Vengeance

[bacpacker]

Damn wasn't expecting that.

[The Stig]

As he slipped into the booth at the small restaurant, Miller couldn't help but remember all the times he'd been in similar situations before. He'd always preferred meeting in small, out-of-the way places instead of a park, or hotel bar. Hotel bars were the worst, especially in foreign cities. You might as well have worn a sign saying you were a spy if you tried to meet a contact in one, especially the Hyatt or other American chain in a foreign country.

Sometimes he did miss the life. While he loved Christy and Ava there were times when the boredom of domestication drove him to wonder if he'd made the right choice leaving.

“What can I get you darlin?” asked the middle aged waitress.

Looking up Miller wondered if someone issued middle-aged, heavy-set, professional waitresses to the small restaurants of the world.

“Can I have a sweet-tea and a hamburger please?”

As he waited for his guest, Miller's mind drifted off to various places he'd been. Vienna was his favorite. The restaurants, the culture, the history. It was all a wonderful diversion from some of the more dreary, eastern European cities where he'd spent most of his time. Sadly, he spent more time in the former Soviet Block countries than strolling on Der Graben Strasse eating Apfelstrudel .

Being lost in thought he almost didn't notice his guest slide into the booth.

“Miller, how the hell are you son?” asked Papa with a broad smile.

Miller wondered how Papa escaped attention at all. His immense physical size and flamboyant personality were hard to miss even if one wasn't on a counter-surveillance operation. Yet somehow, he'd made his appearance work for him all those years.

“Doing good Papa. Doing good.”

Waiting for the waitress to put down Millers food, and placing an order of his own, Papa continued, “Devil Dog, things have gotten dicked up really good here. Looks like our old buddy Kirilenko is somewhere with the other Russian and Ukrainian troops in southwestern Ohio. This Crutchfield son-of-a-bitch thought bringing in the UN Peacekeepers was a great idea, and nearly wet his pants when the Russian President offered up Kirilenko's services.”

Nodding his head, Miller chose to be quiet and let Papa share whatever was on his mind.

“Intel is that Crutchfield mentioned your pal Donovan and thought he'd be handy to have around. My guess is Kirilenko was in charge of the operation.”

Dipping a french fry into a deep pool of catchup, Miller asked, “How did they pull it off? Breaking Donovan out I mean.”

“Thanks sweetheart,” said Papa as the waitress delivered his sandwich. “That's where the monkeys were too busy flinging their own shit to worry about details. Someone dropped the ball and word about the prisoner transport leaked . Probably one of those shitbirds in NSA.”

“Damn, this is good grub,” said Papa as he devoured the hamburger. “Listen Devil Dog, you'll have to find Kirilenko if you want to find your buddy Donovan.”

Taking a long drink from his iced tea, Miller said, “Doesn't running an op that small, over here, seem like...well....a step down for old Georgy?”

Nodding in agreement Papa continued, “Hell yes it does. Looks like Kirilenko's antics finally wore thin at the Kremlin. Leverage or no leverage, Kirilenko was coming over here at that was final. Either that or he'd be eating borscht at Lubyanka.”

Chuckling, Miller said, “Oh, I'm sure he was thrilled about that.”

“No shit,” said Papa. “But I think the chance to avoid the gulag while participating in Crutchfield's utopian vision had a certain appeal. Having a shot at settling a score with you probably didn't hurt either.”

“Say again, you are coming in broken,” said Miller.

“Turns out,” said Papa sternly, “that somehow Donovan identified who nabbed him. Once Kirilenko sprung him the two of them realized they both wanted to kick your ass.”

Leaning back and searching his mind, Miller again realized just how much damage the former minister had done when he flipped on Miller.

“Yes, well...that isn't much mystery,” said Miller as he briefly explained the rise and fall of his former friend Tim Barnes.

