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Message-ID: <30095asstr$988737005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Aftermath by Al Steiner - Ch 19 (no sex) 1/1
Date: Tue,  1 May 2001 13:10:05 -0400
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AFTERMATH

By Al Steiner

Send all comments to steiner_al@hotmail.com
Previous chapters can be found at www.storiesonline.net




CHAPTER 19




"Sir," Corporal Wilhelm, the leader of third platoon, spoke up hesitantly.

"What?" Stu asked, annoyed at being interrupted while making attack plans.
"Do you have something to add?"

"Well sir," Wilhelm told him, "we don't... uh... have quite enough men to do
what you're planning."

"What?" Stu asked, glaring at him.  What the hell did he mean, not enough
men?  He had five fucking platoons didn't he?  One less than he had started
the battle with, but still five.

"My platoon is down to about sixty percent strength," Wilhelm reminded him.
"I only have twenty-five guys left after the air raids last night and
sniping runs the day before.  And I was already understrength to begin with.
I also lost one to desertion last night."

"I'm in the same boat sir," Sergeant Lima, of first platoon reminded.
"Remember, my men took the brunt of that first attack and those two napalm
runs.  I have only twenty-eight left."

"All of the other platoons are understrength as well," Stinson added,
wondering if maybe he should have just shot the crazy son-of-a-bitch a few
minutes ago when he might have been able to get away with it.  He had been
close, very close to doing it.  Only fear of Barnes and what would happen to
him upon his return to Garden Hill had kept him from it.  After all, he had
no proof of what had occurred between Stu and Colby.  "My reorganized
platoon only has thirty-six men, including myself."

Stu took a few deep breaths, looking at the men around him, seeing their
doubting expressions.  Now that they had said it aloud, he realized that
they were right - they did not have the numbers that he had thought they
had.  And he should have KNOWN that!  Hadn't he been the one to conduct roll
call that very morning?  It had to be the fatigue getting to him.  He had
only had about six hours of sleep in the last three days.

"Forgive me," he said, his mind clicking along.  "You're right of course, I
don't know what I was thinking.  But in the end, it doesn't really matter."

"It doesn't matter?" Stinson asked.

"We'll reorganize again," Stu said.  "We'll move our men around so that each
platoon has twenty-eight people.  The rest will be in the reserve squad that
will provide covering fire.  That's fifty-six men on each flank to get
around the outside of those hills and into the enemy rear.  That will be
enough."

"Sir..." Stinson started, not the least bit confident in this plan.

"It will be enough," Stu said.  "Remember, they're sitting up on those three
hills over there.  We're not going to rush right into them, we're going
around to the back where they're not protected.  But we need to do it fast
before they think to shift their forces around.  So let's get it done.
Here's the plan..." He began to talk.

Though none of the leaders liked his plan very much, they listened.


+++++




"Okay," Brett said as he looked at the mass of Auburn soldiers down below.
"It looks like they're gathering into two larger attack groups.  They're
gonna try to outflank us again."

Jason was half watching the instruments on the panel to make sure they
didn't drift up or down from the hover and half watching the view outside.
Inside, Brett's hands were instinctively keeping them rock solid in place,
the altimeter and the forward airspeed indicator not moving a micrometer.
Outside, the plans of the militia were obvious even to him.  The tiny
figures below could be seen to be gathering into two distinct groups.  They
were marching either to the east or the west of their central position,
moving through the trees and behind the hills outside of the sight of the
friendly forces in the trenches.  They left a small group of ten men or so
in the center but the rest were taking up positions well to the outside.

"Matt, Chrissie, Michelle," Brett said into the VHF frequency.  "Get ready
to shift positions.  They're planning a flanking attack on both sides of
you, looks like fifty or so men on each flank."

All three platoon leaders acknowledged his transmission and told him they
were standing by for movement orders.  Brett took his eyes off the view
outside and consulted the map, pulling it over to him from Jason's lap and
trusting him to keep an eye on their flight status.  "All right," he said
into the radio, his eyes tracking over grids and trench numbers.  "Michelle,
move your platoon over to grid Delta 7 and spread out equally through
trenches 20, 22, 23, and 25.  If they move forward from their push-off
point, the troops gathering on that right flank are going to come directly
at that position."

"Copy Brett," she said.  "We're on the way."

"Be sure to have at least one automatic in each trench if you can," he
advised.

"Will do."

"Did your replacement for Helen show up?" he asked next.

"Affirm, Janice Milligan took over her gun.  We're ready to rock."

"Good," Brett said.  "Get going."

He looked at the map again for a moment and then back outside, comparing the
features on paper with the terrain where the troops on the left flank were
gathering.  He traced the most likely avenue of advance around the hill
where Matt and his platoon were currently in place.  "Matt," he said after a
few moments of thought.  "I want you to deploy to grid Delta 2 and occupy
trenches 3, 5, 7, and 9.  That'll give you a good spread to hold them
against the left flank attack."

"On the way," Matt said.

Brett continued to stare downward for a few moments, continuing to allow
Jason to monitor the instruments.  What he was doing was yet another gamble
and this time it wasn't such a sure thing.  He had just spread out the two
flank guards to a point far away from Chrissie's position.  If this
gathering below was a ruse designed to trick him into doing just what he was
now doing, the entire force of the militia would be able to quickly switch
back to where they had been and drive right at Chrissie and her people.  120
or so men attacking a single, unprotected position at once would surely
overwhelm them, even with air support.  He did not like leaving so much to
chance.  He did not like having to guess whether or not the fatigue that the
militia commander or commanders had to be experiencing was preventing them
from coming up with a complex plan like that.  Was there anything to be done
about this?

"You okay Brett," Jason asked, taking his eyes off the panel to look at him.
"You seem a little... well..."

"Hesitant?" Brett asked, giving a weak smile.

"Yeah."

"I'm all right," Brett said reassuringly, troubled both by the gamble and by
the fact that the troops he was commanding were obeying his orders so
blindly.  "I'm just trying to think through something.  We never have a
General Patton around when we need one."

"What do you mean?" Jason asked.

"Never mind," Brett told him.  It was never a good idea to let the troops
know that their commander was having doubts.  "I'm just a little tired like
everyone else.  Am I still on VHF?"

"Yeah," Jason confirmed.  "And you're starting to drift forward a bit.
Might want to pull back a little."

Brett glanced at his forward airspeed indicator and saw that it was indeed
starting to creep up a hair.  "Thanks," he told him, making the correction
and stabilizing them once more.  He keyed up the headset again.  "Chrissie,
you there?" he asked.

"Right here," she said, her own voice sounding more than a little tired.
"And I have two fresh replacements for my casualties as well."

"Copy that you're up to strength again.  I'm gonna spread your platoon out a
little bit to try and get you closer in to where the action is going to be.
Split in two and occupy the trenches to the east and west of you.  That'll
be 12, 14, 15, and 17.  Once you're there you'll be able to provide a little
crossfire on both sides of you.  However, if they change their minds and
come up the middle, you're gonna have to try and hold the whole shebang back
until the flanks can get back over to reinforce you."

"What do you think the odds are that they might try that?" Chrissie asked,
obviously uncomfortable with the though of holding the whole shebang back
with only 27 troops.

"Slight," Brett assured her.  "But this is war and anything's possible."

"Copy," she said.  "We're moving."

Brett watched them move.  From the friendly positions the Garden Hill
soldiers began to scramble out to the rear.  They looked like ants leaving
an anthill from his altitude.  They moved quickly, not quite in formation,
trotting back for sixty or seventy yards and then moving parallel to the
trench network towards their new assignments.  Brett, watching from above,
could plainly see that the hills and trees of the terrain were between they
and the peering eyes of the enemy.  He was reasonably certain that the
shifting of forces would be unobserved and therefore unexpected.

It took the better part of ten minutes for all of them to make the shift.
During this time Brett saw no noticeable change in the Auburn formations,
which were still in the process of moving themselves.  "It looks like we
pulled it off," he told Jason.  "Now let's get Steve on the horn and tell
him to get another egg ready for us.  We won't drop it yet, we'll just hover
up here with it to intimidate them."

Jason grinned.  "I'd hate to have you fighting against me," he said,
reaching for the radio controls.

Brett returned the grin silently, only hoping he was worthy of this praise.


+++++


Brett touched down a few minutes later, reasonably confident that the battle
would not start without him.  While Steve and his crew wheeled over another
napalm tank and began to attach it, Brett stepped out of the helicopter,
leaving the engine running.  He stretched his cramped muscles, feeling a
little twinge in his back.  "I'm gonna go drain some fluids while we're down
here," he told his own crew.  "Be right back."

He trotted across the parking lot, his feet splashing through the perpetual
puddles in the asphalt, and in the side door of the community center.  He
headed for the nearest bathroom, which was just off the staircase, and went
inside.  It was very dim in the room, the only lighting coming from a small
window over the urinals.  He ignored the stand-up fixtures and went instead
to the stall, where the inevitable hose assembly and bucket of water was in
place for ease of flushing.

After draining his bladder into the toilet and going through the flushing
procedure, he went back out into the hallway.  Instead of heading back to
the parking lot right away, he headed in the other direction, towards the
makeshift hospital room that had been set up in the former conference room.
He opened the door slowly and stepped inside.

The room had been stocked and set up well in advance of the battle.  Ten
cots or rollaway beds had been placed side by side in rows with only narrow
corridors between them.  In one corner of the room a large shelf had been
constructed and it was full of linen, bandaging material, IV bags from the
helicopter, and various medications.  Currently only one of the beds was
occupied.  Susan Michaels lay with a sheet and blanket pulled up to her
mid-chest, just above her breasts.  She was awake but appeared to be heavily
medicated.  Her eyes were half-lidded and, despite the wound she had
suffered, there was a slight smile on her face.  A heavy trauma dressing had
been taped to her right shoulder.  Little spots of dark blood stained its
otherwise white surface.  Hanging from a makeshift pole on the left side of
the bed was an IV bag.  The tubing ran down to her left arm.  Janet, who had
been moved from the childcare detail to the medical detail for the time
being, was sitting in a stool next to her.

"Hi Brett," she said, smiling a little as she saw him.  "What are you doing
down here?"

"We're down getting another airstrike ready," he replied, "so I came in to
tap a kidney.  How we doing in here?"

