The Reaper: No Mercy Read online

  "Good. Anything else we need to go over?"

  "No. Hewitt's already split his team into reaction and engineering for the IED implants and are getting ready to leave. This is our best shot, Reaper."

  *****

  MSGT Olsen addressed the group sitting on the concrete floor before him. In his hands he held an AT4, which was the replacement for the service standard LAW, or light anti-tank weapon, and a very portable engine of destruction. He was almost thirty-five years old and had almost fifteen years of service in the military, and still loved his job.

  "My name is Master Sergeant Brad Olsen and this is the AT4. You do not need to know, nor probably care, about its technical aspects. All you need to know is that it's lightweight, deadly against almost any vehicle, and can be fired in under ten seconds. It has an effective range of three-hundred meters and is strictly line-of-sight. In other words, call it a really damn big grenade that can punch through most armor and shoots straight. I will walk you through the steps of operating it and at any time, if you have questions, raise your hands." He paused for a moment before continuing. "This is a bad ass piece of equipment and you will ruin the day of anyone it hits, or comes near." A hand was raised. "Yes?" he inquired.

  "It looks complicated as hell. All that writing and stuff on it. How are we supposed to learn this in one class?"

  "Because it's easy to operate. Don't pay any attention to what it says on the outside. I'll walk each of you through its operation."

  "Okay."

  "Now I don't expect you to display this speed, and it's not needed. But in the field this speed is normal." With that, Olsen tilted the missile launcher in his hands. His left hand quickly flipped the front sight up, then swept forward in a knife sweep to flip up the rear sight, then gripped the tube. His right hand pulled the rear shoulder strap down; then he raised the weapon to his shoulder as his right hand pulled the transport safety pin near the rear of the weapon. The flimsy-looking strap settled against his shoulder and he swiveled in place, his body taut as if he were aiming at a target.

  "At this point you would depress this red safety lever here," he indicated a red lever on the left side of the weapon, "and then the firing button here," and again he indicated a contact on the upper surface of the weapon. The whole process had taken Olsen seven seconds, and everyone stood up and began talking excitedly. As complaints about the speed of the arming and ready-to-fire were expressed, he set the launcher down after re-inserting the transport safety pin before addressing his students with a wide grin.

  "Listen up. I showed you the speed I can ready it, but I don't expect you to do the same. If it takes you thirty seconds, that's okay. The only important thing is that you aim it accurately at close targets and that several of you do not target the same vehicle. We'll be lined up in a row, and the vehicles will be approaching single file because of the congestion on the highway. From my far left to my far right, you will each take a vehicle starting with the foremost. If there are not enough vehicles to go around, fire on any remaining target. Got it?"

  "So if I'm the first on your left then I fire on the front one, right?" one woman called out.

  "Affirmative. We want to make sure all the vehicles are hit.

  "How do we aim it? It's huge!" another woman called out. Inwardly Olsen shrugged that none were raising their hands to speak, and replied quickly.

  "You look through the sights. They're illuminated. You line up on a vehicle, and when you're ready, you press the trigger. Listen up people! I will personally walk each and every one of you through each step until you feel confident, but we only have so much time to do this, as we need to get you in place within a few hours. Do not worry, you will do fine."

  Then Olsen proceeded to spend the next two hours working with each of the fifteen people before him, to perfect their understanding of the AT4. He guided each through every step with one exception. He let them fake, but not actually pull the safety pin out. An accident would have been catastrophic!

  After less than four hours, they were ready, and it was time to move out!

  *****

  Staff Sergeant Dale Redding lived for explosives, and that meant setting them off versus experiencing their close-hand effects. Currently he was under a newer Chevrolet Volt that was stalled out on Highway 405. In his hand was a one kilo (2.2 pound) block of C4. Personally, he thought it was overkill for this type of vehicle-turned-IED, but for all his quirks, he actually enjoyed orders when they made sense. That was not always the case in the units he had passed through, but qualifying for Special Forces had given his life new meaning. Originally an ordnance-technician-turned-bomb-disposal, he had found his true calling in the underworld of black operations. Especially those operations involving a band of men he could trust his life to without hesitation, and where he got to use explosives on a daily basis. Now he was in Paris, Missouri, under an electric hybrid car and shaping a charge.

  By itself, the battery on the Volt would make fantastic shrapnel. Combined with the rest of the vehicle, Redding figured it would be like a stellar explosion going off, guaranteed to either disintegrate or damage in a major way anyone passing with twenty meters.

  He had already removed the wrapping, and by pressing it hard against the axle had formed the block of explosive into a rough ‘C’ shape. Now he pressed it against the axle side and started hitting it with the meaty part of his fist. Damn shit was stiffer than fuck when it was cold, and even though he had carried it against his skin before removing it shortly before placement, the tough plastique was being a very difficult child in these temperatures. He had already replaced the block he was currently shaping with another against his skin, this new block taken from the satchel Russell now carried for him.

  First Sergeant Gary Russell was his point and security while he set the IEDs and armed them. They were both part of Blue Team, and were best friends. Russell's primary was medical, but that didn't stop him from being a damn good shooter. They were all cross-trained and very good at what they did, and this was an easy job, but he needed to get a move on. Dale still had five more charges to place.

