Strength of the Pack (30 page)

Noah looked from Lucas to the truck and back again. He glanced at the gate and the werewolves gathered there. He didn’t jump into the back of truck.

“We have seven and half klicks to go,” Lucas said sharply. “You run what? Forty-two mph? The vehicles go sixty, sixty-five mph. Get in the truck.”

Noah barked twice at the wolves and leaped into the back of the truck. The pack arrived in a rush and joined him, two at a time. Lucas closed the tailgate and turned to organize the humans.

He assigned a heavy gunner and a driver to each victor. With Corporal Hubbard in wolf form, Lucas needed a new driver, and he selected Corporal Branch. With five Marines per vehicle, they were taking three vehicles in addition to Lucas’ truck full of werewolves.

Lucas secured his Kevlar over his radio headset. He was slipping on his body armor when Captain Madison appeared.

“Kick their asses, Lieutenant,” Tim said.

“That’s the plan, sir,” he replied.

Gunny McAlister approached, loaded down with ammo cans. Without a word, he handed Lucas and Corporal Branch several full magazines. Lucas shoved the ammunition into every pocket or piece of webbing that would hold it.

“I heard the howl. Did Hammond call the Pack?” Madison asked.

“Yes, sir. I’ve got five wolves in the back of my truck.” He slapped his hand against the canvas covering the rear of the vehicle.

Vince gathered up the ammo cans and moved on to arm the rest of the platoon.

“I’ll be monitoring,” Tim said with a clap to Lucas’ arm.

“Roger that, Captain.” Lucas secured his M16 to his battle sling.

Climbing up into the truck, Lucas ordered the platoon to precede him as they stepped off. The four teams sailed through the main gate and turned north.

“Do you have any idea who Fox-three-one-actual is?” Lucas asked Branch, wanting to know who three-one’s team leader was.

“It’s Sergeant Walstad, sir,” Branch replied, not taking his eyes from the rutted road.

“Fox-three-one; Fox-two-actual,” Lucas hailed the embattled Marines, identifying himself as the platoon commander.

The sound of heavy gunfire filled the comm channel as Sergeant Walstad answered. “Go for Fox-three-one.”

“Update your sitrep,” Lucas ordered.

“We’re holding our position, sir,” Walstad answered. “No additional casualties. Just don’t know for how much longer.”

“Roger that. We’re en route now,” Lucas advised him.

“Solid copy. Fox-three-one out.” Walstad’s transmission ended.

Lucas kept his link with Noah wide open as they raced toward the raging battle. Noah sent him clear impressions of his wishes. Lucas could find nothing to disagree with. Since Marine werewolves had managed to draw the enemy pack away from the battle and keep them engaged behind Fox-three’s position, Noah wanted to make an approach on foot, cutting off the possibility of retreat.

When the sounds of gunfire became audible without the radios, Lucas knew they were close.

“All Fox-two victors, flank the enemy by dispersing laterally across the road,” he ordered. “Stay behind cover, draw their fire away from Fox-three.”

Each of the teams acknowledged his order.

“Halt the truck, Corporal,” Lucas told Branch.

“Sir?” he questioned, even as he slowed the vehicle.

“We’re dropping the wolves so they can make their approach,” Lucas explained.

“Roger that,” Branch said, bringing them to a jarring stop.

Lucas started to get out to drop the gate of the truck, but the wolves had no intention of waiting. Noah was the first one out. He literally hit the ground running. The younger, smaller wolves chased after him but stayed several yards behind.

Branch put the truck back in gear to follow the rest of the teams into the battle. Lucas watched in wonder as Noah led his wolves across the frozen ground. Noah was at full speed, his large paws a blur as they ate up the distance. With each stride, he reached full extension, his spine bending as he powered across the landscape. Lucas watched the pack approach the embattled werewolves in the distance, cutting the hostiles off from their humans.

He expected Noah to slow just before he launched his attack, but Noah had no such plan. His gigantic white body slammed into one of the enemy wolves, knocking it from atop one of the Marine wolves. The force of the blow sent the smaller wolf rolling into one of its own companions. Both of them hit the ground in a great plume of dust.

