The Directives Page 8

  The Texan knew that most riots were sparked and fueled by a few key individuals. His training at HBR had covered the topic of agitators and the fact that they were almost always a critical ingredient in any uprising. Regardless of the initial cause or purpose, disturbances needed the occasional push in order to gather momentum or else they just seemed to fizzle out. Bishop had just spotted one of the motivators.

  He centered the holographic red dot on the bullhorn and squeezed the trigger. The man operating the amplification device jerked his head away, an expression of shock and pain on his face. After briefly examining his damaged tool, he again raised it to his lips and began egging the crowd to storm the building and expel the intruders.

  I guess that dumbshit didn’t get the message, Bishop thought, adjusting his aim a little closer to the man’s face and pulling the trigger again. He never saw where the round connected - a storm of bullets slapping the window frame and forcing the Texan to pull back. But the mechanically enhanced voice was silent.

  “Give them another volley high and low,” Bishop yelled to Baxter. “I just took out one of the ring leaders.”

  Again the soldiers opened up, grass and dirt flying into the air and pushing the now-leaderless mob back.

  This time Baxter let it go for almost twenty seconds before calling a cease-fire.

  All eyes in the courthouse were fixated on the milling multitude, but they didn’t reform. Instead of advancing, Bishop spotted people pointing and talking, but no one moved in their direction.

  “They’ve stopped the crowd,” Red observed. “I’m not sure how, but they did.”

  “No matter,” replied Lew. “Let’s go ahead with the next phase.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit,” the nervous man mumbled as he turned toward the stairs leading down to a basement beneath City Hall.

  Taking the narrow descent two steps at a time, he reached the concrete floor quickly. Reminding himself to maintain an air of confidence and authority, he eyed the 60 men lined up against the walls and waiting for their orders, taking a moment so his voice wouldn’t squeak.

  “For those of you who weren’t with us the last time we had to retake the courthouse, the plan is very simple,” Red called out.

  “There is an emergency tunnel connecting this basement with the old boiler room in the target building’s lower floor. It is narrow, low, and damp, but we know it is clear. I want each of you to keep your weapon unloaded while we’re passing through. I’ll be in front with a flashlight. When you get to the stairway leading up to our target, load your weapon then, and not before. Is that clear?”

  Sixty anxious faces nodded their understanding.

  “They won’t be expecting us - surprise will be on our side. I’ll be the first through. We need to get as many of our people out of the tunnel as quickly as possible. The last time, we learned that lesson the hard way. So the first few of you who exit, don’t start shooting unless it’s unconditionally necessary. When you hit the top of the stairs over there, just keep going. Don’t hesitate; don’t pause. The more of us that can get out of the opening and into the fight, the faster this will end. Do you understand?”

  Several voices sounded off, all of them making it clear they understood.

  “The snipers we have posted around the courthouse will begin shooting in five minutes. They should keep everyone’s attention focused outside the building. We’ll hit them from behind, and then we can all go home to our families. Any questions?” Red asked, his eyes searching every face.

  There were none.

  “Okay, follow me.”

  And with that, he purposely strolled to a rusty metal door set in the basement wall. Turning the handle quickly and hoping no one could see his shaking hand, Red reached in his pocket and pulled out a flashlight.

  A whispered prayer formed on his lips as he stepped through the threshold, bending at the waist to accommodate the low ceiling of the tunnel.

  Bishop and the major monitored the crowd for a few minutes, both men wanting to make sure the mass outside no longer posed a threat.

  “It looks like we did it,” Baxter announced, the rare smile forming on his lips.

  “Yes, sir, it sure does,” Bishop replied. “But, not to rain on the victory parade, I don’t think this is over. We still have a bunch of shooters up on those rooftops.”

  “Surely they have to know they can’t push us out of here just by sniping at us. I bet they fade away into the night,” the officer replied.

