Reflexive Fire - 01

by Jack Murphy

  Although Frank referred to them as Claymores, they were not actually the American-made mines but the Yugoslavian copy that was easier to procure on the open market. Called the MRUD, it contained a TNT-based explosive with 650 ball bearings that acted as shrapnel. The mercenaries diligently placed the mines with overlapping sectors of fire, to make sure the enemy did not escape the intended kill radius. Ultimately, nearly two dozen of them would be daisy-chained together. Sasha would maintain the detonator, or clacker as it was called, to initiate the ambush.

  With the Kazakhs in their platoon sergeant's capable hands, Frank decided it was time to find his own position. The firefight had been raging at the weapons plant for ten minutes or so. By now someone had certainly placed a phone call north. Troops had been woken from their cots and were probably already loading vehicles.

  Heading out, Frank heard someone grunt and realized he'd stepped on one of the ambushers.

  “Shit,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

  “S'okay,” the prone man answered in English.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Roger,” the voice whispered back.

  “Who?”

  “One of the new guys.”

  “Oh, I'm glad you’re still alive. Hold on a second.”

  Backtracking, the American found Sasha and spoke into his ear. They got along just fine but there was still something of a language barrier between them. Finally understanding, Sasha nodded his approval and Frank moved back to Roger.

  “Hey, let's go.”

  “Where to?” Roger asked.

  “We're going to go provide security up ahead.”

  “Gotcha,” the other American said, standing up.

  The two moved into the foliage, looking for a decent vantage point. Finding a good lookout point near a copse of trees, they got down to the ground, providing overwatch on the road. From there they would call Sasha on the radio and give him early warning when the enemy convoy neared.

  Resting on their stomachs, Frank looked back and forth for signs of danger. Finding none, he set his AK down beside him and pulled out a silver-topped can of Copenhagen snuff. Tapping on the lid a few times, he pulled out a pinch of dip and stuck it in his lower lip before offering the can to Rogers.

  Accepting it, the former Force Recon Marine threw in a dip as well. Once your body dumped any initial adrenaline that flooded your system in combat, you had to find a way to stay awake during long patrols. The Copenhagen definitely gave the two of them a slight buzz, to keep them awake but despite it Frank still felt himself nodding off.

  After running himself into the ground all over the South Pacific, he had made it back to Astana just in time for another combat op. After familiarizing himself with the operations order, the best he could do was grab a few hours of sleep on the flight into country.

  “Hey, Roger.”

  “What's up?”

  “Talk to me man, I'm falling asleep,” Frank said, squirting dip spit between his teeth.

  Chuck planned on keeping this thing quiet as long as he could get away with it.

  With Second Platoon providing a fireworks show that offered distraction for the militiamen occupying the ammunition dump, he was going to make a stealth infiltration. The Burmese were running around, trying to figure out who was doing all that shooting at the weapons factory eight kilometers northeast, rather than watching their own perimeter.

  Careful reconnaissance had told the former SEAL that the ammo factory was surrounded by a trench line with a bunker every couple of hundred meters. In front of the trench was coils of concertina wire to tangle up anyone trying to sneak up on them. Luckily for Bravo Company's Third Platoon, one thing you can always count on with any military operation is somebody fucking things up.

  Crawling forward, his large frame blended into the shadows, his jungle fatigues matching the surroundings, and face covered in green camouflage cosmetics. With his AK-103 in one hand he crawled forward arm over arm nearing the bunker he had been aiming towards for the last quarter of an hour.

  Somebody had definitely fucked the pooch on this deal. While the other bunkers appeared to be placed properly, this one was dug in just above the military crest of the hill that the enemy base rested on. In this position, the hill sloped and fell away in front of the bunker, and whoever manned it could not see down the edge of the hill, creating dead space in the defender's field of fire.

