Blood of My Enemies

"Fuck's sake, Snoopy. Will you quit with the Mushie shit?"

Couldn't help grinning. I'd flown with Snoopy a couple times before, and he always fucked around with his co-pilots. He'd been riding Mushie's ass since we'd done the briefing.

"Are we clear left and right?" Snoopy dropped the act, and he was sounding all professional now.

"Crew Chief. Clear on left." The chief was standing up front, off to my right, and I could hear him through my headset. Could hear the turbines winding up too.

"Door Gunner. Clear on right."

"Rotor speed all in the green. Engine instruments all in the green." Mushie's voice, and I'd heard them go through the routine. Different from ours. Just as professional.

"Chock One is on the go." Snoopy's voice again, and we were rotating into translation lift, rising into the air, slowly. Lifting in a whirling storm of dust, nose angling down, moving forward, staying low, and there was more chatter on the radio.

"Chock Two is on the go... Chock Three is on the go... Chock Four is on the go..." Other voices on the radio. The drivers of the other three Blackhawks. The Huey's were ahead of us, a little. Slower, they'd lifted off earlier, but we'd overtake them, and they'd catch us up. Hopefully, by the time we were ready to exit the objective.

"Chock One. Trail formation, follow my lead. Chock One over and out."

"Chock Two in formation... Chock Three... Chock Four..." I couldn't see them as we raced across the houses, into the countryside, straight towards the range ahead of us, but I knew they were there, in a line behind us, low and tight.

"Okay, gonna teach you to fly now, Mushie. See, that there tells us our airspeed..."

"Asshole." Yep, Mushie was back to being real pissy now.

The chit-chat was background noise now, all about birds ahead, power lines, trees, because we were going in low, up one of the valley's into the small mountain range, racing above the river flats, rising as the mountains rose to either side of us, climbing towards a saddle, and for a minute, I managed to lose myself in the rush of the wind, the whining of the huge twin turbine engines, busy converting JP-4 avgas into noise.

Sitting in the doorway of the lead Blackhawk as we climbed that narrowing valley, feet hanging out, just about brushing the treetops, because low and fast, and Montoya was on one side of me, Frazer on the other, and I didn't know if they liked it or not, but I did. The wind in your face, the noise from the turbines and the blades, that scent of avgas that was always there, the clean mountain air, away from the scent of death, the rushing speed as Snoopy took us low through the pass and down the canyon on the other side.

Snoopy, our driver, I knew him. Done a couple of in and outs with him before, and he was an old guy, like Kratman. Way too old for this shit, but here he was, and he knew his stuff. Mushie did too, but he didn't have that same smooth finesse that Snoopy did. We crossed the frontline low, real low, so low we had to lift to get over trees, brushing the scrub at the top of the pass, dropping down the other side, nose down, in a blur of speed, radio silent now.

The ratdogs had tried a few shots, I'd seen the tracers, but this part of the front, in the mountains, there wasn't much on their side or ours, and we were through and heading down. Four Blackhawks, weaving and banking down the canyon, and one minute I'd be looking up at the sky, next I'd be looking straight down at the ground, and someone behind me was puking, and then we were out of the foothills, banking hard, howling down a long valley, just above the power lines and the trees. Sometimes.

"Five minutes out." Mushie's voice came over my headset, calm and clear, like we were heading out for a burger or something, not riding into hell's Halloween party at a hundred and eighty miles an hour, 'n I patted myself down. Everything there, and Montoya and Frazer were doing the same on either side of me, and I was breathing slow and deep.

Getting myself in the zone, and I smiled, because soon, real soon, there'd be blood and death, and the adrenaline was kicking in now... wired, baby. I was wired, and I wanted the blood. I wanted the death, and everything was crystal clear, and the white fire was there, but I was riding it now. Riding the adrenaline rush, and everything around me was bright and clear, and when I moved, it was fast and precise, without thought, and I was completely in the zone.

The killing zone.

"One minute out." Mushie's voice was cool and calm, and we were flashing across rooftops, lifting up occasionally to jump trees, and in the streets below, pale faces were looking up, people were pointing, running, but they weren't who we were coming for. Not yet.

Soon we'd come, and if they could've seen my smile, the ratdog symps woulda run, screaming in fear, and they'd find that out, that they should've run. They'd find that out soon enough.

Soon, but not yet.

