Chapter 20- Blue on Blue

Chapter 20

Blue on Blue

Villa Cyranno, Venezuela

Dalton’s team moved quickly, crossing the village.  There were shouts and cries from the villagers.  The head man, Don Brazzo, came forward forcefully from the pack.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

“We don’t have time now,” replied Dalton.

“What’s going on here?” asked Brazzo, his tone nearly hysterical.

“I’m sorry,” replied Dalton, picking up the pace.

The confused villagers watched them go.  Don Brazzo turned to the crowd and tried to calm them down but there was little chance of that now.  The soldiers, who had brought death and destruction to their remote village were now acting like they were running for their lives.

Harrison and Roburn followed at Dalton’s heel, heading towards the parked helicopter.

“Chopper’s still there at least,” muttered Harrison.

“That’s something,” said Dalton.

“I guess we can head back?” asked Roburn.

“We gotta check on Jones, isolate him if possible,” said Dalton.

Dalton kept his breathing slow and steady.  He cursed himself for being so stupid, so careless.  He cursed himself for not being more decisive.  The men had been right, he had been in over his head ever since this had move from the original crash site.  He began to wonder if that wasn’t why he had been chosen in the first place for the mission, had General Pierce wanted it to get out of hand?

Dalton resolved to himself that once the chopper was secure he would deal with Pierce as best he could.  How he could deal with a three star general was an entirely different matter but Dalton would find a way.

They rushed up the ramp, Dalton drawing his pistol as he went.  Harrison also drew his own side-arm.  There was a yell from inside and Jones, sat in a chair, brought his P-90 sub-machine gun up.

“Woah!” exclaimed Harrison.

“Woah yourself!” replied Jones, clearly caught utterly by surprise.

“Where’s Ostrow?” asked Dalton.

“I’m right here,” came the voice from behind them in the cockpit.

Ostrow saw that Dalton was pointing a gun at Jones and Jones had a machine-gun trained on the duo in the helicopters doorway.

“Put the gun down Jones,” said Dalton.  His focus was clear now, he pointed the pistol at Jones.

“Why the fuck are you aiming a gun at me?” yelled Jones.

“Sarge what the fuck?” shouted Ostrow.  His hand went to his own side-arm but he didn’t draw his weapon.  Harrison’s weapon was at his side.

“Sergeant Jones, you were given an order.  Now put that weapon on safe and put it on the ground,” growled Harrison.

“Do it!” shouted Dalton.  Jones kept the P-90 aimed right ahead of him.

“I’m not putting this gun down until he does,” he shouted back.

“Put it down, this is your last fucking warning,” shouted Dalton.

“Fuck you,” came Jones’s reply.  Dalton’s hands shook, the pistol moving slightly in his hands.

“God damn it,” said Dalton to himself.  Dalton closed his eyes for a second, the certainty seemed to fade from his vision and he felt faint again.

“He’s cracked, he’s fucking crazy,” came Jones’s panicked voice.

“Sarge, Major, you guys needed to both put em down before someone gets hurt here, what the hell is going on?” asked Ostrow.  It was, after all, a reasonable thing to ask.

Jones had just begun to lower the weapon when there was a loud sound, it could have been a gunshot, an explosion or something colliding with the helicopter, it was hard to tell.  It was quickly joined by a number of other sounds.

Dalton’s finger pulled the trigger twice on the nine millimeter pistol.  A round exploded above Jones's collarbone, under his shoulder.  Jones was thrown back but his finger clutched the trigger of the P-90 spasmodically.  A burst of machine gun fire ripped through the helicopter.

Three round punched through Sergeant Harrison’s chest, moving up in a diagonal right ot left line.  The veteran Sergeant was thrown backwards into Captain Ostrow.  Dalton, mistaking this for deliberate return fire, moved forward firing at Jones.

Round after round exploded into Sergeant Jones’s chest and neck.  He twitched horribly as each round hit him.  Dalton stopped at near point blank range.  The empty magazine fell from his pistol.  Dalton’s hands were shaking and his face and turned an ashen colour.

Captain Ostrow was trying to get to his feet when Specialist Roburn stood on his chest.

Ostrow looked up at the other air force man.  Roburn knelt down with speed and fierceness and gripped Ostrow’s face from both sides.

There was a terrible rending and tearing sound from behind Dalton.  There was a terrified but thankfully short scream from Ostrow.  Dalton shook his head and reached to his side for the spare magazine for his pistol.  Roburn’s hands were now covered in blood, as was his face.