"I'm hangin in there," Susan said, her grin widening a bit.  Her words were
thick and slurred, as if she was drunk.  "I can't move my arm any more but
Janet here gave me some really good dope to help me out."

"Oh yeah?" Brett asked.  "Did you give her some of the morphine?"  El Dorado
Hills, though they had not volunteered to allow their physician to fly out
for the battle, had donated considerable medical supplies for stabilization
and pain control.  Morphine, Dilaudid, and Demerol - all heavy narcotics -
were among those staples.

Janet nodded.  "And a few other things," she said.

"She let me burn a joint in here," Susan said.  "Some of the good shit too.
I'm flyin higher than you were."

Brett laughed a little.  "I'm glad you're feeling okay Suse," he said,
reaching down and giving her good hand a squeeze.  "I'm sorry you had to get
shot up to have it happen."

"Fuckin bullet just came flyin in there," Susan said.  "Boom, and next thing
I know, I'm bleeding all over the damn place.  Some soldier I am."

"It's not your fault you got hit," Brett told her.  "You did good out there.
You guys threw back that first strike and put a serious fucking hurt on
those assholes."

"Good," she said.  "I only wish poor Helen would've been as lucky as me.  I
saw her when they brought us in."  She shook her head a little, a tear
forming in her eye.

Brett had noted the absence of Helen in the room when he came in.  "Did she
go easy?" he asked Janet.

"As easy as could be," Janet told him.  "She was still awake but couldn't
breathe very well.  I... well... I gave her morphine to quiet her."  She
paused a little, a tear forming in her eye as well.  "A LOT of morphine."

Brett put his arm around her and gave her a comforting hug.  "That's all you
can do Janet," he told her.  "It's better that way."

"I know," she said softly.  "I just wish I knew why we're going through all
of this.  Why are those men attacking us, killing our people and making us
kill them?  What's the point of it all?  Haven't enough people died from the
comet?"

"I don't know Janet," he said.  "It doesn't make a lot of sense to me
either."

They stood that way for a moment, Brett's arm around her, both of them
silently watching Susan, who had lost track of the conversation and was
staring intently at a Thomas Kincade reprint on the wall.

"I'd better get back up there," Brett said at last, breaking the embrace.
"Part two is about to start."

"What kind of casualty count are we looking at?" Janet wanted to know.

He shrugged, unable to give her even a guess.  "As few as possible I hope,"
he told her.


+++++


"Another napalm canister on the chopper, sir," Corporal Andrews said,
pointing up at the aircraft that was just now spiraling up to altitude from
the direction of the town.

"Jesus," Stu said, shaking his head and looking at it with fear.  "How many
of those fucking things do they have?"  He was gripping his rifle closely as
he lay on his stomach behind a fallen log three hundred yards from the
center hill held by the Garden Hill bitches.  Around him, on both sides and
utilizing every piece of cover they could find, was every man that had not
been sent out to accomplish the flank attacks: a grand total of ten
uninjured and twelve that were too wounded to participate in the attack but
well enough to fire a gun.  He and this rag-tag understrength collection
made up the new fifth platoon of the militia and their job would be to put
covering fire on the center hill during the attack.

"What should we do?" Andrew asked fearfully, wanting very badly to bolt and
run as far away as he could.

"Hold here until they start to close," Stu said, lifting up his radio.  He
keyed it up.  "Heads up everyone," he said into it, transmitting his words
to all squad and platoon leaders, "the chopper is back in town and it has
another canister beneath it.  Keep an eye on it and scatter if it tries to
close with you.  Remember, do it organized and that thing can't hurt you.
Panic, and it'll kill you."

No one acknowledged his words but he knew that everyone had heard them.  He
continued to watch the helicopter and it's deadly cargo, waiting for it to
start an attack run.  But it didn't.  It simply took up a watching position
over the Garden Hill positions and went into a hover.

"Come on asshole," Stu challenged.  "You want to hit us, then do it."

The chopper didn't budge.  Soon Stu was forced to conclude that it was
holding its canister in reserve.  Probably, he figured, because they didn't
have any troops near the main concentrations to fire the tracer rounds that
would ignite the napalm.  Maybe they were even now moving those troops over!

"Sir?" Andrews said, breaking his concentration a little.

"Shut the fuck up," Stu barked at him.  "I need to get this attack rolling
before they think to shift their positions around."  He keyed up his radio
again.  "Stinson, Lima, are you in position?"

"We're formed up over here," Stinson's voice said.  He was in command of the
troops hitting the left flank.  "What's the word on that helicopter?  Is it
going to hit us again?"

"I don't know what the fuck its gonna do," Stu barked into the radio.  "Do I
look like a fuckin psychic?  Just get ready to move in."

There was a crackle of static on the frequency and then a prolonged pause
with the carrier open.  Finally Stinson's voice replied: "Sure, we're ready
when you give the word."

"Good," Stu said.  "Lima, you there?"

"Here sir," Lima, who was a little greener than Stinson, replied instantly.
"We're in position and ready to advance."

"All right," Stu said.  "We're going to start putting fire on that hill in
front of us to keep their heads down.  Once you hear our gunshots, both of
you move in.  Keep me advised on your progress.  I want to be standing on
top of those fucking hills looking down at a bunch of dead bitches in less
than thirty minutes."

After both leaders acknowledged his orders he turned to his own men.  "All
right," he told them.  "Let's start shooting."

They opened up, most firing single-shot rifles, a few with semi-autos, and
Stu with his fully automatic M-16.  They peppered the ground on the hill
before them, the concussions from the shots stinging their ears.  They had
absolutely no idea that there was not a soul in occupancy on the hill they
were firing at.

On the flanks the two groups of fifty-six men heard the echo of the fire
reach them.  Their commanders gave the order - in both cases with a distinct
lack of enthusiasm - and they stood up and began to move.  They formed up
loosely, as they had before, with no clear point position and with their
numbers spread widely, only a few layers deep.  They moved at a near run,
their weapons held at the ready, their eyes searching the terrain before
them for the telltale flash of weapons firing.  Though they were anxious,
none of them thought that they were going to be fired upon until they were
well forward and starting to come around behind the outside positions that
had pasted them so soundly in the first attack.  They were at the far end of
the range of those hills.  None of them, not a single one, seriously
considered the thought that their enemy might have shifted place to put
themselves in front of them once more.


+++++


"They're moving in," Brett's voice announced over the VHF radio a moment
later.  "Estimate fifty to sixty troops heading rapidly towards both flank
positions.  Matt, Michelle, get ready for them.  You should have a visual
any second now."

Michelle spotted her quarry first, or at least one of her women did.  Within
a few seconds, everyone had spotted the line of dirty soldiers trotting
towards them through the mud and around the trees.  Weapons came to bear and
safeties were clicked off.  Everyone felt the anticipation of battle slip
away to be replaced by the almost relieving adrenaline rush that came with
the actuality of it.

They watched silently as the line continued to close in, not needing to
assign targets since everyone already knew their sector of responsibility.
Michelle gave no last minute reminders to her troops as she had the first
time.  Her troops were veterans of this technique now and to do so would be
insulting.  Finally, after three agonizing minutes, the first of the enemy
crossed the 300-yard barrier.

Michelle waited until nearly half of them had crossed over and then gave the
order: "Riflemen, fire at will."

Rifles began to crack and bullets began to fly downrange.  Even before the
first bullet hit, the enemy were diving into the mud.  Before the second
volley was sent out, they were returning fire.

Within one minute of the first shot from Michelle's position, Matt's
position a half a mile to the west opened up on the group advancing on them
as well.

The second battle had begun.


+++++


Four of Stinson's men had been taken down with the initial volley and an
additional two since then.  Now everyone had found reasonably good cover
behind rocks or trees.  Stu's voice was screaming over the radio, demanding
to know what the hell was going on but he ignored it for the moment.  He
fired a short burst at one of the flashes coming from the hill, knowing he
probably wasn't hitting anything but doing it anyway.

"Goddammit Brandon," he shouted at one of his corporals, "easy on that
automatic.  Bursts you asshole, bursts!  Don't fire a whole fuckin clip off
at once!"

Brandon ignored him completely, slamming another magazine in and firing half
of it off with one trigger pull.  Perhaps the first three bullets went where
he had aimed them but the rest flew well over the top of the hills as the
barrel was forced up.

Stinson ignored the fact that he'd been ignored and turned his attention
elsewhere.  Two of his squads were still lingering in the rear, where it was
reasonably safe.  "Sanders, Jackson," he barked at the leaders of those
squads.  "Get your people the fuck up here and help us put fire on that
hill!  Get in the fuckin war why don't you?"

They at least did as he ordered, bringing their understrength squads up to
covering positions.  One of them, a young private from the Grass Valley
raid, didn't move fast enough or crouch low enough and was drilled with two
bullets.  Stinson shook his head a little, wondering just what the hell was
going on.  What were they doing out here, having a gun battle with a bunch
of women?  What was the damn point?

"Stinson, Lima," Stu's voice barked from the radio once more, "what the hell
is going on out there?  Report!"

"Asshole," Stinson muttered, ducking as the next volley of fire came rolling
in from in front of them.  The tree he was hiding behind took several shots
right on the other side of his head.  It was becoming such a common
occurrence that he hardly jumped.  He pulled out his radio and keyed up.
"Stinson here," he said, shouting into it so he could be heard over the
noise of gunfire, "we're taking fire from the hills at our one o'clock.  I
estimate platoon strength up there at least."

"Who is firing from up there?"  Stu demanded.  "They don't have that many
people!"

"Well they sure as shit dug them up from somewhere!"  Stinson yelled back.
"Or maybe we're imagining all this fucking lead flying at us!"

"You watch your mouth with me," Stu said angrily.  "Remember who you're
talking to!"

"I remember," Stinson said.  "We're pinned down at the moment but seem to be
safe.  The fire has slacked off some.  I've got seven casualties."

"Hold in place for now," Stu told him.  "And conserve ammo if you can.
Lima, are you there?  What's your situation?"

Lima's voice came on the air a moment later.  He was very excited and
gunfire could be heard in the background.  "We're under fire from the
hills," he yelled.  "We're also taking crossfire from the left!  I have nine
dead and four wounded!"

There was a long silence over the airwaves as Stu pondered this new
information.  Finally he came back on.  "Stinson, Lima," he said, "you need
to move your troops forward.  Split your commands in two and advance half at
a time!  One group gives covering fire while the other group moves forward
and then you do it the other way."