“Ok, it's shit down the drain,” said Papa in his usual colorful descriptions. “You need to track down Kirilenko and take care of this Donovan character. Turns out DC is more interested in him that I thought. The President is afraid he's going to stir up shit in the south again. With the ground Crutchfield has regained in the east, the last thing the President needs is trouble in his rear area.”

“Roger that,” said Miller.

“Did you get the starter kit?” asked Papa.

“We're on our way to get it now before I make a quick stop in Mississippi,” said Miller. “I have to check in on an old friend,” he continued after seeing Papa's quizzical look. “And there's a good chance I won't be the only one paying her a visit.”

“How much do you trust the friends helping you?” asked Papa.

A smile flashed across Miller's face. If Dink and Webb were double-agents they'd be the best ones of all time. “Rock solid Papa,” he said before describing some of the things they had done to help him.

Downing the last of his coffee, Papa exclaimed, “Outstanding. You'll need men you an count on for this one. Be careful Miller. Something about this is giving me indigestion. Just can't figure out what yet.”

Looking back across the table at his mentor and former boss, Miller couldn't help but feel a longing to be back in the life. “Roger that Papa.”

“Good to have you back in the fold, son. I'm glad I've got someone to count on,” said Papa as he went to slide out of the booth. “Oh, Mack's still busy but once he's free I'm assigning him to you. Figure you can keep an eye on him for me.”

“Sounds good papa. I'll keep you updated in the usual fashion?”

“You better, or I'll hunt you down and cut off your gonads.”

As Miller made his way back to the motel he kept replaying the conversation over in his mind. Something about what Papa said wasn't sitting right, he just couldn't identify what it was.

“Probably just imagining things,” he convinced himself as he pulled into the parking lot.

[The Stig]

“So he flew all the way down from DC to meet you,” asked a confused Dink.

“Of course, he's a super-secret spymaster. Probably has his own personal jet,” mused Webb.

The truth was more mundane. Papa's office wasn't in DC, he preferred to work out of the rural Texas town rather than under the spotlight of DC or Northern Virginia. Foreign spy agencies tended to concentrate their counter-surveillance activities there and large cities like New York or Toronto. Dusty, rural towns in Texas, didn't draw much attention. Having the cover of a being an agricultural equipment manufacturer more than explained the traffic into and out of the small airport.

Miller, sinking into the reclining chair in the corner replied, “Is it so hard to believe the boss would come all this way to see me?”

After a short pause Webb and Dink both replied, “yes.”

Reaching in for a french-fry on the small table in the corner Webb asked, “so what's the plan boss?”

“Thanks guys,” said Miller sardonically. “Your confidence is inspiring. It's not much of a plan, we'll head out in the morning and check in on Clarissa. I've called ahead but her assistant wasn't totally clear about the situation. No guarantees, but pretty good chance of meeting up with some of Kirilenko's henchmen there. I can't believe he's going to forget her part in our little caper.”

“Yea, from what you described about it I can see why he'd be miffed” said Dink as he ate the burger Miller had brought back from the restaurant.

“Yes, funny how a woman can just flat piss you off. From there, its kind of open. I have a feeling we'll have to head north and try to track down Kirilenko. Donovan isn't likely to be too far from him,” said Miller. “Other than that, I don't have much to work with.”

Chasing an errant pickle that refused to stay on the hamburger, Dink said, “can't you work your super-spy mojo and call up a satellite or something?”

“You may find this hard to believe, but all those resources are somewhat tied up in the east where a full-blown war is being fought. Perhaps you've heard of it.”

Finally spearing the pickle, Dink, without looking up said, “That's the way it goes. Us Southern boys always having to do the heavy lifting.”

****

“This is bad, real bad,” whispered Reynolds into Saxon's ear.

Saxon didn't need the instruction to realize they were in a bad spot. As the shock of the failed airstrike wore off the men all realized one alarming fact: somehow they stumbled into a position teeming with enemy soldiers. The enemy base, already strong, was much more well defended than originally realized.

