Slaughterhouse

TEN.

Muldoon looked up when he heard the thumping rotor beats of the approaching Hueys. Like most of the troops in the now-scored truck, he’d had no idea what was going on beyond the aborted attack against the column. They’d just finished putting out the fire and were trying to decide what to do—the truck needed to be looked at, and the Rawlings girl was already looking over the side to get an idea of what was up with the left rear tires—so the troops had been unaware there was a helicopter fight going on. But the slapping rotor beat of the UH-1s was a definite environmental change that the big lightfighter gave his attention to.

Two helicopters charged toward the column, big rotors flashing, noses lowered as they powered through the summer day. Behind them, several Apaches banked hard, as if to give chase. Farther downrange, another two Apaches pivoted in their hovers. And beyond them, two columns of smoke rose from flaming wreckage lying in the middle of a distant field.

Muldoon stood up and grabbed truck railing. There was no way to tell what was on fire out there.

But they could be helicopters.

He turned to shout to Lieutenant Crais, but then two Kiowa Warriors came screaming in from the southwest. The modified M2 fifty cals mounted on their left hard points chattered as they raced past, and hot cartridges rained down on the truck as it limped along the highway, still trailing smoke from the burn damage done by the Molotov cocktails. Muldoon noticed the Kiowas weren’t strafing.

They were trying to hit the Hueys with their fixed guns.

Then, he heard the distant pop-pop-pop-pop of an M240 as one of the Huey door gunners returned the favor.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Nutter shouted.

“Lieutenant!” Muldoon yelled. “Hey, Crais!”

Lieutenant Crais turned, his perennially harried expression morphing into full-on pissed off when he realized Muldoon was the one calling him, and by his last name, at that. Lieutenant Crais was an officer who didn’t like hearing anything but honorifics directed his way, which was a shame, because it meant he and Muldoon would never be buddies. Muldoon spent at least three nanoseconds crying over that one night.

“Muldoon, sit the fuck down!” Crais called back. “The truck’s moving!”

Muldoon pointed at the Hueys. “Incoming!”

His response got the attention of the rest of the soldiers, even Rawlings, who snatched up her M4. About thirty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the approaching helicopters. Muldoon saw that the Kiowas had broken off, their attack ineffective.

“So what? Sit down!” Crais shouted.

“Lieutenant! Those are Guard choppers, not ours!”

“Sit down!” Crais repeated, his face coloring with fury. “I know who’s—”

Muldoon turned to look up at the soldier manning the M240B mounted on the truck’s cab. He stared at the approaching Hueys, but he hadn’t lined up on them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon shouted.

“Like, for real?” the soldier asked. Like Muldoon, he wore sunglasses, and his eyes were unreadable behind them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon repeated. He turned back to Crais as the gunner swung the machinegun around. “Lieutenant, stop the truck!”

The machinegun opened up, hurling 7.62-millimeter rounds at the closest Huey, now just over eight hundred meters away. The chances of it being hit at that range from a moving truck were damned low, but Muldoon didn’t care.

Crais leapt to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted at the gunner. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The gunner ignored him. If anything, he tightened up on the M240 and tried to get the lead just right. Crais barreled up the small aisle in the center of the truck’s bed. He shoved Rawlings out of his way, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Cease fire! That’s a direct order! I’m in charge here!”

Muldoon grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders. “Lieutenant! Shut the fuck up for a second!”

Crais gaped up at him. Muldoon was a good seven inches taller. “What did you say?”

“Stop. The. Truck,” Muldoon said.

“Why the fuck would we want to do that?” Crais tried to look past Muldoon as the M240 opened up again. “God damn it, Christensen! Cease fire!”

“Everyone open up!” Christensen called. “They’re closing!”

Muldoon pushed Crais away, and the lieutenant stumbled across another soldier’s boots and fell on his bony ass just as the first Huey raked the truck with return fire. Men cried out as they were struck by rounds that defeated their body armor and tore through their bodies.

Muldoon heard a crack! as a 7.62 round ripped right past his head, and he ducked instinctively. It was a good call. The next burst from the approaching Huey zoomed right through the space he’d been occupying. Several rounds tore through Christensen and the M240, continuing on through the cab of the M925A1. Not all of the Bigfoots were uparmored, which meant the soldiers up front were about as well protected from machinegun fire as a scrumptious bagel might have been in a clear plastic bag after it had been spied by a famished Orson Wells.

The truck suddenly lurched to the right then plowed through the guardrail on the edge of the two lane highway. It bumped across an overgrown field for a few dozen yards before jerking to a halt. Soldiers shouted as they flew in all directions. Muldoon bounced right over the side of the truck. He crashed to the ground on the other side, and his wind left him in a rush.

All he could see was blue sky, scattered clouds, and the waving tops of tall trumpet weeds. A peculiar sense of déjà vu descended. For an instant, he was a young boy again, lying in the tall weeds in a field outside his house in Pennsylvania, playing soldier with his friends. Only he wasn’t playing. It was for real.

The weeds parted suddenly, and Nutter’s goggle-eyed face appeared as he bent over Muldoon.

“Duke, you all right?” He had to shout to be heard over the Huey thumping nearby, its machineguns rattling against what Muldoon could tell was only sporadic fire from his troops.

“Just fucking fine,” Muldoon gasped.

“Well, hey, it’s not a bad day.” Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s harness and tried to haul him to his feet. “At least you got the truck to stop.”