Playing fields, and I knew we were close as the Blackhawk flared and dropped, and the High School roof was right below me, and I was off in an instant, dropping ten feet, first out, and landing like a cat. Either side of me, Montoya and Frazer thumped down, 'n the rest of my team, and the other team, they were coming down around me as the Blackhawk lifted, and down below I could already hear explosions, shooting. Short tight bursts. Six teams blowing their way in through the doors and windows, and the other three Blackhawks were lifting, adding the whining syncopation of their turbines to the wall of sound accompanying us.

"Cover," Fujimoto yelled, and I ducked and tucked. We all ducked, and the crashing explosion was almost mild as the door of the rooftop service entrance blew in. Mack and Standish ripped it off it's shattered hinges, tossed it to the side, and I went in first, fast, riding the white fire in my head. In, and down, sprinting, cannoning off the walls on the corners, my body armor absorbing the impacts, M4 tucked in tight, cocked and ready, finger on the trigger, safety off, Frazer and Montoya tucked tight on my ass, and the rest close behind us.

Through the door, first through, and we were clearing the top floor. Door wasn't locked, 'n I guess this was a holding and interrogation center, bit like ours, except their security sucked, and I was in, eyes seeing half a dozen confused looking ratdogs fucking around in the hallway, 'n I liked these old high school hallways. Concrete block walls, you couldn't shoot through them. You could shoot through ratdogs though, and I was aiming for center of body mass.

Blat-blat. Blat-blat. Blat-blat. Double tapping, moving forward fast as I fired, fast as I could pull the trigger, every round on target, and behind me, Montoya and Frazer had peeled off to either side and those half dozen ratdogs were down, a couple of them moving, kicking, clutching at holes, thrashing around on the floor, and I left one of the others to finish them off. I was on point, running down the hallway, and fuck, they were holding the prisoners up here, not on the ground floor like Intelligence had said, 'n they'd got that wrong.

Wondered what the fuck else they'd got wrong, but we'd find that out soon enough, 'n all I hoped was, it wasn't gonna be a complete cluster-fuck. Didn't matter. Even if it was, we were here.

"All Teams, all Teams," I said, waving the others past me, except Montoya, who stuck to me like glue. That was his job. Sticking to me. Taking anything meant for me. If he could. "All Teams, this is Mouse. Prisoners are on the top floor. Repeat, prisoners are being held on the top floor. Exercise care. Mouse out."

Frazer was exercising care all fucking right. I could hear him carefully servicing targets inside that first classroom, fast as he could pull that trigger, with Standish covering him. Mack and the Canuck were crashing through the next door, 'n I could hear the screams and the shooting, and there was way more shooting than my guys could put out going on back behind us, and downstairs as well, and yeah, well, fucked up, but shit happens and you adapt the plan.

My plan was simple. Kill them all.

Wasn't much else we could do now, anyhow, except kill ratdogs as fast as we could, and we were doing that as I sprinted past Frazer and the Canuck, Montoya on my ass, 'n my first shot took the lock right outa the frame of the next to last classroom, my boot kicked the door open, and I was in and shooting, coz someone on our side inside that room had got their shit together, and most of the prisoners were down on the floor, half of them screaming, and the other half yelling.

Ratdogs were in their uniforms, stood out like shit on a restaurant table, four of them, the only ones standing, confused as fuck, dropping their batons, bringing their handguns out, coz I guess they weren't expecting gatecrashers to their Halloween party, and I took three down, Montoya got one, and I put another couple of rounds through each of their heads to make sure. Nothing like a double tap to tap them out, 'n as soon as I had, dropped the mag, did a fast reload, 'n covered the door.

"Keys keys keys which of them has the fucking keys," Montoya yelled, dropping to his knees, starting to pat the bodies, except one of them wasn't, but Montoya's knife changed that real quick.

"The fat bitch with the orange hair," an old guy on the floor yelled, and yeah, the poor bastards were all handcuffed to those frigging school chairs, except it's pretty fucking difficult to tell if the hair's orange after two rounds of 5.56 have gone through their skull from about four feet away. Fucking impossible, really.

They were all redheads now.

But you could tell the fat part. She was.

Made Porky the Pig look like a Weight Watchers winner.

"Got it," Montoya snarled, ripping a set of keys out of the fat bitch's pocket, 'n he unlocked those cuffs, gave the old guy the keys. "Unlock them all, anyone with military experience or balls, take a gun. We'll be back to get you outa here soon as we clear an exit."