Whispering into his microphone, Saxon said, “Fall back to rally point Bravo.” It didn't need saying that they should avoid contact at all costs.

The microphone clicks were enough to confirm that Lowry and Dickerson had heard and understood the message.

It wouldn't be easy going. The rally point was about three miles to the east of their current position and they had no real idea of the enemies strength in the area. They could easily stumble into a large element of enemy troops, or worse yet, have to engage them in a firefight. Depending on the enemy strength, the odds would be heavily against them. If the soldiers in the base realized there were spotters on the ground they'd send out patrols to sweep the area.

Having someone looking for you doesn't make staying undetected any easier.

Slowly backing out of the hide spot, the three men all began what would promise to be a grueling journey. Anytime a solider moves though enemy territory they try to minimize the noise they generate and attempt to avoid detection. But in the case of Saxon's team, they'd have to avoid detection at all costs. They could afford no mistakes.

Using hand signals, Saxon signaled for Reynolds to take the lead and Caddy to fall in between them.

They knew for sure there was a air-to-ground missile launcher about one thousand yards to their south. Chances were good a security element was guarding the instillation or vehicles. They couldn't see it, but from the sound there was another gun emplacement some distance to the north along the hills. Lowry and Dickerson would be much closer to them.

Short of that, the location of any other troops was anybodies guess.

Saxon pushed their predicament out of his mind and focused on the task at hand: reaching rally point Bravo being annihilated.

[The Stig]

One thousand yards. That's all the distance they had been able to cover in four excruciating hours.

Saxon's fears had been confirmed and it was clear that Crutchfield's men were patrolling the area on the lookout for ground forces associated with the attempted air strike. At various times the enemy soldiers had been close enough that voices could be distinguished. They couldn't make out the words being said, but they were definitively voices. The sound of Hilux engines working through the gears was also heard in the distance as the Peacekeepers patrolled the streets.

Any second now he expected a helo to swoop overhead. “They'll probably save that for when they get a bead on our location,” he thought to himself.

So they moved, foot by foot, inch by inch, drawing ever closer to the rally point Bravo. Every leaf, every stick, every hidden tin can presented an opportunity to compromise their position. Their muscles started to ache from the constant tension of having to move deliberately and under full concentration.

Even their neck muscles had started to ache as they constantly scanned ahead for any sign, any hint, of an enemy solider.

And things promised to get more interesting.

They just covered what was to be the easiest portion of the journey. Most of the ground they traversed was heavily wooded. It had proved a welcome respite when they maneuvered into position. But now, preparing to leave the relative safety of the woods, the men realized that passing through the residential areas, far simpler when their enemy wasn't altered to their presence, would now represent a massive challenge.

In addition to being discovered by civilians, they had to contend with backyard dogs, fences, flower pots, trash cans and an entire universe of items that could foil their plans when they least expected it.

Yes, the trip in was much, much easier.

Saxon let out a slow breath as he placed one foot in front of the next. They'd wait till night-fall to leave the safety of the woods.

****

“Hear you are up to no good old buddy,” came the cheery voice from the other end of the phone.

Smiling Miller replied, “Well you could say it's a short term engagement, but yes. Nothing good is planned.”

After a short bit of laughter, Miller's old friend Mack said, “I would expect nothing less. I got the good news a short bit ago.”

Miller, feet propped up on the small ledge of the air conditioner said, “are my chances of promotion and professional development good?”

“Well,” said Mack, “we'll have to see about that. Depends on whether you a company man, attend all the sensitivity training and can file your FJ-8279 expense reports on time.”

“Oh, I'm screwed then.”

Mack and Miller had worked together on many missions over the years. Papa had recognized their complementary skills sets from the get go, thus they had been paired together often when they were first unleashed on the field.

It was Mack that helped transport Donovan back to Washington after Miller had captured him.

“Listen sport,” said Mack. “can't talk much. But I'll catch up with you soon. Looking forward to it.”

