A New World: Conspiracy (30 page)

It’s nothing. Just a few more
minutes
, Krandle thinks, looking at his watch.

He repeats this as a mantra while he sends
burst after burst downrange. He has Ortiz watching the sides for
any sign of those that crossed and reminds Franklin to do the
same.

“We have movement near the house next to us.
I can identify only three right now,” Franklin calls out.

“Can you hold or do you want Ortiz?”

“We’re fine for now,” Franklin says.

Ortiz catches Krandle’s attention and lets
him know he sees movement on their side as well. As if to validate
the information, rounds begin to pepper their position from that
side.

“Speer, take care of the flank. Ortiz, head
to the back and keep anyone off our backside. That’s our only way
out,” Krandle calls out.

Ortiz rises and dashes into an adjoining
room leading to the rear. Speer adjusts his position to take the
shooters on the side under fire. Feeling the effects of his wound
and the tightening of the muscles around it, he brings his carbine
up slower than usual. However, he starts delivering high-speed
projectiles at those attempting to flank their position.

Having to cover all sides diminishes fire
they can concentrate in any one area. They are slowly being
surrounded, regardless of how much they try to keep their
assailants’ heads down to prevent that very thing. Krandle glances
at his watch yet again.

Come on, Leonard. Do what you’re going to
do and do it soon
or we won’t be around for it to do any
good
, Krandle thinks, having an idea of what Leonard has in
mind.

Focusing on those across the street, the
sudden sting and burning on his forehead takes him by surprise. It
feels like someone pinched him and then held a burning cigarette to
his skin. He reaches up to the sudden sensation trying to wipe the
burn away with the back of his hand. His glove comes away with a
smear of blood soaked into the fabric. The blood mixes with the
sweat and the warm flow trickles down his brow. He wipes it away
again and continues firing.

“Chief Krandle,” he hears Leonard call over
the radio.

“Krandle here,” he answers, resuming fire
between clicking the mic button.

He’s the only one delivering fast-moving
projectiles to this side of their front and they can’t afford to
slack off on their fire. They have to keep the pressure on.

“Five minutes...ready, ready, mark,” Leonard
says.

Krandle, having set a countdown timer on his
watch, reaches up and clicks a button starting it.

“Copy,” he replies.

“Be sure you’re at a minimum of two hundred
meters. Four hundred would be optimal, but two hundred should
provide a measure of safety. Not much, but some,” Leonard
states.

“Copy. Call you in five.”

“Five minutes. We’re leaving out the back in
three plus forty-five. Ortiz, we’ll be coming out your way. Then
we’re across the back yard to the cliff edge. Be ready to peel away
on my call,” Krandle informs the team on the radio.

“The back is clear for now, Chief,” Ortiz
radios.

That will be cutting it close to be away in
time but they can’t leave too early as that will give their
assailants time to chase them and put the team at a greater risk in
the open.

Offshore, in the deeper water of the bay
miles to the northwest of the Palos Verdes headland, the rolling
swells are interrupted by an eruption. Water is flung upward and
out. Through it rises a sleek, cylindrical shape. The roar of a
rocket echoes across the bay and the object launches into the sky
at an angle, leaving a trail of fire and smoke. With a rumbling
roar, it picks up speed as it gains altitude.

A short distance later, the solid propellant
rocket that provides its initial boost detaches and falls into the
ocean with a splash. The smoke trails off as the turbo-fan motor
engages and the object vanishes from sight as it hurtles toward its
destination.

Krandle glances at his watch for the
hundredth time, watching the small numbers wind down. They hit the
one minute, fifteen second mark.

“Everyone empty two mags and then we’re out
of here. Blanchard, you start with Miller now. Franklin, Speer and
I will follow you out,” Krandle calls.

Krandle fires continual bursts at anyplace
that anyone could possibly be hidden in. He hears the shuffling of
Miller and Blanchard behind him as they make their way to Ortiz.
Replacing his mag, he sweeps the area with gunfire again. A series
of rounds impacts the edge of the window near him, splintering the
already shredded jamb. He feels a sting as several sharp fragments
cut into his cheek.

