Chapter 5 / Page 6
Jerry and Jim had just finished planting a series of special user accounts in Iraq military information systems. Jerry looked up from the terminal, sweat streaming down his face. His hands wrapped around the M-16 A2 as he observed the two dead technicians on the floor. Jim hurriedly typed in the last of the commands on the aging HP-3000 systems. They were a two-man penetration team attempting to infiltrate a major installation—madness.
The doors leading into the computer room slid open without warning. Jerry yelled something and charged, firing the M-16 from his hip. Jim rolled sideways, pulling the black Mossberg up and ready. Rifle shots whistled through the room hitting irreplaceable equipment. The zing of bullets coming too close brought an instant response as the Mossberg roared with its full 12 gauge fury. The firefight was over as quickly as it had started—three more dead men on the floor leading into the computer room.
Jerry had been hit twice in the chest by armor piercing rounds. The Kevlar vest stopped the first at the cost of a broken rib, but the second made it through. The wound made a sucking sound each time Jerry took a breath. Jim hefted his friend on one shoulder. They tottered drunkenly down the bunker’s long corridor. Thin trails of blood marked their exodus and alarms blared throughout the complex. A distant explosion rumbled through the compound—probably one of the charges they had set up wired into the alarm system.
They came to a corridor intersection and started towards the exit. They collided with an Iraqi fire team. Jim went sideways, burying an elbow in the first man’s ear. The Iraqi soldier’s head smashed against the concrete wall. He collapsed like a broken doll.
Jerry brought his Browning Hi Power to bear. He double tapped the soldier he was hanging onto. The much-maligned 9mm round is extraordinarily effective when jammed against someone’s stomach. Jerry jerked the trigger twice. His attacker staggered and pitched backward, carrying Jerry into the next soldier.
Jim turned to his next target. He sent a back leg front kick straight to the groin. His target forgot about holding his rifle and concentrated on breathing. Jim latched onto the back of his head and drove his other knee straight into the Iraqi’s nose. A bloody explosion erupted as Jim’s second target tilted backwards.
Jerry was weakening quickly. His left hand clutched at the rifle of the final fire team member. The Iraqi was kicking violently to free himself from the two men on top of his legs. He never saw Jim’s boot reach out and shatter the base of his chin—lights out a fourth time.
Jim lifted Jerry bodily off the two Iraqi soldiers. “How we doing?”
“Never felt better,” he wheezed.
“Liar,” Jim hissed.
They started their run for the door. Before taking the last half stairway to the outside, Jim slid Jerry back to the floor. Sweat was streaming down Jerry’s face, and his lips seemed a bit blue. Jim pulled open Jerry’s combat blouse and pushed back the Kevlar vest. The puckered entry wound continued to leak and wheeze. “We’ve got to do something about this.”
Jerry nodded and smiled, “It ain’t pretty, Jim. I’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Jim cut apart the combat blouse into two bandages. Not the cleanest solution, but maybe enough to get them out. From his backpack, he pulled a roll of duct tape and wound his partner’s chest until the worst of the sucking sound was gone. They had lost their first aide kit sometime earlier.
“What have you got loaded in that thing?” He nodded to the Mossberg 590 12 gauge on the floor. It was a black, nasty looking weapon with a twenty-inch barrel, ghost ring sites, a pistol, and forend grips. The grips were specially angled to control the considerable recoil of full powered rounds.
The doors leading into the computer room slid open without warning. Jerry yelled something and charged, firing the M-16 from his hip. Jim rolled sideways, pulling the black Mossberg up and ready. Rifle shots whistled through the room hitting irreplaceable equipment. The zing of bullets coming too close brought an instant response as the Mossberg roared with its full 12 gauge fury. The firefight was over as quickly as it had started—three more dead men on the floor leading into the computer room.
Jerry had been hit twice in the chest by armor piercing rounds. The Kevlar vest stopped the first at the cost of a broken rib, but the second made it through. The wound made a sucking sound each time Jerry took a breath. Jim hefted his friend on one shoulder. They tottered drunkenly down the bunker’s long corridor. Thin trails of blood marked their exodus and alarms blared throughout the complex. A distant explosion rumbled through the compound—probably one of the charges they had set up wired into the alarm system.
They came to a corridor intersection and started towards the exit. They collided with an Iraqi fire team. Jim went sideways, burying an elbow in the first man’s ear. The Iraqi soldier’s head smashed against the concrete wall. He collapsed like a broken doll.
Jerry brought his Browning Hi Power to bear. He double tapped the soldier he was hanging onto. The much-maligned 9mm round is extraordinarily effective when jammed against someone’s stomach. Jerry jerked the trigger twice. His attacker staggered and pitched backward, carrying Jerry into the next soldier.
Jim turned to his next target. He sent a back leg front kick straight to the groin. His target forgot about holding his rifle and concentrated on breathing. Jim latched onto the back of his head and drove his other knee straight into the Iraqi’s nose. A bloody explosion erupted as Jim’s second target tilted backwards.
Jerry was weakening quickly. His left hand clutched at the rifle of the final fire team member. The Iraqi was kicking violently to free himself from the two men on top of his legs. He never saw Jim’s boot reach out and shatter the base of his chin—lights out a fourth time.
Jim lifted Jerry bodily off the two Iraqi soldiers. “How we doing?”
“Never felt better,” he wheezed.
“Liar,” Jim hissed.
They started their run for the door. Before taking the last half stairway to the outside, Jim slid Jerry back to the floor. Sweat was streaming down Jerry’s face, and his lips seemed a bit blue. Jim pulled open Jerry’s combat blouse and pushed back the Kevlar vest. The puckered entry wound continued to leak and wheeze. “We’ve got to do something about this.”
Jerry nodded and smiled, “It ain’t pretty, Jim. I’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Jim cut apart the combat blouse into two bandages. Not the cleanest solution, but maybe enough to get them out. From his backpack, he pulled a roll of duct tape and wound his partner’s chest until the worst of the sucking sound was gone. They had lost their first aide kit sometime earlier.
“What have you got loaded in that thing?” He nodded to the Mossberg 590 12 gauge on the floor. It was a black, nasty looking weapon with a twenty-inch barrel, ghost ring sites, a pistol, and forend grips. The grips were specially angled to control the considerable recoil of full powered rounds.
posted by American Novelist | 11:05 PM
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