Miller signed off as he reflected on all the times they had faced dangerous situations together, navigated difficult scenarios or generally just wallowed in the mire together. While it was corny, they were brother's in arms.

Webb and Dink were both fast asleep with one of them snoring loud enough to cause a random plastic part on the television cabinet to resonate as it vibrated in sympathy with the dull roar.

Miller sat back in the reclining chair and thought over all they had to accomplish.

Soon he was fast asleep.

****

“Dammit!” yelled Captain Mike DeMetrie as he slammed his fist onto the desk.

“Sir,” asked his young assistant. “Can I get you something?”

Collecting himself, DeMetrie replied, “No, I'm fine Jones. Bad news. The airstrike on the camp was a bust. We lost all the aircraft and the boys are neck deep in injins.”

“Here sir,” said Jones, handing his Captain a cup of coffee. “It's not much”.

Smiling DeMetrie took the cup. “Saxon got off one short message but he's going to stay off the net to avoid radio detection. We better round up a standby team and a bird. I want to be able to hit their LZ the second they give us the word for an exfill. Tell the team that just got back in from the field not to stand down just yet. I'll start working the net for a helo.”

“Sir,” acknowledged Jones as he spun and left the room.

DeMetrie leaned back in his chair. “This is why I told HQ we needed a damn bird of our own,” he said aloud. Command, while letting DeMetrie run his own operations, had been very stingy on the equipment they allocated him. Designating a helicopter for their sole use had been rejected several times before on the grounds one had never been needed before.

Civil war or no, military bureaucracy was always prepared to defeat common sense in the life of the fighting man.


****

“Damn, she's hot.”

“Put it back in your pants sport,” said the team-leader.

“Thanks dad,” came the sharp reply.

“He's right about her,” thought the team-leader to himself. She was shorter, well proportioned, had a beautiful face and long brunette hair. Perhaps most attractive was that she wasn't afraid to work.

Over the past two weeks of surveillance he'd seen her driving tractors and helping men in the fields. The combination of beauty, brains and work ethic made for what he thought might be the perfect woman.

As he lay in the underbrush, binoculars in hand, he thought about their coming mission. It was dark, and she clearly had come back from some evening business function. He watched as the lights in the various rooms of the large, seemingly brand new home, slowly turned on and then off as the occupant made their way upstairs. Several minutes later he watched as the last light in the house was extinguished.

“Early to bed, early to rise,” he thought to himself.

They'd hit the house tomorrow night, about this time. It seemed a shame that such a beautiful woman must die, but he'd learned long ago not to question the orders he was given.

“Come on Mykola,” he said to his leering partner. “We've got a long drive back to the hotel. We need to rest up for tomorrow night.”

“Let's see if we can find some girls tonight.”

The team-leader, never amazed as his partners proclivities, replied, “let's get the rest of the team ready for tomorrow first.”

[bacpacker]

Too bad about the fly boys. Seems like a world of S is fixin to HTF! Good Stuff Stig, THANKS

[The Stig]

As he strained to peer into the dark night, Saxon forced every part of his body into a sense of stillness so he could attempt to make out any sound, any indication, that enemy soldiers might be in the area.

After the daylight faded into darkness there was a definite reduction in the activity of the Peacekeepers and their presumed search for the team. The sounds of Hilux's and Vodnik's faded into the distance and a soothing sense of calm descended over the neighborhood.

This was the same neighborhood they had traversed on their way into the hide site and that leg had transpired uneventfully. As they waited, the men replayed the sights and sounds of the inbound trip in their minds for any indication of the presence of the air defense equipment. None of their previous reconnaissance missions had discovered them.

To a man, each felt a heavy responsibility for the oversight and the loss of the four pilots. They had failed their brothers.

After deciding the coast appeared to be clear, Saxon nodded to Reynolds, sending him forward. There was no way around it; they would have to cross through the residential neighborhood before getting back to several acres of woods and ultimately rally point Bravo. So they had waited until 02:30am with the hopes that most people would be sleeping.

