Young Writers Society

Chapter seven: the hunt


From the moment one of the soldiers shouted that their prisoner had escaped, all of the other men sprang into action. Collecting their rifles, the company set out in search of Caleb. As they ran, McClellan tried to organize them into an efficient search team.

"look for footprints, he can't have gotten far!" shouted McClellan, livid with anger.

"sir, over here!"

"Footprints?"

"yes sir, they lead this way."

"Then let's move," he said, "and remember, if it's possible, don't kill him, we need him alive for questioning."


This was partially true. While the sergeant did want answers out of the boy, he was also interested in keeping him alive because he didn't want such a young boy to be a casualty of a war that had caused enough deaths already. Also, if he were to be completely honest, he admired the young boy for his passion and courage, and saw a spark in him that reminded McClellan of himself and his own son. It only complicated things that Caleb was a hyper lethal soldier, capable of killing McClellan and probably his entire squad all by himself. As much as he hated to admit it, the sergeant knew it would probably come down to his life or Caleb's, and in that case he knew what he had to do. "Better dead than red," McClellan said, muttering the old cold war cliché to himself as he ran through the snow after the footprints.

"Stop," commanded McClellan, in a hushed voice.

"What is it?"

"Shhh," he said, putting a finger to his mouth. With relatively little noise, the men spreaded the message to halt down the line to the rest of the company.

"Binoculars."

The soldier handed McClellan the binoculars as a nurse would hand a surgeon his scalpel. After staring a little while into the distance, he gave them back to the man.

"have a look." He looked for several seconds, and then handed them back.

"Oh no," the private said, his body suddenly becoming tense, as he realized he was in danger.

"Everyone huddle," said the sergeant, getting no complaint from the freezing soldiers. "just over that ridge is a soviet encampment. It appears that they have no one on guard at the moment, and seeing as we came prepared for a fight, I'd say now is the perfect time to strike."

"Sorry to interrupt sir, but if we could barely survive this kid attacking us on his own, how do you think we'll manage to capture him when he is surrounded by this many soviets? There must be forty guys in that camp," piped in one young corporal with a concerned look on his face.

The sergeant checked his digital watch that had somehow survived the cold, and responded, "Corporal, it's 0200 hours, I'll be damned if anyone is awake."


The men knew that assaulting an enemy stronghold based on this kind of assumption was like playing Russian roulette with an automatic weapon, but they trusted their sergeant's commands more than anything else in the world, and looked to the task ahead with a firm resolve.


The sergeant's company moved over the hill they had been huddled behind and approached the soviet encampment as stealthily as possible. McClellan could see his breath, and tried to slow it to conceal his nerves from his team. They needed a strong leader for what they were about to do. Coming up to the outer parts of the camp, they vaulted the sandbag wall into a long trench, and crept ever closer to their foes.


Suddenly, as they entered the area filled with tents of all sizes, one of them dispensed a groggy soldier. Unarmed, his only defense against twenty armed Americans was to shout. McClellan, not about to lose a battle due to such a trivial complication, promptly tackled the man, stifling his yell. The sergeant struggled to pin him to the ground and cover his mouth at the same time, and as he tried to keep the man from getting up, the following two seconds felt like minutes. As he pulled his knife from its sheath, he locked eyes with the Russian. In them he saw fear, anger, and panic. For a brief moment, he acknowledged that this man was human, just like himself and everyone in his company. Then he plunged the four inch blade into the man's throat, and watched blood overflow from his mouth like soda from a shaken can. Layered in the warm fluid that was gushing from his victim's body, McClellan felt the life leave his body, and released him.

"Let's go," he said, slightly shaken by all of the recent events. Wordlessly, his men followed him.

Dispersing, the company searched every tent, killing Russian soldiers as they went. After dispatching more than half of their enemy silently, McClellan's team eventually woke the still living members of the camp. A brutal skirmish broke out, and chaos ensued. Shell casings flew in every which direction, and burned McClellan when they touched his exposed skin. He didn't feel it, and continued to fire his rifle at the Russian soldiers, taking one out about every thirty seconds. The conditions of the battle were not ideal for either side, as the tents blocked vision, and neither side had been in a formation when it had begun. McClellan struggled to be optimistic. It helped that he was an incredible marksman, and was able to both suppress his adversary and penetrate their skulls with lead.


The sound of gunfire permeated the air, but soon died down from a constant stream of explosions to a few sparse ignitions of gunpowder. McClellan had won, and with very few casualties. Unfortunately, the sole reason he had assaulted the camp in the first place failed to be found. Caleb was nowhere to be seen.


The sergeant felt lost, and wondered if the boy would be the cause of America's downfall. Just as he had given up hope of finding or capturing Caleb, he heard a Russian voice speaking from the command tent. Moving into formation outside of the tent, McClellan and his squad reloaded their weapons and entered it. The sergeant took point, and as he entered the tent, he relaxed.

"It's a radio."

"Anyone speak Russian?" asked one soldier.

"I do. I mean, a little bit," volunteered one man. "I think they're saying a young boy hijacked one of their jeeps. They're saying to be on the lookout for a blonde kid driving a Russian truck. He was last seen driving southwest away from Nunam Iqua."

"that sounds like someone we know," said McClellan, checking his map.

"And," he said, "that's walking distance from here."
McClellan knew what he had to do. He would find this boy at all costs and convince him to fight for America. If he refused, the sergeant would have to end him. As much as he didn't want to, McClellan was ready to kill Caleb if necessary.

"it's time. I'm coming for you," he thought.