A State Of Disobedience Part 23

"Hold your G.o.dd.a.m.ned fire," the sergeant major shouted above the din, reminding the men. Even so, men snugged rifles closer to shoulders while others inspected linked machine-gun ammunition for kinks.

One near hit split a sand bag and drove sand and dust into Pendergast's eyes. By the time he had blinked away the grit and looked out again, a smoke screen was building.

"Top, I can't see s.h.i.+t," called one gunner.

"That's 'Sergeant Major' to you, son. Just hold your fire."

Pendergast raised his eyes to the view port. G.o.ddammit, can't see a d.a.m.ned thing. Can't hear much either. Wish I had one of those new thermal imaging rifle sights I was reading about a few months back. Then I could see through this d.a.m.ned smoke. Wish we all did. Might as well wish for the moon.

Outside, there was a steady crackle of small arms fire from the men behind the pylons. Behind those, in the dead s.p.a.ce-low ground protected from direct fire-grenadiers with 40mm grenade launchers popped up to fire small smoke sh.e.l.ls before ducking back down to reload.

"G.o.ddammit, I wish I had one lousy section of mortars to lay smoke," fumed the B Company commander as he watched his grenadiers load and fire, load and fire the little 40mm, smoke grenades. "We'd have a screen then, a real one."

Even so, though, the grenades weren't doing a bad job. When he judged the time right, the screen adequate, he ordered forward two squads of men carrying much larger and more effective hexachloroethane, HC, smoke grenades. These they began to toss forward once they had crawled within throwing range of the screen laid by the grenadiers.

From both the forty-millimeter jobs, and the hand-thrown grenades, a mild cross wind blew an impenetrable screen; impenetrable by sight, that is.

That was when the commander ordered his a.s.sault team forward.

"Oh, you stupid, stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d," fumed Pendergast as he heard the shouts and scuffle of approaching men. "What the h.e.l.l did your men ever do to deserve having an idiot like you in charge? Didn't anyone ever tell you the difference between cover and concealment?"

Pendergast flipped the safeties off of the two clackers he still held in his hand. As the temporary plywood wall resounded with the impact of one or more men slamming against it, he muttered, "Lord, for what they are about to receive..."

Then Pendergast squeezed the clackers.

Electricity, a mild charge actually, raced down the wires to two widely s.p.a.ced claymores. At the mines, the charge nudged the otherwise fairly insensitive blasting caps into action. Deciding that the charge was sufficient, the caps did their job, exploding inside the pound-and-a-quarter of C-4 held by each of the two mines.

The Composition-4, a very high explosive, also shocked into awakeness, duly detonated, fragmenting both the case and the layer of seven-hundred-odd resinated ball bearings to its front. Those twin explosions likewise set off the det cord running from the fuse wells in the mines that had no fuses in them.

As fast as the ball bearings were moving, it was as nothing compared to the speed of detonation of the det cord. Before the projectiles had managed to travel much more than a foot, the second set of mines likewise detonated as the exploding det cord reached them. These in turn set off another strand of det cord each, which likewise set off another pair of mines.

In all, fifteen claymores, packing over ten thousand ball bearings, went off within approximately one one hundred and fiftieth of a second.

And that was not the worst of it.

This close to the blasts, the worst of it was the gla.s.s from the deliberately broken out windows that had served to cover and camouflage the claymores. This was no lightweight stuff; nothing but the best for the Treasury Department. The gla.s.s shattered under the blast, yes. But it shattered into fragments even more lethal than the ball bearings.

Those men nearest the wall, the one squad that had reached it first, were literally torn into fragments-chunks of b.l.o.o.d.y, disa.s.sociated meat. Farther away, where the gla.s.s had lost some of its initial velocity due to its relatively low density, it merely ripped and blinded.

The ball bearings were denser. They continued on unless stopped by something. In the case of twenty-seven "agents" of the PGSS, that something was human flesh. They went down as if scythed, arms flying and torsos hurled backwards.

Body armor stopped many of the gla.s.s and steel fragments, of course. Body armor did not cover arms, legs and faces.

Those ball bearings that did not impact on a body, which was-indeed-most of them, continued on. Some of these went too high and were lost. Others buried themselves in the ground. In at least one case, however, a chunk of fourteen that had remained stuck fast together by the resin impacted on a grenadier who had neglectfully left his armored vest open. The chunk of steel and resin stayed together until it was halfway through his body. At that point, under the stress of rapid deceleration, the ball bearings said their goodbyes to each other and began to take somewhat different tracks out of the body.

And then, of course, came the gla.s.s-following the ball bearings dutifully. These slivers and splinters left a swath of screaming, face-tearing, blinded men in their wake.

Dutifully, the B Company commander had had his own head up, watching for signs of progress from his a.s.sault team. His eyes registered, indeed it was the last thing they ever registered, the sudden billowing of the smoke screen as the claymore on the far side of it detonated. Before another image could register, the man's face and eyes were hopelessly shredded by shards and splinters.