  Thanks to this error, Chuck was able to crawl right up to the concertina wire unobserved. The plan of attack had been worked out with the squad members before they began to infiltrate. Using several sticks collected and cut to size, they used the 'v' notch naturally created where the stick forked to hold up the rolls of defensive wire to form a gap. Somebody had forgotten to stake the wire down properly.

  The twelve-inch gap was plenty for Chuck to take the lead once again and crawl under the wire. Somewhere nearby, they heard the thump of mortar rounds, mixed in with sporadic bursts of machine gun fire. Squirming through the wire, he spotted several anti-personnel mines. They were the large circular variety that the Russians made and the Chinese copied.

  It was all military laissez-faire, Chuck figured.

  Clearing the wire, he paused for a moment and listened as a gentle breeze cooled the sweat on his forehead. No rustling, no clicking of gun metal. So far so good. Then again, he had lost a few decibels since Afghanistan.

  Hooking around, he continued to low crawl, pawing at the grass with his free hand until he found what he was looking for. Sliding his Ka-Bar from its sheath, Chuck cut the wire used to command detonate the mine from the bunker, then turned back around to find the wire leading from the other mine he spotted.

  After few minutes of careful, deliberate movement, he found and cut the second wire.

  Back at the newly formed gap in the wire, he motioned the Kazakhs forward. They would form the assault element when needed. The support by fire element had been in place from the beginning, monitoring the infiltrators' progress in case of compromise.

  Creating as low a profile as possible, Chuck had his ear pressed into the ground as he inched forward up to the edge of the trench line. UWSA commanders shouted inside the base in Burmese and Chinese alike, rallying the troops. None of them seemed to have a clue as to what was going on right under their noses.

  Silently lowering himself into the trench, Chuck found himself kneeling in mud. One by one, the Kazakhs began flowing in behind him. When a squad's worth had arrived, he moved in a crouch, staying low as he approached the first bunker.

  The perimeter bunkers were haphazard, made with locally procured materials, like logs and mud with some sandbags. Overhead cover was crafted with medium-sized tree trunks, the gaps filled with more sandbags.

  With his eyes already adjusted to the limited visibility of the darkness, he could see into the bunker. The guard was watching to the rear, fascinated by the red and green tracer fire buzzing through the air from the nearby firefight rather than watching his own sector of fire. His AK-47 lay next to him, unattended.

  No wonder they had gotten this far undetected.

  Slinging the AK, he drew his fighting knife once more and closed on the sentry, prepared for the grim realities of combat.

  The guard wore the same olive drab uniform as all the UWSA militia, his head bobbing under a mop of jet black hair. Chuck clasped a hand over the guard's mouth as he tried to cry out. Drawing the blade to his neck, he froze. The Burmese guard continued to fight back against Chuck, but it was to no avail as he was nearly three times his size.

  The sentry couldn't be more than twelve years old.

  Chuck sheathed the knife, and quickly set the child soldier in a chokehold. In moments the kid passed out, falling limp in his hands like someone flipped off a switch. Easing him down to the muddy ground, he secured the boy's hands and feet with flexible plastic handcuffs.

  Drawing the blade again, the Kazakhs looked on as Chuck cut a strip from the boy's oversized uniform. He was already waking up as the Am
erican tied the knot on his gag.

  The Samruk mercenaries might have been rough around the edges, but they certainly weren't in the business of killing children, even if others had no qualms about putting a rifle in a little boy's hands.

  The ex-SEAL wondered what he would do if another child soldier fired on him at some point. He preferred not to think about it.

  With a foothold secured they would now begin the next phase of the plan.

  Sabotage.

  Chuck looked to the Kazakhs, all three squads now occupying the trench and bunker. Somebody was in for a nasty surprise if they stumbled upon them. The assaulters ducked as a flare went up. A radio crackled in the background as a UWSA officer tried to reach a superior- someone, anyone to tell them what was happening.

  As the flare began to sputter and die, Chuck looked above the edge of the trench and visually identified the ammunition plant. The AK's were manufactured on Second Platoon's objective, the ammunition for the rifles being made on theirs.

