Reflexive Fire - 01

by Jack Murphy

  The Serb had another laugh. The truck's driver looked at him curiously.

  Driving over the cones, the convoy twisted its way around hairpins turns, increasing in elevation as the trucks climbed up the side of the hill. As the trucks cresting the summit, the front gate came into view.

  With the headlights switched off, the driver slowed the truck down before ramming through the flimsy wooden gate, tires cracking the branches and wooden planks in half. First Platoon drove straight into the middle of the garrison, guards finally waking up in their foxholes and bunkers, searching for flashlights.

  All five trucks commenced firing as the Serb gave the order to initiate. PKM machine guns and AK rifles ripped through the garrison, tearing apart thatch huts and digging into bunkers constructed with logs and sandbags. Many UWSA militia men died in their sleep, never knowing that they were under attack.

  The surrounding camp was lit up by muzzle flashes, a foot of fire spitting from the barrels of the automatic weapons that traced fire back and forth across the compound. The assault teams jumped off the trucks to begin their attack. Moving into squad formations, they came under some sporadic fire, the militia men finally mounting what seemed like a half-hearted counter-attack.

  On the next hill over, Djokovic could see high explosive rounds impacting just short of another drug lab. A driver called in corrections to the mortar section over the truck's radio, walking the rounds in until finally they fired a shake and bake mission.

  First, they hit the drug laboratory with another HE shot as a spotter round. Next, they fired a red phosphorous round that burned across the hill in a nearly perfect circular pattern, immediately igniting the precursor chemicals used to manufacture methamphetamine.

  The resulting secondary explosions ripped through whatever was left of the compound. Pieces of wood spun through the air with long wisps of flame chasing after them.

  At a distance, Djokovic couldn't hear the screams but could still imagine them crying out as they burned alive. However, he did hear Third Platoon's guns somewhere deeper in the jungle. They must have just hit their own target, the next garrison over, just a few kilometers away.

  Swinging open the door, he stepped out into the slaughter, a stray bullet ricocheting off the door as he closed it. The Serb ducked behind the truck as Adam came up alongside to help direct the troops.

  Two assault teams were kicking in doors and entering the huts while the third was in the prone, preparing to throw hand grenades before clearing a trench line on the eastern side of the compound. The PKM gunners in the vehicles continued to lay down a steady wall of lead in the direction of the few shots that rang out in opposition.

  Suddenly two of the Kazakhs from Third Squad were thrown to the ground as a grenade detonated, spewing dirt and debris into the air.

  “Fuck! Fucking fucks!” Djokovic growled. “What are they doing?”

  The assaulters got to their feet and continued to advance with their comrades, lobbing grenades of their own into the trench. While their buddies provided suppressive fire, two mercenaries lay parallel to the trench, feet to feet, before rolling in and firing rapid bursts. Having established a foothold, the rest of the squad followed in after them.

  The XO muttered something in his native tongue, his words drowned out by another explosion while he fished through his pockets for a cigarette. Lighting up, he exhaled a cloud of smoke, looking towards Adam with words unspoken as his head exploded.

  A single gunshot rang out through the night.

  The Serb lay motionless, his head pulped beyond recognition as if a firecracker had gone off in his brain.

  Keying his hand mic, Adam announced to the platoon that he was assuming command.

  Piet racked the bolt, ejecting the spent shell casing from his sniper rifle.

  Occupying one of the haphazardly built wood and mud bunkers, the South African had lain down on top of the still warm body of its former occupant, his body torn apart with machine gun fire.

  Sliding the sniper rifle's bolt home and chambering another round, he scanned for fresh targets.

  Twenty

  Deckard cursed under his breath.

  After being on the road for six hours, Alpha and Bravo Companies had finally split up at their last check point. Driving cross country for the next couple hours, his company alone had suffered two flat tires on the winding dirt road leading towards the Chinese border.

  Standing by his vehicle, he watched the Kazakhs through his PVS-14s. Using a tow strap, one truck successfully yanked another out of the mud, the recovery vehicle promptly becoming stuck itself.

