To Williams' right a Texan went down to a bayonet thrust that just cleared the man's Kevlar collar before plunging seven inches into his neck. Williams swept his pistol rightward but a rifle-smash from the PGSS blocked his arm, hurling the pistol away.
Undeterred, Williams plunged in. Dropping to one knee, he used the dullish spearpoint of the guidon to pierce the thigh of one likely target. He heard a dull, muffled curse then lunged through the forest of flailing legs to come to grips with his foe.
* * *
Crenshaw felt the piercing point as a wedge of fire burning rather than cutting into his leg. It did not slice the muscle so much as it tore it asunder. The pain was so great that he could barely mutter a curse before losing control of his body. With an unintelligible, agonized gasp he fell to the stairs.
His eyes rapidly lost focus as his brain tried to deal with the pain. His fuzzy near view was blocked by a tangle of legs as his far view was by the smoke, and the ex-Marine could not truly see the clawing hyena that tore its way up his body in a desperate effort to reach his throat.
'Hh . . . Help,' he barely squeezed out. 'Help me.'
No need; as the Texan clawed his way upward four PGSS bayonets drove downward. Crenshaw breathed a sigh of what would have been relief had his thigh not been so horribly gored.
As he began to pass out, he heard someone . . . His XO? He wasn't sure . . . yet someone shouted for a medic and to 'get the captain the hell out of here. And no quarter!'
* * *
Williams barely noticed as his life's blood drained away, barely noticed the dozens of booted feet trampling him on their way past. Behind and below him he could, dimly, make out the sounds of his soldiers going down with a bitterly hard fight.
He thought, We needed more men . . . we could have held if we'd had more men . . . the rest of the battalion . . .
Then, without a whimper, he died.
* * *
Santa Fe, New Mexico
His breath coming short and harsh, Tripp felt the exhilaration and the terror of impending combat. Around him, ahead of him . . . but mostly behind him, his battalion's tracks began to turn over, one after another. The soft whine of the tanks' engines was lost amidst the thunderous roar of the Bradleys' diesels.
Just ahead of Tripp stood a lone police car from the Santa Fe Police Department. The officer standing beside the patrol car looked expectantly upward. Tripp nodded, slowly and deeply. The officer jumped in, started his sirens, and began to lead the battalion forward at a fast clip.
Useful that that cop decided to attach himself to us, thought Tripp. No telling what accidents we might have had with civilian autos crossing our path at every intersection.
Civilian bystanders, drawn by the sirens, came out to watch the battalion's progress. A few, understanding, cheered.
The column raced on, the leading police vehicle changing the lights by remote control at each intersection.
Tripp's mind wandered to that portion of his men cut off in Fort Worth. He thought that it would go hard on them when the PGSS assault finally went in, very hard . . . terminally hard.
This isn't really war, is it? Tripp asked himself. Do the rules even apply? To people that gunned down helpless civilians and outgunned state troopers. Fuck it; today they don't.
His eyes steel cold and determined, Tripp keyed the radio by flicking a switch on the right side of his helmet. 'Battalion, this is Black Six. The rules do not apply to these murderers. No quarter.'
* * *
Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas
Crenshaw found himself sliding in and out of consciousness with neither pattern nor control. He remembered sharp pains, at times. At others he could recall only a dim foggy ache. He managed to turn his head to one side.
More broken toys like me, he thought. There seemed to be a lot of pain going around, much moaning, many screams. Why don't we have enough medics to treat the wounded? Didn't they know we would have wounded. Where are the helicopters, the dust-offs?
Turning to the other side, Crenshaw saw black-clad men, more and more of them, ascending what had to be flexible ladders anchored on the roof and dropped over the sides of the building. Unable to turn his head very well, he lost track of those men as they cleared his field of vision.
His vision blurred, dimmed. Crenshaw passed out.
* * *
Santa Fe, New Mexico
The Surgeon General's Riot Control Police had plenty of warning, both immediate, from the siren, and more long range, from a few sympathetic reports.
So they did what they could. They got behind their cars and busses; loaded their shotguns, pistols and submachine guns. And then they waited for a short time.
