by Tom Kratman
"I used to be better than this," the pilot cursed. "Curse of old age. Try your luck, Luis."
No, Luis found, firing from a plane is different from firing from the ship. He missed with his first several bursts completely. He was getting the range right, but the lead required was throwing him off. Way off.
"Next pass," Harley called, "start shooting before you think you're lined up on the target and let the plane walk it in for you." Harvey made a sweeping gesture taking in the stacks and stacks of ammunition crates. "It's not like we've got any shortage of machine gun ammo, amigo."
Luis nodded, "Si, señor."
Hovering two miles west of Bandar Cisman, Cruz watched the rockets go in, even as the CH-801's side-fired tracers drew bright lines in his NVGs, lines that faded only slowly. He glanced left and right. At the limits of vision, about a mile for objects of that size, he saw the other two Hips hovering as well.
"That works," he said. Passing the message on to the other two helicopters, he lifted his Hip's tail, applied power to the engines, and closed on the town.
"Move, Marines. MOVE!"
Cazz stood behind the clamshells, physically prodding the disembarking men into a semblance of order. Feet churning the gravel and sand, they snaked forward, in a reformed double line, around the sides of the helicopter. Automatically, they stooped forward as they moved. Sure, the chopper's blades were high, butcha nevah know.
Ahead, five or six meters in front of the blades' reach, the platoon leader of Second Platoon, a ‘youngster' of forty who'd retired from the Corps as a major, stood directing his squads into a platoon line. North and south, the other two platoons did the same. The only difference was that First Platoon, to the north, oriented to the southeast while Second, to the south, oriented northeast. The town was now boxed.
Cazz's RTO, another youngster of thirty-seven, tapped his shoulder with the handset of a radio. "Sir, I've got the mortars."
Taking the handset, Cazz said, "Slow fire, and I mean slow. Center of mass of the town. I want their attention and I want them scared . . . but not dead."
"Shot, over," came the reply, in mere seconds. In another forty or so, the Marines heard the freight train sound of a falling one-twenty, followed by a bright flash that silhouetted the one-story buildings of the place.
"That's the ticket," Cazz said. "Give 'em one every five minutes, no more, until further notice.
Ahead, at a range of three hundred to three hundred and fifty meters from the town, the Marine skirmish line went prone and began a slow, rattling fire on the buildings. "Scared," the man had said.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The dove, descending, breaks the air
With wings of incandescent terror.
-T.S. Eliot
D-Day, MV Merciful, northeast of Bandar Cisman
The occasional fall of mortar shells, to the southwest, was at best dimly perceptible, and then only if one was looking and knew what one was looking for. Nobody on the ship really was. They were much more concerned with reconfiguring, refueling, and arming the three Hips that bounced now on the flight deck.
Cruz saw Stauer standing to the left of his Hip, beckoning with one hand. He popped his door open, told his Russian copilot, "Your bird, but sit tight," unbuckled himself and stepped to the PSP deck.
"We've already made the arrangements," Stauer shouted over the roar of the choppers. "You'll-two of you-be outfitted with auxiliary fuel tanks and two rocket pods apiece. Then those two are going to Nugaal to pick up Welch, his team, the accountant, and a party of seventy-one civilians with not much more than the clothes on their backs. Your third bird will still support the Marines at Bandar Cisman."
"That's going to fuck up the pickup of Buckwheat's boys," Cruz objected, shaking his head doubtfully. "It's also going to interfere with striking Bandar Cisman before the Marines go in. I thought we planned on one Hip to pick up Welch's team and the accountant."
"Yeah," Stauer agreed. "But it got complicated. Doubly complicated. The accountant will cooperate, but only if his family-his extended family-is safe. And Terry liberated twenty-nine slaves. He says he won't leave them behind."
"Gonna cost us."
