“Clarissa,” Miller yelled over the din of the fight, “Go to the backdoor and make sure they aren’t coming up behind us.”
Not hearing him at first he had to yell it a second time.
Glancing out at her father, who was slowly firing back from his position under the truck, she hesitated. She didn’t want to leave her father.
“I’ll get Greg back” Miller assured her. “Go, there’s a team coming around back. You have to keep them from getting close enough to thrown things in the house.”
Finally realizing Miller was right, Clarissa quickly sprang to feet and grabbed the small bag she had next to her.
Since all of the bags were in the truck, the three only had the magazines on their personal gear. Thanks to Hubbard’s warning they had enough time to don that equipment but that gear was designed to be light to allow rapid movement for prolonged periods of time. To achieve that goal each harness only held four magazines of ammunition.
She took the small bag that held a couple more, now precious, magazines with her and took up a similar perch behind the back door. Miller had wisely turned off all the lights inside the house to at least make it a little harder to see them.
Miller took over the front-door position and accessed what they had to work with. The answer was simple. Nothing. Greg was pinned down. They were being pressed from two sides. Ammunition and time was running out.
Quickly firing a few shots though the haze and smoke at an inky shape in the darkness Miller realized the effect of the smoke was already wearing off. The Troopers were again pressing forward.
He was just about to hit the panic button when to his relief rifle fire erupted from the buildings to the left of the driveway turnaround U. DeMetrie had arrived and begun engaging into the flank of the Troopers approaching the house from the front.
Sensing the opportunity Miller yelled out to Greg, “Greg, now! Run up here”
Greg nodded and rose to his feet as quickly as his old body would allow. Grabbing the side of the truck for support he slowly rose from laying flat on the ground to a hunched over pose that still kept him behind the truck as much as possible. Humans have the amazing ability to conform to oddest shapes when being shot at.
Watching out of the corner of his eye Miller prepared to fire rapidly to provide Greg at least a modicum of cover from the Troopers. Between the fading smoke, his fire and DeMetrie he stood a chance of covering the distance.
Greg glanced up at Miller before preparing to run to the house. Despite all the years and health problems, combat seemed familiar to Greg. In some ways the adrenaline made him feel young again. Mustering up all the energy his body could provide Greg lurched forward from the truck and pumped his legs as fast as his frail body would allow. Simultaneously, Miller began firing rapidly in the direction of as many of the rifle flashes he could see.
Sometimes in combat the difference between life and death is a mater of mere inches and often luck. Two men can stand side-by-side and undergo different outcomes. One goes home to his family while he other has a flag and the gratitude of a grateful nation.
Luck and inches conspired against Greg as he attempted to cover the distance from the front of the truck to the stairs. Two steps into his dash, a rifle round tore through his thigh sending the old man crashing to the ground. Miller didn’t notice it at first, but when Greg didn’t come thundering past him after a second or two he glanced to check on his progress.
That’s when he saw the old Marine dragging himself back behind the truck. Miller immediately reached down and threw the last smoke grenade as far as he could. Using the few seconds before the smoke began billowing out of the canister to fire off the remaining rounds in his rifle he then sprinted the two strides to cover the front porch and nearly dove down the stairs. Covering the distance in two more strides he reached down to pull the old man completely behind the truck body.
Things had just gone from bad to worse.
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