  Angrily he hit the forming block several more times until the bitch finally stuck to the axle assembly. This was the important part. They needed the explosion to be directed toward the road and not in all directions. Quickly he wrapped lines of duct tape around it, then, pulling a preformed metal plate out of his right cargo pocket, placed it over the charge. After securing the explosive and plate with more tape, he thrust his hand out from under the Chevy Volt while whispering, "Need the det, bro."

  There were many forms of detonators, but this object that was almost instantly slapped into the palm of his hand was a rectangular modular with a copper-colored probe protruding from one end. Redding cupped it in his hand, then cradled it against his chest as he wiggled up to the shaped charge again. Carefully he inserted it into the clay-like substance he had just spent ten minutes molding, then armed it. This particular detonator was designed to be radio-controlled, and the explosion would occur instantly upon the device receiving the proper signal. They were all preset; this one was set for channel one, and the next would be channel two, and so forth. The tiny dipswitches on the backside of the module had already been adjusted. Carefully he inserted the device, and after securing it in place with a small length of tape, wiggled out.

  "Alright man, onto the next."

  "Let's do this," responded Russell, pulling him to his feet.

  *****

  Chapter 19

  Dr. Rossi was starting to smile as he directed the men placing the last post-op bed in place. In the last three hours, they had already accomplished much, for Rossi ranked supreme as a multi-tasker. It was 3 a.m. and they were preparing for an influx of wounded. He was tired, even though he had taken a nap that afternoon and slept for half of the flight. His tiredness didn't matter though, for soon, many would need his services.

  When he'd first arrived and surveyed the group’s makeshift hospital, he had been appalled, for all h
e’d seen was chaos amidst primitive conditions. Then, as the calm voice of Nurse Nancy Kerrigan directed him to the patients needing his immediate attention, she explained most of the activity around them.

  Slowly a picture of quiet competence appeared, and eventually he could not help but be impressed with what this group had achieved with so little. He had also been impressed with the surgical skill Nancy had shown with their current wounded. Dr. Rossi had only needed to re-open one of those he’d checked, for the others could be treated with a course of antibiotics. Under less than sterile conditions, he had quickly cleaned the abdominal wound, then shown Nancy where she had gone wrong in suturing up the lower intestines.

  Surgery complete and the medical supplies brought in, Rossi had turned the improvised hospital into two wards. Stripping everything out of the first room, he'd had workers wash it down with antiseptic, then set up a full surgical suite while the men and women were working on the second room, the room where patients would reside while recovering. After consultation with Nancy, Rodriguez, and the Reaper, they had decided on twelve beds. Rossi didn't like it when the Reaper made it clear the marauder wounded would not be initially treated, but he accepted the Reaper’s position and authority, and if they did end up with more wounded, additional beds could be brought in.

  "Doctor. I'd like you to meet someone." Nancy spoke up behind him, causing Rossi to turn, and he saw her sitting on one of the post-op beds holding a little girl who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. Then, as he approached, he saw she was actually closer to ten or eleven, and that the tiny girl's malnourished state had thrown his initial estimate off. "This is Heidi, Dr. Rossi, the girl I told you about," Nancy continued as she gently held the girl in her arms, a girl that clung desperately to the older woman.

  Nancy had indeed informed Rossi about this young lady. How her parents had been killed before her eyes and the couple who had taken her in after that horrific event, how she’d suffered the indignities of underground captivity for over a week, and then had been almost raped in a most savage and brutal way before the Reaper had saved her. Nancy had also told him that Heidi found it impossible to sleep more than an hour or two at a time, and suffered from recurring nightmares of her ordeals. Dr. Rossi was normally a cold and stern individual, but as he watched the way Nancy held the little girl he was reminded of his wife, when younger, and how she had held the little ones that came into the clinic. That is, before she became as cold and stern as he. In that moment, Rossi's heart melted just a little bit as he knelt before them while reaching out slowly for Heidi's hands.

  "Hello Heidi, my name is Dr. Rossi, and with Doctor Kerrigan's help we will try to make you better. May I hold your hands, little one?" Gently he turned his palms up, being careful not to actually touch her. He just waited, for this was his specialty. This was why he was so desperately needed, and the feeling that gave him was one of satisfaction and fulfillment.

  As he'd approached, the girl’s eyes had squeezed shut, her hands tightly clenched on Nancy's forearms, but now they were opening slowly. She watched him as he kept his gentle smile in place, then looked down at his hands before fastening her eyes on his face again. Her look was one of desperation and terror, and in that moment Dr. Rossi knew he would be hard put to go back to Newaygo. Newaygo had other Psychiatrists and he was desperately needed here.

  He waited patiently; this first step of patient trust was vitally important and could not be rushed. He was a man, but needed this little girl to view him as a doctor that was a friend, and one who would help make the bad dreams go away. Nancy, he noticed, was slowly stroking the girl’s back and upper left arm in an effort to east her fright and tension.

  "Doctor Rossi?" The child had finally spoken, her eyes wide in the florescent light, like giant pools of amber.

