by Clay Martin
I handed the kid with my sub gun the spare mag I had left. “Works just like your M-4. Make them count.”
Paul shoved the last of the prisoners, including Nick, into the room and gave me an all clear. Time to call Scott.
“Scott, how are those big guns?” I asked.
“Just a second,” he responded, with the heavy thrum of 14.5 fire in the background. Moments later, he was back.
“Cleaned off, got them all while they were still shooting the wrong way.”
“Solid. I have the package, moving to exfil.” I heard the first crump of mortar fire while I was organizing our new additions. An 82mm shell hit near the front gate, sending the guards there scattering.
“Before we take off, who here can work a fuel truck?” I asked the motley crew now clutching liberated guns.
“I can. I was a fueler,” said a young dude, raising his hand.
“Holy fuck! You’re in charge then. We need the wings filled, as well as the internal tank. Trucks with the correct fuel are already marked, one of my guys will point them out. How many troops you need to fill the tanker? Nick has another job to do.”
He did the mental calculus and replied, “Four plus me.”
“Then pick them, right now. The two left overs, you just got promoted to the infantry.”
He made his choice, and I grabbed my recruits nice and tight. “You two, stay close. Everyone, follow me to the plane. Jim will be on our flank, Paul is bringing up the rear. Plane side, Frank will take the fuel team. Got it?”
I led out the door, my new security detail on my heels. Paul pushed Nick to the middle of the pack, and counted us out the door. Not wanting to bump into a gaggle of pissed of IC in the narrow corridors of the buildings, we hightailed it towards the flight line. Out on the perimeter, I saw a rocket streak toward the muzzle flash of a tower machine gun, slamming into the side of it and engulfing it in flame. One of the barracks was on fire, engulfed in smoke. The other was pouring muzzle flash from every window, but it seemed to be mostly at ghosts. So far so good.
We were halfway down the apron when the flight line lights came to life, along with the perimeter floods. Instinctively I hit the ground, as the kid beside me disappeared in a tangle of limbs, a pink mist escaping his chest from a hole big enough to drop a basketball in. Milliseconds later the brappp of 14.5mm cannon fire washed over us. Rounds careened off the concrete, blowing chunks of debris and sparking as they bounced into the night. Fuck me, the one generator I hit probably fed the internet cafe or the gym, because it sure as hell hadn’t taken out anything important. In the wash of light, we were still concealed if we stayed low. Any movement was going to get spotted though, and shredded by the look of it.
“Scott, a little help here,” I yelled into my mic.
“Lights washed me out, I can’t see shit. Gotta move,” he replied.
Son of a bitch, we were in it now. The trucks were moving our way, spraying machine gun lead and trying to draw fire. It wasn’t going to be fast enough though. They might not be able to see us splayed out on the concrete, but eventually they were going to get lucky if they kept hosing it down. And I had Nick. Literally everyone else here was expendable, me included. But without him, this was all over anyway. Decision made, I leapt to my feet and hauled ass toward the fence. It felt like every gun in the compound tracked me, AK fire marking my passing with puffs of concrete dust. The 14.5 arced over me just as I rolled into the drainage ditch. I pulled a LAW off the edge and extended it, hand already on the firing button. I rolled up an lobbed it, not even bothering to half assed aim. A LAW only has a 350 meter range at best, 200 meters on a tank sized object. The rocket would travel a full thousand, but you couldn’t predict its path. I would have had a better chance of finding Atlantis by throwing darts in the Pacific. But that wasn’t the point. As long as I had the big gun shooting at me, it wasn’t turning my pilot into a bag of mush. Rockets are scary and make a lot of noise, that was going to have to be enough. Bullets chewed the lip of the ditch in answer to my challenge as I ducked back to defilade.
I crawled down 10 meters as fast as I could, and fired another one in the same roll up, drop down method. Then a third. They were going to get lucky or predict my pattern, unless Scott got to them first. One of the truck teams roared past me, throwing a rooster tail of dirt. They were going much too fast to hit anything either, though the machine gun on top was still chattering. Speed was the only thing keeping them alive. Using what I hoped was the distraction of a bigger target, I snapped my rifle over the top of the ditch and cranked the scope power to four.