  “Maybe,” Bishop responded. “But I wouldn’t if I were them. I would have them open up and keep our heads down. While we were distracted, I’d hit this building with a full infantry assault. Nothing fancy… no envelopment or diversions… just one big, hardass push to get inside the building.”

  Baxter threw a doubtful glance at Bishop, opening his mouth to disagree. But the words never left the major’s throat.

  Dozens of rooftop rifles opened up at the same moment, every shooter surrounding the courthouse pouring round after round into the already tortured windows and doorways.

  Over the background of pummeling lead slamming into walls, floors and contents, Bishop managed to get Baxter’s attention. “They’ll be coming, Major. I can’t tell you from where, but I’ll bet my left nut they're advancing on us right now.”

  Keeping his head down, the major seemed uncertain of what to do. “We’ve got all four sides covered,” he finally announced. “We’ll reinforce once we figure out where their primary attack is coming from.”

  “Major, I don’t want to tell you your business, but I’ve got a different idea. Let me take four of my men and head to the center of the building. We’ll be a quick reaction force. When you figure out which side they’re coming from, I’ll take my squad and hit back hard.”

  Baxter thought about the suggestion, eventually nodding his head. “Do it. And good luck.”

  Bishop rose up and proceeded down the line of defenders, tapping the random man on the shoulder and yelling, “You’re with me.”

  After he’d gathered four of the West Texas contingency, he led his squad to the center of the building where they took cover beneath a wide staircase leading to the second floor. Despite being away from the outward facing walls, the stray bullet occasionally found its way, cracking through the air or smacking a nearby surface.

  Bishop joined his crew, the group squeezing into the tight space while waiting on the major’s command to move out.

  “Hey, Bishop,” the man furthest back called. “Can we move a couple of the cases out of the way? Jonesy and I are gonna have to get married if he gets any closer back here.”

  Laughing, Bishop nodded. “Sure, pass them up.”

  A moment later, the man behind the Texan grunted, hefting a thick wooden crate. Bishop glanced down, noting the military stencils on the side of the container, “US Army M67 HE-FRAG: Count-20.”

  “Well looky here, boys,” Bishop said. “These might come in handy. Our friends brought along some fragmentation grenades. Everybody grab a couple.”

  “There’s a different kind back here, Bishop,” someone said. “These are smoke grenades from the look of it.”

  “Grab a couple of those, too. You never know.”

  While the explosives were being passed out, Bishop took a moment to check on the major. Chancing a quick dash out from his cover, he spotted the military man still focused on the front side of the building and keeping low.

  “I just know they are going to hit us any moment,” Bishop whispered to himself, angling for a position where he could observe the commanding officer. “I’ll wait here for the major’s order. Every second is going to count.”

  Taking a knee and praying a ricochet didn’t come his way, Bishop kept his eye on the officer 40 feet to his front, ready to throw the quick response team into the fray. A cool stream of air touched the back of the Texan’s neck, the almost-breeze a pleasant sensation compared to the rest of the muggy, smoke-filled atmosphere.

  “I wonder if some
one opened a window… or maybe the wind suddenly shifted,” Bishop announced to no one. “Damn that feels good.”

  But it felt too good… too cool. Now where in the hell is that coming from? he thought, instinctively turning to see if he could identify the source.

  There was no obvious origin. Glancing quickly to ensure there was no change in the major’s status, Bishop turned and scurried around the corner, head pivoting right and left to find the source of the breeze.

  He followed a corridor, passed a few doors, and then encountered a wall of pleasant, sweet, cool air. It was almost chilly! But where was it coming from?

  The gloomy, low-light conditions hampered his search. Eventually, he recognized movement in a darkened doorway, initially believing some of the major’s troopers had retreated to this area of the building. He heard a voice, a man directing, “Go! Go! Go! Come on! Get moving!”

  Bishop stuck his head through the opening, thinking some of the soldiers were inside. He examined what appeared to be a heavy equipment room, rusted pipes, valves, and tanks littering the area. It took a moment before he realized that there were too many warriors to be the major’s men. Another moment passed before he recognized Red, the man he’d taken down at the roadblock.