  "Yes, child." His voice remained gentle as he kept his palms extended, still not touching her, just waiting.

  "You can make the bad dreams go away?"

  "I will do my best, Heidi. I think I can, but you have to trust me." He kept waiting even though his knees were stiffening up. He was not a young man anymore, after all. He watched as slowly the little child's hands loosened, but she did not release Kerrigan and he continued to wait.

  "You’re a good guy?"

  "Yes, my dear, I am. You don’t need to be afraid of me," Rossi continued in the same calm voice, and continued to wait as he saw her hands slowly move from Nancy's arms to lie on the tops of his palms. Her brave, trust-filled feat caused his heart to completely melt.

  "Please don't hurt me, but please make the dreams go away." Then the child was crying, heavy sobs wracking her tiny frame as Rossi's hands gently enclosed hers and he leaned further forward to rest his head against hers. Inwardly he crowed with joy at the first, most important step toward recovery achieved.

  "I will never hurt you, little one," he murmured. Dr. Rossi had witnessed many things in his long career as a surgeon and then as a Psychiatrist. But right now, as his head rested against Heidi's, he felt her pain as if it were his own, and together they cried. He would see this child healed, and now there was no way he was going back to Newaygo. Here was his new home. Hopefully, his wife would join him, but if not, he was prepared for that also. He also realized that even if asked, he would not treat the marauders’ wounded. Jason, the Reaper, was right!

  *****

  Olsen crouched behind the small hillock of raised earth as he directed the fifteen people to lay down on the frozen, snow-covered ground with their weapons of destruction clutched tightly in their gloved hands. Even though it would leave the first assault team one man shy, he had been attached to Assault Team Two, which was comprised solely of civilians. They needed their instructor with them during that crucial moment when they faced life and death and had to rely on the skills he had just taught them to survive. He had no regrets, for this was what he had been trained and lived for.

  They were currently hiding fifty yards back, yet within five farmhouses to the west of Highway 405, and he had all his new people under cover. If this had been his old ODA, or Operational Detachment Alpha, as Special Forces teams were referred to, they would have had launchers on both sides of the road. In this case, it had been decided that friendly fire was unacceptable, thus they kept a tight group on one side. They were lined up facing the road and knew what to do. The last hour of coaching had been that of a solid movement into firing position, before target acquisition and release. They would stay hunkered down, which meant they were low enough to avoid friendly fire from the north assault group when his brothers skirmished south. When the signal came for Red Team to cease fire, Olsen and his new recruits would rise, form their line, and fire on the approaching marauder vehicles.

  "Remember to always wait on my commands," he called out, just loud enough to be heard in their vicinity but not so loud that the marauders could hear him. The brick fence of the cemetery was over a hundred yards to his north, and he had spent twenty minutes getting his people into position. A chorus of "Yes, sirs" greeted his announcement and inwardly he grinned. Most of these civilians had real potential, and were not only much smarter but had more common sense than many of the third world indigents he had helped train over the years. Olsen was in his element, and happy.

  "I know the ground is cold; deal with it, people. The operation is about to go hot and we'll be needed shortly. Do not under any circumstances raise your heads or bodies before I give the signal. It'll be scary for most of you. Rounds will be flying over our heads, but stay down until I tell you to rise. Do not panic or you're likely dead. Stay loose and calm. We'll have our turn."

  Another chorus of "Yes, sirs" greeted this announcement and he smiled again. He keyed his tactical headset tuned to command frequency.

  "A-2 in position."

  "Roger that. Reaper in position. Assault One and supporting elements, where are you at?" the rough voice of the Reaper answered him.

  "Fox Six in position, and about to commence" answered Rodriguez from his idling
M-ATV.

  "Whiskey Six, in position and holding." responded Schuster.

  "Blue Team. Status update," called out the Reaper.

  "Infiltrating now! Going to radio silence," answered Captain Hewitt.

  Olsen grinned to himself. It was about to get busy and he couldn't wait. Blue Team was about to infiltrate the compound from the south and secure the hostages. Upon achieving that objective, Red Team would commence their assault into the compound from the north as the M-ATVs fired into the cemetery from the west at targets of opportunity.

  He called out one last time, "Heads down people, it's commencing!" and then he was hugging the ground along with the fourteen others arrayed to either side of him, and waited.

  *****

  Captain Roger Hewitt crouched next to the decorative brick wall and, using hand signals, directed his men to scale the fence near several pines that provided close cover. Redding and Bloom were first, followed by Vanden and Schmidt. The others quickly followed, with McCombs and Dewey scaling the wall last. The heavy weapons personnel had their 240s strapped to their backs as they rolled over the low wall. Hewitt quickly followed, then slowly proceeded to the front of their column. They were moving in on the catacomb’s position and his suppressor was already attached.

  Six of his team, including him, carried suppressed weapons, which were not exactly silent. They could only be used in the right situation with the right background noise. Their objective was to secure the entrance and, secondarily, to set up a triage center for friendly wounded. All of them carried packs, some quite large. Hewitt continued to creep forward, giving hand signals for his men to follow.