Normally, a magnified optic is useless in the dark. But against a backlit target, it will get the job done. It was nearly 500 meters to the gun, but with an M-4 stabilized on a flat surface, that is doable. I hammered the trigger, dumping a 30 round magazine into what I hoped was the gunners seat. The 14.5 stopped firing, and a body slumped off the side of the wall. I snapped in a fresh magazine and got back on target just in time to see two more fall dead. Scott was back.
I ran back to Nick as fast as I could muster, pulling him to his feet and pointing towards the KC-130. Still moving, I scooped up Jim and pulled him with me.
“Paul, you have the package. We are going for the lights,” I called over the radio. Jim nodded his understanding, and we took off toward the remaining generators. Us having Night Vision and the bad guys not, we had a chance. But if this was a lights on party, they were going to slaughter us. There were just to many of them. Two more mortar rounds impacted the group of buildings, and then John was in my ear.
“Mortar is bingo.”
“Copy. Take the chutes to the plane, get the new crew to unload them. Then take the wall position, keep us from getting flanked.”
One of our trucks would stay on the flight line, toward the perimeter fence, moving to make it look like the main force was there. We had them loaded with a gaggle of machine gun rounds, mostly to make noise. They would have to stay moving to keep from getting turned into Swiss cheese. The real threat would be an organized force coming towards the hanger, using the buildings as cover to get there.
The row of generators came into view, now protected by a squad of IC goons. Someone had their shit together on the other team, that was for sure. They understood immediately after the attack commenced what was critical infrastructure. I held up my hand to stop Jim, they hadn’t spotted us yet. I slung my rifle and pulled my only remaining LAW off my back, extending it and flipping up the sights. One hundred fifty meters isn’t a long shot, but I was out of practice with these. Carefully, I lined up the sights on the middle of the metal box that held our lives. As I pressed the firing mechanism, I remembered to brace for the weight shift as the rocket leaves the fiberglass tube, a half second too late. The rocket hit the dirt right in front of the target, and by a miracle, bounced into the lower quadrant as it detonated. Immediately, the perimeter lights went down, along with half the guards.
I started forward, but Jim pulled me back. He motioned to follow, apparently he had a plan. We flowed down and past the burning generator, stopping to quickly check every corner. Shortly past the target, Jim turned right, and stopped short of the next corner. He held his hand up and mimed legs, telling me he was floating across. Once he was on the other side, he held up a three fingers, then two, then I got it. On one, we both turned the corner inboard, catching the guards for the last generator from behind. They were all facing the direction the rocket had come, stacked up behind cover. We gunned them down before they figured out they were screwed, melting them into a pile of meat sacks in seconds. Reloading, we moved to the last generator.
“Worked in Ramadi, too,” Jim said, a smile of satisfaction creasing his face.
“Nice one. Any idea how to shut this thing down?” I said back.
In answer, he pulled open one of the sheet metal flaps and dropped a grenade in. I was running before the spoon came off. Around the
corner again, we heard the muffled explosion, followed by the sounds of metal tearing metal. Not a perfect kill, but the remaining power would be out any second. Good enough.
“Frank, report,” I called, needing to know the status so I could direct the battle.
“It’s working, but 40 minutes left.”
“Solid copy.” I responded. Forty minutes on the ground can seem like a lifetime, and it left plenty of space for something to go wrong. It could be worse though, the Raid at Entebbe took 90. I would’ve given my right arm for some air support right then. Scott called in with bad news.
“All stations. Looks like they are organizing for a counter attack, oriented towards the hangers. And the Win Mag is running low.”
Peachy. There was some well-trained goomba in charge of this base, for certain. Most insurgents we had faced would have already fled from the onslaught we had rained down. Then, in places like Sadr City, they had stood and fought when we had Spectre gunships and fast movers on station. The situation reeked of good leadership, just our luck.