"Yeah. I'm worried about Buckwheat, not so much about the rest. I directed the birds dedicated to the strike on Bandar Qassim to continue to screen up the east coast to the town of Foar, engaging anything coming our way, then cut northwest toward Bandar Qassim Airport and extract Buckwheat. They should be able to do that, get back here, rearm and refuel, in time to go north again and hit anything coming our way. I've also directed Chin in The Drunken Bastard to move north ten miles and guard."
What are the risks? Cruz wondered. I'd planned on the extra Hip at Bandar Cisman to be able to shift to help out Reilly if he couldn't handle the tanks. Maybe he can, maybe he can't. The ground up by Buckwheat is broken as hell. Sure, the CH-801's can lift on a short run, but they still need about three hundred feet. And the Marines' mortars need more ammunition . . . but I suppose Borsakov can take that.
"Is Buckwheat at a place with at least three hundred unobstructed feet clearance, and smooth enough?" Cruz asked.
Stauer shook his head. "He-rather Rattus-says ‘no,' but there is such a place a couple of thousand meters north."
"A couple of thousand meters . . . He's going to try to take the airfield for extraction? No fucking way!"
"Relax," Stauer assured, "Rattus has a plan." A fucked up plan, but he has a plan.
D-Day, seven miles west of Dhurbo, Ophir
"You have a plan for this, Eeyore?" Morales asked.
The enemy boat, which had started perhaps three miles behind when they'd spotted it, had closed to within a mile and a half. Soon enough, it would be in range. And then we're fucked, Antoniewicz thought, because we haven't a thing to shoot back with good for more than thirty or forty meters. And not super good at that.
"No, no plan," he answered, "except to keep running and hope for the best."
"We could head in to shore and crash the boat. Try to lose them on land," Morales offered. "But . . . "
"Right. Simmons can't run."
"So what do we do?"
"Outrun them if we can."
"How do you outrun somebody who's faster than you?"
"Well," Eeyore said, "we did mine the boat."
Danger led to doubt. "We hope we mined the boat," Morales said.
"Yeah." It was a long way to the southern turn toward the ship. Eeyore looked wistfully to the southwest, and "home."
"Get to work on the boat's radio," he told Morales. "Maybe we can get some help before it's too late."
"That radio's a burned out piece of shit," Morales said. "But I'll try."
D-Day, midway between Faor and Bandar Qassim Airport
Approximately forty miles south of Antoniewicz and Morales, and completely unaware of their situation, or even their existence, Biggus Dickus Thornton, flying in the medevac plane, spoke to Rattus on the radio.
"How's your limey?" Thornton asked.
"He'll make it if you do," Rattus Hampson answered.
"We're about twenty minutes out."
"Load?"
"Two gunships, one dustoff. The gunships have one each side-firing machine gun, manned, two rocket pods and two machine gun pods each. Most we can carry is two men in the dustoff-that would be you and the Brit-plus one in each of the gunships . . . "
"Won't do, Biggus," Rattus answered. "Leaves us one short and we're not leaving anyone behind."
"I was about to say, one in each of the gunships plus one if we can expend all ammo."
D-Day, south of Bandar Qassim Airport
Rattus listened to the firing to the north and answered, "I don't think you're going to be short of targets, Biggus. Tell the pilots to go ahead and assume they'll expend all their load. Rattus, out."
They carefully laid Vic in the back of the Hummer, then Rattus carelessly tossed his aid bag in the passenger seat. Reaching into a different bag, Rattus pulled out two bungee cords. Taki
ng a bungee cord, he began to affix their one remaining machine gun, the one he had carried, to the roll bar on top of the Hummer.
"You sure about this?" Wahab asked.
Rattus shook his head in the negative, saying, "No, I'm not. Are you willing to leave Buckwheat and Fletcher behind?"
Wahab snorted, thinking about good times in the not-so-distant past, camping out with Fulton, trading stories and lies, and spying. He remembered the American black saving, or at least trying to save, a young girl that he, Wahab, hadn't had and wouldn't have had either the foresight or the will or the courage to try to save. He remembered, too, his friend's-and, yes, Buckwheat was a friend, now-favorite saying: Thank God my multi-great granddaddy got dragged onto that boat.