Stinson looked at his radio in disbelief for a moment.  Around him, those
squad leaders that had radios were looking at theirs as well.  Was Stu
insane?  Advance into that fire?  The bitches hadn't even pulled out their
automatic weapons yet.

"Stinson, Lima, goddammit, did you copy me?"

Stinson keyed his radio up, not sure what was going to come out of his
mouth.  "Stu," he said into it.  "With all due respect, we'll take very
heavy casualties if we try to advance against them.  They're behind heavy
cover and they have automatic weapons."

"I agree with Stinson sir," Lima cut in before Stu had a chance to reply.
"I'm not sure we can take this hill with the troops we have available."

"Now listen up you two," Stu growled back at them.  "You will advance to
those hills NOW!  At this very fucking minute!  We need to take them and get
rid of this resistance while we have a fucking chance to do it, before they
shift their forces around again and make it even harder.  The covering fire
from the static half of the advance will keep their heads down while the
other half moves.  You won't just be charging into a slaughter.  Now fucking
do it or I'll see every one of you that lives through this hang when we get
back to Auburn!  Or better yet, I'll fucking shoot you myself right here!"

There was another pause and then Lima's voice said: "Copy sir.  We'll be
moving in."

Stinson continued to stare at his radio, shaking in fear and rage.

"Stinson," Stu's voice barked, "did you copy your orders?"

His men were looking at him, waiting for him to do something.  Finally he
did.  He was naturally the type to avoid confrontation with others,
particularly those in power over him.  True, he had become somewhat more
aggressive over the course of the march, he had even mouthed off to Stu just
now.  But when push came to shove, when the time for a REAL decision came,
he found himself unable to deny the authority.  "I copy," he said into the
radio.  "We'll be moving in shortly."

He actually heard the collective gasp of his remaining men as he said these
words.  He could feel the burning of their murderous glares upon his face.
He was suddenly very scared, and not just of being killed in battle.  But he
allowed no fear to show on his face.  Calmly, he turned to them.  "You heard
the man," he said evenly.  "First, second, and third squads, get ready to
advance.  Fourth and fifth squads, get ready to lay down some covering
fire."

Nobody moved, they all continued to glare at him.  He stared back.  "You
guys want to mutiny?" he asked them.  "You want to disobey orders and pull
back from here?  Go ahead if you dare.  Just remember, you may be saving
your asses for the moment, but we have to go back to Auburn eventually.
You'll live through the battle but you'll hang for mutiny."

Uncertainty showed in most faces at his words.  They realized there wasn't
really much of an option.  As perverse as it sounded, their best chance of
long-term survival meant rushing into the onslaught of rifle fire.

"Let's get it done," Stinson said, sensing the change in mood.  "We don't
have all fuckin day.  Fourth and fifth, covering fire!"

A rifle popped from one of the men, sending a bullet towards the Garden Hill
positions.  Another pop followed.  Soon, nearly twenty rifles were firing at
them.

"All right," Stinson said over the tactical radio, "first, second, and third
squads, move in!"

They obeyed him.  Though they had been on the very verge of mutiny a moment
before, thirty men now pulled themselves to their feet, hefted their
weapons, and began rushing forward.

The covering group fired as quickly as they could, plastering the hillside
with bullets in an attempt to keep the enemy's head down.  It worked to a
certain degree but not quite as well as was hoped.  The flashes of return
fire still appeared only not as intense as the initial barrage.  Men in the
advancing platoon began to fall.  Two of them fell down about thirty yards
in and then another three went quickly after this.  One more crashed to the
ground at about the fifty-yard line.

"Get down," Stinson ordered over the tactical radio.  "Get down and take
cover!"

The men didn't have to be told twice.  They hurled themselves into the mud
and found whatever piece of shelter they could from the rain of lead that
was hitting them.  No sooner had they settled in however, than bullets began
to plink in from another direction; from the hillside to the right of them.

"Goddammit," Corporal Givens, one of the squad leaders from the advancing
half of the platoon, yelled into his radio.  "We're taking fire from our two
o'clock.  They've got us in a fucking crossfire again!"  Even as these words
were leaving his mouth, the man to the right of him suddenly gasped and
slumped forward as a bullet smashed through his shoulder and into his chest.

"Hold in place," Stinson yelled back.  "Start putting fire on the hill in
front of you!  The sooner we make it to that hill, the sooner they stop
shooting at us."

Givens heard this and shook his head in disgust.  "What the fuck are we
doing this for?" he mumbled to himself.  To his men, he yelled: "Covering
fire on the hill, right now!"

The rifles began to pop as the lead group took over the job of keeping the
enemy occupied.  Stinson gripped his rifle and looked at the men with him.
"Let's go," he told them.  "We'll advance to the left of Givens' group and
take up position fifty yards in front of them.  Go fast and keep low."

They began their dash.  Stinson, as any commander would do, waited until
they were all under way and then brought up the rear.  His feet pumped up
and down and his back cried in protest from the hunched over gait.  Mud
splashed up over his legs and onto his feet.  He stepped over the top of the
bodies that had fallen in the first advance, not giving them a second
glance, not even Private Landau, who was still screaming for help.  Two of
his men went down with body shots before they even reached Givens' position.
But it was when they passed this point and began to move into new territory
that the punishment really started.  The defenders on the hill opened up
with their automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

Stinson clearly saw the rapid, flashbulb-like flashes from the gaps in the c
over.  He kept running.  Three of his men were peppered with bursts of fire,
blood flying out of holes ripped in their backs, brains flying out of
smashed skulls, bodies thumping into the mud.  He stepped over them and kept
going.  Two more men were mowed down - one with legs cut out from beneath
him, one with a gut shot that exited just above the buttocks.  Stinson
himself felt a sting across the side of his face, had an impression of
something whizzing just under his ear.  It took him a moment to realize that
a bullet had just kissed him, digging a furrow in his face but not
penetrating.  He ran faster, wanting desperately to dive down and take
cover.

At last it was time.  When two more men were down and the rest were sixty
yards closer to the hill, he gave the order.  "Down!  Take cover!"

Within a second every last one of his men was face down in the mud,
scrambling for cover.

Stinson found shelter behind a large rock.  A bullet zinged off of it,
chipping a piece of stone free.  He touched his face and his hand came away
bloody.  His body tried to react to the thought that he had come within a
millimeter or so of having a bullet drill right through his face, but he
refused to allow it.  This wasn't over yet.  He pulled out his radio and
keyed up.  "Givens, are you there?"

"Here sir!"  Givens' voice replied.

"Advance to the left of us," he ordered.  "Same drill.  We'll keep fire on
the hill for you."

"Yes sir," Givens answered, obviously not happy about this order but not
protesting it either.  "We're moving in."

Stinson looked to his men.  "Covering fire!" he screamed.


+++++



On the other side of the battlefield, Lima's group was advancing as well,
although they were taking a few more casualties.  The left side of
Chrissie's platoon was in a better position to provide a crossfire and
Chrissie, taking advantage of this, had most of her automatic weapons
shifted over there.  This forced Lima's group to place their covering fire
in two different directions at two different targets.  It also forced them
to make shorter hops.  In all, Lima's group lost sixteen men in the first
100 yards, nine of them killed outright, the other seven lying defenseless
in the mud, bleeding from their wounds and, in some cases, pleading for help
from their comrades.

But still they advanced, steadily closing the gap between the positions they
had held all morning and the hills beyond where the Garden Hill defenders
were entrenched.

Back at the main line, where Stu and his covering platoon were still
uselessly firing upon empty hills, Stu was listening to the reports on the
radio and becoming excited.  Sure, the casualties were a little heavier than
he'd expected, but they were advancing.  They were going to take those hills
and rout those bitches all the way back to the walls of the town.  He had
every confidence that he would still be inside of that wall and in
possession of that community center within two hours.

High above, Brett, Jason, and Sherrie watched the steady, though costly
advance as well.  As before it seemed almost surreal watching from 2000 feet
over the action.  All they saw were flashes from the weapons, a haze of
smoke over the area, and the tiny figures of men dashing through the mud or
crouching in it.  Brett could see that the group attacking Matt's position
on the left flank was having a much harder go of it than the bunch attacking
Michelle on the right.  Part of this was that they did not seem to be as
ably led.  Another part of it was that Chrissie's left side positions, being
closer, were putting much more accurate fire on them.  He could also see
that it would soon be time for the friendly forces to pull back.

"They're closing too fast with too many surviving men," Brett said, looking
as the covering group jumped up and began to dash forward.  "On both sides
but particularly on the right."

"Are they gonna take the hills?" Jason asked, a little alarmed by the
thought.

"They're not gonna TAKE them," Brett replied, "but it looks like we're going
to have to give them away in order to avoid close contact.  We need to delay
this a little if we can, give our people time to pull back."

"We have the napalm still," Jason said, telling him nothing that he didn't
already know.

"Yes we do," Brett agreed.  "Get Michelle on the VHF.  It's time we took a
little more active part in this thing.  Chances are, they're too busy down
there to notice what we're doing."

"Right," Jason said and immediately he began hailing Michelle.

"Sherrie," Brett said, looking back at her for a moment, "get in position.
I want to drop on the group that's covering after the next advance."

"You got it," she said, crawling across the floor.

Brett slowly turned to the right and then began to gingerly move in a large
circle, bringing the helicopter around to the side of the men on the ground.
As he expected, no one on the militia's radio frequency sounded an alarm at
his movement, so wrapped up in the battle were they.  He looked below, his
eyes making quick shifts from the terrain to his instruments.  Down below
the next dash was just taking place, with the group in the rear rushing up
to leapfrog their cover positions.

"Right there Sherrie," Brett said.  "That group of that's in motion.  As
soon as they hit the dirt to take over covering fire, we'll egg them."

"I got 'em," Sherrie said, her voice shaky but determined.

"Michelle here," Michelle said in his headset in response to Jason's hails.
The stutter of gunfire and a few screams could be heard in the background.
"Are you gonna give me an air strike?"

Brett handled the communication now that she was on the air.  "That's
affirm," he told her.  "I'm gonna drop on the covering group.  Get ready to
light them up."

"Changing mags now," she said.  "Hurry it up!  They're getting a little too
close for comfort and we're taking casualties! We're gonna have to pull back
from here in a minute."