  They had made allowances for the effects the monsoon would have on the unimproved roads in their timeline, but that didn't make the situation any less frustrating.

  The newly freed vehicle pulled ahead of the truck stuck in the mud, its tires spinning wildly, slinging mud behind it, before the driver accepted that four-wheel drive alone wasn't going to let him creep out of the watery pit. Dropping off the back of their vehicle, the Kazakhs ran another tow strap back to the hard point under the immobilized truck's bumper and locked it in place with a steel clevis, preparing to repeat the process.

  Meanwhile he was receiving updates over the radio as Bravo Company crossed phase lines towards their own objectives. He noted that they had experienced similar mobility issues, including a rollover. Soon they would be arriving at their assigned objectives to the north. Meanwhile Charlie Company was already calling in OPSKEDS, or operational code words, to indicate that they were pulling off their objectives, mission complete.

  Initial reports stated that Charlie Company had three men killed in action, ten wounded, and had successfully eliminated six drug laboratories, three UWSA garrisons, and took out a few enemy checkpoints as well. Adam had assumed command with Djokovic among the dead.

  At least something was going according to plan.

  Now he could only hope that the element of surprise hadn't been completely compromised. The enemy or a spotter planted among the locals could have called north, alerting Peng and his remaining militiamen.

  Deckard could have held Charlie Company back and had each company strike simultaneously but the odds were that someone would be compromised somewhere, effectively denying the entire battalion an edge up on the enemy, rather than just one or two companies. It was a tactical decision and like most, there was no one hundred percent solution.

  The assault truck's wheels found purchase as the tow strap tightened and the lead vehicle helped pull them out of the mud. Deckard climbed back on his truck, just as the convoy began moving. The roads were only getting more rugged the deeper into the bush they traveled. At times the mercenaries seated in the back of the trucks were leaning out over a sheer drop as the trucks skirted right along the edge of the road.

  Unfortunately for them, a helicopter infiltration wasn't always feasible.

  Twenty One

  Green tracer fire arced over Sergeant Major Korgan's head.

  Leading from the front, he high crawled forward as someone launched a flare into the night sky, shadows shifting as it slowly descended to the ground by parachute. Bravo Company's Second Platoon cautiously crawled up behind him.

  Every handful of terrain became critical to the mercenaries as they inched forward. With the infiltration team compromised, the dismounted support by fire line initiated, using the traverse and search method to hose down the UWSA weapons factory, 40mm grenade launchers entering into the flurry and pounding the objective with high explosive rounds. It kept the enemy distracted, but the heavy machine gun sent shivers down the Kazakh’s spines as it fired just inches over their heads, causing them to hug dirt.

  Over a small dimple of ground, Korgan could see the top edge of triple strand concertina wire silhouetted against the sky. Sliding into a mud-filled pit, the Sergeant Major stole a glance backward before ducking, a fresh burst of machine gun fire searching him out, sending large clumps of earth into the air.

  First Squad was right behind him, t
he others slowly making their way forward on their bellies, attempting to find their own way forward to the enemy's perimeter. The men knew from training and rehearsals that each squad had to address the terrain and enemy to their own immediate front. With Korgan finding a way to the front lines, the other squads would probably follow his lead rather than continue to explore other paths through barbed wire and booby traps.

  Somewhere inside the enemy compound, mortar tubes thundered.

  First Squad squirmed into the pit with the Sergeant Major, huffing and trying to catch their breath. Korgan noted that the chest rigs they wore made it somewhat difficult to low crawl while under enemy fire, but that was an issue that would have to be dealt with at another time.

  At the moment, the massive Chinese Type 54 machine gun spat a glowing fireball of burning powder, leaving no mystery as to the gunner's position, 12.7 bullets ripping across the front lines. First Squad lined up on his left while Second Squad was now crawling in on his right. The platoon carried the needed breaching equipment in satchels and assault packs.