“Okay, Franklin, you’re next…Go!” Krandle
calls, down to the last few bullets in his mag.

Seconds later, as Franklin dashes by, he
touches Krandle’s shoulder to let him know he’s past. Krandle fires
the last rounds, replaces his mag, and looks at his watch. Fifty
seconds to go.

It’s past time to beat cheeks out of
here
.

“Let’s go, Speer!”

They rise and race toward the back, passing
Ortiz on the way. Ortiz follows them out a back door. Franklin,
Miller, and Blanchard are part way across the large, open back
yard. Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle emerge from the rear door when
shouts ring out from both sides of the yard. Gunfire follows
seconds later. They are being assaulted from both sides. The team’s
unexpected appearance causes the assailants to fire hastily and
therefore inaccurately.

Krandle hears rounds zip through the tall
grass. He feels the pressure of one round passing just in front of
him. Not slowing one bit, Franklin aims his carbine haphazardly in
one hand and fires. The rounds go wide, but it causes the attackers
to take cover. Miller shoves Blanchard away with his good hand,
grabs his arm on the wounded side, and continues running toward the
bluff edge.

Blanchard unslings his M-4 and adds his
rounds to the fray. Krandle and the remaining two fire as they race
across through the tall grass. Mindful of their limited time
remaining, Krandle sacrifices his aim to keep pace. It’s now a
pell-mell race for the edge as they try to outrace time itself.
Krandle and the two with him catch up and pass Miller and Blanchard
close to the bluff threshold.

The edge looms near with nothing in sight
beyond except the ocean far below stretching out to the horizon.
Their pace doesn’t slow. Rounds continue to pepper the air around
them, following their mad race. Only a few feet separate the team
from the long drop.

“Over we go, gents. Slide down,” Krandle
shouts.

A couple of feet from the rim, they sling
their M-4s and go to the ground like they were sliding into second.
As their feet go over the edge, they roll onto their stomachs.
Their legs slam into the rocky sides of the cliff and they begin
skidding down. Stomachs, chests, knees, and elbows scrape against
the rocky outcroppings as they scramble to grab hold of something
to arrest their fall down the cliff.

The angle of the bluff at the top allows
them some control and Krandle manages to grab hold of a rock
projecting out of the steep wall. His feet find purchase on a small
ledge and he secures himself. He looks up in time to see Miller
falling past him, unable to catch himself with his one free hand.
With a firm foot and hand hold, Krandle reaches out and grabs a
handful of shirt. Miller screams in pain as Krandle has grabbed the
shirt near his wounded shoulder. Krandle feels his feet slip and
his hand aches holding onto the rock, but he doesn’t let go.
Miller’s slide stops and he manages to secure his footing. With his
good arm, he finds a handhold. Miller looks up, the pain evident in
his eyes, and nods his thanks.

Krandle secures his grip on the cliff face
once again and looks over his team. They have all found holds of
some sort, but they are all hanging precariously to the side of the
cliff. Just a few feet below them, the angle they slid down comes
to an abrupt halt and plummets straight down onto a rocky shoreline
two hundred feet below. Krandle begins to feel a little more secure
in their situation as long as those above don’t appear at the edge
and begin firing down on them. His watch chimes as the countdown
ends.

Krandle hears a sound rising above the roar
of the surf below, similar to that of a low-flying jet. This is
followed quickly by a storm of explosions. The cliff wall shakes
from the multitude of blasts above, each detonation sounding like a
mortar round going off. The thunderous explosions are
indistinguishable from each other and form a continuous, rolling
barrage. The shaking precipice on which they only have a tentative
hold threatens to knock them loose. The ten feet between them and
the straight, two hundred foot drop seems to shrink. Rocks shaken
loose pelt the team members and continue past them over the
edge.

Krandle hugs the wall, trying to push
farther into its solid exterior. As quickly as it began, it’s over.
Krandle feels his heart beating rapidly and hears his hoarse,
panting breath as he exhales into the cliff, blowing dust away with
each breath. He feels small rocks and grit fall out of his hair,
and sand makes its way into his collar. Looking up, he sees dark
smoke roiling above the ridgeline overhead.

