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Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9
Team Blackjack entered the eastern side of the field. They assembled under the shade of the thick forest canopy. Tony drew a quick representation of the field from memory in the dirt. Mason liked the layout of the field. It was four acres of foliage roped off on three sides with a large slope that made up the south perimeter. Three referees were posted on the hill to help keep an eye on the event. They had headset radios on their belts to let the field referees know where the action is. There were assorted ditches and piles of earth in random places to provide players cover. There were many places to hide and strike from in this part of the country. He disliked the paintball fields that set up inflatable plastic bunkers for capture the flag style games, especially indoor arenas. Those contests forced players to attack each other directly, without any finesse or cunning. He would rather move around in battle, force his enemies to chase him or harass them with hit and run raids. Looking at the detailed map in the dirt he noticed that Gabe had something on his mind. Tony spoke.
“We haven’t met these cats yet, but I heard that they asked every team we beat this weekend about how we work. Even bought some of the guys beer last night to hear the tale of Team Blackjack. We got to mix things up.”
“How about you let us take point?” Gabe said looking at Mason, Billy and Travis nodding behind him.
“Eager for some kills?” asked Mason.
“We gotta mix it up,” Gabe said smiling.
“Sure, walk the south edge. That will limit their angle of attack,” said Mason as he indicated with the barrel of his weapon. “We’ll stagger out on the north side. If we hear pops, we’ll come running and catch them in a cross fire.”
“Same here,” said Billy pulling his face mask down over his eyes.
“What if we don’t make contact?” Tony asked Mason.
“We will both hold at cover about 20 yards off the western perimeter of the field. If by 10:30 we don’t engage them, we’ll converge towards the center of the field, link up, fan out and catch them from behind,” said Mason.
Gabe stood, affixed his mask and nodded in agreement.
“Move quietly,” stressed Mason in a whisper.
“Come on guys, northbound V formation,” said Gabe. The three newest members of Blackjack moved out.
Mason was happy. He liked those guys. He had wondered how they would be to work with, but they were a good squad. He had thought that Gabe, being a leader of his own team, might be difficult but there was no ego problem at all. They had agreed on strategy all weekend and made some good suggestions. They took their hits and did not complain; not a sissy in the bunch. Mason pulled his mask down and seated it tight on his face. He thumbed off the safety on his weapon and held his finger off the trigger guard, pointing forward. It’s game time.
Gabe Duffy moved as quietly as he could through the low laying greens of the forest. To his rear followed Billy at a distance of ten yards. To their right spaced out another ten yards was Travis. They formed a triangle as they moved in unison through the brush. If one man came under fire, the other two could follow up with support. The blast of air released by a paint gun is very loud and would alert their back up to come rushing across the field. In these beginning moments of a match one had to stick their neck out to draw fire and find the opposition. A match where everyone hid and never engaged in fire would end without a prize. Not even second place cash would be awarded. Gabe wanted to make up the lost pay for himself and his men. First prize was fifteen hundred dollars, three hundred each. If he had worked the weekend he would have made more but Travis and Billy would have picked up less on their short shifts. Second place would still be good for them, but with gas and food for the trip, Gabe would be at a loss. He did not mind the money; he coveted a first place prize. Since starting up the Healdsburg Hitmen, Gabe and his men had always swept their part of the wine country. His team ranked each year for entry to the Northern California regional but every time lost to Team Blackjack. Gabe was tired of second place.
Walking point was nerve-wracking. Gabe knew that at any moment a high velocity paintball could smack him in the chest, the thigh, or worse, directly on his lightly protected hands. The idea of taking a hit in the face was fine with most players. The facemask provided good protection. He wore a groin cup during matches for the same reason but he had never had to test it. He was thankful that he had yet to get hit in such a sensitive area. Walking point to draw fire brought up these kinds of thoughts. He was sweeping his attention and gun barrel slowly from side to side looking for the enemy but all the careful concentration and quiet made the back of his mind busy. To the south he saw a referee on the slope of the hill lift a radio to his mouth. The ref was wearing his communicator microphone connected to his goggles, but still lifted a radio to his mouth. Microphone malfunction, Gabe thought and paid it no more mind. The enemy was out here somewhere, gunning for him; waiting to put a red ball of paint in his crotch and test the effectiveness of his cup. Gabe cringed at the thought. He wanted a first place trophy in the worst way. He wanted to make sure his men got some money for their efforts. But he also wanted to have children someday. He slowed his pace without realizing that he had done so and continued into the brush with greater care and focus.
