Bill swallowed the last of his aspirin now as he lay on his belly at the edge of the woods. He counted six big Chinese Army trucks heading up the road. There were soldiers in the cabs. The nearest section of road was a football field away from their position. Soldotna was only a few miles away from here. If they attacked, the Chinese military would have to react. The five of them would be hunted men after this.
“It’s time,” said Bill, who crawled backward, a little deeper into the shade of the pines.
Wearing his duck-hunting camouflage gear, Carlos crawled beside Bill.
Nanook slowly climbed up from where he sat. “You need help?” He slurred as he spoke.
“Yes,” Bill told his friend. “You help me and Carlos.”
The three men picked up an M2 Browning machine gun. With the tripod, it weighed one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. They lugged it to the edge of the forest. The other two Militiamen wrestled a second M2 into position.
“We’re only going to take one of these weapons with us once we’re done attacking here,” Bill told the others. “So you don’t need to worry about saving ammo for your gun. Aim low, and try to fire in bursts. Start with the front vehicle and make it stop. Then work back to the next truck. If you see any soldiers jumping out—and especially if they’re firing at us—kill them. Any questions?”
No one had any.
Bill took a deep breath. The big trucks took a bend in the road. He could hear them shifting gears as the trucks began to climb. Soon they would be in range. Why did his stomach have to clench so tightly? He’d been in combat before. He was a veteran, but he sure didn’t feel like one. Did a man ever get used to this?
Nanook panted as he knelt beside the tripod-mounted M2. Carlos prepared more ammo belts, ready to feed them into the death-dealing weapon. In World War One, machine guns like this had been the big killer.
“If we cut the supply lines their army will wither away,” Bill said softly. “We’re not cutting that line here, but we are going to make them bleed. If we can make them bleed enough, the Chinese attack will collapse.”
Carlos nodded.
Bill waited as the trucks kept grinding up the rise, and his stomach churned even more. He didn’t want to murder men, and this felt close to murder. But the Chinese had invaded Alaska. He had a right to defend his country.
Taking a deep breath, aligning his sights on the cab of the lead truck, Bill depressed one of the buttons with his thumb. The M2 Browning had a V-shaped “butterfly” trigger at the very rear of the weapon. With his thumb down, the M2 hammered out armor-piercing incendiary tracer bullets. It was a visible stream of death. Bill adjusted as he hosed the lead truck. The bullets began puncturing the cab. As they hit, the bullets smoked on contact as designed, helping Bill know where he hit.
A second later, the heavy truck slewed across the highway. Then it skidded. Bill could hear it from here. A moment later, the truck flipped onto its side because the driver must have cranked the steering wheel too sharply. The driver must have panicked or maybe he’d been dying.
The other machine-gunner shouted wildly as crates flew out of the flipped truck.
Now the other trucks stopped. Cab doors flew opened and Chinese soldiers jumped onto the highway. They gripped assault rifles. Some dropped onto their bellies and began firing. A few ran for the side of the highway.
Bill took his thumb off the trigger-button and swiveled the machine gun. He opened fire again, adjusting as the tracer rounds visibly shot over the enemies’ heads. Then running enemy soldiers began falling as he hit them. Those on their bellies must have seen the tracer rounds. They must have visibly followed them back to their source, too, because the enemy redirected their assault-rifle fire. Bill heard bullets hissing past him, while bark flew off nearby trees.
Bill shouted as the .50 caliber weapon chugged away. It was better at long range than the assault rifles. At that moment, an enemy bullet hit Bill in the chest. He tumbled backward and lay on the cold dirt breathing heavily.
“Bill!” shouted Carlos.
With a groan, Bill sat up and scrambled back to the machine gun. Looted durasteel body-armor had saved him from death. If the Chinese had fired .50 caliber bullets, the armor wouldn’t have saved him.
“You okay?” shouted Carlos.
For an answer, Bill gripped the machine gun and began firing again. He scowled fiercely, determined and shooting with bitter accuracy. It was grim work, and he began hitting Chinese lying on the road.
“You don’t get to win this time,” Bill whispered. Suddenly, his machine gun went click, click, click.
An enemy bullet
Carlos opened the machine gun’s latch. He slid in the next belt and chambered the first round. “Ready!” Carlos shouted.
Bill began firing again. One of the trucks behind the remaining soldiers lying on the road exploded in an orange fireball. The M2’s incendiary rounds were made to ignite fuel tanks. Three of the nearest Chinese leapt to their feet.
Bill cut them down. They fell in such a ragged way that it almost didn’t seem human. One of the Chinese pitched his rifle away in his death throes. Another of them curled up on the road like a burning bug. This was terrible, but Bill had to do it. He knew he’d feel guilty later. It made him think of Stan’s dad killing men in Afghanistan. No wonder Colonel Higgins’ mind had turned on itself. This was sickening, but it was better than dying himself.
Then it was over. No more Chinese fired back. All the trucks had stopped, several of them were burning, and all of them had flat tires. Bill found himself blinking in shock at what he’d done.
“We did it,” Carlos said. The Militia corporal was shaking. “I helped you kill men.” Carlos was wide-eyed and breathing heavily.
Carlos twisted onto his hands and knees, puking on the ground.
Something about that woke Bill to their danger. “We have to go,” he said. “Now!” Then he realized he heard a chopper. It wasn’t right on top of them yet, but he was sure it was coming for them. “Go!” Bill roared at the other team.
“We still have ammo!” one of them shouted. “We’re taking it.”
“Okay,” Bill said. “Carlos?”
“I’m fine,” Carlos said, getting up and wiping his mouth. The corporal picked up the tripod mount, handing it to Bill. Afterward, the bank clerk wrestled the heavy machine gun onto his shoulder. It was a grim burden.
“Come on, Nanook,” Bill said softly, helping his friend to his feet. “We have to run into the woods.”
“We got them,” Nanook whispered. “We did it.”
“We’re fighting,” Bill said, as he picked up a box of ammo. Nanook took another box before heading deeper into the pines. “We’re going to keep fighting,” said Bill. “Maybe if there are enough of us doing this, it will help us win the war.”
“We’ll win,” said Carlos. There was conviction in his voice.
“I hope you’re right,” said Bill. He knew Carlos, however. The man said that even when he was losing twenty to three playing one-on-one basketball. Still, that was better than having a bitter pessimist along. The chopper sounded closer now, so Bill increased the pace, hoping Nanook could keep up with them. After what he’d just done, he knew he had to bring Nanook home or he could never preach again. He had to atone some way for all this dreadful killing.
Lieutenant Chiang of the Eagle Teams squinted at a bomber roaring over his position. It had a maple leaf painted on the wing.
“The Canadians are here,” he told his First Rank.
Chiang and his First Rank held a sandbag strongpoint at the airport. Three times, they had fought off the Americans trying to retake the place. They’d used up all their RPGs and most of their assault-gun ammo. Some time ago, he had lost contact with the commander.
“We need to be re-supplied and reinforced,” the First Rank said.
Chiang nodded. “I don’t think Admiral Ling counted on the Canadians joining the fight.”
“Sir!” the First Rank said, interrupting. “Look over there.”