"Copy," Brett said, watching as the advance came to an end and the group -
minus three more of its members - dove to the ground once more.  "We're
moving in now.  As soon as the shit flies, start your pull back to trenches
23, 26, and 28.  Do it by the book, wounded out first, pull out the rest in
thirds with heavy covering fire."

"By the book," Michelle confirmed.


+++++


Stinson was lying behind a small rise, firing his automatic at one of the
flashes before him, trying desperately to take the Garden Hill forces down a
few notches before they killed every one of his men.  They were still over a
hundred and fifty yards away and already he had lost nearly twenty of the
original 56 that had made the attack.  Would they be able to press the
advantage even if they did make it up there?  It seemed less and less likely
by the yard.

"Fuckin clusterfuck," he mumbled, firing another burst and having his action
lock open, indicating an empty magazine.  He ejected it to the ground, not
bothering to pick it up, and pulled another from his pack.  He felt only two
more in there.  Would that be enough?  It would have to be.  He slammed it
in place, closed the chamber, and then fired another short burst.  Ahead of
him the front half of his platoon was just about to take cover again.

Vaguely he registered that the helicopter had moved from the position it had
been in a minute before but somehow he did not assign alarm to that
observation.  There were so many other things that could potentially kill
him and his men in the next two minutes that the helicopter was near the
bottom of his list of things to worry about.  Nor did he pay any attention
to the frantic hails of Stu on his radio.  He barely even heard them.  The
fucking prick probably wanted to have a goddamn status report while they
were in the middle of the bloodbath that this battle was turning into.  Fuck
him.  He could have his motherfucking report when it was over.  The thought
that Stu might be seeing the helicopter positioning itself over the top of
his men and that he might be trying to issue a warning never came close to
crossing his mind.

Up ahead, the charging group finally reached the limits of their advance and
threw themselves down where they began scrambling for trees and rocks to
hide behind.  They were five less the number that they had started that
charge with, three of them dead on the ground, two of them screaming on the
ground but incapacitated.  As Stinson watched, a burst of automatic fire
reached out and finished the job on one of the wounded ones that had been
foolishly trying to get to his feet.

"Fucking idiot," Stinson muttered, feeling a fleeting moment of sadness and
then dismissing it.  He looked at his men and took a few deep breaths to
brace himself.  "Let's go!" he yelled at them.  "Leapfrog to the left.  Now,
now now!"

The front group began to provide covering fire and his group, one by one,
drug themselves to their feet and began to rush forward once again.  As
before, Stinson waited until they were all underway and then he too jumped
up and began to follow.  Bullets began to whiz past once more, flying to the
sides of him, over the top of him, plunking into the mud before him, but
somehow not hitting him.  In front of him two of his group went down in the
first thirty feet but surprisingly the return fire was a little lighter than
it had been on the last charge.  It seemed like the Garden Hill defenders
were not using their automatic weapons at the moment.  Why not?  Were they
out of ammunition for them?  If that was the case then things could maybe be
turning around.  Could their luck really be changing for the better?  Could
it?

The answer came in very dramatic fashion a moment later.  Three solid
streams of tracers suddenly lanced out from the hillsides, all of them
converging in mid-air in a spot high above the covering group's positions.
Too late he realized what the significance of that was.  He looked up just
in time to see the napalm tank split in half 300 feet above and disgorge
it's deadly contents.

He was close enough this time to feel a blast of heat as the mixture
ignited.  Burning gasoline gel rained down on top of the prone soldiers,
hitting the center of their group with unnatural accuracy.  Five of them had
been lying less than four feet apart, putting gunfire on the hillside before
them.  They ignited instantly, their bodies engulfed in the flame.  It was
by far the most devastating airdrop yet.

"Motherfucker!" Stinson screamed, feeling the heat wave singe his face a
little, watching his men burn.  They didn't even move from where they lay,
didn't even try to get up and run.  Goddammit, these Garden Hill fucks
weren't fighting fair!  How could they fight against someone who could drop
napalm upon their positions with impunity?

His men reacted with horror at the attack.  Of those that had been providing
the covering fire - those that hadn't been hit directly with the napalm -
several of them stood and tried to run from the conflagration that had been
their comrades.  They did this without thinking, purely out of horrified
instinct.  And they paid the price for it.  The moment they stood the guns
of the enemy sought them out.  The tracers that had just ignited the napalm
reached out and swept across them like a futuristic ray beam, cutting them
instantly down.

"Goddammit, stay the fuck down!" Stinson yelled over his radio.

He was obeyed, again more because of the observed results of disobedience
than anything else.

"Keep putting fire on that hill," he ordered next.  "Shoot you fucking
idiots, shoot!"

They shot and Stinson ordered his own group forward.  One more fell to enemy
fire but within ten seconds he and his men were lying down near the scene of
the napalm attack, trying to regroup.  The stench of burning was very strong
and the heat from the fire was uncomfortable upon their faces.  It caused
steam to rise from their wet clothing.

"They're fucking killing us!" Givens yelled as he crawled over from his own
position.  "Goddamn it, they fucking napalmed us again!"

"No shit," Stinson said, trying to keep his eyes off the burning bodies.  He
looked instead at his second-in-command, noting that he had been wounded by
the attack as well.  A small patch of his right arm had been burned,
charring his clothing away and leaving a hole the size of a silver dollar.
"Are you all right?"

"It hurts like a motherfucker," Givens told him.  "We need to pull back!
Christ!"

"We can't," Stinson said.  "We need to push on.  We're almost there.  How
many do we have left?"

"Fuck," Givens spat, taking a few breaths to calm himself.  He looked around
and began to count the ragged, scared group.

The count turned out to be 28 men still capable of fighting.  Fully 50
percent lost.

"Okay, here's the deal," Stinson said.  "I'll give you six of my men and
that'll even us up at 14 apiece.  Same drill.  Half covers while half
advances.  We're at least out of the crossfire now and since we're less than
150 yards from the hills, the covering fire should do a better job of
keeping their heads down.  We'll do it in thirty yard dashes instead of
fifty."

Givens looked downright miserable at these words.  "I didn't sign up for
this shit Stinson," he said.  "What the fuck are we doing this for?"

"No one ever said it made sense," Stinson told him.  "And for what its
worth, I didn't sign up for this either.  I'd much rather be back in Auburn
fucking my bitches right now.  But we're stuck with what we're stuck with,
ain't we?  And we're almost there now."

"Yeah, only a hundred and fifty fucking yards to go," he said.  "We lost
half in the first hundred and fifty.  That leaves the other half for this
run, don't it?"

Stinson had no answer for him.  Instead he barked out the names of six of
his men and told them they were reassigned.


+++++


Michelle had watched the results of the napalm attack with nothing short of
savage glee.  She did not care that fellow human beings had just been
roasted alive to die a horrible, painful death.  All she cared about was
that four or five of the faceless enemy that were trying to attack her town,
that had caused death and injury to her platoon, were gone and no longer a
threat to her.  When the panicked men in the vicinity of the flames had
leapt to their feet to flee the area she had unhesitantly cut them down with
left-over tracers in her weapon, actually cheering in satisfaction as she
saw the red streaks intersect human bodies.  Though she would probably feel
guilt about this glee later - if there was a later - she refused to let
these thoughts intrude right now.

This attack had been more costly than the first one.  The bullets of the
enemy had been better aimed from closer positions and more of them had found
their way around or through the sandbags that were their protection.  Mike
Orland, one of the men in her platoon and the husband of two of the women in
Chrissie's platoon, was dead in the trench, a bullet through his head.  In
the next trench over Julie Sanders had been killed by a shot to the throat.
There were two major injuries as well.  Sarah, Steve Kensington's wife, had
taken a burst of automatic weapons fire in the upper chest.  She was
conscious but having considerable trouble breathing, probably experiencing a
slowly collapsing lung.  Lucy Strang, who had once been a hairdresser, had
taken a rifle bullet in her right breast.  She was also conscious but also
having trouble breathing.  In addition to the major injuries there was Lori
Stanislaus, Ted's wife, who had had a lucky round smash through her upper
arm, rendering it useless.

Michelle herself had felt bullets pass within inches of her face on several
occasions, had felt the wind generated by the displacement of air caressing
her cheeks.  This was something else that her mind was probably going to be
obsessing over later on but, as with the deaths she had caused, it was not
something she had time to analyze just now.  It was time to get the hell out
of Dodge.

"Okay people," she said over her tactical radio, the one that the Auburnites
could potentially be monitoring.  "It's time to initiate our prime
directive.  We're gonna go with plan A.  Squad leaders, do you understand?"

Plan A was the controlled withdrawal in thirds utilizing covering fire.  The
squad leaders all reported their understanding.

"Okay," Michelle said next.  "Let's have the sick birds go first.  You know
what to do."

They did.  The evacuation of wounded in preparation for withdrawal was
something that they had practiced repeatedly during the training phase.
They had even gone so far as to carry simulated victims during those
sessions.  Without any further direction, the platoon swung into action.
Sarah and Lucy had each been placed on makeshift litters that had been
constructed out of sheets.  Handles had been sewn into the corners, allowing
them to be carried.  The squad leaders assigned two people per litter and
told them to get ready.  The other wounded, Lori Stanislaus, was well enough
to evacuate herself.  When everyone reported readiness the word was passed
to Michelle.

"Okay," Michelle said over the tactical radio.  "Let's lay it on them!"

Everyone who was not involved in the actual withdrawal began to fire down at
the enemy positions, providing their own covering fire.  The explosions of
gunfire began to echo once more and the trenches filled with gun smoke.
Michelle did not have to give the order to go.  They already knew that the
shooting was their cue.  Sarah and Lynette were hauled from the rear of the
trenches and the litter bearers, keeping their heads and bodies well down,
dragged them down the hill.  Lori, despite considerable pain that moving her
body in any way caused, rolled out under her own power and followed them.
Once they were all below the summit of the hill and out of line of sight of
the enemy, they stood up, the stretcher-bearers grasping their loads and
moving as quickly as they could to the rear.

"Brett, this is Michelle," she said into the VHF once they were on their
way.  "We're starting our pull-back.  Wounded are on the way.  Can you
contact Paul for us and let him know to meet them?"

"Don't bother," Paul's voice immediately spoke up.  "We're already on the
move."

"Copy that, thanks Paul," Michelle said.