The commander felt nothing, at first; just the sudden shock of losing his vision. Then his ears were a.s.saulted, first by the blast, then by the rising tide of horrified, anguished screams from the torn, bleeding remnants of his company.

Then came pain and, with the pain, realization. Following the realization of what had happened came the realization that it was to be permanent.

The commander added his screams to those of his men: "I'm bliiinnnddd!"

Pendergast fought down the nausea that threatened to engulf him. Ah, Jesus, you poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Ah, Jesus, you poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Drawing in a deep breath he shouted to the half-stunned defenders, "Fire!" Drawing in a deep breath he shouted to the half-stunned defenders, "Fire!"

Sawyers didn't need to be told to understand what had happened to his B Company. The ashen faced, trembling, vomiting and demoralized remnants that staggered out of the smoke, some dragging bodies and parts of bodies with them, told all that was needed.

One man-Sawyers didn't recognize him through the sheet of blood on his face and the strange, uncertain, staggering gait-walked right into the path of unseen tracers. The burst took him in the legs and spun him end over end.

It was a very long burst. Before it ended, and while the man was still flying, one bullet-at least one-pa.s.sed into the man's body where the armor did not cover, at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

"Those murdering motherf.u.c.kers!" he hissed to the media type that followed him. "Did you see what they did to my man? Did you get it on film?"

Not waiting for an answer, Sawyers tore the microphone from Ricky's hand and screamed into it at the company facing the wall opposite the one B Company had tried, unsuccessfully, to breach. "A Company! Get me in! Get me a G.o.dd.a.m.ned breach in that f.u.c.king wall!"

Down in an office labeled "Security," deep in the bowels of the WCF, Davis' eyes scanned the closed circuit cameras that ringed the building. Tapping the intercom, he announced, "They're going to try for Wall Four."

The B Company commander had been a not very bright treasury agent with a degree, transferred in for the chances of advancement. The A Company commander, a solid little fireplug of a man, was an ex-Marine infantryman with a combat action ribbon and a bronze star from the Second Gulf War. He had transferred in because he liked liked combat action and the PGSS had seemed like a good place for it. combat action and the PGSS had seemed like a good place for it.

The ex-Marine had heard the sound of the blasts, clearly-heard the screams, faintly-and had a very good idea of what the two added up to.

"Forget the effing effing smoke for now," he ordered his grenadiers. "I want HE grenades at every possible place along or in front of that wall." smoke for now," he ordered his grenadiers. "I want HE grenades at every possible place along or in front of that wall."

Within seconds the dull crump of exploding 40mm high explosive could be heard hitting the base of Wall Four. The A Company commander had no certain idea of how effective they were. In truth, he hardly expected to set off a string of daisy-chained claymores by sympathetic detonation of the HE. He did did expect to displace those claymores, to ruin their preset aim. expect to displace those claymores, to ruin their preset aim.

But, sometimes, one's expectations are exceeded. One round of 40mm HE, stray or random, managed to hit almost exactly dead center on almost the exactly most central claymore. The resulting small explosion resulted in a dozen larger ones.

Ball bearings, another ten thousand of them, arced out. Unfortunately for the defenders, they arced out where the PGSS should have been had they a.s.saulted directly.

"Anyone hit?" queried the commander through his radio.

"Negative... Negative... Third platoon. I've got two minor wounded....Negative."

"Ring team in!"

"The claymores went off prematurely," Williams heard Davis announce over the intercom. "I can't see a d.a.m.ned thing."

"Ah s.h.i.+t," the major muttered, then pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton. "Pendergast? Sergeant Major? If you can hear this still, I'm taking what I can sc.r.a.pe together and heading for Wall Four. Join me as fast as you can or we're screwed...."

"Fontaine? Go carry that message to the sergeant major. Run, boy!"

Williams turned to the half dozen men immediately nearest him. "The rest of you; follow me!"

Through blind, unaimed fire sprinted the half dozen men of the "ring team." Identified by and with their "ring"-a linear shaped charge twisted into a donut shape and used to blast a fairly precise circular hole in the wall of a building to be a.s.saulted-the ring team duty was about as popular as carrying a flame thrower into fire had once been. Even so, they sprinted despite carrying the awkward charge. The men cursed the ring charge even as they cursed the nearby crackling fire that plucked at their fragile lives.

"G.o.dammit. One f.u.c.king LAV, just one one, to carry us up and give us a little supporting cannon fire..."

"Shut up, Corson. The LAVs will get here behind the Army's Third Corps," answered the squad leader.

And then they were at the wall. "Slap it up, slap it up." With practiced precision-this commander had spent more time training and rehearsing his men than he had on political lectures-the team affixed the charge to the wall.

Charge firmly in place, the leader pulled the friction igniter attached to the fuse that led to the blasting cap. Then the team sprinted back a half dozen meters, screaming, "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!"

