The Final Day (After, #3)(94)
“Okay, we’ve got enough here,” he snapped sharply. “I want you two to stay here and keep monitoring. Capture everything you can.”
He then looked back at the two who were the security detail and ordered them to stay as well, along with one to follow him back to the choppers and pull out some survival gear and rations and then come back.
He now looked at John and the others. “Let’s go,” he snarled.
“To where?”
Bob pointed across the fields of Gettysburg to the ridgeline beyond. “We’re going to take that damn hill.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A thunder echoed in the valley behind Little Round Top as the five Apaches and eight Black Hawks started to rev up. General Scales had gathered his men around once back down from the hilltop and briefed all on what was to be done. Standing with his friends, it struck John just how concisely the man had thought out a tactical plan within a matter of minutes. He outlined the reasons for his decision first and offered that if any did not want to participate, they were free to stay behind. Upon hearing what the general had to say, every man and woman volunteered, all filled with a deep anger. Next he laid out the tactical plan for the assault to the pilots and troops and, having caught his breath after the grueling hike in the snow, did so with a calm radiance and voice of authority.
As he broke word to his command of exactly what they were facing and that they were going straight in, John could see the entire demeanor of the eighty troops, the pilots, and copilots shift within seconds to determination and bitter rage. Many of them cursed foully as they gathered round their choppers and geared up for a flight into what might turn into a hot zone, zipping up Kevlar jackets and loading up with extra ammunition from the boxes hauled in on the helicopter John had ridden in. The medics were tearing open the box of supplies carried on John’s chopper, each of them shouldering several fully loaded emergency bags, checking to make sure they had medic armbands on both arms. Forrest quietly whispered to John that in Afghanistan the medics took those off since the bastards they were fighting would single out medics for special treatment.
Once loaded up, Bob circled to each team, bowed his head, and led them in a short prayer before helping them to load in. Bob chose to go in with the lead copter, telling the pilot for the one John was on to hang back and be the last one to come in once the LZ was cleared.
“This is why I wanted you and your friends with us!” Bob shouted. “If we find what I suspect is over there, I want civilian witnesses. You might not know it, John, but your reputation extends beyond just Black Mountain, Montreat, and Asheville. So if things get hot, you are to stay back and stay alive. You got that?”
Bob led this last group in a short prayer with heads bowed, and he shook hands. He told Forrest and Malady—who was a marine vet—to make sure everyone’s gear was squared away and then stomped off to the lead chopper.
“Let’s double-check each other’s equipment and get ready for some shit!” Forrest shouted enthusiastically, and John could see that in a perverse way, PTSD was forgotten for the moment; he was back in his old element and enjoying it.
As each climbed into the chopper, Forrest and Malady checked their Kevlar jackets and helmet straps, Forrest giving John an admonishing look as he zipped up John’s jacket and then helped him up while Kevin double-checked that each was properly strapped into their safety harness.
“It could be hot; we might get hit. If we do and have to ditch in, follow what I do!” Kevin shouted.
Their pilot looked back over his shoulder, holding up one hand in a thumbs-up gesture, which all returned.
“Bugler, sound charge!” Forrest shouted as they lifted off, this time rising nearly vertically, the Black Hawks spacing out into line astern with Bob in the lead Black Hawk, while two Apaches fanned out on to either flank, the other three moving ahead of the column.
John looked over at Lee, who was sitting next to him, his gaze fixed forward, and for once he did not look nauseous.
They swung a bit to the north, following the Wheatfield Road rather than cresting up over Little Round Top. Lee, wide-eyed, rattled over the place-names—Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard, Trostle Farm—his voice filled with emotion. John recalled years ago at the town’s Civil War roundtable meeting when Lee had nervously presented a talk on his family’s role in the war, how two of his ancestors fought in this battle, one losing an arm. There were tears in his eyes as he leaned up to take in the view.
“If only we had half a dozen of these at that battle, good God, how it would have changed things.”
“Suppose we had them instead,” John quipped back with a smile.
The choppers swept low over the snow-covered battlefield, hugging the earth, climbing up the gentle slope of Seminary Ridge, pitching up slightly to just barely clear the trees. Ahead, Sachs Covered Bridge could be seen, beyond that the open fields of the Eisenhower Farm, and then directly ahead … Site R, the ridgetop bristling with antennas.
Lee took a deep breath and looked across at Forrest, who was sitting silently, eyes half-closed.
“How bad is it going to be?” Lee shouted.
“Don’t know. Maybe just some garrison types who will pee themselves and run as we come in. Or special-ops types with orders to shoot to kill anyone who comes close and tear us apart as we come in. You’ll know in about three minutes.”