"I copy too," Brett's voice said from the radio.  "Michelle, it looks like
your friends down there are starting to regroup for another advance.  Keep
the fire on them as much as you can and get the hell out pronto."

Michelle clicked her radio instead of verbally replying and then picked up
her tactical set again.  "All right," she said into it.  "Keep up the fire,"
she said.  "First squad, do your thing.  You're going to taking number 23.
I repeat, 23.  Get going now!"

First squad did not have to be told twice.  While the rest of the platoon
kept up the gunfire on the enemy positions, they slid out of the trenches,
taking their personal weapons and the weapons belonging to the dead and
wounded, as well as their packs, with them.  They slithered down the hill
until they were able to stand and then they headed for trench 23 at a fast
run.

When they were halfway there, Michelle told second squad to do the same.
The volume of covering fire naturally eased off but still the enemy kept
their heads down and didn't try to push in.  Within a minute of the order
being given, all of them were gone.

"All right," Michelle said to her squad, not using the radio or code since
all of them were within earshot.  "Now the rest of you.  We're taking trench
28.  I'll cover for you with the automatic for about twenty seconds and then
I'll be right behind you.  Now go!"

They went, sliding out of the trench and disappearing down the hill.
Michelle fired an entire magazine while they did this, using two and three
round bursts.  There was some light return fire but nothing terribly
concentrated.  As soon as her magazine was empty she reloaded and followed
her troops to the next position.


+++++


 From above, Brett watched the orderly pullback with satisfaction.  He could
see them trotting in three distinct groups, heading for the array of
trenches a quarter of a mile to the south of the ones they had just been in.
Ahead of the group, moving much quicker than he would have thought possible,
he saw the stretcher bearers hauling the wounded towards Paul's team, who
were running over the open ground to meet them.

"We're really going to win this thing," he said to Jason and Sherrie.
"We're really going to."

"You think so?" Sherrie, who was still winding in the napalm rope, asked
hopefully.

"I know so," Brett said.  "They can't take another advance that costly.
They simply can't.  I'm amazed that they're still pushing forward as it is.
They have to know that's it's useless."

"Maybe they think they've gone too far to stop now," Jason suggested.

Brett nodded thoughtfully.  "Maybe," he agreed.  "If so, they're making a
very big mistake."

With his philosophical musings now out of the way, Brett turned his
attention to the other side of the battle, where Matt's group was still
locked into an ongoing gunfight with the leapfrogging attackers.  Over there
the going had been even rougher, the advance even more costly, but amazingly
enough, they were still pushing forward as well.  They were now, with more
than half of their number dead or incapacitated, approaching the 150-yard
range as well.

"Matt," Brett said into the radio, "are you still with me?"

As it had been with Michelle's, the transmission was filled with the
background noise of gunfire.  "I'm still here," he said.  "I've got one dead
and two wounded that need to be taken out.  The enemy is making short hops
but they're starting to get kind of close to us."

"Understood," Brett said, watching as one group hit the mud and another
began to rush forward.  "I think it's time to pull back before you get any
more casualties.  I want you to withdraw to trenches..." he consulted his
map for a moment, "33, 34, and 36.  Start as soon as you can."

"Copy that," Matt answered, unmistakable relief in his tone.  "We'll be on
the move in less than a minute."

"Chrissie," Brett said next, "are you down there?"

"Right here," she said immediately.

"Have the squads on the right side of your deployment pull back to trenches
40 and 42.  Keep the squads on the left side in place and help cover the
withdrawal of Matt's platoon.  As soon as they're all out of there, take the
rest of your people over to trench 46."

"Copy," she said.

"Any wounded on your side?" he asked her next.

"Negative," she said, obviously pleased by this.  "We have zero casualties
of any kind."

"That's what I like to hear," he said.  "There's a good chance you're gonna
be on your own for a bit after this.  It sounds like some of the wounded
from the other sides are going to need medivac to EDH.  I'll make it as
quick as I can."


+++++


"Squad two and three," Chrissie ordered over the tactical radio.  "Prime
directive time.  Two to 40, three to 42.  Plan B, now!"

Plan B was the code for an immediate withdrawal, without the benefit of
covering fire.  It had been intended for a grave situation such as the
militia advancing quicker than could be dealt with, but in this case, with
those squads absent of any enemy contact, it seemed appropriate as well.

The squad leaders of two and three both acknowledged her order and then went
about initiating it.  They slipped out of their trenches and headed towards
the next complex.

"Everybody else," Chrissie said to the remaining eight people in her own
trench.  "Keep plastering that group.  Matt's platoon is withdrawing."

The battered group of militia that was attempting to leapfrog its way up to
Matt's position was about three hundred yards away on average.  Far enough
so that fire was not terribly accurate but close enough so that it DID cause
casualties.  Chrissie and her people aimed out over the edge of their
position at an angle and shot at anything that moved down there.  There was
a lot of movement.

"What about us?" Kathy Smith, one of Chrissie's people, wanted to know.

"We're pulling back to 46 as soon as Matt's out of there," she answered,
giving her trigger a squeeze and sending four bullets down range.

"How long?" Kathy asked.  "They're gonna be awfully close to us if they take
that trench before we can get out of here!"

"As long as it takes," Chrissie said, watching as another dash began among
the enemy.  "And if you'd stop talking and start shooting, maybe we could
slow them down a little bit more.  Come on!"

Kathy gave a nervous, sour look at the young girl that was in command of
their fate but did as she was told.  She aimed her semi-automatic AK-47 down
towards the aggressors and squeezed off three quick shots.


+++++


"Get around there!" Stinson yelled as the front group closed to within fifty
yards of the trench.  "Goddammit, flank them on that left side and get up on
top of that position!"  He leapt to his feet and waved his own men forward
as he yelled this, feeling genuine excitement for once.  They had not lost a
single man on the last three charges.  Not even one.  In fact, it almost
seemed as if the Garden Hill defenders had stopped firing altogether.  It
seemed that their covering fire was getting very accurate indeed.

The front group scrambled around to the left side of the hill, their weapons
ready.  A few of them were firing upward towards the shredded sandbags that
they could now see.

"Come on guys," Stinson yelled to his own half.  "Move around to the right!
Let's get the fuck up there and get this over with!"

The enthusiasm was contagious.  The fourteen men of his team rushed around
to the flank of the nearer hill and then started up the steep slope, several
of them falling down when they lost traction but quickly getting to their
feet again.  It was almost strange to not have bullets whizzing at them as
they moved, to not hear the meaty thud of some unfortunate getting hit, to
not hear the screams that followed.  Above them and to the south, the
helicopter was still hovering, watching over the events.

Both groups reached the top of the hill at almost the same time.  Once up
there they closed in on the first of the trenches from the sides, their guns
pointed at it, fingers tightened on triggers.  Stinson wished for some hand
grenades to help clear the way but that simply had not been in the Auburn
inventory.  They had had some of those tear gas guns and flash-bangs from
the Sheriff's department but they had not carried them with them on this
particular campaign.

Stinson and the rest of them waited for the barrage of bullets to come
flying at them as the terrified defenders in the trench made a final stand.
They waited, but it never came.  At last they were standing over the trench
itself, twenty-eight men who had survived hell.

"Son of a bitch," Stinson said, looking down at what was revealed.

There was a dead body in the trench, that of a woman.  There were hundreds
of empty shell casings of various caliber.  There were dozens of empty boxes
that had once contained ammunition.  There was a canteen that had a bullet
hole in it.  There were a few puddles of watery blood.  Other than that,
there was nothing, nothing at all but a bunch of muddy footprints.  On the
backside of the trench were more footprints and some slide marks.  It didn't
take a genius to figure out that the occupants had scrambled out the back a
few minutes before.

"Get over to those other two hills they were shooting from," Stinson ordered
half of his men.  "Check those trenches as well."

Two of his squads, shaking their head in disgust, began to move
unenthusiastically in that direction.

"Stinson," Stu's voice demanded over the radio.  "Answer me!  Give me a
fuckin report!"

Stinson sighed, pulling out his radio.  He had finally updated Stu just
after the napalm attack, just before the final charge to the trench.  Stu
had agreed with his plan of action and had ordered him to carry it out.  He
keyed up now.  "We're on the hill," he said softly.  "No casualties taken in
the advance.  The enemy forces have pulled back."

"You mean they ran away?" Stu said.

"I mean they're not here," Stinson said.  "Call it whatever you want.  We
have one body in this trench, no wounded, no weapons, no supplies.  I have
people checking the trenches on the other hills now as well."

"Trenches?" Stu asked.  "Did you say trenches?"

"You heard me right," he replied.  "They've got fucking trenches dug in
these hills, complete with sandbags and a shitload of ammunition.  And they
aren't makeshift trenches either, they're almost as solid as the ones we
have back in Auburn.  That's why we had such a hard time hitting them."

"Understood," Stu said, his voice sounding strangely gleeful.  "And now that
we've chased them out of their trenches, the going should be a lot easier
now."

Stinson didn't even bother answering that one.


+++++


On the other side of the battle, Matt's last group was just leaving their
trench to head for their new position.  Their situation was just a little
more perilous because John Whitcoff, one of Matt's men, had been hit just
after the second third of the platoon had made their getaway.  A bullet had
come drilling through one of the firing ports and into his back, dropping
him to the bottom of the trench.

"Go, go," Matt ordered, firing his M-16 down at the advancing militia, the
closest of whom were now approaching one hundred yards.   "Get him down
there with the others.  Get a move on!"

They hauled him out of the trench, not bothering to waste time putting him
on a litter, and bodily dragged him down the hill.  Matt kept firing down,
thankful that Chrissie and her group were still in position on the next
group of hills over.  If not for them, they would've been overrun a minute
or so ago.

"Matt," Chrissie's voice said over the radio, "are you out of there yet?
They're getting a little too close for comfort."

"Pulling out now," he said.  "We have another wounded man from the withdraw.
Our last group is gonna be a little slow getting out."

"Copy," Chrissie said.  "We'll stay here and keep shooting at them as long
as we can.  But you need to go, now!"

"Consider me gone," Matt said.  He stowed his radio, fired the remainder of
his magazine down at the advancing men, and then scrambled out the back of
the trench.  Five seconds later he was sliding down the back side of the
hill on his butt.


