“A conqueror is always a lover of peace.”
-Karl Von Clausewitz
“Eagle Eye to Boa Five Actual. Come in please.”
Dezba didn’t grab hold of the radio right away. He and the others were still laying wire for the Claymores and setting detonators for the C4 charges and his one good hand was currently occupied. Plugging the blasting cap in as quickly as he dared, he fumbled for it at his belt just as the sentry signaled again.
“Boa Five Actual, this is Eagle Eye. Please respond, over!”
“Eagle Eye, this is Boa Five Actual,” he said, still finding the designation quite awkward. “What the hell do you want?”
“Five Actual… we got company,” he came back.
Dezba lowered the radio and muttered a curse under his breath. He looked down the length of the hallway and watched as the grunts of Fifth Squad scrambled to prep the front for a controlled demolition. They weren’t halfway done yet, and their time had already run out. Luckily, they still had a card up their sleeve, the one that came in the form of the promise made to the good doctor, and Dezba was counting on the other side letting them play it.
“Roger that. I’m on my way,” he said, and clipped the radio back to his belt. He was sure to fetch his M4 from the nook of the wall as well and then made for the front entrance. Private Mitchell, aka. Eagle Eye, was waiting there. Between him and the doors, a bunch of wheeled tables had been rolled in with some 2x4s and plywood screwed into place to act as a barricade.
“What are we looking at, Private?”
“Sir,” he said, pointing through the barricades single aperture. “We got one LAV and two troops trucks. They just pulled in, and it looks like they’re taking out the heavy equipment.”
Dezba looked through the small opening that fell between two wooden planks and a sheet of plywood. He could see them clear enough, three khaki colored vehicles with chevrons painted on their flanks, the company insignia emblazoned on them as well. A gunmetal fist sitting atop a set of black eagle’s wings, not something he had seen before or heard of. Whoever these people were, they weren’t part of the same armed forces he had signed on with, once upon a time.
He always saw what the Private meant about getting the heavies out. From the backs of the troops carriers, the enemy formation was fetching some heavy mounts and ammo boxes. He couldn’t see the weapons they were meant to feed and support, but he knew he’d be disappointed with the result. When one was on the receiving end of any weapon that had to be mounted, the news was never good.
“Find the Corporal,” he ordered. “Tell him to get the ConDem prepped. We’re going to need to be ready to blow the entrance if they try to make their way inside.”
“What will you do, sir?”
Dezba lowered his head a little to get a better look. He caught sight of one of the weapons coming off the back of the nearest truck. Two men carried it, and its bulky appearance was quite unmistakable. An XM307, the automatic grenade launcher they could never seem to get their hands on, no matter how many supply depots and caches they cleared.
“I’m going to try to parlay with them. See if they’ll listen to reason.”
One look back at the Private proved that he didn’t think much of that plan. But what choice did they have? With the kind of firepower they were producing, talk was about the only thing they had in their arsenal that came with even odds.
He also noticed the Private was still lingering at his side, staring at him with that look of disquieted disbelief.
“Why are you still here?” he asked. Mitchell snapped to and saluted him. He ran down the linoleum hallway and left Dezba manning the front. He continued to watch, noting the heavy machine guns that were making an appearance as well. M85′s, the kinds that belonged on the roof of tanks. Two were now being set up on their doorstep. Running his hands along the stock of his M4, he suddenly felt very, very inadequate.
And to think, the bastards were bringing all this to the fore to deal with a hospital. Was there really any doubt in his mind that they didn’t know what was being held inside? Or were they so nervous about an unsecured location that they had brought half the barn with them and were prepared to use it?
Hell, he thought. Maybe they saw my handy work out there and assumed their were a lot more of me. Flattering, but that seemed like the least likely explanation right now. One thing was for sure though. They clearly weren’t taking the Hospital sign too seriously.
Dezba placed his rifle in the nearest nook again and eyed the wheeled table in front of him. Bracing his artificial arm on one end, he grabbed the other and gave it a pull. It was pretty well secured under several layers of improvised barriers, but in time, he was able to get the thing moving. As soon as he had made a hole large enough to crawl out of, he stepped back and began looking for something white. His short could do in a pinch.
Nobody outside would mistake a streaming grey shirt for a declaration of war.
Peeling it off, he stepped through the hole he had created and out into the cold light of day.
“You there! Don’t move!” an amplified voice yelled. Apparently, someone on the other side had through to bring a megaphone. He wished someone on his side had had that kind of foresight. Then he wouldn’t be wandering around without a shirt on. When his eyes adjust to the light, he got a good glimpse of everything aimed at him.
The LAV had turned its turret in his direction, which meant he had a 20mm cannon and a 7.62mm machingun ready to rip him and half and puncture him with holes at once. Then there were the two machineguns and grenade launcher now set up and trained in his direction. On top of all that, there was about two dozen men looking at him down the sites of M16s and MP5s.
A lot of ways to die, he thought. He could feel an intense burning inside his skull and his heart pounding inside his chest. And yet, he didn’t feel like he might lose it just yet. Once again, a panic-stricken moment felt almost comfortable. He didn’t relish the thought of how it would all feel once it was all over. But then again, planning for the aftermath was a bit premature. He still needed to make it through the next few minutes…
“Get down on the ground!” the voice yelled.
“I’ve come to talk!” he replied. The amplified voice repeated itself. He raised his voice and began beating his shirt back and forth. “I’ve come to talk! We can talk can’t we?”
“GET-DOWN-ON-THE-GROUND!” the voice said with finality. “Or we will open fire!”
“Shit…” he breathed. Lowering himself to one knee, he planted one leg, then the other on the ground, put his shirt back on, and then leaned forward. His entire body was hugging the concrete blocks that lined the entrance way now, feeling the sun’s warmth against his barely covered flesh. The noise of boots filled his ears as several infantrymen ran forward, clamoring around him and grabbing hold of him by the hands.
One of them grabbed hold of his prosthesis and it closed tight. The man jumped back and aimed his rifle at Dezba’s ear.
“Hey! What the fuck is that?”
“My arm, asshole,” he replied. On his other side, the other grunt leveled his weapon at Dezba’s other ear. He was yelling his own thing too, but he could only hear the one on his left right now.
“What the fuck is that?!”
“It’s-my-arm-asshole!” he repeated. “It’s not going to hurt you!”
No good. The yelling continued and Dezba gave up arguing, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He knew how this went, had heard about it enough times. Stupid grunts high on adrenaline and fear, lost in their own angry yelling and convinced anything not killed could kill them. They’d keep yelling, until someone truly lost it and pulled a trigger. Then everyone else would. He’d be lucky if there was enough of him left to put in an urn.
The sight of an open field flashed through his mind… green and expansive. Spotted by trees and interlaced by orchards. He saw a grove, a small clearing, and a mound. He saw another urn, two names engrave, and the ashes that poured forth it.
He heard some words too… warm, sad words. Words that were heartfelt and firm. They filled him with feelings of the same nature and color. He wanted to smile, to cry, and to repeat them from his own lips now and here. They were words that had to do with a promise, a promise that had yet to be fulfilled. But he now knew for the first time in a long time that it was about to be.
It was the strangest feeling, especially given his current circumstances. He felt at peace, a feeling he hadn’t known in a while…