"Not a chance," the African returned.
Rattus smiled broadly. "Thought not. After all, you're one of us, now."
Wahab felt a sudden warm rush of embarrassment on his face, even as his heart felt warmed by the compliment and the acceptance.
D-Day, four and a half miles west of Dhurbo, Ophir
"I don't think this is going to work," Morales observed. "And, no, the fucking radio doesn't work for trans, though I can pick up BBC, if you're curious." He whistled a few bars of "Lillibullero," to make the point.
He could see the distant flashes of what was probably a machine gun on the pursuing boat. He rotated his monocular down and scanned for splashes. Yep, about two hundred meters behind us and to port as we bear. On the plus side, they don't seem to be very good shots. He said as much to Eeyore.
Antoniewicz had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "How good do they need to be? They'll close to point blank, eventually. Best bring Simmons forward and get him in a life vest."
"Aye, aye," Morales agreed.
D-Day, south of Bandar Qassim Airport
Even though he was firing subsonic ammunition, with a suppressor that would probably work with a One-o-Five, and did a pretty fair job of holding in the muzzle flash, too, every now and again Buckwheat got the feeling that somewhere, someone, out on the long slope below him, had his number. He got the feeling again when a long burst of machine gun fire pelted the rock behind which he covered, sending off shards in all the wrong directions. At times like those, he thought it wise to back up and find someplace else to shoot from.
Rifle cradled in the crook of his elbows, he backpeddled down the slope and out of the line of fire. This was, as it turned out, a very good thing as the next burst of fire didn't hit the rock; it hit precisely where he had been posted.
Maybe the suppressor is about done for, he thought, They're only good for so many shots anyway. Flash might be leaking through. No, it's probably leaking through.
He heard an engine's roar from behind him, coupled with the sound of gravel being tossed out by spinning tires.
The Hummer pulled up behind him. "Jump in and get on the machine gun," Rattus said. "Watch out you don't step on the Brit."
"What?"
"Jump in and get on the machine gun," the medic repeated. "We've got company coming, and I have a cunning plan. Ever hear of Joshua Chamberlain?"
"A cunning plan? Little Round Top?" Fulton rolled his eyes, saying, "Why don't I just blow my brains out now?"
"Just get in."
"What about Fletcher?" Fulton asked.
"Wahab's getting him."
Buckwheat bolted at a crouch for the Hummer. As he did, he heard the on-board radio say, "Rattus, Biggus; we're ninety seconds out. We can see the burning aircraft. We can also see what looks to be a loaded truck convoy leaving the city heading west. One of the gunships is going after the convoy; the other's yours. Where do you want it?"
***
Biggus practically strained his neck, twisting his head to keep an eye on everything that was going on in the air and on the ground, as the medevac bird loitered. For all practical purposes he was playing FAC, or forward air controller. He may have been a little rusty, but he did have some limited experience at it.
From the radio came Rattus's words, "We're just behind the topographical crest. The bad guys are mostly along the northern military crest. That's about seventeen or eighteen hundred meters south of the airfield."
Biggus put the mike to his lips and asked, "Can you give us a marker?"
"We'll give you lights for ten seconds, both vehicles, in thirty."
"That'll do. Then what?"
"You'll probably need more than one pass," Rattus said. "When you've expended your load, or as much as you need to, let me know. Then we're gonna charge, right over the top, all guns-such as they are-blazing. We'll meet you at the airstrip, west of the burning aircraft."
"Roger," Thornton said. It sounded pretty desperate to him but, then again, they did have the hurt limey. So . . .
Biggus gave orders to the other two. After hearing a couple of "Rogers," he shut up and watched.
As the armed aircraft to his north made its first pass, all he could say was, "Awesome."