+++++


"Chrissie, what the hell are you doing?" Brett's voice asked over the VHF.
"Get your ass out of there!"

Chrissie fired a long burst before she picked up her radio.  She keyed it
up.  "Matt's last group has a wounded man," she told him.  "We need to keep
them delayed as long as we can so they have a chance to get away!"

"If you stay there much longer," Brett answered, "YOU are not going to be
able to get away.  You'll be in plain view of Matt's trench when you
withdraw.  If they go after you they'll be able to slip around in front of
you."

"No choice Brett," Chrissie said.  "We'll move out when Matt is clear."

"Pull out NOW Chrissie," Brett said.  "That's an order!"

"Just a few more minutes," she said.  "Don't worry.  We'll be all right."

She continued to fire, ignoring further hails from him.


+++++


"Goddammit!" Brett yelled.  "What the fuck is she doing?  This isn't the
time for fucking heroics!"

"She's always been kind of stubborn," Jason offered, watching as the
attacking militia closed in on the empty trenches below.

"Too stubborn for her own good.  She's gonna have trouble when she pulls out
of there.  If she doesn't leave before they get to the top of that hill,
there's gonna be no way they won't see her when she leaves."

"It's her choice," Sherrie said, feeling the need to defend her.

"Her choice yes," Brett agreed, "but she's risking her squad along with
her."  He keyed up the radio again.  "Chrissie, get the hell out of there.
NOW!"  No answer, just more flashes from her position.  "Shit."


+++++


The fire coming from the hill at their ten o'clock did have one significant
effect on Lima's group of 22 attackers.  It forced them to climb the hill
from the right side only instead of attacking the trench from both sides as
Stinson's group had done.  They combined their two groups into one and made
an end-run around that side, scrambling up through the mud and around the
trees on the hillside.

Like Stinson and company had before them they found nothing on the top but a
trench full of expended shell casings, empty boxes, blood, and one dead
body.  But unlike Stinson's group, they had a good view of at least some of
their tormentors when they reached the summit.


+++++


Chrissie waited until the group they were firing at actually went out of
sight on the far side of the hill before she ordered a cease-fire.

"I hope we gave them enough time," she said.  She turned to her people.
"Let's go.  Pull back to trench 46, as fast as our little legs will go."

There was no dispute with this plan.  They climbed out of the trench and
started down the hill.


+++++


"Shit on a shingle," Brett said, looking at the figures of Chrissie and her
team moving south from the top of the hill.  "I hope those fuckers on Matt's
hill are tired of the chase by now.  If they're not, there's no way that
Chrissie's gonna get away without shooting it out with them."

"They're probably tired," Jason said, watching them to see what they would
do.  They seemed to be checking out the trench at the moment, ignoring the
trenches on the adjoining hills where Matt's other squads had been
stationed.  "And they need to clear all of those hills first, don't they?"

"They don't HAVE to do anything," Brett said, taking a quick glance at his
instruments and then continuing to watch the events unfold far below.


+++++


"Sir, over there!"  one of Lima's men yelled, pointing at the downside of a
hill about 350 yards away.  "The bitches that were shooting at us are moving
down that hill!"

"Shoot at them," Lima said instantly.

A second later 22 guns were firing at the muddy figures that were moving to
the south.  Lima himself expended an entire clip at them, knowing that the
range was quite extreme for these weapons, but also knowing that with that
much lead flying there was a better than even chance that at least one slug
would find one body.  It was a good gamble.


+++++


The unlucky person was Rhonda Bellingham, one of the town's many single
women.  She had once been part of Jessica's inner circle back in the old
days, a blue-blooded lawyer's wife.  After the first battle of Garden Hill
she had converted to one of the most fervent supporters of Brett's reforms
in security and had been one of the first to go through his advanced
training class when it was offered.  She had fought bravely and well in the
second battle of Garden Hill and she had been just starting to think that
everything was going to be all right when two bullets slammed into the high
part of her back, just to the right of the spine.

She squealed in pain, feeling a burning spread throughout her chest and
suddenly her legs would no longer hold her up.  She went down, face-first
into the mud.  "I'm hit," she yelled.  "Oh god, I'm hit!"

"Shit," Chrissie barked, stopping in her tracks.  She looked down and saw
the bright red flowers of blood spreading out on Rhonda's rain gear.  She
kneeled down next to her and rolled her up, hoping that the wounds weren't
fatal.  "Rhonda?  How bad?" she asked.

Rhonda's face was a mask of misery and fear.  Tears were running down her
eyes.  "I can go on," she panted.  "Just help me to my feet."

Chrissie looked at the rest of her troops and saw that they had all stopped
with her.  They had stopped and bullets from the enemy were still plinking
into the ground and whizzing by all around them.  "Barb," she yelled at
Barbara Hennesy, one of her better soldiers, "help me with her.  The rest of
you, get the hell out.  Keep going as fast as you can!"

Barb came over to help pull Rhonda to her feet but the rest of her team
hesitated, clearly not wanting to abandon anyone.

"GO!" Chrissie yelled, reaching down and grabbing Rhonda by the armpit.  "Go
before you get your asses shot off!"

They went, most of them giving one last glance behind, but not lingering any
longer.  Within twenty seconds they were all out of sight behind the next
rise.

"Come on Rhonda," Chrissie said, pulling her up.  With the assistance of
Barbara, they got her to her feet.  Before they could turn to run however,
another bullet found a mark.  There was a wet thud and suddenly Barbara's
head rocked violently back.  Blood and brains sprayed all over Chrissie and
Rhonda, splattering their faces, stinging their eyes.  Barbara slumped
ungracefully to the ground.

"Oh god, Barb!"  Chrissie cried in horror.  It was easy to see that there
was nothing to be done for her.

"Barb?" Rhonda squeaked, her breath getting shorter by the moment.  "Oh
Jesus.  Can we help her?"

"There's nothing to be done," Chrissie said, feeling tears in her eyes.
"Come on.  We need to get out of here before they cut us off."

Without so much as a glance at their fallen companion, Chrissie and Rhonda
started heading for the next set of trenches.  Chrissie was practically
dragging the wounded girl and they weren't moving very fast at all.


+++++


The main group of Garden Hill people had already passed beyond the first
hill but the two stragglers in the rear, one of them obviously helping a
wounded companion, were still in range and visible.  As such, Lima's group,
encouraged by the downing of one of the others, continued to shoot at them.
They staggered onward defiantly, moving at a snail's pace, but somehow,
almost miraculously, they weren't being hit by the dozens of bullets that
were being fired at them every second.  It was only as they passed around
the barrier of the first hill and out of sight that Lima realized that a
mistake had been made on his part.

While they had been plunking away at the two women in the rear, they had
missed their golden chance to hook around to the front and cut off the main
group as they retreated.  By now, that group would be well beyond their
reach.

"Shit," Lima said, lowering his weapon and cursing himself for his tunnel
vision.  He had just blown a chance to make a major ding in the enemy.

"What now sarge?" one of his men asked him.  "Should we go clear those other
trenches?"

Lima licked his lips a little bit.  "First squad can do that," he said,
coming to a snap decision.  "Second squad, come with me.  We're gonna go
capture those two bitches that we were just shooting at.  Come on, they
can't get too far moving as slow as they are."

For once nobody argued or whined about their assignment.  Everyone was up
for capturing a few of the enemy.  Especially when they were females.

Lima personally led the group as they scrambled down the far side of the
hill and cut to the right to hook around in front of them.


+++++


Brett had watched the entire episode down below from his perch 2000 feet
above the action.  Though the players in the drama were no more than tiny
dots moving on a muddy backdrop, so small that sex could not even be
determined, and though he had had no radio communication with his second
platoon since his last order for them to pull back, he KNEW, he simply KNEW
that Chrissie was the one helping the injured party.

When he saw ten men from the group that had taken the trenches on the right
suddenly peel off and head south around the western hill, he also knew what
their intention was.  Though they had hesitated too long to catch the main
group of second platoon, they would easily be able to sweep around and place
themselves directly in Chrissie's path.

"This is not good," Brett said, his mind trying to think of a solution.

"Brett," said Jason, who had also watched the entire thing, and who also
knew that it was his sister down there.  "What do we do?  They're gonna get
Chrissie!  They're gonna cut them off!"

Brett didn't answer.  He keyed up his radio, which was still set to the VHF
frequency.  "Chrissie!" he barked into it.  "Are you there?  Chrissie,
they're trying to cut around and get in front of you!  Move faster!"

Chrissie's voice answered a moment later.  It was very out of breath.
"We're going as fast as we can," she said.  "Rhonda's wounded bad.  I need
to get her to Paul."

"Chrissie, drag her faster!" Brett commanded.  "You HAVE to.  They're going
to cut you off!"

Chrissie didn't answer again, perhaps not wanting to expend the energy to do
so.  What she did manage to do however, was pick up her pace a bit.  Brett
saw that the tiny dots that were the woman he loved and one of her soldiers
started going just a little faster.  It was plain to see, by comparing their
pace with the other tiny dots that were the militia group, that it still
wouldn't be fast enough.

"Brett, what do we do?" Jason asked.  "They'll kill her!  Or worse, they'll
rape her!  Can you land and pick them up?"

"We can't land," Brett said, shaking his head.  "There's too much mud, too
many trees, too many hills.  No clearance for the blades and no ground firm
enough to take our weight.  They're gonna have to get out on foot."

"We have to do SOMETHING," Jason pleaded.  "We can't just let them get
taken!"

Brett took a deep breath and looked at his young friend and prot g , knowing
he was right.  He could not, would not sit up here in watch while they were
captured.  "Load up the gun," he told him.  "We're going down."

Jason looked back at him seriously.  He had been around long enough to know
that venturing too close to armed troops during the daylight hours was a
very bad idea - one of the worst.  Nevertheless, he nodded and reached into
the storage compartment for a magazine of ammunition.  "Let's do it," he
said.

"What are we doing?" Sherrie, who was a reluctant passenger in the vehicle
wanted to know.  Her voice conveyed the message that she hadn't liked the
tone of the conversation a bit.

"Chrissie is trying to get a wounded person out of the area," Brett told
her.  "She's about to be cut off by enemy forces and captured unless we can
do something about it."

"And what are we going to do?" she wanted to know.