As leader, Saxon had additional worries. Lowry and Dickerson had been clicking their microphones on a regular schedule to indicate they were still en route to the rally point. They were doing it often enough so Saxon knew they were still alive, but not so often as to give away their location to any radio detection equipment.

But the microphone clicks had started getting fainter.

It was likely a mechanical malfunction, which always seemed to happen when it was least convenient. It could possibly be the result of terrain. But Saxon still worried. There would be no way he'd signal for the evac without all his men.

Worse yet, if they veered off course to link up prior to the rally point, they stood a good chance of finding Peacekeepers long before they happened upon Lowry and Dickerson.

The die had been cast. They'd have to proceed to the rally point and hope for the best. If their teammates did not arrive then they'd back-trace the route to their hide site and hope to run across them.

Saxon watched as Caddy emerged from the wood-line and began crossing the street. They were on a cul-de-sac which would greatly reduce the amount of traffic and chance of being spotted.

As Reynolds disappeared between the two houses across the street, Saxon heaved himself up and out of the thicket of underbrush. Instinctively, he bent over and ran, trying to present as small of profile as possible.
He had to run, scan for oncoming vehicles, look for trip hazards, stay alert for dogs, and try not to trip any motion detection lights. It was a task which was physically demanding along with uncomfortable.

“This isn't going to be fun,” thought Saxon as he crossed the first road.

****

“Jones,” DeMetrie called out. “What's the status of the standby team?”

“Sir, they are ready to go once you give the word. They have rearmed and will stay in the ready room until the word is given.”

“Excellent. I finally rounded up a couple helos. Birds should be here just before day break so it's going to be close. Depending on when they make it to the rally point, we may be able to zip across the boarder, snatch the team and get back across the river before light. Otherwise, we'll play it by ear.”

“Sir,” said the young assistant, “its all we can do.”

Ignoring the attempt at consoling him, DeMetrie said, “see if you can find some food and get it to the guys in the ready-room. Also, dig out a map of rally point Bravo, along with all the other rally points they planed on using, and get it to the ready team so they can study them.”

“Sir,” said the assistant crisply as he spun and left the room.

“Damn,” thought DeMetrie to himself. The chances of snatching them out before dawn were slim and a day-light rescue would be near suicidal. It was clear the air defense network around the camp was much stronger than anticipated.

Worse yet, the choppers would have to travel nearly twelve miles behind the enemy line just to get to the rally point. There was a good chance they could be shot down long before reaching Saxon and his men.

It was the fear of any combat rescue mission: when the rescuers themselves needed rescuing. Soon you are pouring in more men and equipment some of which, in turn, are effected and need rescuing.

That scenario would quickly escalate into a full-blown disaster.

****

As the three men huddled behind a small shed in the side yard of a home, they plotted their next move. Their current hurdle was to pass the front of the house, cross a major street and then dash back into a thicket of suburban homes. They'd been on the move for over an hour and so far had avoided detection.

All three were experienced enough to know the break would be short. There was still much ground left to cover and the timing was against them. They wanted to reach the rally point before dawn, chiefly so they could be extracted quickly.

But they had other reasons, every step away from the camp was a step closer to the river. They all figured the more distance they could put between them and the outpost, the less likely they'd be discovered.

Barely above a whisper, Saxon said, “Reynolds, you still ok on point?”

Reynolds, as Saxon had fully expected, nodded his approval.

Reynolds was a top-flight solider and one that impressed Saxon. He was squared away, knew his craft and didn't dick around on missions. It was that six sense that warriors have about another warrior and Reynolds was clearly dialed in like a batter turning on an inside fastball and knocking it out of the park.

“Ok,” Saxon commanded. “Cross the road and then duck down in the culvert thing on the other side of the road. Don't break your leg. Once he goes, Caddy make sure there are no cars and then go. I'll follow over last.”