  It was a long rectangular building set in the center of the compound, made of salvaged sheets of aluminum. Several more sentries were stationed at the entrance, on high alert with all the commotion. Deciding on the best avenue of approach, Chuck pointed the building out to the Kazakhs.

  Another flare went up. One of the perimeter guards started shooting at ghosts on the other side of the compound. They were getting spooked.

  Indicating that he wanted Second and Third squad to remain in place until he called them up, he had them pass up all the satchel charges to First Squad. He'd be taking them into the ammo factory, himself.

  Gripping the AK, he watched, waited, until the flare fell into the jungle and disappeared.

  Jumping out of the trench, he took point, Kazakh mercenaries loaded down with explosive charges trailing behind.

  “And, you know, bro, I was totally shocked that Phoebe had a husband,” Rogers said, shaking his head.

  “Well, that shit makes sense,” Frank muttered. “She was always the weird one. But then Chandler came out with that whole thing about having a third nipple.”

  “Shit, yeah. That was strange, but what about them finding out about Joey being in a skin flick.”

  “But not actually being in a skin flick.”

  The two mercenaries chuckled.

  “That was the same one where Ross was asking Rachel for sex advice,” Frank continued.

  “Yeah, and she totally bullshitted him about-”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “What?”

  “Are those headlights coming this way?”

  Squinting, they could see several sets of headlights turn into several dozen as they grew closer.

  “Hell, yes,” Frank said, keying up his radio. “We're on, Sasha. Looks to be about twenty-five trucks.”

  “Da,” his voice answered back.

  Hunkering down, the only noise heard was the engines of the approaching cargo trucks as the two mercenaries spat Copenhagen juice on the jungle underbrush.

  Moments later, the two-and-half-ton trucks rumbled by their position, the back of each truck loaded to capacity and bristling with combat troops, rifles pointed in every direction.

  With the convoy disappearing down the road, everything was still for a moment.

  Then the earth shook.

  Sergeant Sasha depressed the clacker.

  Twenty-four Yugoslavian claymore mines had had their backs removed by the demolition team. Small amounts of the mine's TNT explosive had been extracted, and then detonation chord had been substituted and strung from mine to mine, daisy chaining them down the entire length of the linear ambush. The center mine had a blasting cap inserted into it with the clacker attached by a wire.

  The mines exploded, shredding human flesh, shattering glass, and pock marking steel. The awful sounds of the dead and dying filled the sulfur-laced air with their screams. The ambushers opened fire with machine guns and assault rifles. The RPG teams had rockets primed and laid out next to them, firing shot after shot in rapid succession.

  The lucky ones were killed in the initial blast; the less fortunate UWSA irregulars were left wounded, only to suffer the gunfire and anti-tank rockets that slammed into the wreckage of the trucks. The fuel tank on one of the surplus cargo trucks ignited, lifting the back two tires clean off the ground in a brilliant fireball.

  Another truck skidded through the mud with two burst tires, before rolling on its side. As it slammed onto its flank, the dead militiamen riding in the back were flung into the air.

  After a full minute, the onslaught was completed, and Sasha called for a ceasefire over his radio. They listened for the sounds of anyone left alive. Moans and groans sounded ahead of them on the road. Someone was yelling for help in his native tongue. Sasha was distracted by something out of place in the trees above him.

  The light produced by the burning truck illuminated the woodline and allowed him to discern what he was looking it. It was a human torso thrown into the trees, intestines unraveled behind it and strung through the branches.

  “Assault!”

  The ambush line picked up and moved forward to finish the job.

  Chuck took aim at the nearest sentry and milked the trigger, the Kazakh next to him doing the same a fraction of a second later.