"We're going to dive down on them and put them in the dirt," Brett said.  He
looked back at her.  "It's dangerous.  There's a good chance they'll shoot
us, maybe even shoot us down.  If you have any objections to this, let's
hear them.  I'll take them under consideration."  This was his roundabout
way of saying that he would not risk Sherrie's life to save his wife's and
another's without her permission.

Sherrie understood this.  She didn't hesitate for a second.  "Is there
anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Just hold on tight to something," he told her.  "We're gonna be doing some
pretty violent maneuvering."

She barked a short, nervous laugh.  "Consider me hung," she said, grasping
the hooks to which her bungee cords were attached.

Brett gave her a smile and then looked back over to Jason, who had just
slammed his magazine into the weapon and loosened up the clamps so that it
could be easily turned and twisted.  "We ready?" he asked.

Jason twisted and turned the weapon back and forth a few times, getting the
feel of it, making sure it was just right.  He nodded in satisfaction.
After two weeks of night runs at the controls of the mounted M-16, it felt
as familiar in his hands as the PlayStation controller that he'd once
obsessively used back in Berkeley before the comet.  "Ready to rock," he
said, jacking the first round into the chamber.

"Let's do it then," Brett said, taking another look down at the advancing
militia troops.  They were approaching the halfway point around the first
hill in their path, moving at a run.  "You hangin on Sherrie?"

"As tight as I can," she confirmed.

"Hang even tighter," he told her.  "In a second it's gonna feel like gravity
just up and disappeared on you."

Before she really had a chance to ponder those words, Brett began the attack
maneuver.  He spun around to the south, towards the canyon and put on some
forward speed.  Once they were moving at about fifty knots he cut most of
the power to the rotor, basically letting them fall out of the sky.

"Oh my Goddddd!" Sherrie screamed in terror as she felt herself go virtually
weightless.  Her stomach was suddenly in her throat.  It felt a little like
an amusement park ride that she had once been on, one in which the
passengers were dropped from several hundred feet in the air before their
fall was arrested by a curved track at the bottom.  It felt like that in an
abstract way, but it also felt a hundred times worse.  There was no sense of
control to this particular ride, no sense that it would be over in a second
or to, no sense of security from having a ridiculously large, padded harness
over her shoulders.  This was a violent freefall in an aircraft with no
doors on it, a fall that would only end amid a group of armed men who would
be shooting at them.  She burped a little and suddenly vomit was spraying
from her mouth, splattering over her headset microphone.

Even Jason, as accustomed and enthusiastic a passenger as he usually was,
was scared shitless by the sudden dive.  It felt for all the world like they
were in a death spiral, that they were a hair's breadth away from smashing
to the ground in a violent explosion.  He moaned a little, his hands
gripping the weapon tightly, his eyes trying to keep track of his targets
through the bouncing windshield.

Brett let them fall until they were less than 600 feet above the ground and
then he pulled up sharply, slamming everyone violently back down at nearly
3Gs.  The nose came up, the tail went down, and the engine screamed in
mechanical protest as the design limitations of the small helicopter were
pushed to the very limits and beyond.  The moment the chopper was in level
flight once again he banked sharply to the right and put on the speed,
accelerating up to the maximum that the aircraft was capable of.  The hill
that the targets were moving around was now directly in front of them, its
summit just below them by no more than a hundred feet.

"Make this count Jase," Brett said as he cut around the side of the hill,
still accelerating.  "Put those fuckers on the ground."

"Just get me in range," Jason answered.

They passed almost directly over the top of Chrissie and Rhonda, close
enough to see them staring upward at them in surprise, and then Brett banked
sharply again, spinning them around the hill and towards their quarry.  He
sharpened the bank a little, causing Sherrie to upchuck the rest of her
breakfast behind them, and then suddenly the figures of ten men spun into
view from the right.

"There they are!" Brett yelled, cutting back to the left and straightening
out.  "Mow 'em down!"

Jason began to fire, watching through the windshield instead of the FLIR
screen as the tracers shot out.  They were moving nearly a hundred nautical
miles per hour and the window of opportunity that he had was only a second
or two, but it was enough.  He adjusted the stream and raked his fire over
them, knocking two of the startled militiamen down before the rest managed
to dive to the mud in terror.

"Yes!" he yelled triumphantly as they zoomed over the top of their targets.
"Fuck you motherfuckers!  How do like that on your ass?"

Brett cut sharply to the left the moment he was past them and shot between
two hills to the south of them, quickly getting them out of range.  He
pulled up just a little, cut back to the right to get around another set of
hills, and then began a steep bank to spin back around for another pass.

"Brett," Chrissie's voice said over the radio.  "What the hell are you
doing?  Are you crazy?"

"No crazier than you are babe," he told her.  "We're keeping them occupied
while you get out of there.  Keep moving as fast as you can.  We're gonna
make another run."

"Brett, they'll shoot you down," she protested.

"Just GO!" he told her.  "The sooner you get out of there, the less times
we'll have to do this.  Now do it!"



+++++



One of the men made a check on the two that had been shot by the helicopter
and found that both of them, while still technically alive at the moment,
were quite beyond salvation.  Both had been peppered by multiple rounds
about the torso.  Both were gasping out their last.  Finch, the private that
reached them first, didn't even bother putting bullets into their heads.
They were beyond even that.

The attack by air had come as a complete and total surprise, even though eve
ryone had SEEN the fucking thing diving down at them from the first moment.
They had thought that the aircraft that had been tormenting them for so long
had suffered an engine failure, so rapidly had it come down out of the sky.
There had been cheers of joy from Lima and his men as they had waited for
the smash and the eruption of flame.  And then suddenly it had pulled out of
the fall and disappeared behind the hill.  And then, while they'd still been
trying to figure out the meaning of THAT, it was strafing them.  No one had
even managed to get a shot off at the cursed thing.

"Engine noise," one of the men suddenly yelled now.  "Coming from that way!"
He pointed off to the southwest, the direction the thing had disappeared in
after the attack.

Lima listened, looking in that direction, and after a moment heard the whine
of the helicopter's turbine engine.  It was a high-pitched sound, audible
only because the machine was cranked up to top speed.  It was swelling
rapidly, growing louder by the second.

"Get down," Lima yelled out, waving everyone back into the mud that they had
just crawled out of.  His men, those still alive, didn't have to be told
twice.  They threw themselves down and then quickly spread out, keeping
distance between themselves and their companions so as not to become an easy
target.

"Here it comes!" someone said as the sound grew louder.  "One o'clock low!"

"Shoot it," Lima commanded, raising his M-16.  "When it comes at us,
everyone shoot at the motherfucker!  Bring him down!"


+++++



"There they are," Brett said as they passed over the last rise, "eleven
o'clock.  Lay it to 'em Jase!"

"On target," Jason said, squeezing the trigger and releasing his clip of
ammunition.  Once again he raked his fire over as many as the prone figures
as he could in the two seconds that they were in his sights.  He thought
that he might have hit one or two.

This run however, something new was added.  Their targets were shooting back
at them.  As Brett flashed by them at 96 knots and 400 feet above the
ground, the flashes of weapons could clearly be seen.  A second later there
was a loud bang from underneath the helicopter and Sherrie screamed.

"What is it?" Brett said, banking severely to the right to clear the target
area.  "Are we hit?"

"A bullet just came up through the floor!" Sherrie told him.

"Are you hit?" he asked.

"No," she said.  "I just..."

"Is anything in the chopper hit?" he interrupted.

"Uh... no, I think it ended up in the rope coil."

"Good," he said, banking back to the left.  "Then don't worry about it."

Brett kept them low to the ground and their speed high as he raced back
around the hill towards the other side of the hill.  Green trees and large
patches of brown flashed by beneath them in a blur of motion.  A moment
later, they shot right over the top of Chrissie and Rhonda once again,
catching just the quickest glimpse of them.

"Goddammit," Brett said, pulling around in a tight turn to the right.
"They're still not clear."

"Will one more pass do it?" Jason asked, pulling his expended magazine
clear.  "I only got one more clip in here."

"I guess it's going to have to," Brett said.  "Get it ready."

He finished his bank and then lined up for another run, navigating by
landmarks only.  He passed over the top of Chrissie again, silently telling
her to hurry up.  And then he was following the edge of the hill between the
two groups, hoping that this run would be enough.

The pursuers were a little faster with their guns this time.  When they came
around and lined up on them this time, the weapons were already flashing.
As Jason opened up on them with the M-16, a burst of fire from one of THEIR
weapons found its mark.  There was a bang from just below Brett's feet and a
small spray of blood splashed in his face.  Pain, severe and sharp, was
suddenly shooting up his left leg, seeming to be centered in his knee.

"Brett!" Jason yelled in horror, his hands coming off of the gun.  "Jesus
Christ!  You're hit!"

Brett continued his pass, not looking down to see how bad it was, not
wanting to know until he got the helicopter clear of the target area.  He
pulled up a little, bringing their altitude up a hundred feet, and slacked
off some of the speed.  The pain in his leg continued to worsen, spreading
up and down his entire body, throbbing with the beat of his heart.  It felt
like someone had installed a vice on his knee and was clamping it ruthlessly
down, turn by turn.

Finally, unable to delay it any longer, he looked down, seeing nothing but
bad news.  His left leg was a mess.  It appeared that a bullet had entered
just below his kneecap, moving at an upward angle.  It had exited just above
his kneecap, blasting a hole the size of a silver dollar in his lower thigh.
Muscle and fat tissue along with bone fragments, a piece of tendon, and a
considerable amount of blood were all protruding from the exit wound.

"This is bad," Brett said, trying to move the leg a little.  The moment his
thigh shifted on the seat a large glut of blood gurgled out of the wound and
the pain intensified to a level that actually made him sweat.  "Owwww,
goddamn that hurts!" he yelled, his face grimacing.

"Brett?" Jason asked, his face worried.  "Can you move your leg?"

"Not really," he said through gritted teeth.

"How are you going to land then?" Jason asked.  "You can't maneuver at slow
speed if your feet can't work the pedals."

"Let's worry about that," Brett answered, "after Chrissie is safe.  Hang on,
we're going back around."  He banked to the right, adding a little more
speed, trying to keep his worthless lower leg from flopping around.  Blood
continued to pour from it, soaking into the seat and pattering to the floor.

"What are we going back around for?" Jason asked.  "We're out of ammo!"

"But they don't know that, do they?" Brett returned.  "Just seeing us come
at them will keep them in the mud for another minute or so.  Hopefully
that'll be enough.  Now hang on."