The stunned team waits several seconds,
expecting to see figures materialize, outlined on the ridge above.
When the anticipated forms and subsequent volleys of fire don’t
appear, they start climbing slowly up the cliff wall. Krandle helps
Miller who grunts and grimaces with pain with each extension of his
arm but they eventually crest the ridge.

The landscape ahead looks nothing like what
they left minutes ago. The house they were in and the ones to
either side, along with those across the street are smoldering
ruins. Smoke drifts up from the rubble of timber, red slate, and
stucco to join with the dark clouds hanging over the area, created
from the explosions. A breeze catches the dark mass and carries it
inland.

Between the houses stand shredded bushes and
trees, many with snapped limbs, some hanging limply toward the
ground. Small fires blaze in places in the dry grass and begin to
spread. The team hoists themselves into this area of destruction,
alert for any surviving members of those that engaged them.
Blanchard takes Miller on his shoulder which he thankfully accepts
this time. Nothing moves, and the only sound is the crackling of
the spot fires and the groan of broken houses settling farther.

“That was…interesting,” Speer says, breaking
through the team’s silent inspection of the area.

“Which way?” Franklin asks.

“I don’t really want to traverse the
neighborhoods again. There might still be others and they won’t be
happy with us. Let’s try the break in the cliff you spotted
earlier,” Krandle answers.

The team starts along the cliff edge,
alertly guarding against any remaining assailants. Krandle looks to
Blanchard asking after Miller’s condition. Blanchard nods,
indicating that he’ll be okay.

“We need to get back soon, though,”
Blanchard says.

“Noted. That we do,” Krandle says, sweeping
his hands through his hair to clear the remaining debris.

The others look like they’ve been hauled
across the ground tied behind horses. Each and every one of them
has a coating of dust and is covered with cuts and scratches. The
grit has staunched the flow of blood from Krandle’s forehead and
cheek forming small ridges of dirt over the wounds.

As they walk, avoiding the spreading fires,
Krandle sees scraps of clothing and parts of bodies spread
liberally on the churned up ground. He’s thankful they made it out
when they did. He can’t fathom what it must have been like to be in
the midst of that attack. Of course, it’s not like anyone would
have felt anything as the darkness of the other side would have
come immediately.

Krandle digs sand out of his ear and
contacts the
Santa Fe
, giving them the situation and their
wounded.

“Glad you made it, Chief,” Leonard responds.
“We’ll have a medical team on standby when you return.”

“We’ll be there in a little over an hour
barring any further interruptions,” Krandle replies.

They reach the break in the bluff. It’s a
ravine which leads steeply down but a path through the middle makes
it navigable. They stumble some of the way, Miller groaning with
each fall. The team makes it to the rocky shoreline after slipping
most of the way down. Glancing nervously at the tall ridge above,
they make it to the raft and put out to sea. The sleek sub rises
quietly from the depths as they near its location. The wounded are
brought aboard and treated. Miller and Speer will be out of action
for a time as they recuperate. With all safely aboard, the
Santa
Fe
slides below the waves and turns south.

* * * * * *

Greg stands in the turret opening watching
the buildings of McConnell AFB grow smaller as they head away from
Jack and the others. He understands Jack’s desire to get his son
back home given that he had experienced the effects of an injury
from a night runner. He also knows the need to continue with the
search for the families. Time is running short for such operations.
Knowing those things doesn’t make the thought of traveling across
unknown territories for an extended period of time with only one
team at his disposal any better. He feels self-conscious about the
prospect, having experienced too many close encounters.

The Stryker will make up for their lack of
numbers in a lot of circumstances, but if they have to go in some
places on foot, that puts them with very limited options. And
vehicles break down. If they lose the Stryker, they lose an immense
base of firepower…and protection. If that happens, Greg will call
the mission, gather alternate transportation, and head home. The
operation seemed like a walk in the park while they were discussing
it with everyone around. Heading down an empty road in the middle
of nowhere with only six others, drawing farther away from the
base, puts that in a completely different light. Looking at the
countryside passing by, he feels rather small.