He called in the mortar fire mission, but it would be a good 45 seconds before the rounds would be on target.
A round pinged off a helmet beside Burke. It shoved the helmet cockeyed, but LCpl Bouchard merely straightened it back up, and continued to fire. There were some machine guns that could penetrate the Marine Corps helmets at a range of 300 meters, so it was a relief to know that this was one of the lighter weapons.
The enemy gun ceased fire, whether from being the gunner being hit or from him retreating, he didn’t know. Almost immediately, Burke could hear screaming coming from beyond the second building. Below him and across the street, he could see Sgt Alvarez scrambling to direct fire down over the far edge of his position. Burke didn’t need a radio report to know that Second Squad was under assault.
He was just about to ask the lieutenant if he should get Third Squad to reinforce Second when it dawned on him.
“Sgt Dailey, get some men and cover our six, now!”
While everyone’s focus was on the attack on the north side of Second Squad’s position and while they had moved to get cover from the incoming fire, no one was covering the south side of their position. Cpl Horton’s team just started to wheel about when an explosion sounded below them. Burke rushed to the southern edge of the roof and caught sight of an RPG gunner not 20 meters away, aiming to fire another rocket down the small alley leading up to the backside of their position.
Dust from below obscured the man somewhat, but dust was not going to stop his 5.56 round, and with a three-round burst, Burke took the gunner down.
Rounds started both hitting the southern lip of the roof and zinging overhead as Burke dove down the roof opening into the second floor before hurtling down the stairs to the first. Dust and smoke filled the big room, and Marines were scattered, most trying to get their bearings. It was obvious that the bulk of the squad had been oriented to the front, where the door and windows were, not to the featureless back. That had saved them from the main effects of the RPG, but pieces of the house itself had turned into shrapnel, and Burke could see a few cases of blood starting to redden the dust which covered most of the Marines.
Peripherally, he could see the woman prisoner looking quite dead below the hole which now graced the back wall. Without body armor, she hadn’t stood much of a chance. Their translator had obviously been with her, but he had Marine-issue armor, and while battered, he was trying to sit up.
Rounds started coming into through the gaping hole in the wall.
“Stanhope! Cover that!” he yelled, rushing the hole.
While all Marines seemed mobile, the blast itself must have dazed them as they seemed slow to respond. Burke rushed to cover the new entrance. Just as he arrived, a man rushed in, shouting. He was within the reach of Burke’s M4 before Burke could react. But that meant he was also within the muzzle of the Somali’s AK as well.
The Somali must have been prepared for fighting, but maybe he thought the Marines would be dazed, or maybe it was Burke’s war cry. Whatever the reason, he hesitated for fraction, and that was all SSgt Burke Davidson, U.S. Marine Corps, needed. With one smooth motion, he thrust out his right hand, bringing up the butt of his M4 to crash against the Somalis’ chin. The M4 was a shorter weapon, not as effective in butt strokes and the like than even the M16, much less the old M14. But with the force and accuracy of the strike, the Somali crumpled. Without thinking, Burke leveled the weapon and put two rounds into the man. He spun around and fired again, taking down the second Somali who was ducking to rush in through the hole.
He felt the kick of a round hitting him low in his reactive armor, and while it almost took his breath away, he continued to fire out into the alley. He could see several bodies falling, and not from his firing. First Squad must be taking them under fire as well.
A Molotov cocktail came flying through the air, but it splattered on the outside wall just at the edge of the hole. Another 6 inches, and it would have come inside. As it was, flames started to billow.
Sgt Stanhope pushed forward with two Marines and started to add to the outgoing fire. Burke looked over at the dust-covered squad leader. Blood was streaming down his arm, but that could not erase the smile on the man’s face. He looked over at his platoon sergeant.
“Oo-rah,” he shouted, stopping only to drop the empty mag and replacing it with a new one.
Through the growing smoke and flames, he caught a glimpse of another Somali rushing forward, Molotov cocktail in hand. Before he could throw it, though, he was shot down, and the bottle broke, covering the man in flames.
The house they were in was mostly stucco with a wooden frame. It wouldn’t take long for the whole building to go up. There was another crash against the wall—probably another Molotov, he figured.
By bullet or burning, it was evident that they Somalis really wanted to dig them out of their hidey-hole.
Chapter 38
Hobyo
“Six, we are under heavy attack. I repeat, heavy attack. I estimate 200 enemy with small arms and automatic weapons. We really need some support here, over,” Tony shouted into his radio mouthpiece.
Flames were licking over the edge of the back wall, interfering with Cpl Horton’s team from firing at the attackers below. Cpl Bonaventure had shifted his team over as well, but that left only Cpl Salazar’s team and LCpl Isaac to hold back the Somalis who were starting to edge back down Denver to them.
“Roger, One. I read you. Hold on. We don’t have air on station, but we’ll be at your position soon. Make sure your Marines know we’re coming. We don’t need any friendly fire here, over.”
“Roger. I copy. But please, get here quick. Out.”