“Copy. Scott, fall back when needed. Jim, Paul, Willie, need you to reinforce John.”
Jim took off, and I made my way toward the plane. I needed to know exactly what the situation was, and how soon Nick could possibly pull this off. I heard rifle fire and the blast of a grenade from John’s general direction, I hoped he was holding the line. I ran up the ramp, crossed the cargo area, and entered the cockpit.
“Nick, give me good news,” I said. Nick had a headlamp on, flipping switches and conferring with a book in his lap.
“I think I have it, but we won’t know for certain till we try. Start up procedures are mostly done. But everyone is going to know what we are doing once I crank these engines over.”
“Last possible second then. We will hold the line. But as soon as we are clear to go, I need to know.”
“Can do. Frank programmed your freq into the internal radio, so I can call you.”
“Perfect. No pressure, but we are all dead as fried chicken if you fuck this up.”
“Thanks, Coach,” he responded, and went back to work.
Back on the tarmac, I started prepping a final defense. I was distracted by two of the Air Force guys, standing in the open and talking about Myspace or whatever kids do these days.
“Hey, if you clowns aren’t busy, the Mongolian Horde is getting ready to skull fuck us. Grab a machine gun and follow me.” I interrupted.
“I have an idea about that actually, if you don’t mind,” was the overly courteous response. Did I mind? No, by all means. After you sir.
“Do I look like I fucking mind? If you have a plan to help, now would be a good time.”
Right on cue, the 14.5 opened up again, now firing directly down the middle of the airfield. Those four barrels of death looked like a super nova pluming in the sky. A line of oversized bullets crossed over our heads, arcing into the side of the hanger. Shit, they had us figured out. If they hit the tanker, we were going to be evaporated in a plume of jet fuel. I slapped to the ground, and my Airmen scattered. Different finishing schools.
Under cover of the cannon fire, a platoon size element rushed down the apron towards us like Pickett’s charge. I furiously hammered targets, while our mobile platform stopped to assist me. The truck got off three bursts before a volley of RPG fire tore through the darkness at them, impacting close enough I thought they were goners for certain. They reappeared 50 meters away, but were now moving every burst. We knocked back the assault, but just barely. The last one fell in front of me, much closer than I would have liked.
“Scott, cannons back up,” I called.
“Falling back, taking heavy fire,” he breathlessly responded, talking at a run.
“All stations, that was a probing attack. The next one, they got us. Need some support front of the plane.”
They were going to throw a bigger attack just like that next, and I didn’t think we could repel it. The coordination with the cannons showed some thinking, as did the RPG volley at the truck. They had barely missed, we wouldn’t be that lucky again. A combined arms attack, well-coordinated, showed a level of tactical control that was well beyond what I expected. This was going south quickly. I had a few minutes at best before the next wave. I ran to find my Air Force guys, we needed all the help we could get. Probably cowering in a corner, or playing Xbox somewhere.
As I ran down the line of planes, I noticed one of them was moving. In the driver’s seat was one of my young troops, though the engines weren’t on. It was being dragged by a tow dolly, driven by the other kid.
“What in the fuck are you doing? You can’t fly this thing. Get your ass to the line, I need you on a gun.” I was in no mood for shenanigans.
The kid was fired up. “I can’t fly it, no. But I’m an ordinance tech. So I know how to work the weapons.”
And then I got it. God bless the grifting Privates of the world. They are lazy and undisciplined, but also devious and cunning little bastards. If this worked, I was going to find this kid Sergeant stripes, or whatever trinket the Chair Force uses.
The tow truck brought the F-18 straight towards the previous axis of advance, and then jack knifed to the side.
“He’s gonna shoot, and I’m gonna aim.” Tow Truck said to me. Holy shit, that was brilliant.
