The Big Bang (2 page)

Even though he was weaving through the frightened throngs, their unwashed faces, grimed clothes, and universally gaunt malnourished bodies rendered them all anonymous. He couldn't have told you what kind of people they were: black, white, Mexican, Chinese. He would have bet good money that they were OC, Original Citizens. The collaborators tended to look healthier, at least for a while.

Whistler raised the Baldwin high over his head. The sight of it was an instant passport. He glided through the OC like a shark in a school of minnows as they shoved and stumbled well clear of him. Poor bastards didn't want any of it, too beaten down to care, or just waiting for it to blow over.

Low thump ahead. Rocket Propelled Grenade. Inaccurate as hell, but perfect for punching a hole through an assault line or a building. In this case, it was the corner of the building, just to the west of the traffic light. Powdered brick masonry rocketed outward.

Like Pete Rose going for a steal at third, Whistler pumped his arms and legs and made a sliding dive at the base of that corner, trying to get below the scattering debris. He curled himself into a ball as he slid, arms over his head. Chunks of red brick pebble dropped around him.

He wiped the grit from his eyes. He didn't have the Baldwin. After a brief moment of throat-thudding panic, he pawed it out of the debris on the sidewalk, slung it forward. There was a crater about the size of a basketball in the corner of the building, five feet above the ground.

Whistler knew he wasn't doing anybody a damn bit of good here. To his left, he could hear the sound of the Baldwins' desperate chattering. They sounded like pop guns compared to the booming reports of that damned 50-caliber machine gun. Rat-bastard Yemenis, it was probably one they'd lifted from a US Armory.

If this went on much longer, the shakes were going to get him. Cussing his cowardice as if he was an obstinate mule, Whistler forced himself to grab a fast look. He popped his head up long enough to see that it was one hell of a party.

Gordon and the boys to the east, damn it; they'd gotten themselves pinned down in that old coffee shop. The Humvee was directly opposite them, blocked by the burning wreckage of the semi tractor. The Yemeni recruits had piled out of the Hummer and were firing in all directions. They were doing a lot of damage to windows and doors, but at least one rag-head sergeant had gotten his recruits to shoot at the building that was actually shooting at
them
.

And the .50. There were still two Yemenis on the rear of the semi trailer. One was guiding the ammo belts; the other was firing at the coffee shop, the 50-caliber metal-jacketed shells chewing fist-sized chunks out of the front of the shop. If Whistler'd had time to swear, he would have. He'd told Gordon to put a few boys on the other side of the street, but you can't tell Gordon anything. Never could.

Whistler's thumb checked the safety on the Baldwin without conscious thought. He was too far from the semi for anything like accurate suppressing fire. The best he could do was start flinging lead in their direction. It'd distract the machine gun; bring a whole crap-load of trouble on his head. But maybe it would create enough of a diversion for Gordon to get some of those kids out the back of the coffee shop.
No sense in all of us gettin' killed
, Whistler thought as he stood.

He stepped out from the side of the building. The hole in the masonry was no good; he needed to be able to aim up at the semi. The first rounds from the Baldwin plinked low, punching holes low into the sheet metal sides of the trailer like a sheep's footprints in mud. Whistler adjusted, lifted the barrel of the Baldwin higher. He wasn't as much shooting at the two Yemenis as hurling lead high at them and hoping some of them hit. His first shots split the sandbags piled around the machine gun; well
that
got the Yemeni soldiers' attention. They dove down behind the sandbags for a quick conference while hot metal rain continued to fall from the Baldwin.

He didn't have much time, Whistler knew. One of the senior soldiers over at the Humvee would be quick to notice that the machine gun was no longer keeping Gordon and the boys pinned down so they could be killed with a minimum of fuss or discomfort. Either the soldiers in the Humvee would take him out, or the two brain surgeons running the 50-cal would get ambitious. If he got close enough to the semi, the Baldwin could send two more of the faithful to Paradise. He'd better make this count.
The Lord hates a coward
.

Whistler ran out into the intersection. As he did, he saw what he had feared. A brown arm reached up from behind the dribbling sandbags, groped for the trigger of the 50, while a separate arm reached out from an angle, grabbed the handle and swiveled the barrel in Whistler's general direction.

