Hell's Highway by Todd McLeod

Author:Todd McLeod
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Swordworks Books

Chapter Four

They started to snake cross the open ground. A line of men sliding over the dust and rubble, all that was left of the two platoons, like a giant caterpillar worming its way along. The enemy was close, and he watched for the first sign they’d spotted the advance.

He almost missed them. Two heads popped up, and the barrels of two AK-47s appeared just ahead of the line of men. He squeezed the trigger and moved the barrel from side to side to douse them with bullets. Once again his accurate fire disposed of the enemy, but the threat hadn't disappeared. He heard the distinctive pop of the mortar. Another shell slowly arced into the sky and began to fall. Too close to where the soldiers were inching forward.

He cupped his hands. "Sergeant Jones! Mortar shell about to drop on your position."

They didn't need a second warning. He saw men press their faces and bodies so close to the dirt they were almost underground. A moment later the shell detonated with an earsplitting roar. They were lucky. It exploded in the center of one of the many piles of rubble littering the area. Hot metal and stone chips cascaded over them, but they were lying flat, and he was certain no one had been hit. He was wrong. One man cried out as a fragment of metal sliced into his arm, drenching it with blood. A voice shouted, "Okay, I've got this. The rest of you keep moving!"

To his astonishment, Sergeant Weaver crawled over to him, put his arm around the wounded man, and started dragging him back. Back toward where they'd left the Humvees, and Weaver held the medical pack, just like he’d said. He’d also pulled on the armband emblazoned with the red cross. Hawkins guessed it made a certain kind of sense, grabbing the medical pack, but he wasn't so sure about him wearing the armband.

He was convinced Weaver had heard them talking about how the medical pack and armband made a man less of a target. Not a total guarantee of safety, for the insurgents had a grim record of targeting medics and ambulances. But some would hesitate to pull the trigger, and that could be what Weaver had in mind, a way to lengthen the odds against getting killed. No matter which way he looked at it, his behavior was strange.

He’s a fighting man, so what’s he doing in the rear, pretending to be a medic? It’s like he’s sheltering behind those red crosses.

He thought about Padre. His body deserved a decent burial, and he shouldered the machine gun and ran across to where he’d fallen. When he looked closely, he could see a bullet had entered the rear of his head. It could only mean he’d been looking away from the enemy when it happened. He looked closer, and even stranger were the burn marks on his head just below the rim of his helmet. As if the shooter had pressed a pistol next to his head when he pulled the trigger.

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