Divided We Fall by W.J. Lundy Read Free Book Online Page A

soldier stepped out, pointing a flat
hand.
    “Hey buddy! What
the hell you think you’re doing?” the driver yelled.
    Shane opened his
mouth to speak, to tell them about the men in black, but not before a
suppressed round hit the standing soldier square in the chest. The driver
looked back at Shane with surprise on his face. Shane looked back at the trees
in time to see a second muzzle flash. The Humvee’s turret gunner came alive,
firing high, his rounds ripping up a trail of dirt. Shane turned back and saw
that the machine gunner was hit but still trying to operate his gun.
    The turret gun went
silent as the gunner succumbed to his wounds. The men in black seemed to have
not noticed Shane; they must have been attracted to the Humvee’s sudden stop.
    Probably thought
the soldier’s yells were directed at them. Shane backed away from the
corner, still on his belly. He slowly rose to his knees as the house front door
swung open. Chelsea rushed out, carrying her rifle and pulling Ella along close
behind. Shane stood quickly and grabbed her arm.
    “Shane, there are
men back there! Same as be—”
    He held a hand to
his lips, silencing her.
    “Quickly, follow
me,” he whispered.

 
    Chapter 8
     
     
     
    The aircraft banked
hard, creaking as it turned. Cloud felt his stomach drop and his ears pop; he
looked to the left and could see the tan of the desert and gray of the
mountains through his small portside window. The drab gray passenger
compartment sat empty, rows of seats ran down the center, and more webbed jump
seats lined the outer walls of the fuselage. Cloud looked up, stretching his
neck and staring at the exposed ceiling filled with twisting conduits and
mechanical tubing.
    It wasn’t his first
time on a military transport. Back before he received orders to ride a desk,
Cloud had done his share of rotations to the sandbox both as a battalion and
company commander. The desk life was easier on the family but harder on his
ego. The field kept him young, the desk made him feel old. He looked around the
plane and shook his head. In those days, this aircraft would have been packed
shoulder to shoulder with men armed to the teeth and bulked up with armor and
equipment. A real can of whoop–ass they joked, crammed into seats so
tight it was hard to breathe. Cloud looked down at his feet and closed his
eyes; he knew those days would never come back.
    His headset
squelched to life. Cloud shifted his focus and looked to the front; an airman waved
to catch his attention and spoke into a microphone. “Sir, we are thirty
mikes out, on approach.”
    Cloud pressed a
switch on the cord of his headset; he acknowledged the call and unbuckled his
lap belt before walking to the front of the aircraft. An enlisted man in a
baggy green flight suit stood near a bulkhead; he approached Cloud when he saw
him then handed off a yellow headset connected to a long coiled cord. Cloud
took it in his hand as the man leaned in close and shouted over the drone of
the engines, “Sir, the satellite phone is all linked up, ready to dial on your
order.”
    Cloud nodded and
put on the headset. He pulled on a wire frame and set the microphone just in
front of his lips. Cloud closed his eyes and took a deep breath before
signaling the airman with exaggerated thumbs up, the indication for him to
place the call. Cloud heard a series of clicks as the call bounced through
satellite relays, searching for a viable connection. It took far longer than
usual but Cloud knew the network was degraded; some of the analysts even
predicted the entire system could be down in less than thirty days.
    With no one left to
steer and align the birds, the orbits would degrade and eventually they would
fall to the ground. A loud, steady tone and the simulated dialing noise focused
him. Cloud rehearsed his lines in his head and waited for the call to connect.
A solid click and static buzz filled his headset.
    “Sergeant Turner
here,” a metallic voice said.
    “Sergeant,