When Roburn turned around, Dalton had pulled a clip free and jammed the magazine into the pistol with shaking hands.  But Gilles Roburn’s face was nothing human.  His eyes were just dark, bleeding pits.  His mouth was huge, a jagged split that broke his head in two at the jawline.  Huge, jagged teeth filled that mouth.

“No, no,” managed Dalton.  He chambered a round before Roburn collided with him.

Dalton was flung back against the wall by the impact.

Villa Escobar, Venezuela

 “Captain, we got a situation here,” called Sergeant Timmons.

Captain Price approached the corner check point.  Timmons and Wydlaw were set up around an SAW, its fearsome muzzle pointing ahead.

“There sir,” pointed Timmons.  Four men on foot were approaching.  All of them were in US army uniform.

“What the hell do we do now?” thought Price.  The orders had been clear, they were to shoot anyone approaching on foot and then burn them.  But these were armed US army personnel.

“This is Captain Price, United States Marine Corps.  Stop and be recognized,” he shouted.  Price grabbed Wydlaw by the shoulder.

“Keep on them Corporal,” he breathed.  The SAW gunner nodded and kept an eye trained on the four man patrol.

“This is Lieutenant David Lambert, we have orders to end your operation.  You’ve been firing on civilians,” came the reply.

“We have express orders to do so from Sat-Com,” came Price’s reply.

“Those orders are rescinded, they are illegal orders,” shouted Lambert.  Lambert’s men, all armed, stood to his side.

“Skirmish line, they are in a skirmish line,” said Timmons.  Timmons trained his M4 carbine on them.

“Lieutenant, you take even one more step and I’ll order my men to light you and your men up,”

“Captain, you and you’re marines are to stand down, by order of the United States Government,” came Lambert’s reply.

“Last God-damned warning Lieutenant,” called Price.

“What is wrong with you Captain?  Stand down!” came the reply.

“Light em up,” said Price.

“Sir?” replied Wydlaw.

“Light em the fuck up,” hissed Price.

“Sir they’re our guys?” said Timmons..

“We’ve got clear orders, open fire,” said Price.

Someone in Lambert’s detail made life easier for Corporal Wydlaw, he raised an M16 rifle.  Wydlaw opened fire with his SAW and another SAW gunner at the other check point joined in.  A raking burst of 5.56mm machine gun fire cut the patrol down where they stood.  Lambert went down, a look of total bafflement on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” said Timmons.

“We had our orders, we had our fuckin’ orders,” said Price, cursing the day he had put on the uniform.  “Ok we got to burn them, we got to burn the bodies,” said Price to his men.

“What?” the men did not like this order very much.  Again, “luck” was with them.  Another four man patrol opened fire from a distance.  A round hit Price under the chin, he slumped back slowly.  His final expression was one of total frustration.

“Return fire, target’s one o’clock” shouted Timmons, galvanized into action.

Tracer rounds zipped back and forth.

But for Captain Price, the day and the crisis were both mercifully over.

Satcom, Somewhere in Virginia

“What the fuck is going on down there?” shouted Petersen.  There was a flashing red symbol by the “Infected Zone 2” marker.

“Captain Price’s unit is under fire, “ replied a Sergeant.

“Jesus Christ, who from?” asked the General.

“I think we’ve got a blue on blue contact here,” said Captain Thomas.

“Get me some fuckin’ answers Captain,” growled Petersen.  “I need to know who is shootin’ at who!”

The non-coms and junior officers in the room went into a storm of activity.  Petersen sat down for a moment, the pain in his knees and hands was bad.  He looked around and wondered why no one was closely supervising his men.

He remembered that he’d had to send Colonel Adams down to the hangar bay to take care of the casualty. 

“Someone get me a sit-rep from Colonel Adams,” said Petersen to the nearest man.

A sergeant nodded and went to a radio.  Petersen looked around again, where was the weasel?

“And a sit-rep on Colonel Sickles, I need to know where he is,” said Petersen.

The same Sergeant nodded again.  Petersen had known Master Sergeant Wilcox since he had came up, during Desert Storm.  Petersen put a hand on his shoulder and leant in to speak to him.  It was a low, confidential whisper.

“Sarge, find another non-com you trust. I want you to go to the small-arms locker and arm yourselves.  Body-armor too,” he said.

Master Sergeant Wilcox who had learned nearly everything he knew from the General, who had come up seeing the General leading from the front, who had been awarded his first set of stripes by the General (back when he only had the one star) nodded and obeyed without any questions at all.

Major General Petersen walked slowly over to his radio and picked up the receiver.

“This is Petersen here, I’m placing a call for the Secretary of Defence,”