Warriors

CHAPTER 62

There was sporadic fire from atop the wall, but without the lethality of heavy tripod-mounted machine guns from the towers, it was mostly ineffective. Hawke, who, with Rainwater, was leading the Bravo squad, and Stoke, with Fitz and Alpha squad, approached the wide gates from opposite directions. They feinted once or twice, zigzagging as they ran, firing continuously at anything that moved along the wall.

“Alpha, this is Bravo,” Hawke said into his headset.

“Copy, Bravo,” Stoke said.

“Alpha, lay down heavy suppressive M-60 and mortar fire while we go in to blow the gate. Chief says give him three minutes to set the charge, another minute to breach. Follow us in.”

“Roger that, Bravo.”

“On my mark… four minutes… mark!”

Hawke thought Chief Rainwater had packed enough Semtex on Camp 25’s front door to blow the gates of hell wide open. And when Thunder Team lit the fuse, he knew he’d been right. The massive steel slabs were blown right off the hinges, blown inward by the sheer force of the explosion. They gates themselves were lethal flying objects now, by-products of Thunder and Lightning’s standard method of gaining entry to a hostile compound.

“Welcome to Norkland,” Chief said, smiling at Hawke. “You can bet the Norks are shitting sizable bricks at the moment, sir.”

Hawke flipped his helmet mike down. “Alpha, copy, Bravo is going in.”

“Alpha, copy, got your six. Right behind you, boss,” Stoke said.

It really was hell. Mobs of skin-and-bones prisoners dressed in rags, stumbling aimlessly around the compound in thin felt shoes or barefoot across the frozen rocky soil, zombies seemingly oblivious to the firefight going on around them. Already dead, Hawke supposed. If not, then certainly ready to die.

In the center of the camp parade ground, the flaming hulk of the armored carrier belched black smoke. There was some small-arms fire directed toward the invaders, mostly from windows in the buildings surrounding the square. And more serious machine-gun fire from the rooftop of a three-story building directly opposite the main gate.

Beyond the camp’s main square, endless rows of grim wooden barracks stretched seemingly to the horizon. Somewhere in that warren of misery were two young American children who didn’t belong there. Check that.

No one belonged here. No creed. No color. Nobody.

Bravo went left. Alpha went right, full run-and-shoot mode, laying down withering fire as they raced toward the bleak city of barracks.

Hawke’s team took cover between two corrugated steel buildings facing onto the central square. He saw Stoke and Brock do the same thing, running alongside Fitz through a scraggy stand of trees toward a narrow street on the opposite side of the parade ground.

“What’s that building?” Hawke asked Cho. “Machine guns on the roof.”

“Officers’ barracks. Married. Members of the ‘loyal’ class. Citizens with ‘pure’ family histories, no ancestral ties to South Koreans, capitalists, or Christians.”

Hawke smiled at him. “The Great Cho: Google of Norkland.”

“Guilty as charged.” Cho laughed.

Machine-gun fire chewed at the dirt not thirty feet away.

“Chief, you and Froggy take out those gunners on the roof, lob some mortars up there. Then go in there and blow it. I mean level that building down to the ground. Colonel Cho and I are going to visit the commandant. We’ll take two M-60 heavy guys to cover our asses. Your squad clears the immediate area. Basic search and destroy until we return. Ça va?”

“Mais oui, mon capitaine!”

“Teahouse?” Hawke said to Cho.

“Teahouse. Right this way.”

They turned right at a dead end and hadn’t gone a hundred yards when they found an abandoned jeep. Not a real American “Jeep” but one of the thousands the Norks had copied for their military. Hawke jumped behind the wheel, and the rest leaped over the side. Rainwater sat facing aft, a big M-60 cradled in his arms. He loved this gun. Officially the United States machine gun, the 7.62mm fires several types of live ammunition: ball, tracer, and armor-piercing rounds.

Cho sat up front with Hawke. They raced across the bumpy ground, swerving to avoid loose rock and random boulders.

“We’re expected, right?” Hawke asked.

“Probably. Because of the twin explosions. But not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Babyface doesn’t like to be on the receiving end of bad news. He once shot a house servant on the spot for telling him the bacon was burned. So you’d think twice before informing him that nearly twenty armed mercenaries were taking down his camp piece by piece.”

Hawke laughed.

“Twilight at the Teahouse?”

“Something like that.”

There was a low concrete wall around the commandant’s residence that Hawke had not noticed on the grainy satellite photos. Nor was he prepared for the size of the place. Surrounded by forests of black stunted trees, and a cherry orchard, it was like a large square blockhouse. Rather forbidding.

There was a winding and rutted dirt road leading through the cherry orchard. When the jeep drew within a hundred yards of the main entrance, Babyface’s imperial guards popped up and began firing at them. Rounds found the jeep’s hood and tires. Hawke cut the wheel hard right, hauling up on the emergency brake at the same time, creating a 180-degree switch in directions.

That put Chief Rainwater facing the opposition in position one: head-on.

He and Froggy opened up with both of the M-60s, and the effect was devastating. The deep bass thump-thump-thump of the 7.62mm armor-piercing rounds was enough to make strong men turn tail and hide, but the rounds slamming into the wall wreaked hell and havoc, turning the wall to a pile of rubble around the ankles of the few guards still remaining on their feet.

Just as the incoming fire from the residence ceased, gunners in the upper-floor windows threw open the heavy wooden shutters and trained their weapons on the jeep.

“Shit!” Cho said. A round had caught him in the deep right shoulder and almost spun him out of the jeep. Hawke jammed into first gear, his wheels spinning on the hard ground as he raced away and out of range. When the incoming rounds ceased, he swerved wide and returned to the Teahouse, staying out of range and circling around to the rear of the house and fishtailing to a stop.

Cho was bleeding badly.

“Froggy, field dress the colonel’s wound, then follow us in. Cho, where the hell do I find Babyface?”

“His sleeping quarters are upstairs on the rear. No windows. But he has a secure office in the basement. Only his personal security is allowed down there.”

“Chief, blow the rear door. We’re going in. Clear left and right, then up the stairs. Move!”

Rainwater took the door out.

They went in low. Half dove left, half right. They caught a couple of guards shouldering their automatic weapons and took them out instantly with head shots. Rainwater was heaving smoke grenades, and the ground floor was filling up fast. He threw in a couple of stun grenades to add to the confusion.

Hawke found the staircase leading up near the front of the house. He flattened himself against the wall and did a quick-pick up the stairs. The plaster next to his cheek exploded, a big piece slashing a flap of skin loose. He put his head back against the wall, counted to three, and swung round with his automatic pistol at the ready.

He must have surprised the Nork because the guy was just going eyes wide when Hawke put two into him between the lamps and watched him tumble forward all the way to the bottom.

“Up here. Let’s go. On me.”

“Hawke! Behind you on the stairs, another one! He’s locked on!”

Hawke dove and hit the floor rolling as rounds chewed up the floor around him. He came out of it with his gun up and put two rounds into the guard’s chest.

“Clear,” Hawke said, getting to his feet.

The squad, which now included Froggy and the wounded Cho, assembled at the base of the stairs. Froggy, carrying a machine gun slightly larger than he was, jumped to the lead and went up the stairs swearing and daring, challenging one and all to face the mighty Frogman.

One fool did so, and Froggy cut him in half with a sustained burst from the M-60… thump… thump… thump.

Cho was right behind him, yelling directions to Babyface’s quarters, a right, then a left at the top of the stairs. In a beat, all of them were at the top, looking for someone to shoot.

It was strangely quiet after all the fireworks.