Mortar rounds continued to fall back at Elena and along Denver, but with the Somalis aware of them, the effects of the rounds were minimized. Tony had clearly seen a round land less than a meter from a prone Somali with no effect on the man. Additionally, with the narrow street, many rounds were landing on top of the adjacent buildings. Tony had forgotten what the section’s combat load had been, but he knew they hadn’t carried that many rounds, and they would be out soon.
“Sir,” his platoon sergeant said as he rushed up from below and threw himself down at Tony’s side. “I think the whole back wall is on fire. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, and if this place collapses, we don’t want to be up here when it does.”
Tony squirmed around to look down and over at the house across the street. Incoming fire had slackened off a bit, but there was still enough not to expose oneself for any more time than necessary.
He hated to give up the high ground, but when it collapsed, it wouldn’t be that high anymore, he reckoned. Looking back at the flames and smoke, that wouldn’t be too long now.
“OK, tell Alvarez we’re coming over, and get Third over there now. I want one fire team from First up here to cover, then once everyone else is over, we’ll come over, too. See if you can’t get some sort of dispersion over there.”
“Got it,” his platoon sergeant replied before scurrying back and almost throwing himself below.
Tony called up Capt Svenson again to let him know his plans. He called in to target his current position, thinking to hit at the Somalis as they took the building, but he was told that the mortar section was flat out of rounds. Without air, without mortars, he was out of any supporting arms. Wistfully, he thought of the Dunham’s big 5/62, but even if the ship was in range, the flatness of the city would preclude the gun from being very effective. It wasn’t a mortar which could loft rounds up and down.
The door on the house across the street opened up, and fire team by fire team, the Marines rushed over. One Marine, it looked like PFC Rossi, was hit in the leg as he crossed, but Cpl Kim and LCpl Kropkowski picked him up and dragged him inside. Several other Marines looked to take hits as well, but their body armor kept them from going down.
“That’s it, sir,” Sgt Dailey yelled out. “We’ve just got me and Third Fire Team, and you and Steptoe, too. You ready?”
He took on
e more glance around. There was no sign of Capt Svenson. He shook his head before going down the ladder.
Smoke as already forming in the second story, but as they went down the stairway, it got thicker. Flames were actually licking inside the hole that had been blasted inside the back wall. LCpl Torino let out another burst with his IAR through the hole, keeping anyone out there at bay.
“She dead?” Tony asked, indicating the woman whose house this probably was.
It was pretty obvious, but if there was any life left in her, they would have to take her with them. He needn’t have worried. Sgt Dailey assured him she was quite gone.
Tony shrugged and followed the remaining Marines to the doorway. Just inside the building on the other side, Cpl McClaren motioned them to go.
With a rush, the remaining seven Marines bolted for the other side. Tony was the fifth in line. It was only 8 or 10 meters across, but even that was too far. A searing pain struck his leg, and he buckled into the dust. His face bounced off the dirt, driving his helmet’s face shield into his lip. He was jerked up by Sgt Dailey and Cpl Steptoe and dragged through the doorway and into the house.
“Doc! The lieutenant’s been hit!” Stepchild shouted as the laid him down on the deck.
Tony looked down at his leg. His desert cammie trou were turning red with blood. He figured he should be feeling pain, but after the initial stab, his leg was more numb than anything.
Doc was wrapping the leg of an alert-looking LCpl Rossi. He had been hit in the same leg, the right one, as had Tony. That made sense as the enemy were back towards Elena, and their right legs were on that side as the crossed.
Doc Supchak calmly walked over, cut part of his cammie legs away, and examined the wound. He poked with his fingers a bit, which reawakened Tony’s pain mechanism.
“You’re lucky, Lieutenant. No real damage, just grazed. You’ve lost some blood, but you’ll be fine,” he told him, ignoring Tony’s jerking as the fingers probed. “We’ll have to clean it up later back on the ship, but let me wrap this up, and you’ll be good to go for now.”
Afraid he was going to be nauseous, he had hesitated to look at the wound. But as Doc wiped it down with Betadine, he was too curious not to look. There was a gash high across his thigh, maybe four inches long and a half-an-inch deep at the center. It was awfully close to his family jewels, he realized. Their body armor had a balls-protector, but that was for getting hit from the front. Tony had gotten hit from the side, so a round a bit higher would have entered his thigh and proceeded merrily along the way to his nutsack. He couldn’t help but shudder at the thought.
A voice cried out in pain as rounds started coming right through the stucco walls. Marines dove for the ground along the side walls as return fire opened up above them.
The Somalis had evidently claimed their old position and were firing right through the thinner walls of this position. Tony, had only been half-bandaged when he had lunged for the side wall, and now he ordered that any piece of furniture be brought forward and made into a makeshift barricade.
Flames sprung up to block the window opening facing the street. They were going to try to burn them out of this building as well.
He tried to pull up his platoon disposition display, but the icons kept fading in and out. He must have knocked something loose when he had fallen on his face. His comm seemed affected as well. It was spotty, but he clearly heard a voice come over the platoon freq.
“Holy shit. Here they come!”
Chapter 39
Hobyo
Captain Svenson had been monitoring First Platoon’s frequency, and he heard that same radio message. He looked around at his Marines and knew he had to move.
