Red Hammer 1994

The racket ended as suddenly as it had started, leaving only wispy white smoke mixed with the acrid smell of spent gunpowder, and the groans and moans of a few gravely wounded men. Remote, sporadic gun play still punctuated the night air. Thomas had managed to squeeze off only two rounds before a collapsing enemy soldier had knocked him flat. He pushed the body aside, the man’s blood flowing freely and smearing over his uniform. Struggling to his feet, Thomas’s mind was transfixed by the incredible carnage strewn across the floor. Crimson pools formed near the corpses; while a single light flickered eerily, creating strange shadows, which danced across the tattered canvas, spent shell casings, and heaps of bodies. At first glance, no one appeared to have survived the onslaught unscathed except him. Thomas instinctively surveyed himself for personal damage, but the only candidate was the intense ringing in his ears.

Thomas stepped over several bodies, searching for Alexander. Where he had been earlier was identified solely by a pair of protruding boots under two intertwined dead soldiers. Looking up, he was caught off guard by a lone soldier poking his head through the tent flap, then stepping through, weapon cradled under his arm. His movement gave the distinct impression he knew what he wanted. Thomas stepped forward, raising his pistol and pointing it directly at the man’s face. His arm shook slightly, giving the gentleman at the business end of the Beretta a false sense of confidence.

“Who are you?” Thomas said slowly, the resonance in his head making the words sound flat.

The soldier appeared unusually calm. He had ice-cold eyes that darted around the carnage in the tent, taking calculated measure.

“Sergeant Jimenez, 75th Rangers, sir.” He smiled a shallow, false grin. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, only the steady gaze of a well-trained killer. Thomas’s eyes locked on the man’s torso. Ranger? I don’t see a patch, he said to himself. The stranger’s eyes narrowed. He sensed Thomas’s discovery and grabbed for a grenade fixed to his webbed belt. Thomas fired rapidly, squeezing off each well-aimed shot. The first slug caught the upper reaches of the soldier’s body armor, jerking him backward from the impact but inflicting no wound. The following bullets walked north, catching the soldier square in the neck and face but not until he had pulled the pin. The loose grenade bounced on the deck the same time the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor.

Thomas dove left just as the fragmentation grenade detonated in a blinding flash, shredding the tent sides and splintering furniture. In midair at detonation, Thomas was bowled over, thrown hard on the ground. Only a mangled pelican case had stood between him and death. As he struggled to his feet, blood streamed from his ears and nose, and a sharp pain jabbed his arm. The ringing in his ears was replaced by a dull nothingness. He collapsed back to earth and lay perfectly still in the protective blackness, gasping and choking in the billowing smoke. Several minutes passed before faint voices captured his ears. Slowly the ability to detect sound returned. A bright flashlight flickered across the far canvas, coming to rest squarely above his face. Thomas froze. They were back for another go, the mop-up crew. He groped for his weapon—it was nowhere to be found. The only recourse left was to attempt to slide under the shredded canvas and into the night. That effort failed miserably.

“Something’s moving there, sir.”

Colonel Harcourt’s sweaty, dirt-streaked face peered at Thomas from behind a camping lantern.

“General Thomas?”

Thomas weakly responded, raising one arm. Two Rangers grabbed him under the armpits, dragging him roughly to his feet.

“Can you stand, sir?”

“I think so.” He wobbled in place, his bad hip jabbing with pain. The Rangers guided him to a crate and gently lowered Thomas to his rear. An army medic approached and gave him the once-over. One of his shoulders felt like it had been slammed by a buffalo. Blood dripped from an arm.

Others in the rescue party rigged temporary lighting, bathing the interior in brilliant, white light. While Thomas watched from his seat, Harcourt moved among the bodies, mentally noting the identity of each. He seemed unaffected by the devastation, a veteran of far worse spectacles.

“Over here,” he shouted, “Secretary Genser’s still alive.”

Genser’s shattered body clung to life despite multiple bullet wounds from the assault. A stretcher team carefully lifted his body to the taut canvas, securing the webbed straps.

“Get him to the hospital tent.”

Harcourt continued to move among the dead. “That’s it,” he observed matter-of-factly. “General Thomas, can you make it over here?” The two Rangers had to help him.