Holding the Baldwin high over his head, Whistler clamped his finger over the trigger, sweeping the rifle across the sandbags, aiming at the base of the machine gun, trying to blast away those controlling hands. The Baldwin against a 50-cal: worse than bringing a knife to a gunfight. To his right, Whistler heard Gordon's Baldwins start up. Without the 50-cal filling the air with death, they could lift their heads and make a stand. Maybe he'd bought 'em a little time.

No time left for Whistler. The barrel of the 50-cal was tilting down at him, cranking right, splinters of black asphalt peppering him as each bullet moved closer. Maybe he could run up under the trailer, but what for? What good would that do Gordon and the kids too stupid to know better than to listen to him? Whistler stood his ground, the Baldwin bucking in his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, Whistler saw something crossing the top of the semi.
Lightning
.

Her name was Taneisha. But everybody called her Lightning. She was the fastest human they'd ever seen with their own eyes. The crazy woman had scaled the far end of the trailer, and was running across the top toward the still-working machine gun nest at the rear. Her Baldwin was slung across her back, and she held two mismatched pistols in either hand.

Lightning's first shot hit the ass end of the 50-cal, knocking it off line where it had been poised to ventilate Whistler. Shrieking some kind of insane war cry, Lightning ran right up on the sandbags and emptied her clips.

The two dead Yemenis hadn't even quit jerking from the impact of the bullets before Lightning leaped in amid the blood and offal and bits of burning uniform, slammed back the charging bolt on the 50-cal, and swung it over to center on the Humvee.

After Lightning's bullets had turned the Humvee's cab and its occupants into bloody sieves, the Yemeni recruits quit firing. One took off his head scarf thing, waved it in the universal signal. They'd all heard the Imams preaching the usual nonsense about the American butchers, but at least one of the now-dead sergeants must've clued them in on the odds. The Americans would fight them to the last man, if they were forced. If you didn't force them, you might get out of the fight alive. The first time.

With Lightning covering him from atop the trailer, he eased out toward the Humvee. The air stank of cordite, blood, vomit, and smoke, while someone writhed and moaned beside the Hummer. Whistler spoke Arabic like an autistic three-year-old, but the meaning of his garbled words was clear. “Throw down your weapons; come out with your hands up.”

A few rifles skittered out into the street. Then the rest of them came, spinning in the road. The first Yemeni recruit stepped out fearfully, ignoring Whistler. He had eyes only for Lightning as she leaned into the 50-cal. Whistler called to him. “Hey!”

The Yemeni kid looked at him. Whistler motioned with the Baldwin. The Yemeni kid dropped to his knees, hands behind his head. The rest slowly shuffled out.

Whistler heard footsteps behind him, boots powdering glass on the sidewalk. Gordon and a bunch of white-faced, shaky kids.

Kids. Kids shooting at kids. What a mess. Whistler spared a glance at Gordon. He'd talk to him later, privately, about what a complete circle jerk Gordon had made of the ambush.

But, for Gordon, it was showtime. He might have been trying for Clint Eastwood (
God rest his soul
). Gordon leveled his Baldwin at the kneeling prisoners. “We don't have time. They might've got off a distress call.” His volume went up just a little for the benefit of the kids he had almost gotten killed. “We're only sixty miles from Needles. Better grease 'em now.”

Whistler turned his head slowly toward him, keeping his own weapon pointed at the Yemenis. This stupid insurance salesman was going to buck his authority? Here, in front of Whistler's kids?

A harsh sound made everyone turn their heads, including the terrified Yemeni prisoners. Lightning had racked back the charging bolt on the 50-cal, and when that barrel creaked around to center on Gordon, Whistler knew it looked as big as a cannon.

Her voice carried clear across the street, ringing in the strange silence that came after a firefight. “Lonesome George said we don't kill first-timers. That's the Law, Corporal.”

Knowing that Lightning had his back, Whistler stepped across to Gordon. His voice was low, like a knife coming in under your eyeline. “We don't kill unarmed prisoners.” Without thinking, Whistler's hand reached out, brushed across the barrel of Gordon's weapon. The barrel was cool. His fingers curled hard around the long metal cylinder, which kept him from throttling the owner. “You don't have the stones to shoot at them when they can shoot back, don't try to make up for it now.”

