
keep their heads down.”

To his side, Blanchard is keeping up a
steady stream of semi-automatic fire into the side yards. Every
time a flash appears, Blanchard quickly shifts his aim and sends a
few rounds at it. Sometimes the flash reappears and at others, the
location remains clear of fire with the shooter either taking cover
or down. Krandle delivers rounds of his own in an effort to keep
their attackers at bay.

Projectiles from across the way continue to
pelt the house. Krandle and the team can’t keep every head down,
but they at least have a handle on the situation.

“Oww!!! Fucking dammit all the hell. You
fucking bastards,” Speer yells from the side room.

“Are you hit?” Krandle shouts.

“I’ll kill every last one of you bitches,”
Speer continues to rant, either ignoring or not hearing the
question.

Blanchard looks back from his shooting
position. Krandle nods at him in the direction of Speer and
Blanchard scurries into the other room.

Krandle concentrates on keeping the front
clear. He still sees the occasional tracer coming from Speer’s and
Miller’s positions, but they are down to three shooters and maybe
two if Speer is seriously injured.

Minutes pass slowly. Krandle sees the
outside like snapshots. Flashes of light in the dark spaces across
the street. Sunlight shining upon the five bodies huddled in the
street to the right, dark liquid mixing with the sand. A glint of
light from one of the weapons lying near them. The red-tiled roofs
atop abandoned houses. Leaves drifting down from trees and bushes
as rounds tear through them – some catching the wind and being
whisked away. Feeling the push of the stock against his shoulder as
he sends projectiles racing outward. The impacts of slugs smash
into the side of the house or zip through the broken window and
slam into the walls and stairs behind him. Smoke hanging in the
room from the expended shells and the aroma of gunpowder filling
his nostrils. The frequent screams of the night runner somewhere
above.

Through the tumultuous noise, he can hear
his steady breathing as it is inhaled and exhaled through his nose.
He feels the curve of the trigger, its hard metal clicking under
the ministrations of his finger. Sweat trickles down his temples to
run down his cheeks. He is completely in the zone.

“We’re coming back in,” Franklin radios.
“And we don’t have to worry anymore about those three. They were
trying to come up from the rear.”

“Copy that. What about the cliff?”

“There is a cut in the bank one house over
that we can shimmy down. We’ll be exposed from the top all of the
way to the exfil though,” Franklin answers.

Blanchard reenters from the side room. “He
took a round through his upper left arm. Hit under the bicep and
passed through without hitting the bone. He’ll be sore but
fine.”

“Is he still able to shoot?”

“Yeah. My parental heritage came into
question as I was bandaging him, so I think he’ll be okay.”

Krandle gets in touch with the
Santa
Fe
and informs them of the situation. They are essentially at a
stalemate with their attackers. Those firing at them can’t close
in, and the team can’t escape. That stalemate will end when the
team runs out of ammo or nighttime arrives; whichever occurs first.
Shouts carry from across the way interrupt the conversation.
Krandle can’t make out the words through the sound of gunfire. He
isn’t even sure it’s English. Other shouts are heard up and down
the street.

Krandle hears Speer shout to be heard above
the barrage. “Ortiz, what are they saying?”

“How in the fuck should I know? I don’t have
super hearing powers!” Ortiz shouts, answering.

“You speak that language. Say something to
them.”

“What do you want me to say to them,
dumbass?” Ortiz yells.

“Tell them to calm the fuck down,” Speer
answers.

Krandle thinks Ortiz may be a way to
communicate with their assailants and dashes into the room. Just as
he enters, he hears Ortiz shout at their attackers.

“Hey,
Cabron. Tu madre es una
puta
.”

Ortiz draws away from the window with a
smile and giggles.

Krandle recognizes the word ‘
puta
’
and guesses the rest was just as unpleasant.

Shouts from across the street rise above the
din of firing. The volume of gunfire increases sending all of them
to the floor. Rounds thunder into the house and decimate the
remaining glass in the windows. Thuds against the side of the house
shake it, sending splinters and shards of glass into the interior.
The curtains hanging at the sides rock backward from the bullets
slamming into them. The team folds their hands over their heads to
protect from the rounds and volume of glass falling into their
midst.

“What the fuck did you say?” Speer shouts
from his defensive posture.

“I asked them if they enjoy a good cup of
tea,” Ortiz yells back.

“Ortiz! You don’t get to talk from now on,”
Krandle states.

Rising to the edge of the window, Krandle
peeks out. He sees figures dart across the street to the right out
of the range of fire. Franklin informs him that he saw others dash
to their side of the road in his direction.

Calling the
Santa Fe
once again, he
reports the change in their situation, giving their coordinates and
those of the assailants.

“I don’t think they really like us being
here much,” Krandle says, finishing.

“Is there any way you can extract yourself?”
Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We’re rather stuck here,” Krandle
answers.

“Will you be able to relocate?”

“How far are you thinking?” Krandle asks,
amid the din.

“I would suggest four hundred meters,”
Leonard replies.

“That’s iffy at best. But we’ll do what we
can. How long are we talking, sir?”

“We’ll do what we can to help. Give me
fifteen minutes and then I’ll tell you five minutes out. Twenty
minutes total. Can you hold that long?”

“Do we have a choice, sir?” Krandle asks
with bullets shredding the side of the house.

“No, Chief. Sorry.”

“Then we’ll do what we need to do. I need
that five minute warning though,” Krandle says.

“You’ll get that, Chief.”

“Sir, it needs to be an exact five minute
count down. Can we rely on that?”

“You’ll have it.”

Bullets unrelentingly tear into the house.
Shredded window panes fall on the backs of the team as they fold
themselves into a ball.

Twenty minutes…Fuck!
Krandle thinks,
knowing twenty minutes in a firefight can seem like forever,
especially when holding out for an extraction.

“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to
hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we
need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the
team.

A scream rises momentarily above the clamor.
Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints
about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the
air.

“Miller’s hit,” he says.

“How bad?” Blanchard asks.

“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a
little busy over here,” Franklin replies.

Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making
his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer,
Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing
automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway.
Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one
brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest
at the top of his shoulder.

He’s been here before and knows that if they
continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be
as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an
attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send
rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need
twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.

Several people run from between the houses,
attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz
pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under
their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie
still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend
flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make
it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side
of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.

“Miller took a round below the shoulder.
He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard
reports.

“Can he move?” Krandle asks.

“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.

“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the
background.

“He’s mobile, but he’s lost blood,”
Blanchard continues.

“Okay. Keep an eye on him and stay there to
support Franklin,” Krandle says.

Shouts of “reloading” rise above the tumult
as the team, minus Miller, direct focused and intense fire toward
the flashes of light. The return fire is reduced as their bullets,
tearing through shrubs and ripping into house corners, keeps the
opposing heads down. The team has gained a small measure of
containment, but it’s the ones that are coming from the sides and
possibly the rear that worry Krandle. The openness of the yard
around the house allows for good fields of vision and will make
anyone approaching more cautious. He knows though that, regardless
of how careful they may be, it is only a matter of time before they
start receiving fire from the flanks.