Tony followed on Mason’s nine o clock, to his left and a little further back. A large pathway meandered through the trees, dividing the match field. Tony kept an eye on the path while staying in the thick foliage. He figured that their local opponents might lack the good sense to stay off the path. The enemy of the day was Hillbilly. These locals were probably used to hunting while drinking beer, rifles carelessly off safety, breaches loaded. The kind of guys who would eventually shoot one of their buddies by the time they had their second divorce, from their cousin of course. Tony knew better than to underestimate an opponent but he liked to make fun of people, even if it was only in his head.
He noticed something through the brush to his left. Stopping instantly, he angled his weapon towards the movement. With his camouflage outfit and stealth he should go unnoticed. Tony knew that the human sense of sight relied mostly on movement. It was a leftover from our more primitive existence. When one looked directly at something the mind tried to make a connection from the shape of what it saw. Something man shaped was a man; something tree shaped was a tree, or so the mind told us. The broken patterns and random dark colors of his camouflage were designed to blend in with nature. It was not until you started to move that one could recognize the form as manlike. Movement, or the lack it movement, was a factor. Our peripheral vision is very sensitive to motion even in the very dark. If he stayed motionless, he should be invisible. He waited a breathless beat, eyes penetrating through the trees. A field judge walked down the path, oblivious to Tony’s presence. Tony followed him with his rifle and smiled, removing his finger from the trigger.
The impact on Travis’ back stung like an electric shock. It caught him dead center in the spine. The force of the blow sent small misdirected signals through his nervous system. Unable to control his muscles, he dropped his rifle and fell to the ground. As he fell three more blasts followed, one striking his shoulder adding to his pain. Billy whirled around to assist his best friend and caught a dose of flying paint in the forearm. It hurt, but he ignored it and swung around to return fire. Technically he was out but Billy did not want to give up until called out by a ref. He wanted to tap at least one of his adversaries. He fired blindly, dropping to one knee to minimize his height and profile as a target. He heard running foot falls to his left. Billy raised his rifle to the plastic mask that protected his face and took careful aim. A whistle blew.
“You’re out,” a referee hollered. Billy raised the rifle over his head, stood and allowed the referee to remove his armband. He cursed under his mask.
Gabe turned to run back to the action. A single burst sounded behind him and a split second later he was thrown off course by a Charlie horse in his right hamstring. Just below the butt cheek a flying red mass of defeat slammed into his leg. He fell to the ground face first, thankful for his facemask. He rolled to his back and looked up. He saw a hillside ref, blow a whistle while pointing in his direction. Damn, he thought, where the hell did that come from? Gabe sighed, switched his weapon to safety and threw it to the ground.
Moments after the first sounding of the battle, Mason and Tony sprinted towards the action. Tony was set to cover Mason as he ran across the path when Travis and Billy came through the brush on the other side. Travis struggled along with Billy’s help. Gabe fell forward out of the brush limping. He removed his mask and cursed loudly.
“Fucking ambush,” Gabe said passing a referee.
“It was like they knew where we were,” he wondered out loud while looking at the ref accusingly.
Tony looked at Mason. The outburst was for their benefit. Gabe was trying to let them know that something unfair was at work. Mason lifted his mask and spat.
“Still got over an hour,” he whispered to Tony.
“Change of plans?”
“Button hook east, stay in the bush. They are confident now; we’ll have to reduce their numbers.”
The two men made their way back deep into the trees.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9
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