They would have to come from behind the shed, go around the front of the house, traverse the front yard and then cross the two lane road. Because of the hour, traffic was sparse, nearly nonexistent.

So far the men had retraced their steps from their previous trip through suburbia. They had crossed this road once before so the details were no mystery, even in the moonlit darkness. The road was several feet higher in elevation above the front-yard of the home. On the opposite side was a large drainage ditch measuring eight feet deep and nearly eighty yards long. It was a convenient refuge and would afford them some cover should a car pass.

The stretch of road dissected the neighborhood like a ribbon, curving, rising and falling as it followed the terrain. Actually it was a good stretch of road for the crossing. This section was mostly straight, with gentle rises and shallow curves, however there was a sharp turn two hundred yards further up the road.

With a toss of his head, Reynolds gingerly stood up, and began crossing towards the front yard. Moving quickly, to minimize his exposure on the road, he fast-walked steadily, hunched over, until he reached the road. Caddy and Saxon could make out his head moving as he checked both ways and then dashed across the street.

His shadow soon disappeared from sight as he dropped into the large ditch on the other side of the road.

“One down,” Saxon thought to himself. Straining for any sign of an engine or lights approaching he was rewarded with nothing that indicated danger.

Soon Caddy was retracing Reynold's steps and he too slipped from the exposed danger of the road into the relative safety of the drainage ditch.

“Lord, just thirty more seconds,” Saxon quickly prayed. He wasn't a religious man, but the old axiom held true. In front-yards, like foxholes, there were no atheists.

Quickly he rose and began crossing the eighty feet from the shed to the road.

Mentally he started counting off the distance as he crossed it.

Seventy.

Sixty.

So far so good. Scanning left and right he saw no signs of trouble in the still moonlight.

Fifty.

Forty.

Getting closer now. He could just begin to see the dull glow of the reflectors embedded in the blacktop and the yellow tape that marked its center line.

Thirty.

Twenty.

Just twenty feet to go before he reached the road. Just a little bit further and he'd be rejoined with Reynolds and Caddy.

Sometimes life just isn't meant to be easy.

He looked up just in time to see the headlights coming around the corner.

[piranha2]

Holy cow! keep em coming.

[The Stig]

It is amazing how small people can make their bodies when needed. Soldiers often will use shallow depressions, no more than a couple inches deep, as cover when under fire. Humans instinctively flinch and curl up in anticipation of car wreck or impact. It's what we do as part of the flight portion of fight or flight response.

Saxon, as he watched the headlights of the truck complete turning the corner and begin tracking straight down the road, desperately scanned for some shred of concealment. Some place to hide. He quickly chose flight over fight.

The flat, open, yard of the house coldly refused to assist him and offered nothing, no matter how small, to protect him.

Making a decision in a fraction of a second, Saxon dropped to the ground by letting the weight of his body pull him down as quickly as gravity would allow. He then began scrambling back towards the safety of the shed.

His only hope would be that nobody saw him before he dove down and he'd be able to crawl back to cover.

The deep roar of the truck's revving engine told him he'd likely been spotted.

“Damn,” he swore aloud as he crawled back towards the shed.

As the truck closed in on the yard, a spotlight suddenly blazed through the night sky, bathing the area in white light. It rapidly swept across the yard and street, in the general area of where Saxon had just been.

It was a race he wasn't likely to win. He had to crawl nearly seventy feet before the truck could accelerate and cover six hundred. Listening to the deep roar of the Hilux's engine, combined with the physical exertion made his stomach churn.

Pushing himself forward with his legs while trying too pull himself along with his harms, Saxon frantically tried to put as much distance between himself and the road as possible.

He was still ten yards short of the shed as the Hilux skidded to a halt abeam his position on the road. The spotlight coldly bathed him in light as he suddenly realized just exactly how far ten yards can be.

The loud speaker mounted on the trucks roof suddenly blared, “YOU BY THE SHED. STOP MOVING AND SURRENDER IMEDIATLEY.”