At that moment, he felt on top of the world. This was what he had been born for. This was his purpose in life. And now he would prove it to anyone who had doubted him.
A long time ago, he had seen an old movie, The Wind and the Lion. He had actually forgotten most of the movie, but there was one scene that had stuck with him. In that scene, the Marine captain was leading his group of Marines to confront the prince or some such title, the guy who controlled Sean Connery, who in turn was playing the last of the Barbary pirates. He got his Marines into formation and essentially double-timed down the middle of the street, sending all the locals diving for cover and leaving the French and German military delegations slack-jawed. He ran right into the prince’s palace, took on the guards, and saved the day. It was all fiction, of course, but still, the scene resonated with him.
And now, there he was, essentially doing the same thing, and with pirates, none-the-less. He knew the “book” way would be to clear each block, each building before proceeding. But he also knew that First Platoon probably did not have the time for that. The mortar section was out of rounds, and with who knows how many Somalis gathering, the platoon could not hope to hang on forever.
He had essentially run his force down Route Cleveland, Hobyo’s main thoroughfare. He hadn’t run in formation as in the movie, but rather in two loose columns. It had been a calculated risk. He figured the Somalis would be focused on where the hostages had been kept, not at the fake position. So far, his opinion had proven true. They had not run into anyone.
But now they were coming up to Elena, and with a hard right, they would be only 250 meters from the embattled First Platoon. And coming up to the intersection, they could see the back of some Somalis, men who were probably armed.
Terrell should have been in back of at least one squad. His job was to lead the Marines into battle, not be the point man. But he had taken his place at the head of one of the two columns. He had tried to justify it to himself by saying he had to control the formation, to know if they had to shift to a more accepted one. But in reality, his soul was singing for action. He may not be blood-related to the Vikings whose name he carried, but he was like-minded. He thirsted for battle.
When the message had come over First’s Platoon frequency, he swung into action. With a “follow me” sweep of this arm worthy of any WWI NCO going over the top, he broke out into a run, his Marines quickly closing with him. This may not have been anything taught in any battle manual, in any military textbook. This was not military science. This was just an unstoppable force.
And sometimes the gods of war favored the audacious.
Chapter 40
Hobyo
Maslax Kusow hung back, watching the final push. He had learned his lesson before. He had been eager to watch the trap set for the American helicopters, and he had almost been caught in the explosions that rocked the intersection a few moments later. So now, he was as back as far as he could go and still see the action.
The Rangers, no, the Marines, he reminded himself, could not last much longer. There had to be over 500 men gathered to take vengeance. Most of the Americans would die, but Tablan Barre, that angry young man who claimed to be the great-grandson of the country’s third president and seemed to have led the pirate mission that captured the American sailor in the first place, had stressed that they needed some of the foreigners left alive.
“How much longer do you think they’ll last?” he asked Osman, an old friend who also preferred to stay back and out of harm’s way.
“Look, you can see the smoke from Korfa’s house now, so it won’t be long. They’ll be roasted if they don’t come out.”
“Poor Korfa. That guy can’t get a break. I hope he goes to Taban and gets paid for all of this when everything’s over.”
“Won’t happen. You remember what his father did, what, 20 years ago? No way Korfa’s getting anything from this.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
Maslax vaguely heard movement behind him, but he figured it was just more people coming to the party. He turned to Osman to say something when his friend’s head erupted into a pink mist. Maslax stared stupidly as Osman fell to lie still on the ground.
He turned around, and his heart stopped. A mass of Americans was rushing up, death on their minds. More shots ran
g out, and people began to fall.
As everyone’s attention was focused forward, when people began to fall, the others must have thought the shots were coming from the trapped Marines, so they started running backwards. This placed them right into the path of the onrushing horde.
Maslax only hesitated a moment. He darted to the side and into the doorway of a house. He couldn’t open the door, so he hugged it, trying to make himself small.
The Marines hit the mass of people like a hammer, and they began to scatter. Most of the people in the back were not armed, just there to watch the fight. They got in the way of the ones with rifles. Some in the back were even shot by people in the front who were trying to target the Americans.
Leading the Americans was a tall, black Marine. He was everywhere, shooting, hitting, yelling. Maslax was sure he saw several rounds hit the tall man, but he never paused. His soldiers were all around him, madmen. Somali after Somali fell, and within a minute, they broke and ran. That left a gap down towards the other group of Americans, and the tall Marine led his soldiers down towards them.
Maslax stepped out from the door in spite of himself. He knew he should run, but something made him watch. He had to see.
As the Marines ran down the road, Maslax was surprised to see that there were really not that many of them. There had been far, far more men attacking the Americans than both groups of Americans combined. But his countrymen had run from them. He looked about, wondering how many Americans had died. He didn’t see any on the ground, but there were maybe 20 Somalis, either dead or wounded.
The men on top of Jamal’s house started firing on the Americans, and at last, they started slowing down to fire back. Maslax felt elated. He knew he had caused all of this by selling the information on the hostages, and he would do it again if he had the chance. But he felt proud to see his countrymen fighting back.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 41