  “First the breach, then grenades,” Korgan yelled in Russian between machine gun bursts.

  The troops nodded or gave a thumbs up, indicating that they understood the plan of action.

  Heavy gloves and wire cutters were carried only as a backup. Even with friendlies laying down a suppressive fire, there was no way they would maneuver across another fifteen meters of flat terrain up to the concertina wire and simply cut through it. Not while the Type 54 was hammering them.

  Two of the Kazakhs carried an Anti-Personnel Obstacle Breaching System or APOBS. The mercenaries quickly deployed the two hard plastic carry cases, opening them and attaching the needed components. The mud was making their work more difficult than it should have been, but they were not deterred. The Chinese machine gun paused to reload before again reminding them of their urgency.

  “Set!”

  With the APOBS ready, the men of Second Squad readied hand grenades.

  By now Third Squad was coming up right behind them.

  “Fire,” Korgan ordered.

  The APOBS launched from its tube with a whoosh, a small rocket carrying a guide line angling into the air before a drogue chute at the end of the rope began to catch air. With drag provided, the rope arched downwards and lay over the three rolls of concertina wire. The Type 54 continued to fire blast after blast at their position, oblivious to what was coming.

  The nylon rope the rocket had carried was strung with over fifty fragmentation grenades, all of which detonated simultaneously. The explosion shook the ground, easily slicing through the concertina wire and detonating a dozen anti-personnel and anti-tank mines buried in the soil under its path.

  The Second Squad grenadiers jumped up on their knees and flung their grenades directly at the Type 54 sitting in its sandbagged fighting hole. Several grenades bounced off the sandbags and exploded harmlessly, but one managed to roll inside the pit right under the tripod that supported the heavy machine gun. After the last explosion, the entire platoon was on their feet, combat boots stomping through the mud and spilling through the breach in the perimeter.

  First Squad immediately stormed the machine gun bunker, only to find the gunner and ammunition loader on their last breaths; the fragmentation grenade had done its work. The mercenaries helped expedite the process, delivering mercy shots.

  “Shift fire,” the Sergeant Major ordered, keying up his radio.

  The support by fire line, buried in the jungle, shifted their barrels, now firing behind the objective to cut off the escape of any UWSA militiamen who decided to cut and run. The weapons factory itself looked like it already lay half in ruin, with one wall and part of the roof collapsed from the barrage of 40mm grenades.

  Second Squad brushed past him, heading for the enemy's mortar pit, Third Squad moving on what was left of the factory. Korgan ran to catch up with Third Squad as they neared the collapsed wall.

  At that moment, Second Squad dumped a few more fragmentation grenades into the mortar pit then chased the blasts, rolling into the trench before the earth had even settled. AK fire lit up the night as the squad swept through, killing off the mortar team. Next, they would rig the stockpiled mortar rounds for demolition.

  Stepping over the rubble, the Sergeant Major moved into the factory with Third Squad. He'd seen action with the Kazakh Special Forces, chasing around drug smugglers and the like, but never anything this intense. His heart rate was climbing to nearly ninety beats a minute, his chest thumping hard.

  Muzzle flashes blinked from the far side of the factory floor. Several hold-outs lay in wait on the opposite side of the building. They had probably been taking refuge inside from all the external gunfire.

  Korgan took cover behind a pile of steel billets, 7.62 rounds sparking off the metal as he returned fire.

  The squad found their own cover behind a lathe used in the manufacturing process. In fact, the lathe looked to be the only machinist piece in the warehouse, the rest of the construction being done the old fashioned way, by hand. One of the muzzle flashes winked out as another mercenary fired back, but it was quickly replaced by two more.

  Korgan left his position and bounded forward between several wooden tables and ducked behind a metal handcart. Third Squad began creeping forward on their own terms, finding their own way to close the distance. One mercenary would provide cover while the other bounded, working in two man teams.