"Who the fuck are you?" the old guy said, looking up from the handcuffs next to him that he'd started to unfasten.

"Army of the Second Republic, we're getting you all outa here," I said, real loud, without looking, wondering if we could, coz we'd been told sixty, maybe eighty max, and there were twenty here in this one classroom, plus a few kids, and I fished out that photo of the Yenmor dude. "Anyone seen this asshole. We're supposed to get him outta here too."

"Him?" Woman lying on the floor still cuffed to a chair spat. "That McCain, he's one of them. Don't trust him."

"Come on," I said to Montoya, and we left them to it, leapfrogging Frazer and Standish, and that last room, fuck, I wanted to puke, coz the ratdogs had emptied their mags into the prisoners, they were reloading clumsily, the way rear echelon motherfuckers with fuck all in the way of combat experience did, and there were bodies everywhere, and right in the middle of them, standing by herself, the only one standing, there was this young Filipina girl, screaming, covered in blood, and one of the ratdogs was looking at her, fumbling reloading his old M16, and I took him out with a headshot.

Blew his brains out in a spray of grey and red and white, 'n he went down in a rush of blood and shit, and the other two's eyes were round and white, and they knew there was no surrendering here, and there wasn't. Montoya took one, I took the other, and Jesus, some of the prisoners were still alive.

"Medic. We need a medic in Room Two Five," I broadcast, and I wasn't the only one asking. "Medic in Two Five. Civilian casualties."

"On it," Gomez answered, and she was through the door thirty seconds later, 'n then she was on her knees, triaging the poor bastards, one of her and twenty of them, looking for the ones she could save, ripping open a packet of tampons, jamming them into the holes the bullets had left as they tore through flesh and bone at point blank range, fastening tourniquets, slapping on gauze pads and taping them up, hands flying, working on the ones that might make it if we could get them plugged, and outa here and onto the Huey's, and the Filipina girl was stumbling towards me, her eyes wide.

"Please, my sister," she said. "My sister... he took my sister..." She saw the photo I'd jammed in my harness. "Him... that one... the evil one... he took my sister a few minutes ago... he took my little sister."

"Fuck," I said, and then. "Mouse to All Teams... Mouse to All Teams... Warning warning warning... Yenmor may be a McCain... Yenmor may be a McCain. Exercise caution. Exercise caution. Mouse out."

From the sound of all the shooting, wasn't too much caution being exercised downstairs, and when I got back out into the hallway, half a dozen ratdogs were bolting up the stairs, running from death. Running to me, and that didn't worry me, because I was the frigging Angel of Death, there to meet and greet, and after that room, all I wanted was blood.

Their blood, 'n I smiled as I greeted them on behalf of the Army of the Second Republic. I smiled as the bullets impacted, smiled as I watched their eyes widening in sudden surprise, smiled as I drank in the sight of red blood gouting from their bodies, smiled as I sent them spinning with the shock of those high velocity blows, sending them back down the stairs, and I smiled as Montoya put head shots past me, and turned the ones that weren't already into bodies.

"Wilson here, we got him... we got Yenmor... back of the gym. Wilson out."

"Mouse here... on my way... Mouse out," and I was, Montoya with me, and that Filipina girl was on my ass, and she'd picked up an old M16 of one of the ratdogs. Didn't look like she knew how to shoot it, but if it made her feel better... and I didn't have time to fuck around.

"Don't point it at anyone, and stay on my ass," I snapped over my shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Eva," she said.

Me, I didn't say anything else after that, because I was already halfway down the stairs, Eva following, and Montoya was sprinting past me, down, using gravity to move faster, and there were bodies everywhere down there. Mostly ratdogs from the uniforms, but two of mine, sprawled with that limp finality that death gave, and we all knew death. Death was something we lived with, every minute of every day, and there was a lotta shooting, and the sudden crash and flash of grenades from the far end. The Admin offices, and yeah, that figured.

"This way," Montoya said, 'n I followed him without question, because if he said it like that, he knew, and I'd a had to stop and think, and there wasn't time for thinking, so I followed, because you led, you followed, or you got outta the fucking way. If you didn't do one of those, likely you died, and the ones that didn't learn, they'd died.

Me, I was alive.

I guess.

"In here... he's in here," and Wilson was there, down on one knee, covering a doorway, waving.

