“Anyone hurt?” Murdock demanded.
“A little shrapnel, a few burns. Just made us run faster. I think we broke the Iraqi Army’s world record for un-assing an armored vehicle under fire. Chicken-shit son of a bitch launched from max range. If he had the balls to get in close we’d all be ashes right now.”
“Shouldn’t have said that so loud, Chief,” Jaybird called out. “He’s coming in.”
35
Saturday, November 11
1625 hours North central Lebanese mountains
While his fellow SEALs were scrambling among the rocks, Magic Brown was removing his massive rifle from the drag bag.
The McMillan M88 was a highly tuned bolt-action sniper rifle, scaled up in size to handle the huge.50-caliber machine-gun cartridge. It was fifty-three inches long, with a bulbous muzzle brake on the end of the barrel, an adjustable bipod, and a fixed five-round magazine. To make that great length more manageable, the black fiberglass stock broke down at a joint just behind the trigger group. The rifle weighed twenty-five pounds, including the Leupold Ultra Mk 4 16-power telescopic sight. Magic had screwed a 2-power converter onto the end of the scope to bring the total magnification up to 32-power. That much magnification threw up a lot of haze and mirage in the field of view, but was necessary for a rifle designed to shoot accurately beyond two thousand yards.
Although McMillan rifles were close to being a SEAL trademark, the M88 had been brought along on the mission because a great many had been sold around the world. Particularly to the French, who used them for counter-sniping in Bosnia. Magic had been careful to bring along the M88 instead of the similar but lighter and improved McMillan M93, which was almost exclusively in the SEAL inventory.
There was no flat place to set the rifle on its bipod, so Magic threw the empty padded drag bag over a rock and used it as a rifle rest.
Now that the BMP and its cannon and machine guns had been destroyed, the pilot of the Gazelle felt more comfortable about moving in close. He intended to use the high-magnification HOT sight to pick out the enemy in the rocks. His remaining missiles would blow them to bits. A range of one thousand meters ought to do just fine.
Razor Roselli was beside Magic acting as spotter. But the compact laser range finder the size of a small pair of binoculars wouldn’t be much use. The Gazelle’s range was changing every second. It was all going to be up to Magic.
Quartermaster First Class Martin “Magic” Brown was a black man who had grown up in the Chicago projects. His fiercely protective mother had made sure he maintained the clean police record that allowed him to escape into the Navy.
At boot camp in Great Lakes he’d watched the SEAL recruiting film and decided that was for him, even though at the time he could barely dog-paddle across the pool. Swimming pools and swimming lessons were hard to come by in the projects, one reason why there were proportionately few minority SEALS. But you didn’t need to be an Olympic swimmer to be a SEAL. You just needed to be determined. Martin Brown was determined.
Because nothing came easy, Magic got in the habit of listening carefully and doing things exactly the way he was taught. Not only was this the right formula for making it as a SEAL, it also happened to be the characteristic of a great rifle shot. After he pinned on the Budweiser, a smart platoon chief sent Seaman Brown through the SEAL sniper course. He later went on to Marine Corps Scout Sniper Instructor School, and the Army Special Operations Target Interdiction Course. A kid who had barely made it through basic-level high school math now did ballistic trajectories, windage compensations, and moving target computations for a range of ammunition loadings — in his head, and in minutes of angle. Magic liked to say he just needed a practical application for those numbers.
The McMillan was capable of Minute of Angle accuracy, which meant a group of rounds would fall in a one-inch circle at one-hundred yards, a ten-inch circle at one thousand yards, and a twenty-inch circle at two thousand yards. With the right ammunition it could do better than that. No matter how good the rifle was, most men couldn’t shoot Minute of Angle. Custom-built sniping weapons in the conventional rifle calibers could produce 1/2 Minute of Angle. Magic Brown could shoot 1/2 Minute of Angle.
Magic worked the heavy bolt and racked a round into the chamber. The Gazelle was approaching leisurely; it was bright and clear in the fine black crosshairs of his scope. Magic watched the clouds to see which way the wind was blowing and how fast. His brain was working on the math, and the compensation for the difference in altitude from the Chocolate Mountains, where he’d last zeroed the scope. Long-range marksmanship was both art and science. Magic Brown was both artist and scientist, and, as the platoon liked to say in frequent awe at the results, part magician.
Magic didn’t aim at the helicopter. He practiced the sniper’s trick of aiming at a particular spot on the target, in this case a square of windscreen. He clicked the elevation drum of the telescopic sight to fifteen hundred meters.
The Gazelle gunner was scanning the rocks through his own crosshairs, looking for signs of life. His finger was on the firing button.
In order to shoot Magic had to be exposed. The gunner picked him up.
Magic fired. The time of flight for a.50-caliber slug at fifteen hundred meters was 2.4 seconds. Plenty of time for a helicopter to move.
“Miss, low,” said Razor.
Magic had already worked the bolt and made a new set of calculations. The SEALs in the rocks were silent, like any appreciative audience. But that made no difference. No matter what the noise or distractions, there was only Magic, the rifle locked against his body, and the helicopter.