  The UWSA gunmen caught on and decided to find cover as well, two of them flipping over a table and taking a knee behind it. Sergeant Major Korgan shouldered his AK-103 and drilled the table with 7.62 rounds, punching through the flimsy wooden tabletop. The UWSA gunmen dropped to the ground, AK rifles that they had probably helped manufacture clattering alongside them.

  Stalking forward, Korgan passed rack after rack of AK-47s- there were enough to arm a battalion of soldiers- and rows and rows of the Burmese rifles, cloned from Chinese models, which were in turn copied from the classic Soviet design. They were not only arming themselves but probably neighboring militias. Maybe the entire region.

  Someone was planning an offensive.

  As the squad closed in, one of the Burmese militiamen panicked and jumped to his feet, spraying automatic fire with his rifle pointed towards the Kazakhs in only the most general sense of the word. One squad member, the youngest looking of the group, placed his own accurate fire on target as the enemy gunman's shots went wide. The Burmese doubled over, trying to hold in his intestines even as they slipped through his fingers. The young Kazakh fired once more, this time striking him just above the ear, peeling off the top of his skull.

  The newly made corpse fell to the floor, the bowl shaped portion of his skull still connected to his head by a narrow strip of skin.

  One of the supposedly dead Burmese suddenly launched at Korgan the triangular shaped bayonet under the AK-47, narrowly missing his abdomen as the Sergeant Major twisted at the hips to avoid it. Undeterred, the militiaman sprang on the Kazakh, pushing him into a nearby table, metal tools rolling off the edge and paper schematics flying into the air.

  Momentarily stunned, Korgan lost his grip on the foreguard of his rifle. Seeing an opportunity, the Burmese decided to grab at his AK and wrestle him for it, his own apparently out of ammunition or jammed. Reaching out with his non-dominant hand, Korgan grasped something on the table and swung it as hard as he could.

  The solid steel billet caught the UWSA gunman just above the eyebrow, splitting the skin. The militiaman dropped to the concrete floor like an empty coat, dead from a fractured skull. Korgan looked at the billet in his hand, blood and skin now stuck to the corner of it.

  Shrugging his shoulders, the squad looked back at their Sergeant Major with a few nervous laughs.

  As Korgan tossed the billet aside, it struck the ground just as the factory's windows imploded, sending triangular shaped pieces of glass everywhere under a torrent of gunfire.

  Frank crept through the jungle, spotting the dir
t road ahead.

  Down the road, Second Platoon was currently engaged with the weapons factory. In the distance they could hear the vicious firefight. It sounded like a good one as tracer fire skimmed through the air and mortar rounds exploded somewhere deeper in the jungle.

  Farther east, Third Platoon would be moving on the ammunition plant, but from the sights and sounds in that direction it seemed that their fight hadn't kicked off yet.

  In the opposite direction, the road led to the northern Shan State, where some ten thousand UWSA troops were garrisoned. They had the arms and the vehicles to react to Bravo Company's raids on the arms factories, as well as Alpha Company as soon as they hit Panghsang in less than an hour. If those troops successfully mobilized, the fight was effectively over; Samruk would be encircled and overrun.

  With the road identified, he quickly cross-referenced it on his map, to make sure that they were at the right place. It had been hard going after leaving the vehicles behind with a security detachment and moving through the bush on foot. Burma did not consist of dense triple canopy jungle, but it still made for some unforgiving terrain.

  Convinced they had arrived, he motioned the troops forward. The platoon edged up in a column, Sergeant Sasha placing his men on an ambush line alongside the road, making sure they were behind adequate cover. When the UWSA reinforcements began moving, they had to be ready.

  First Platoon's task was to set up a mechanical ambush on the road, to cut off and ensure those reinforcements never arrived to interfere on the other objectives. Riflemen, grenadiers, and others armed with Afghan procured RPG launchers would provide backup.

  The shadows of five Kazakhs moved down to the road and began emplacing Claymore mines. The curved anti-personnel mines were not called red vapor mist machines for nothing. While riflemen and RPG gunners found their positions, the demo team stuck the Claymores into the ground on their metal legs, making sure they pointed towards the road.