  Now what the hell is he doing here? the Texan’s mind scrambled to answer. How did he get in… inside? His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spotted the tunnel, men pouring out of the opening.

  Bishop’s rifle came to his shoulder in a flash, his finger tightening on the trigger as the tiny red dot of his optic found the lead man’s chest.

  Over and over again, he fired, his weapon hammering a cadence of devastating bullets into the invaders. Center. Pull. Center. Pull.

  Bodies were flying, diving, and scampering everywhere, screams and shouts of warning filling the confined space. Curses were lost in the roar of Bishop’s carbine, the yelps and howls of the wounded lost in the chaos. As he swept the room, it occurred to Bishop that invaders were still streaming out of the opening. Pivoting on his heel, the narrow doorway appeared behind the red dot of his optic.

  His first two rounds struck center mass of a man on the top step, the kinetic energy and shock pushing the already dead man backwards into the line of his fellows, knocking another back into his peers like a string of falling dominoes. For a few moments, no one in the tunnel seemed eager to ascend the stairs.

  Repeatedly Bishop fired into the opening, the familiar nudge of the M4 against his shoulder comforting in the confused mayhem of the fight. He worked his aim downward, waist high, spraying right and left.

  The men in the tunnel suffered badly. Traveling at over 2800 feet per second, the 68-grain hollow points spit out of the M4’s muzzle slashing organs and smashing bone. Even the shots that initially missed human flesh generated havoc, the whistling lead bouncing off the concrete walls and slamming into the men further back in line.

  With the tunnel-exit holding the Texan’s focus, the survivors of Bishop’s initial sweep recognized an opening. One brave soul rose from behind his cover, centering his sights on Bishop’s chest. He started pulling on the trigger.

  Bishop sensed the movement, desperately commanding his body to get low. Something slammed into the Texan’s left side as he hit the floor, the sledgehammer-like blow sending streaks of pain circling his rib cage. He rolled left, snapped three shots, and then rolled again. A shriek of misery told him he’d found the shooter.

  From the tunnel came more sounds of suffering mixed with curses of frustration. Bishop imagined the men down there, trying to push the dead and wounded out of their way so they could join the fight… so they could seek revenge.

  His discovery had taken the intruders by surprise, but they were recovering quickly. Bishop saw the white flashes of muzzle blasts and knew he couldn’t stay where he was. He crawled backwards, making for the door, his rifle maintaining a steady, rhythmic bark, covering the retreat.

  Once in the hall, Bishop tried to stand. His left side was throbbing, breathing difficult. He was sure he’d taken a round to the chest. Time to get back to his own people and warn them of the breach. Time to get some help.

  He kept the tunnel-room to his front, stepping backwards and retracing his original route. The attackers were becoming more aggressive, the occasional pursuing head appearing, always followed by three or four hastily aimed shots flying in Bishop’s direction. The volume and rate of the harassing fire was increasing every second.

  He knew he wasn’t going to contain the incursion by himself. Bishop turned and ran.

  Finally reaching the main section of the courthouse, Bishop was waving and racing toward his men. “They’re inside! They’re inside!” he screamed, “Get help.”

  Confused by their leader’s words, Bishop’s squad didn’t react at first, hesitant to leave their secure hide. When Bishop slid past them, like a baseball player swiping second base, they were still confused. The hailstorm of bullets chasing the Texan’s flying frame made his warning horrifically clear.

  The four of them rushed to his side, taking up positions and raising their weapons. They didn’t have to wait long for clear targets to appear.

  A dozen men stormed the main rotunda, their weapons firing wildly as they spread out through the complex. Stunned at the appearance of so many enemy within the walls, it took the men from West Texas a few nanoseconds to react.