The remainder of Noah’s pack swarmed the scene of the wolf battle, engaging the hostile wolves and giving the three battered Fox-three wolves a chance to regroup.

“What’s the plan, LT?” Branch asked.

“Get us next to the culvert,” Lucas replied, adjusting his M16 in preparation for stepping into the raging battle. “Turn so the rear of the truck faces the enemy positions. Get yourself to cover in once piece, Corporal.”

Lucas held tight as Branch swung the lumbering vehicle around and slammed on the brakes. They slid forward on the gravel before coming to a hard stop. Lucas kicked open his door and leaped out, dropping into a crouch. He watched Branch break cover and make for the culvert, successfully jumping down with the rest of the Marines.

Shouldering his weapon, it was Lucas’ turn to break cover. He fired at anything that looked like a hostile. He reached the culvert and jumped down, pressing his back against the dirt wall. Reaching out, Lucas felt for the link with Noah that had grown distant. It roared back to life with his query.

Noah was focused and intense. He and the pack had encircled the enemy wolves and were wearing them down. There was no escape, and the Marine wolves were picking them off, one by one. One of the Fox-three wolves was wounded and had been ordered out of the fight by Noah.

A lean, sand colored wolf suddenly pinned Grant by the throat, and Noah leaped to the rescue. Lucas backed out of the connection when Noah sank his teeth into the wolf’s throat, and they both tasted blood.

“Gimme a sitrep, Sergeant Walstad,” Lucas shouted over the sounds of M16s and AK-47s.

Walstad crawled over to him. “I got three wounded, sir, but Doc’s got ’em stable. Your men have the enemy flanked and are drawing a lot of the fire away from us. Together, we’re holdin’ ’em off; maybe now we can push ’em back enough to make it back to the victors.”

Dust plumes rose up from the edge of the culvert as enemy rounds struck nearby. “Those we don’t kill we’re going to capture, Sergeant,” Lucas replied, hunching farther into his armor. Marines were wounded, and Lucas wasn’t in the mood to allow a retreat.

“Roger that, sir,” Walstad replied with a grim smile. “Can you tell how the wolves are doin’?”

“One of your wolves is wounded but alive,” Lucas reported. “Sergeant Hammond and the rest are slowly ripping the hostile wolves apart.”

“Fuck yeah,” the Sergeant enthused. “Sir.”

“How’s your ammo holding out?” Lucas didn’t bother holding back his smile.

They both ducked reflexively as an AK round struck low into the culvert. “We’re runnin’ low, sir,” Walstad replied. “The battle was pretty intense before you guys got here.”

Lucas and Branch both handed over several of the magazines they had shoved into their webbing, prepared for this very situation. Keying his mic, Lucas told his men that ammunition was needed in the culvert, if a few of them could make their way this direction.

He rejoined the gunfire, seeking out targets with his M16. He aimed at the hostiles he could identify, firing off three-round bursts. A sudden roar of gunfire erupted from the Marines’ flanking position. From the corner of his eye, Lucas saw Sergeant Viejo cross a patch of open road and throw himself into the culvert. He righted himself, handed out magazines of ammo and took up a firing position over the rim of the culvert.

Moments later, Catinella made the same journey as Viejo.

“We’re good for ammo, LT,” called Sergeant Walstad.

Lucas thought he heard sounds of a wolf fight from behind their position. He reached out to Noah and found him darkly satisfied and licking blood from his own muzzle. He stood over the body of a dying wolf: the enemy’s pack leader.

“Our werewolves have successfully completed their mission,” Lucas broadcast to his Marines. The cheers that went up were just what he wanted. With a boost of morale, he intended to keep up their momentum.

An eerie wolf howl suddenly filled the air. It was stunning in its volume. Lucas recognized it as Noah, but it still caused gooseflesh to rise on his skin. He could only imagine the enemy’s reaction. The howl held triumph and menace. It sounded almost like a warning. A second howl rose up and this time, the rest of the pack joined their voices to Noah’s. Lucas was very glad these were
his
wolves.

