The three groups moved toward their assigned buildings. Sergeant Barclay, NCO in charge of 3rd Squad, followed Reeves to the main building, Marcus and six other Marines spread out behind him.
“This is seriously bloody eerie,” Barclay whispered into his microphone.
Barclay, Corporal Jamison, and Marines Stokes and Klein got into position to open the door of the house, assault-style.
Suddenly one of the men from another squad cried out. “Bloody hell! Bloody Goddamned hell! We’re too late!”
“Lieutenant!” shouted a Marine to the left of the main building. “Lieutenant, there’s a pile of bodies in here! Women and kids! Oh, Jesus!”
The sound of a man retching into the dirt splashed through the darkness. Several Marines cursed. One openly wept at the sight of the dead children.
Lieutenant Reeves ran to 1st Squad to see what they had found. He signaled for Barclay and his men to wait at the main building.
As he crossed the halfway point of the open space, the night exploded into a terrifying cacophony of machine-gun chatter and screaming men. Flames erupted from the barrels of rifles, which fired from every window and most of the huts. More fire poured onto them from the shadows of the jungle around the village.
A dozen men fell. Those not killed instantly screamed in pain as the bullets ripped their flesh. The Marines who could returned fire toward every muzzle blast they could see until their own bodies were torn asunder by the attackers’ interlocking fields of fire.
Marcus dropped to his knees and fired into the jungle and huts in front of him. Everywhere he saw the flash of a blast, he put a three-round burst. Men of both armies screamed in agony as the white-hot bullets crisscrossing the night sky ripped their flesh.
Somewhere to his right, a hand grenade exploded, the sounds of men crying out echoed into the air. Several bullets smashed into the stone wall behind Marcus. He dropped to a prone position in the dirt and continued to return fire, changing magazines as he emptied his ammunition into the plentiful targets that surrounded him.
There was a loud hiss to Marcus’s left. He jerked the rifle in that direction and shot a burst into the torso of a man who a moment fired a rocket-propelled grenade at the same moment. The shadowy figure tumbled backwards, silhouetted in the blast from his RPG. Marcus watched the smoke trail of the rocket as it traced through the sky. The scene moved in a surreal slow motion. There was a loud boom, white light, heat. Marcus tried to raise his head back up to resume firing. Everything around him looked lopsided.
He attempted to fire his weapon, but couldn’t remember how. The world around him became a blur of movement. White spots danced before his eye to the tune of the incessant ringing in his head. Then everything went black.
Chapter 21
Johnson Road
Salt Jacket, Alaska
19 December
22:45 Hours
Marcus, Wasner, and the remaining SEALS tied up the prisoner and used a sled the dead men no longer needed to drag him back to the remaining snowmobiles. They attached the sled directly to the back of one of the machines and headed out. They were almost fifteen minutes behind the first team. Once they reached the road, they turned south toward Salt Jacket. As the team crested the last hill before leaving Air Force property, they came in line of sight of Marcus’s cabin where it sat silently in the darkness.
Wasner keyed his radio. “Fletch! Did you find them?”
“Negative, Chief. We’re waiting at the cabin.”
“Go ahead and load your gear in the trucks so we can move out quickly as needed.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Wazzy!” Marcus said into his mike, “I want to pull into the pump station. Charlie Bannock is one of the guards there. He might have seen something.”
“Charlie Bannock! The Special Forces wuss?” Wasner continued, “Man, this is like Old Home Day!”
When they arrived at the pump station gate, the rest of the team took the prisoner down to the cabin. Marcus and Wasner approached the gate on their snowmobiles. The guard stepped forward, talking into his radio. His MP5 was slung low, pointed toward them. His hand was on the pistol grip, finger extended alongside the trigger guard. A tense expression was on his face as the armed warriors drew near.
“Evening, gents. How can I help you?”
Marcus took off his hood and night vision glasses so the guard could see his face. A visible flush of relief spread over the guard, and he smiled. “Johnson? What in the world are you doing out here this late? I thought you were on the trap line.”
“I was. Something came up. Is Charlie here?”
“Yeah, he is. Hold on.” Bill pressed the talk button on the radio mike attached to the shoulder of his parka. “Charlie! Get up here—Marcus Johnson is asking for you. And he’s armed.”
The guard looked back at Marcus and Wasner. “So, what’s up with all the gear? And who’s your friend?”
“This is Harley Wasner, Chief of a group of SEALS I’ve been running around with tonight.”
“Howdy, Chief,” the guard replied. “I’m Bill Simmons, former Ranger myself.”
“Bill was on Operation Condor Retribution in ’06,” Marcus said.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Bill,” Wasner said. “I was there, too. As a matter of fact, it was my team that did the laser designators for those cave bunkers that had you boys pinned down. That was one hairy day, as I recall.”
“Yes, it was, Chief. Yes, it was.”
Charlie Bannock came out to the gate. “Marcus! What’s up?” He turned toward the other man and stopped, mouth wide open. “Wasner? Holy cow! What brings you all the way up here? Didn’t they tell you there’s no ocean in the interior?”
Wasner smiled and said, “Well, Charlie