The 14.5 must’ve been reloading, it commenced firing our direction again. I looked down the nose of the bird, and told Tow Truck to bring us up a bit. Satisfied, I waited. A massive force of dismounts appeared from the buildings, charging our way like pack of banshees. I held until they were halfway to us, and yelled to open up. The F-18s 30mm cannon shattered the quiet from our side, with Tow Truck bouncing us to strafe across the flight line. It was a thing of beauty. I saw a direct hit cartwheel a body into the air, tossing it end over end back the way it came. Those not hit broke and ran, terrified of the heavy artillery brought to bear. Even our own guys stopped firing, it was so shocking. As soon as the cannon went empty, I was yelling to bring another one online.
The 14.5 gunners recovered first, and must’ve realized it was a race against time now. Either they got us, or we were going to get them. As my new best friends pulled another F-18 out of the line, the enemy cannon started wreaking havoc on the far end of the line of aircraft. I aimed the nose again, trying for the 14.5. Our first burst was short, smacking the tarmac halfway there. The next devastated the HESCO wall, but it held. I leaned in the cockpit.
“What else you got on here?” I asked.
The ordinance monkey lit up even brighter. He pressed a button and a missile fell off and hit the tarmac, thankfully on the wing of the plane. We both froze, horrified it might go off. Instead it just sat there.
“Maybe not that again. Anything else?”
He glanced out the side of the plane left and right, and was apparently happy with what he saw.
“Rocket pods. But you are going to want to stand back for this.”
I jumped down and ran to the side, Tow Truck coming with me. The 14.5 gunner was inching closer to us, getting the range dialed in tight, when a barrage of five inch rockets filled the air. They blazed across the open ground, slamming into the HESCO’s, blasting dirt and steel in every direction. The four barreled behemoth disappeared into a cloud of dust. When it cleared, the entire wall had collapsed. Problem solved.
We hadn’t even had time to congratulate ourselves when the first of the C-130s big engines roared to life. Then a second kicked over, then a third, then the fourth. Not that they needed to be told, that was a cue. But Nick did anyway.
“We are ready to roll.”
“Exfil. Exfil. Exfil,” I called over the common net. Our Airmen ran up the ramp, with Frank counting them in. This was no place to get left behind, not after the damage we had just inflicted. The IC would spend the next month thinking of creative ways to kill you, after they broke your arms and legs to in
sure you didn’t try and escape again. It was also the most dangerous part of the entire plan, lumbering the big plane toward the enemy and around to take off position. But with the amount of runway we needed, we didn’t have a choice.
Gabe stopped next to me with a stolen Humvee, Jim already in the 50 cal gun mount on top. I jumped in the side and Gabe burned rubber to the apex of our C-130’s planned turn. Jim laid down fire at likely hiding spots as the other two truck teams joined us, spaced 20 meters to our front and rear. This was for all the marbles, we had to pin the IC down long enough to get the bird lined up straight. I started lobbing disposable rockets at windows as fast as I could open them. Like a sumo wrestler in high heels, the C-130 creaked down and into the turn. Return fire intensified, and suddenly slacked off. Nick had the unfamiliar beast in as tight a bend as he dared, which was agonizingly slow. If he bounced a wing off the ground, we weren’t going anywhere. With the cognition of a mind honed in years of combat, I knew what the slack in fire was.
“All stations, they are prepping a counter attack. Standby to use everything you’ve got.” This was bad. Losing a bunch of guys in a firefight was an acceptable outcome to the IC. They were going to meet 72 virgins in paradise anyway, why worry about holes in the parade formation tomorrow? As long as the officer corps lived on, no loss. But letting a plane load of infidels get free, that was an insult they would not take. The entire chain of command was likely to get a head chopping over that, a fact not lost on the ground commander. He was going to throw everything but the kitchen sink at us, and then the kitchen sink.
The C-130 completed the turn, and I saw Frank laying on the ramp with a 240, fingers twitching. Scott ran up from the opposite side and threw his Mk13 into the plane, no doubt completely empty on ammo. He was unslinging his M-4 as a fusillade of fire erupted from the IC positions. Rounds were banging off the armored Humvee as my crew returned it at the cyclic rate. A Zerg rush of enemy infantry sprinted across the open ground. We chewed them to pieces, the noise mostly lost to the overwhelming roar of the plane’s engines spinning up to maximum revolutions.