Saxon, under no illusions about his safety should he decide to stop, dropped the charade and flung himself forward and to his feet in a desperate attempt to at least get to the shed.

In the process he heard the noises of the truck doors flinging open, men emerging and more orders to stop from the loud speaker. Most ominously, as he rounded the corner of the shed, was the metallic sound of the PKM heavy machine gun atop the Hilux being charged. Somehow in the rush of adrenaline and fear he heard the charging handle being pulled to the rear and released, preparing it shower him with a deadly mixture of copper and lead.

“FOR THE LAST TIME,” blared the voice on the loud speaker, “SURRENDER YOURSELF.”

Saxon clearly had no intentions of surrendering as he slipped the safety catch on his rifle to off.

****

Pulling a grenade from his harness, Saxon prepared to hurl it towards what he only assumed would be two men charging his position. Knowing tactics, they would probably approach the shed, one man from each side, keeping a wide birth to allow a lane of fire from the truck. The heavy machine gun would chew the shed to pieces and force him into the open.

His only real hope was to toss a couple grenades in rapid succession, fire off a short burst from his rifle and try to dash behind the house for cover. If he could buy himself enough time to cover the short distance he stood a slim chance of disappearing into the neighborhood.

That would allow Reynolds and Caddy the time they needed to travel up the drainage ditch and disappear in the opposite direction. With any luck they'd be able to put enough distance behind them they'd slip away and make it to the rendezvous site.

He was under no illusions. He would simply be running a stalling game until the Peacekeepers called in additional troops and kept him on the run until they captured him. There would be no dramatic roof-top rescue, or hiding out in an attic until the cavalry arrived. Simply put, they'd run him down and kill him.

It's what he would do if the roles were reversed.

The loud explosion of machine gun rounds piercing the thin sheet metal of the shed jarred him back to reality.

It was now or never.

****

Mercifully it had been a short burst from the machine gun. Only two of the seven rounds actually pierced both walls of the shed. Saxon had been granted a brief reprieve by the engine block of a small lawn tractor. By utter coincidence, the tractor had been in the line of fire and the thick cast iron walls of the engine stopped of deflected the remaining rounds.

Sensing his opportunity, and lurching forward from the concealment of the shed, Saxon quickly hurled both grenades in rapid succession as he simultaneously ran towards the house.

He was as surprised to see the two troops , both much closer than he anticipated, as they were to see him. One of the troops attempted to raise his Ak74 and fire in his direction but in hurrying successfully caught it on an errant piece of his chest harness. The brief delay was all Saxon needed to dash to temporary safety.

The other solider froze entirely.

The gunner on the truck attempted to pivot the machine gun on it's mount, however, Saxon moved so quickly it was impossible to swing the heavy gun fast enough. In the rush to try to acquire the target, the gunner inadvertently fired, striking the solider to Saxon's left in the back and head. Sometimes in the rush and fog of war accidents like that happened.

Saxon had no time to morn the unfortunate mistake however, as dashing behind the house was a very temporary solution.

He kept moving along the back of the long ranch-style house. Nearly tripping over a garden hose, he recovered just long enough to completely fall over a child's tricycle. Ungracefully collapsing to the ground , rifle in hand, Saxon briefly exclaimed, “whoa!” as he fell forward. As the bulk of his body weight and equipment skidded across the ground he rolled slightly and tried to regain his balance. He might have pulled it off had the flower pot not been in his way.

He had entered a suburban version of a minefield.

Ending up flat on his back he looked up just in time for the other Peacekeeper, the one that hadn't been able to react in time to come into view.

This time his rifle was raised, and fully at the ready.

[The Stig]

I temporarily lost my mind and put up the last installment in three separate edits. So you may have missed something I added to it later....in other words, you might want to scan the last installment if you read it shortly after it was first posted to ensure you don't miss anything.

Sorry....I went a little daft there for a minute.

[piranha2]

It happens - keep em coming.