  The interior of the courthouse erupted in complete bedlam. Bishop’s squad opened fire, rifles blazing into the attackers at pointblank range. Lead, smoke, and thunder filled the air. Men were screaming, warning, ordering, crying, and praying - but no one could hear them.

  Some of the invaders surprised the soldiers stationed throughout the courthouse, others falling prey to the military’s weapons. It was a rolling, confused, fur ball of combat - enemy and friend on all sides.

  Realizing surprise was no longer with them, more and more of Red’s people rushed forward to join the fray. Soon it was Bishop’s five against 20. Less than a minute later, it was 30, and they kept on coming.

  Bishop sensed they were about to be overrun, his mind demanding his body seek cover from the blizzard of death flying all around him. Forcing the panic down, he began shouting for his men to retreat. “Go to the major,” he ordered at the top of his lungs. “Move to the front… get to the Army’s position!”

  He chanced sticking his rifle around the corner, blindly squeezing off a dozen shots to give his men cover as they retreated. Chunks of exploding plaster and wood responded, nipping, stinging masses of debris tearing into his arms and hands.

  Pushing aside the pain in his chest, Bishop gathered his strength and rose. He began a rearguard action, walking backwards half bent at the waist, his weapon sweeping the doorway, waiting for a target to show. Through the haze, he spied the outline of a man at the corner, his weapon shoulder high and not more than 10 feet away.

  Both men fired at the same moment, a searing, tearing pain ripping through Bishop’s thigh as he watched his target’s head jerk back from the impact of his own shot. Bishop fired constantly, not letting off the trigger until the attacker fell.

  The muscles bearing his weight no longer answering his commands, Bishop’s leg buckled beneath him. After landing on his already pounding left side, the Texan managed to scramble prone, firing a few shots in a desperate move to keep the invaders from charging through the doublewide opening.

  It took every ounce of willpower he could muster, but he forced his body to move. Every nerve in his body seemed to be howling in protest as he began to push his torso backwards in a clumsy motion that was a half crawl, half scuttle. After the first few movements, he felt something warm and wet beneath him, one hand slipping on the slick marble floor. He grimaced at the red liquid - he was crawling through his own blood.

  After what seemed like a hundred-mile trip, he reached the next dividing wall. In the mayhem, he almost shot Baxter, the major and several men approaching from behind. The officer started issuing orders, positioning his men to cou
nter-attack.

  For the first time since the mission began, Bishop was actually happy to see the man. “You okay?” the major asked.

  “I’m hit, but still functional. There are 30 or more of them forming up in the rotunda. Most have ARs and AKs. They came pouring out of some tunnel. I suspect it leads back to City Hall. Now we know why they let us have this building.”

  “Let’s see if we can slow them down a little,” the officer replied.

  About then, Baxter noticed the blood all over Bishop’s clothing. Without even asking, he turned and yelled, “Medic! To me!”

  A young specialist sprinted over, a large bag secured across his chest. “Where are you hit?” the kid asked, his hands starting to feel up and down Bishop’s torso.

  “My left ribs and the back of my left leg. The leg hurts worse.”

  “Roll over… let me take a look.”

  Bishop did as he was told, the movement sending burning hot streaks of agony through his lower body. For a brief moment, he was positive the leg had somehow caught fire, and even more convinced that every rib on his left side was broken.

  Examining the wound as best he could, the specialist cut away part of Bishop’s pants leg. It took him a moment to realize his patient had taken a load of buckshot from a scattergun.

  “You’ve got four or five pellets in your leg. Judging from the bleeding and the size of the holes, I’d guess it was about a #3 shot. You’ll live, but it’s gonna hurt like hell when somebody digs those out of there.”

  After rummaging in his kit, the medic squirted a cool feeling liquid onto the wound and then proceeded to wrap the leg with a large bandage. “I’ve sprayed a topical antibiotic and painkiller on the area. This bandage is soaked in a fast clotting agent.”

  “And my ribs?”

  “I can’t tell if they’re broken, but your armor stopped the bullet. You’re one lucky guy.”