The aircraft carried fourteen of what were called "S-8, 80mm" rockets, seven under each wing. The rockets were the mixed lot Victor Inning had provided; two per pod carried flechettes; three were high explosive; one was incendiary. The first one set to fire from each pod was illumination. One of these, from his right pod, the pilot to Biggus's north fired first.
Four seconds after the flash of the rocket's ignition could be seen, a two-megacandle flare blossomed over the truck convoy, slightly off center and to the north. In that four seconds the CH-801 had closed its range by two hundred and forty meters, give or take. In the next several seconds, the pilot let loose one entire pod, walking them up the road at and around the seven trucks. Most missed. In fact, all the high explosive and incendiary rounds missed. The flechette rockets, on the other hand, each of them spitting out two thousand thin, finned, steel darts, didn't have to be all that on target. Close was good enough where "close" was defined as two and a half truckloads of human flesh reduced to twitching, screaming, moaning, bleeding, gagging, puking, shitting lumps of meat . . . in a fraction of a second.
As the pilot turned away-safer that was than passing over a convoy of armed men, even if their drivers were jinking like mad-to line up for another run, his door gunner, Manuel, let loose with a long, two hundred round burst of machine gun fire. Manuel didn't hit much either. But his tracers did add to the overall ambience.
Buckwheat noticed that the fire snapping over the ridge slackened, indeed almost ceased, right after the northern sky lit up from the flare.
They're watching the fireworks, he thought. That, and probably shitting their pants. Now's the time, now, for the other strike to go in.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
"A sword for the LORD and for Gideon!"
-Judges 7:20, the Bible, New International Version
D-Day, Rako-Dhuudo-Bandar Cisman highway, Ophir
Reilly listened to the reports from the scouts: "Scout Four . . . SitRep . . . fourteen tanks, moving east on the road . . . two groups . . . four tanks leading then ten more about four hundred meters after . . . dismounts riding on top . . . five or six, maybe seven, per." "Scout Two . . . same . . . just reaching the bend at Checkpoint Five." "Scout One, I make them at Checkpoint Four."
So far, so good, he thought. Fourteen tanks with a gap of four hundred meters . . . mmm . . . call the column one point one klicks long. That'll fit in the kill zone. Why only fourteen though? There were supposed to be up to twenty-four. He called the TOC, back on the ship, to ask.
Boxers voice answered, "When the UAV went over the lager there were ten still there, most with people working on them."
"Roger." Okay then, ten down for maintenance. Par for the course.
Then he heard, "This is Scout Two. Two more tanks, no dismounts on top. A klick and a half behind the others."
Shit! How did the UAVs miss that? Two tanks a kilometer and a half behind would put them out of the kill zone when he initiated the ambush. He didn't want to face one tank in a fair fight, let alone two. There's a solution
, but . . . man, that sucks.
"Scout one, Alpha Six," Reilly sent.
"Scouts." Snyder's voice sounded worried. Ah, he understands the problem, too.
"When we initiate, I need you to engage the follow-on tanks."
There was a pause while Snyder formed a reply. That reply was, "Are you out of your fucking mind? We've got machine guns. That's it."
Reilly's voice stayed calm and firm. He understood perfectly well how Snyder felt. "I know. I don't expect you to kill anything. I just want you to button them up and make them think they're in the kill zone, too. And don't lose track of them when they roll off the road."
The answer to that was long enough in coming. "Wilco." I will comply.
D-Day, MV Merciful
Boxer burst into the TOC and said, "Shit! We missed two tanks."
"What are you talking about?" Stauer asked.
"The UAV passed over the tank column a few miles from the lager. It couldn't count the tanks in the column but counted ten in the camp. So we figured fourteen tanks Reilly would have to face and continued on to the town. On the flight back the pilot swung over the lager again and counted eight. So he followed the road for a while and found the other two, few enough he could count them, racing to join the rest."
"Will they catch up before Reilly's kill zone?"
"No. They'll still be out of it by the time Reilly has to engage."