Whistler addressed the recruits behind Gordon. “Notch 'em. Take their boots, and send 'em out to Needles.” A chorus of “yes, sirs” broke out.

A stick-skinny recruit, Paley, spoke up. “What about the wounded guy?” He meant the dark figure by the rear of the Humvee that kept moaning through clenched teeth.

“I'll check him,” Whistler said. “Now hurry up. Paley, you notch.”

Whistler watched them for a second, to make sure they were going to do it right. There were maybe twelve Yemenis kneeling in the street. Three of the Americans leveled Baldwins at them. Paley pulled a huge Bowie knife from behind his back. Whistler sighed. He was gonna have to take over training these kids. Big-ass Bowie knife. Showy, bright shiny metal, but only good for slicing roast beef. More of Gordon's influence. Whistler had a good old-fashioned K-Bar Marine Survival knife, himself.

Paley positioned himself behind the first Yemeni recruit, a dark-complexioned kid almost his age whose eyes bulged with fear.

Exasperated, Whistler barked at Paley, “Stand to the side! You want to get shot by our guys if your boy there makes a break? And give 'em the speech first. The poor bastard thinks you're going to cut his throat.”

Sheepishly, Paley took a step that brought him out to the right of the first prisoner. In memorized, phonetic Arabic, Paley announced, “You have one chance to leave America. We are going to mark you. Americans everywhere know this sign. If they find you fighting us again, you will receive no mercy.”

Then Paley turned back to the Yemeni. He took the young man's right ear delicately between his fingers, made a quick horizontal slice from the middle of the ear almost to the scalp. The Yemeni recruit took it stoically, muscles in jaw jumping when the blade cut through his ear, but refusing to cry out. Whistler nodded approvingly at both the kids. The Bowie was sharp at least, and Paley worked like a surgeon, no unnecessary sawing. Whistler had seen guys who might as well have used rusty spoons with all the hacking they did at the prisoners' ears.

The Yemeni was now “notched.” Lonesome George didn't want Americans to descend to the level of the invaders, but neither could the Americans run a catch-and-release program. Any notched soldier captured in battle was executed summarily. You only got one Get Out of Jail Free card these days.

A faint moan interrupted his thoughts. Whistler turned toward it. One last dirty job to do. It was a hell of a thing. He was right, fighting to free his country…but he never felt good, even when he knew he was doing the right thing.

Baldwin ready, Whistler approached the wounded man. He was older, which meant he was all of thirty-five or so. Unlike most of the Yemeni recruits, he was clean shaven. That was a sign. These boys had been out a while. If they'd been closer to the ruling Imams, the Prophet's Chosen would have been enforcing Hadith, or proper living.

The clean-shaven man lay on his back, head propped against one flat tire of the Humvee. His teeth were gritted, his hands clutching down low on his abdomen.

Behind him, Whistler could hear some hurried words from the kneeling Yemeni recruit.

The wounded man suddenly spoke. “They're saying she's a djinn.” His voice was accented, not typical invader, an odd mix of the foreign and the familiar, yet his English was clear.

Whistler scanned the area around the man, making sure there were no weapons in easy reach, then squatted beside him.

“A gin. Like a genie?”

The wounded man nodded. Then grimaced and swore. “Hurts bad.”

“Won't get any better.”

The wounded man nodded. “Shoulda stayed in Boston.”

Well, that explained the accent. Whistler had a canteen. He unscrewed the cap, poured a little water in the cap, and lifted it to the man's lips. “You were in Boston?”

The man gratefully let the water dribble into his mouth. “Yeah, a baker. I didn't learn English back home.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“My dad got sick. Had fifteen or twenty brothers and sisters to take care of. Republican Guard drafted me as soon as I got home.”

Whistler pointed to the ragged scar running across the man's ear, where the notch had been roughly stitched up. “No, what the hell are you doing
here
?” He gave the man some more water. You shouldn't let wounded men drink, he knew, but it wouldn't matter. “Why didn't you go back?”

The Baker shook his head. “Don't you know what they do if you try to leave?”