  The two sentries collapsed, head shots making sure that they never knew what hit them. Closing the distance, a First Squad trooper opened the heavy steel door to the ammunition factory and held it for Chuck to drag the two bodies inside. The UWSA gunmen guarding the compound were now so spooked by all the shooting going on at other objectives that they were shooting at ghosts outside the wire and sending up flares every thirty seconds.

  Two shots were not enough to alert them to what was actually happening under their noses.

  Pulling the corpses inside, the mercenaries shut the door, posting one man as a guard. Through the windows running along the warehouse, they could see shadows darting back and forth. Full-blown panic was taking hold of the militiamen at this point, fear eating them from the inside out.

  Chuck could now see the equipment needed to manufacture the ammunition laid out in an assembly line fashion. There were furnaces for melting lead, with various sized bullet molds, presses, and boxes full of spent shells for reloading, but what was most interesting were the drums full of magnesium phosphate, used in the production of tracer rounds, and drums of white phosphorus, for making incendiary rounds.

  The ex-SEAL felt like he had just scored the winning touchdown of the Super Bowl.

  “Go to work.”

  The Kazakh mercenaries fanned out while one man watched the door. Chuck assisted in the placement of the satchel charges. Several of the twenty pound satchels were spread around the fifty-five gallon drums of explosive chemicals. The squad hurried, placing other charges around the presses and other machinist tools used for production.

  “Sergei,” Chuck whispered to get the Kazakh's attention. The troop guarding the door looked back at him.

  “Are we clear?”

  The mercenary cracked open the door and peered out to make sure their route back to the trench line was unobstructed. Looking back, he nodded his head to the big American.

  “Everyone ready?”

  Seven sets of eyes drilled into him, ready to go.

  “On three,” he ordered. The satchels had one minute of time fuse on them and needed to be initiated simultaneously. It wasn't the most precise way to use explosives, but it would get the job done. If anything, this much demo was overkill.

  “Three, two, one-”

  The Kazakhs pulled the pins on the fuse igniters, beginning the burn sequence on the time fuse. Lining up on the door, they flowed back outside, Chuck moving out last to make sure no one was left behind.

  Like race horses out of the gates, the squad ran at full speed back towards the trench where their comrades lay in wait. Each of them had plenty of motivation to put distance between themselves and the factory as their lungs burned, chest rigs bouncing bac
k and forth full of grenades and spare magazines.

  They were half way to the trench when another flare shot up into the sky.

  Popping once it reached altitude, the flare illuminated the squad, and they came under fire a heartbeat later. Staccato bursts of machine gun fire searched them out. The militiamen occupying the other bunkers sent gunfire in three hundred and sixty degrees, crisscrossing the entire compound. Tracers skipped by, missing them by inches, stray bullets kicking up dirt at their feet.

  The mercenary squad ran even harder, their strides eating up the ground in front of them.

  The Samruk soldiers crouching in the trenches returned fire, shooting at the other bunkers. One mercenary cut loose, blasting one of the outbuildings with a RPG that exploded into the wall and collapsed it. First Squad dived back into the trench, Chuck sliding into home and falling on top of another one of the mercs.

  “Everyone down!” he yelled.

  The Kazakhs ducked as Chuck fired his own red pin flare into the air, signaling the support by fire line. Four PKM machine guns fired on automatic, sweeping the objective with 7.62 rounds for several seconds until the ammunition plant exploded, turning night into day.

  The explosion blew the factory's roof sky high, throwing debris everywhere as the C4 ignited the phosphorus and magnesium. The fireball rose into the air like a miniature mushroom cloud, finally burning off into a thick plume of dark smoke.

  Most of the platoon had to pick themselves up and out of the mud, the blast having knocked them off their feet; then they hit the ground again as debris began raining back down to earth. Hot pieces of metal hissed as they fell into the muddy puddles.

  Chuck glanced back in the bunker. The twelve-year-old kid was still squirming against his restraints, trying to yell through the gag secured over his mouth. He looked back at the flaming wreck that had been an ammunition plant until a moment ago.