He dove back down, heading for the front side of the hill once again.  This
time he did not go directly at the attacking men, choosing instead to cross
at high speed to the right of them.  The mere passage of the helicopter in
their vicinity would probably be enough to keep them down and off of
Chrissie's tail and since Jason did not have to actually aim and shoot at
them, there was no point in getting close enough to be shot at effectively.

This worked just as he had hoped.  They were close enough to see the men
still in the same place they'd been during the first pass, close enough to
see the flashes of six weapons shooting at them, but far enough away so that
there were no more pops of bullets hitting the aircraft.

"Chrissie," Brett said into the microphone as he banked off to the right,
"are you still down there?  What's your status?"

"We're still moving," her weary, out of breath voice answered a moment
later.  "We're just passing the front of the hill now."

"I see her!" Jason yelled, pointing out the window.  "She's at our two
o'clock."

Brett looked and was able to see the tiny figures staggering onward.  They
were indeed past the front of the hill now, moving through a shallow gully
between it and the next one.  Though it was still technically possible for
the men on the other side of the hill to catch up to them, it was unlikely
unless they went into an all-out sprint.  As long as Chrissie kept moving
for another few minutes, she would more than likely be safe.

"It looks like you're safe babe," Brett told her, breathing a sigh of
relief.  "Keep moving at the pace you are for now, but I think we kept them
at bay long enough."

"Thanks Brett," she breathed back.  "And how are you?  Is anyone in there
hit?"

"I got a little... uh... scratch to my leg.  I'll be all right though.
Everyone else is fine too."

"How little of a scratch?" she demanded.  "Is it from a bullet?"

"It's from a bullet," he said.  "A little one.  I'll live.  Now get your ass
over to your trench and be sure to hold these fucks off.  I don't think
they'll attack again, they don't have enough people left, but you never
know.  They've been pretty fucking stupid so far."

"I copy," she said.  "Is Paul on the way up to get Rhonda?"

"I don't know," Brett said.  "Paul, are you out there?"

"I'm here," Paul said immediately, as if he had been awaiting a chance to
break into the conversation.  "I understand you're wounded Brett.  How bad
is it?"

"My left knee's been shot," he said.  "I'm still bleeding but I think I'll
be okay once I get back on the ground."

"Will you be able to fly?" Paul wanted to know.  "I've got three people that
need immediate evac to El Dorado Hills.  I don't know how bad Rhonda is, but
it sounds like she might be a fourth."

Brett frowned a little and tried moving his leg once again.  The pain was
even worse this time.  Now it felt as if the operator of the vice was not
only tightening it shut but also burning the skin with a blowtorch at the
same time.  My God, he thought helplessly, will I even be able to land?

"Brett?" Paul asked.  "Did you copy my question?"

"I copy," Brett told him.  "Don't worry.  One way or another, I'll get those
people to El Dorado Hills.  I'm gonna take one more look at the battle area
and then I'm gonna come in for a landing.  Get the wounded over to the LZ as
quick as you can."

"As soon as I get Rhonda, I'll be on my way."

"Then we should get there about the same time, shouldn't we?  Brett out."

With that he began to climb again, quickly bringing them back up to 6000
feet.  He did not slow down and go into a hover, not just yet, since doing
so would have required that he use the anti-torque pedals much more
actively.  Instead, he put the aircraft into a broad circle, circling widely
around the town, the freeway, the canyon, and the no-man's land of the
battlefield.  He kept their speed at about 70 knots.

"Jason," he said, gritting his teeth through the pain, "keep an eye on the
gauges, particularly the fuel, engine heat, and oil pressure.  I don't know
for sure that one of those bullets didn't hit a fuel line or the tank or go
into the engine compartment."

"Right," Jason said, leaning forward and scanning the instrument panel.
"Are you gonna be able to..."

"I'm going to have to," he said.  "Don't worry."

Jason nodded, not saying anything further but obviously worrying.

"Sherrie," Brett said next.  "Are you still back there?"

"Right here Brett," she said.

"Get the first aid kit out of the compartment back there, will you?  And see
if you can edge up here between us and get a bandage on my leg.  I need to
get the bleeding stopped."

"Right away," she said, reaching behind her and digging out the large white
box with the red cross on it.

While she was assembling the bandaging materials, Brett took a look down at
the battlefield, trying to get a sense of how things were going.  In all of
the excitement of getting Chrissie and Rhonda free and of getting shot, he
had almost forgotten the big picture.  Looking now he could see that things
were fairly static down there.  The shift of forces had been completed and
the trenches that were the next line of defense were manned and ready.  If
the militia decided to push south again they would find yet another wall of
guns to fight through.  The militia themselves were still gathered in three
separate places - a group apiece in each of the trench complexes they had
just taken (or been given) and a smaller group at the original line.  Brett
could see that a few of the men from the original line were separating out
and walking forward to join the others.  It must be, he figured, the
commander moving forward to examine the territory that had been captured.
To the west, where the strafing runs had just taken place, the group that
had been in pursuit of Chrissie was now making its way back, having given up
the chase.  There were only five of them out of the original ten - the rest
were corpses lying in the mud at the scene of the attack.

Brett tried to get a loose count of the surviving militia members that were
facing them but the pain kept getting in the way.  He had to settle for a
broad estimation.  It was quite apparent that there were now less than
seventy of them however, possibly a LOT less.  He reported this to Matt and
Michelle, fighting to keep his voice calm and level.

"We copy Brett," Matt said.  "How are you doing up there?  Are you just
gonna keep circling?"

"I'll come down in a minute," he said.  "I just wanted to take a look at the
area first and make sure there's no surprises waiting for us."

"Brett," Michelle cut in, "how bad are you?  You CAN land that thing, can't
you?"

"Yes," he said.  "I'll be coming down in just a minute, as soon as Sherrie
gets me bandaged up.  Don't worry."

"I AM worried," she said.  "And you didn't answer me.  How bad is it?  Can
you move your leg?  Are you bleeding to death?  What?  You're hiding
something."

He sighed, not having the energy to go on with the charade any longer.
"It's pretty bad," he said.  "I got shot through the left knee.  I'm having
trouble moving it and I'm in a lot of pain.  It's gonna be kind of difficult
to work the anti-torque pedals like this so there's going to be some trouble
when my speed drops below twenty knots."

There was an extended silence on the airwaves.  "I copy," Michelle finally
said.  "So will you be able to get down, or won't you?"

"I will," he said.  "One way or another, I'll get us down and I'll get the
wounded to El Dorado Hills.  I'm a fighter."

"Yes you are," she said.  "We'll be waiting for you down here."

"I know you will.  Brett out."

Sherrie had finally managed to assemble the bandaging supplies and she
pushed her way between the two of them to dress his leg.  She was forced to
lean way over the front of him in order to do this, partially obstructing
his vision with her body.  He sat quietly as she did her work, his hands
continuing to work the flight controls.  Had the circumstances been a little
different, he more than likely would have enjoyed the sensation of her body
pushing against his, particularly the feel of her soft breasts against his
shoulder.  But the pain she was inflicting by lifting, pressing, and
wrapping his wound was so intense, so powerful, that all he could think of
was trying not to scream.

When she was finished he had a fairly respectable pressure bandage pressed
over both of the wounds and wrapped tightly with tape.  Sherrie's hands were
now dripping with his blood but she hardly seemed to notice.

"Will that be okay?" she asked nervously, looking at her work.

"It's perfect," he told her, taking his hand of the control long enough to
wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.  "It looks like you got the
bleeding to stop."

"Will you... will you be able to... you know... use that leg now?" she
asked.

He smiled at her.  "I'm gonna have to try," he said.  "Now go get yourself
secured back there.  I'm gonna see if I can hover while we're up here in the
safe zone."

"Right," she said, edging her way back to the rope coil.

He looked over at Jason.  "How are those gauges looking?  Any holes in the
bird?"

"It doesn't look like it," he said.  "Everything's holding steady, right on
the line."

"Good," he said, nodding.  He took a deep breath.  "All right, let's give it
a shot.  I'm going to try to pull a hover up here.  You ready?"

"I'm ready."

"Then hang on.  Things might get a little interesting."

Brett took one more deep breath of the humid air and then straightened up
the shallow bank he had been in, putting them back into straight and level
flight.  Slowly he reduced the airspeed, watching as the gauge dropped from
70 to 60 to 50.

"How we doing?" Jason asked, watching nervously.

"So far, so good," he answered, wincing as he tightened his leg on the
pedal.  "But the hard part hasn't happened yet."

He slowed further.  The gauge dropped to 40 and then slowly to 30.  As it
dipped below 30 knots the back end began to swing to the right as torque,
which had been dampened by the speed, suddenly regained a grip on the
machine.

Brett braced himself for the pain and tried to push down on the left pedal,
which would increase the amount of air being blown out of the NOTAR system
and therefore stabilize the rear-end swing.  Pain unlike anything he had
ever felt before exploded in his knee like a bomb.  He screamed it was so
intense.

"Brett!" Jason yelled, his hands grabbing for his seat as the swing became
worse.  Behind them, Sherrie screamed.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Brett cried, trying to ignore it and having no luck.  Fresh
sweat broke out, not just on his face but all over his entire body.  He felt
himself going faint as his body, in a reflexive reaction, slowed his heart
rate down to a dangerously low level.  The rear end continued to swing, now
spinning them around so that they were facing the opposite direction.
Outside the window the landscape rotated sickeningly.  And still his leg
would not push the pedal down.  It couldn't.

"Brett!" Jason yelled again, terrified now.  The chopper was on the verge of
spinning out of control.

Brett let out his breath in a great gasp and, using his hands on the
controls, brought their speed back up.  The gauge climbed, passing back over
30 again and moving towards 40.  Slowly the back end stopped spinning and
straightened back out.  A moment later they were straight and level again.

Brett was panting, drops of sweat running down his face, the pain slowly
fading back to a level approaching normal torture.  The dizziness began to
pass and his heart rate sped back up to normal.

"Are you okay?" Jason asked hesitantly, looking at him in alarm.

He looked over at him.  "Yeah," he said.  "I'm still here.  But it seems
that we have ourselves a little more of a problem than I originally thought.
My leg won't move that pedal at all."



Al Steiner - April 30, 2001
Chapter 20 to follow

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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