Yeah, well, one step into that gym and it was sorta obvious this was where the ratdogs had their fun. Not interrogations. Fun. Dozen bodies piled in the corner. Literally. Tossed in a pile, any old way. Couple more cuffed to the gym equipment, 'n just hanging there, and they weren't ratdogs, not the way they'd been finished off. One glance, and I knew they'd taken a long time to die, and the only reason I didn't puke was because I'd seen it all before. We all had.

LaPlanche had half a dozen prisoners lined up against the wall. Ratdogs. These ones were wearing gray overalls, gray, but they were stained with blood, 'n there were two girls behind LaPlanche. Not ours, but both of them were holding guns now. Old M16's. Real old. Holding them like they wanted to use them, but didn't know how. Holding them like Eva was.

"They... they... they...," one of them stuttered, looking at me. "They... they..." 'n she was crying silently, 'n shaking, and that look on those two girls faces, you knew what'd happened. One look at the bodies, and you knew they'd been lucky we came calling when we did, coz you could see what woulda come next, and they sure looked like they knew that themselves. Probably had to watch what happened to the ones before them, because the ratdogs did shit like that.

"Gimme," I said, holding out my hand, letting my harness take my M4.

She gave me. Old M16, and I checked the mag, reloaded. Pulled my spare ear-plugs outa the pocket they were tucked into and passed them to her, pointed, and she got it. Cocked that M16 for her. Flicked to single shot. Smiled, and gave it back to her. "Point it at them, tuck the butt into your shoulder, tight, and pull the trigger," I said, guiding the barrel to where it should be pointing.

At a ratdog.

She did.

"Blaaaam." She jolted and winced as one of them slammed back against the wall, screamed and doubled over, then sank to his knees, eyes wide, mouth working, blood trickling through his fingers. Gut shot, 'n I smiled. She looked at me through the tears, and she smiled back, and that was the nice thing about 5.56. Sometimes. Moments like now. Unless you hit something vital, or an artery so that they bled out, it took a few hits to finish someone off.

These ones, they'd know they were being finished off, and I liked that they did.

"Good therapy," I said. "You'll feel better after you shoot them all." I knew I always did. Feel better, that is. Good enough for me, anyhow, and I smiled when she took another shot, and she hit the ratdog again, and he was screaming. I liked it, that he was screaming. So did the girls. The rest, they were pleading now. Begging. Crying. One of them crapped himself, 'n that happened a lot. Barely noticed now.

"Walk them both through it, LaPlanche," I said. "Don't drag it out though. We gotta get them all outta here."

He nodded, because most of us had been where these two were, one way or another, and who knew. We always needed new recruits. Had a lot of cleaning up to do, and the ones like this, they made the best recruits. Best for what we did, anyhow.

"All Teams, Mouse here. Don't bother with prisoners," I said on the Task Force frequency. "Mouse Out." Everyone knew what that meant, and behind me, the shots started to ring out, and she sounded like she was really getting into it, and the other one joined in, and there weren't as many people screaming, but they were louder. It'd get quieter soon, though. Always did.

"My sister. My little sister," Eva said, and she wasn't getting into it, which reminded me.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot, I'm a prisoner too," the voice yelled from the back room, and Montoya had gone in before me, but I'd followed, and Eva had followed me, and Wilson was there, too, checking the room. "I'm unarmed... I'm coming out..."

He did, too, and it was him. I checked the photo, and it was, except there were scratches on his face. Deep ones, and they were fresh, because one of them was still trickling blood.

"It's him," Eva said. "He took her. It was him. Where is she?"

He saw her, he recognized her, and I saw him flinch, just a little, and I saw him take a breath.

"I'm a prisoner, like you. I had to do what they said."

That was what he said, and I'd heard that one too. Any number of times. Sometimes it was even true. Sometimes I even believed them.

Not today, though. Not today.

"He stays here," I said, and I glanced at Eva. "And her." Wilson nodded, 'n Montoya led the way into the back room.

I followed, and yeah, musta been an old storeroom or something before, but now there was an old bed there, up against the wall, and some crap lying around, and smelt like him. Guess he really was a McCain, 'n I looked around, but there wasn't anything obvious, except maybe an old duvet on the bed, but when I flicked it back with the barrel of my M4, the mattress was kinda bloodstained, and some of it was fresh. Wet blood, warm blood, that kinda fresh.