Captain James happened to be standing, pistol in hand and shouting encouragement to his men, a scant few feet from where the entrance charge was set. When it detonated, a shower of disa.s.sociated bricks first pummeled him into unconsciousness, then half buried him in one corner of the room.

This was all that saved his life for in the next moment the ring team began deluging the wide-eyed, shocked and terrified defenders of the room with fragmentation grenades. Even where the light fragments did no harm, the concussion in that enclosed s.p.a.ce was stunning, deadening-in the case of every other man in the room but James, deadly.

Into that confused, smoke-and dust-filled maelstrom burst the ring team, bayonets fixed and blood in their eyes.

"That's the signal, boys," announced the fireplug at seeing the distinctly green smoke from the signal grenade popped by the ring team. "Now on your bellies...crawl up to the breach. But crawl fast. fast."

"Faster, dammit," Williams demanded of the men slithering under the ma.s.s of corridor blocking wire suspended above. "We've got one chance to kick their a.s.ses out of the building or it's room to room and we'll all be dead before nightfall."

Where the h.e.l.l is Pendergast? he wondered.

"Firs-...I mean...Sergeant Major," Fontaine fought to make himself heard over the din of continuous machine-gun fire reverberating inside the rotunda.

"What the f.u.c.k is it, Fontaine?"

Huffing and puffing with the effort made to bring word to Pendergast, Fontaine briefly stopped trying to speak, drew a breath, then shouted, "Major Williams sent me to tell you...Wall Four is under attack and he's going to try to hold it. He said you were supposed to come, too. He ain't got too many men with him, Fir-...uh, Sergeant Major. Maybe half a dozen."

Pendergast rubbed the fingers of both hands along the side of his nose as he digested the news. Williams will go right for the likely breach, he thought. That's okay, far as it goes...but it won't do more than hold a line inside the building. Soo...

"Cease fire, cease fire fire."

As he waited for the word to spread and the noise to die down, Pendergast forced his mind to concentrate. We've got a middling clear route, well...middling quick anyway, if we go upstairs. Then I can tell from the noise where the bad guys are. And then we come through the ceiling, right in behind them. Seal the breach and chop up any unfriendly intruders. Ought to work, he told himself, skeptically. Best chance, anyway, he thought, hopefully.

"Okay, boys, now here's the plan...."

"Don't you just love it when, f.u.c.king plan comes together?" muttered the fireplug as he pushed himself through the jagged hole made by the ring charge.

The dust had cleared enough for him to see the shot, hacked and blasted bodies of the defenders his men had left behind them as they advanced. The fireplug shook a fireplug-shaped head. I'm sorry, guys. Truth be told, I'd rather be in here fighting I'm sorry, guys. Truth be told, I'd rather be in here fighting with with you than inside or outside fighting you than inside or outside fighting against against you. But I had my orders. you. But I had my orders.

Ahead, firing broke out afresh. With a glance backwards at the two thirds of his command still crawling forward under fire, the commander marched to the sound of the guns.

"Smitty," called Williams loudly. At the order Smithfield stuck his M-16 out past the corner behind which he sheltered and fired a half dozen unaimed bursts. At the opposite corner, Corporal Petty armed a fragmentation grenade, released the spoon, and threw the grenade down the corridor between the corners.

Williams' party heard someone cry, "Grenade!" Williams himself was pretty sure he heard someone else yell, "s.h.i.+t!" before human sounds were m.u.f.fled by the grenade's blast.

"Figueroa," William called. From beneath Petty another rifle was thrust outward and another series of short bursts flew.

"Did you hear that?" asked Pendergast.

"Hear what, Top...I mean Sergeant Major?"

"That explosion...wait...there went another one. Grenade, I think."

"Oh, that," admitted Fontaine. "Yeah, Sergeant Major. It did sort of sound like a grenade...near as I can remember."

"Okay...Fontaine, you take six men and put them on the firing ports we've got cut in the wall on this floor."

"Me, Top?" asked a wide eyed, disbelieving Fontaine.

"Yes, you, son. I want you to stop any more men from getting into whatever kind of hole they've knocked in the wall below us. Remember you've also got a couple of places cut you can roll hand grenades out. Use your judgment, son, but stop them from getting through that breach. stop them from getting through that breach.

"Oh...any that are trying to leave? You just go ahead and let them. Got it?"

The young soldier's chest swelled. "You can count on me, Top...I mean Sergeant Major."

"I always knew that that, Fontaine. The rest of you: there's a hatchway leading down four doors thataway. We're going down it and we're gonna hit them in the a.s.s. Now-and quietly quietly-follow me."

The fireplug risked a brief glance halfway around a corner. Now isn't that a kick in the a.s.s, Now isn't that a kick in the a.s.s, he thought as he glimpsed the ma.s.s of tangled up, gnarled barbed wire that blocked his men's forward progress. he thought as he glimpsed the ma.s.s of tangled up, gnarled barbed wire that blocked his men's forward progress. Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, using that old World War One trench blocking idea here. Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, using that old World War One trench blocking idea here.