“Holy shit. Hammond’s a scary motherfucker when he wants to be,” a Marine remarked dryly.

Lucas ordered Noah to keep the wolves back. They had no armor. The howls had gone a long way toward helping the rest of them turn the tide of this battle.

“Fox-two-two,” Sergeant Fowler’s voice sounded on comms. “LT, we got hostiles retreating to the rear.”

It was a good sign, but Lucas didn’t dare celebrate, yet. “Copy that,” he responded. “I’ll send the wolves to deal with them.”

“Roger that.” There was a note of humor in Fowler’s voice.

Lucas sensed that Noah was already in motion. He sent an order for the wolves to restrain as many as possible, otherwise let them flee. Noah’s sense of humor was evident in the image he sent of a wolf with a dog’s chew toy.

The enemy gunfire began to lighten. “Sir, we got hostiles attempting to surrender.” Fowler broadcast.

“Secure them carefully,” Lucas replied. “We’re gonna punch out from our positions and clear the enemy vehicles. Leave several men behind to deal with prisoners. Send any you encounter back behind our lines.”

“Roger that.”

Lucas ordered Sergeant Walstad and several of his Marines to stay behind and provide cover fire if needed. The rest of the men he ordered out of the culvert and forward toward the enemy’s position.

They were creating a pincer effect, pushing the enemy back from two sides. With Noah and the wolves watching the rear, they had the hostiles boxed in.

Reaching the pickup trucks their enemy used as transport, the Marines began to clear the vehicles. They checked for anyone hiding, unloaded and disabled all discarded weapons they found. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Lucas was fairly certain they had killed more than they were going to end up capturing.

Doc Brennan carefully checked bodies for any signs of life and seemed to find none. Lucas caught movement from the corner of his eye. Shifting slightly to look without lifting his cheek from the stock of his M16, he saw nothing. That didn’t mean there was nothing there.

Stepping slowly to the side, Lucas made his way to another abandoned truck. He was just reaching for the door handle to clear the cab when something solid hit him from behind.

Lucas fell hard onto the pavement, solid, heavy weight coming down on top of him. He lost his grip on his M16, but his battle sling kept it from skidding too far out of his grasp. The shifting of weight on top of him told Lucas the weapon was useless anyway. M16s were not meant for close quarters combat, and he was going to have to fight for his life using hand-to-hand.

A hard jab with his elbow bought Lucas enough time and room to turn onto his back and engage his enemy. His already racing heart slammed harder against his ribs at the sight of a long-bladed knife coming down toward his throat. He threw up both hands and managed to get a grip on his attacker’s forearm.

Lucas was at a disadvantage with the weight of another human pressing down on him. His attacker straddled his hips, and he couldn’t find leverage. He tried kicking upward with his knees but only glanced off his attacker’s back.

He was fighting time more than another person; Lucas’ arms were already tiring. He thought of his sidearm, his first inclination was to simply put two in his attacker’s chest. His enemy’s leg was pressed just above Lucas’ holster. He wouldn’t be able to clear the holster cleanly.

Lucas drew his knee up alongside the man on top of him. He darted one hand quickly to the sheath above his boot. Lucas’ fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of his Ka-Bar. Pulling it free of the sheath, he drew back to bury the blade in his attacker’s ribs.

A wall of white fur slammed into them, knocking Lucas’ attacker off of him and rolling Lucas over onto his stomach. He just managed to hold onto his weapon as screams of pain and terror carried to him, mingling with raging barks and growls.

Grabbing up his M16, Lucas got to his knees. Several yards away, a mountain of white fur tore at the desperately battling man beneath it. Lucas sheathed his Ka-Bar and struggled to catch his breath. He considered calling Noah off, but the rage Lucas felt coming from him meant it was probably futile. Still, he sent Noah calming thoughts, reassured him that Lucas was okay.