Slaughterhouse

ELEVEN.

Major Walker watched the truck that had survived the ambush suddenly swerve out of the formation. He knew that the incoming Hueys were hostile, but Wizard Six hadn’t yet responded to the threat after the Apaches had handed off the engagement mere seconds ago. Soldiers went flying through the air when the truck slammed through the guardrail then bounced across the uneven terrain of a field overrun with tall weeds.

“Shit, those guys are taking fire!” said the driver, an older NCO wearing the stripes of a staff sergeant.

“Fire on the Hueys!” Walker ordered.

“With what, sir?” one of the soldiers behind him asked.

Walker groaned. His Humvee was unarmed.

The radio came alive. “Wizard Six to all commands—Hueys are red air, fire at will! Red air, red air, red air! Over!”

“Blaster One, this is Wizard Seven. Fall out of the column for engagement. We’ll form up on you for security. Over.” That came from Command Sergeant Major Turner, who was in a vehicle several spaces ahead of Walker’s.

For a moment, he couldn’t recall who the hell was designated Blaster, and then it came to him. A Stinger platoon had been assigned to the battalion, sourced from 60^th Air Defense Artillery Regiment. It was an odd posting, and Walker couldn’t really remember a time he had seen troops slinging MANPADS around the battalion since Iraq in 2004. He was happy to learn that Turner had remained aware of their presence.

Walker picked up the radio microphone. “Wizard Six, this is Wizard Five. Over.”

“Five, go for Six. Over.”

“Six, we have a truck that’s been hit, probably disabled. I’m falling out of the column as well to check them out. Over.”

“Five, this is Six. Don’t stay for long. Get them some help, then get back in formation. Can’t have you and Seven dismounted at the same time. Over.”

“Roger, Six. Five, out.” Walker replaced the handset.

“We’re pulling over now?” the driver asked.

Walker checked his M4 to ensure the weapon was ready as the driver slowed the Humvee. His mouth felt dry, and his hands and feet tingled. He was about to expose himself to a combat situation for the first time in years. He thought he’d left the dirty business behind him once he’d been promoted to O-4, but the world had changed in the past few weeks. Combat had never suited him. Walker had always been more interested in the political regime of command, not in proving he was a war god. The Army was full of combat leaders, and Walker didn’t have much of what it took to excel at warcraft in its purest form. He’d traded his rightful place as battalion commander with Harry Lee just to keep his distance from the bloody work of running the unit. He had wanted to stay in the background and influence circumstances by whispering into Lee’s ear when the time was right.

So what are you doing now? Stay in the Humvee and move on, his sense of self-preservation murmured. These are extraordinary times, and you’re not an extraordinary soldier.

Walker frowned. The temptation to move on was momentarily overwhelming, but he felt a keen desire to fight his caution. No, not caution.

Cowardice.

Walker couldn’t be seen as a coward in front of the men. He was the battalion executive officer, and he’d already indulged his survival instincts by getting Harry Lee to take all the hard knocks on the chin. The chances of Walker getting out of the current fray without having to suffer some body shots was out of the question, so he figured he might as well suck it up and get it done.

The driver pulled the Humvee out of the convoy and onto the shoulder. Behind Walker, the two soldiers in the rear of the Humvee—both battle-hardened NCOs that Walker had pulled from the operations pool to ride with him—got ready for contact.

“Sir, we should go MOPP,” Weide Zhu said.

The hard-faced Chinese master sergeant didn’t much care for him, but Walker had specifically chosen Zhu to ride along because he was one of Doug Turner’s favored troops, a twenty-five year veteran who had served in every theater of operations since JUST CAUSE in 1989. It had been another choice in the name of self-preservation. With the battalion on the move, the danger meter was pegged at 10.5, and Walker wanted to ensure the troops around him were the best.

“Roger that,” Walker said, removing his helmet. He struggled into his overgarment and hood. It took him almost a minute, and by the time he was done, the other soldiers were already manned up and waiting for him, even the driver. Walker felt a flush of embarrassment, a weird counterpoint to the fear that thrilled the edges of his consciousness.

“We all ready now, sir?” Zhu asked, his voice muffled slightly by his mask.

“Ready. Let’s dismount,” Walker said.

Outside, gunfire roared as the UH-1 made another pass. Walker opened the Humvee’s door and gingerly pushed it open, but he found the Humvee wasn’t the helicopter’s target. The chopper was thumping over the wounded truck, heeling over in a hard bank.

Something shaped like a pie wedge fell from the aircraft and tumbled through the air. Walker realized it was a fuel bladder, a flexible construct normally mounted to the rear of the UH-1’s troop compartment in the hell hole, where the gunners sat. As the bladder arced toward the truck, it trailed liquid. Clearly, its self-sealing properties had been compromised, and Walker wondered if the bladder might explode, like a bomb.

What happened was much worse than that.