At that range the Gazelle crew had no idea they were being fired at. Now the gunner had his crosshairs on Magic, and unlike a sniper’s bullet, a HOT missile could be continuously guided to its target. The pilot was hovering now. The gunner pressed his firing button.
Magic fired again. What he fired was an armor-piercing explosive round. Explosive rounds in.50 caliber had previously been unavailable because no one could make a fuse small enough to fit in the round with enough room for the charge. This one was made by Raufoss of Norway, so of course the SEALs called it a Rufus round.
It hit the plexiglass windscreen of the Gazelle and passed between the pilot and copilot. Even if the pilot hadn’t lost control when the windshield shattered — it was the last thing in the world he was expecting — the round slammed into the engine compartment behind them and exploded. “That looked like a hit,” said Razor.
The helicopter wobbled in midair, then rolled upside down and headed for the earth.
The copilot grabbed the controls and kicked the foot pedals, trying to coax the rotors into auto-rotation. But the helicopter was already aerodynamically unstable. It crashed into the base of the mountains and exploded.
The SEALs acknowledged Magic Brown with a round of subdued golf claps, as if they were the gallery and he had just two-putted the ninth hole at Augusta. Magic turned around and grinned at his audience.
But he quickly got back behind the rifle when Razor informed them, “Two more Gazelles coming up from the valley.” Magic peered through the scope. “No missiles on these, just 20-millimeter gun-packs.”
“Terrific,” came Jaybird’s voice from the rocks. “Just 20-millimeter cannons.”
“Are you starting up with those negative thoughts again?” Doc Ellsworth shouted angrily.
The rest of the SEALs actually began chuckling. Jaybird found the wisdom to remain silent.
“Everyone get some cover,” Magic said helpfully. “We may end up taking a little incoming.” He pressed two fresh rounds, both as long as his entire hand, into the magazine.
Murdock and Razor set up their MSG-90 rifles. Doc had left the third MSG-90 behind in the BMP, choosing to save his medical pack instead. Doc had made the right choice, but Murdock wouldn’t have blamed him even if he’d left everything behind. If it came down to your ass or some gear, you had to go with your ass. No sense in losing both.
Murdo
ck knew his MSG-90 wouldn’t do much good in the present situation. He was a good shot, but unlike Magic, not a one-thousand-yard shot. Eight hundred yards was the limit of his skills. It was all in Magic’s hands.
The pair of Gazelles didn’t know what had happened to the first one, but their tactics were a little better. One made a run straight at the rocks where the SEALs were hiding, but zigzagging this time. The other split off and came at them up the long axis of the mountain range.
Magic decided on the Gazelle coming right at them. It was zigzagging, but in the most regular back-and-forth pattern imaginable. The French 20mm cannon had an effective range of about two thousand yards, but in the absence of the high-powered optics of the HOT system, it would have to get in closer to identify targets.
The Gazelle wasn’t sure where the SEALs were. It opened fire at max range and worked bursts up the road, trying to flush them out.
Magic Brown fired.
“Miss, right,” said Razor.
The cannon rounds splattered up the road.
Magic Brown fired again.
“Miss,” said Razor. “Wait for it, he’s going to have to stop juking once he gets on target.”
The only problem with that, Murdock was thinking, was that they were the target.
Magic fired again.
The round hit the Gazelle low, and took the copilot’s left leg off at the knee. It exploded behind his seat.
Despite the screams of the copilot and the arterial blood spraying around the cabin, the pilot kept control of the Gazelle and yanked it into a hard right turn, quitting the fight.
The SEALs heard the boom-boom-boom of the other cannon, and knowing what was coming, Magic grabbed his rifle and dropped beneath the cover of the rocks. The rest followed suit.
The high-explosive cannon shells exploded among the rocks like small grenades.
Just as they’d taught him in the demo pit during Hell Week, Murdock clapped his hands over his ears and kept his mouth open.
The shells would come in breaking the sound barrier, followed by the explosions, then tiny pieces of fragmentation and rock splinters singing by.
Then the Gazelle pilot did a very foolish thing. Perhaps he was overconfident, perhaps he was used to targets that didn’t shoot back. Instead of standing off and pouring cannon fire into the rocks, he continued his gun run and made a high-speed pass overhead. Murdock had seen Marine Corps Cobra pilots do the same thing. Maybe the pilot planned on making a quick turn and then shooting straight down on them.
As the Gazelle passed overhead the SEALs all rose up shooting. They used the old Viet Cong technique of picking a spot in the sky ahead and letting the helicopter run into the fire.
The Gazelle shuddered and then sped off to the east, trailing smoke.
“I guess we’ve done our part in writing down the Syrian Air Force inventory,” said Razor Roselli as he peeked up to watch the helicopter go. He patted Magic on the back. Then, from the rocks off to the side an urgent cry rang out. “Doc, over here!”
Murdock felt sick to his stomach.
36
Saturday, November 11
1639 hours North central Lebanese mountains
Doc Ellsworth leaped over the rocks, his medical pack in hand and Blake Murdock on his heels.
Razor Roselli shouted, “Everybody stay put and keep your eyes open. The Doc don’t need no help. Now sound off!”
“Jaybird.”
“Magic.”
“DeWitt.” And then the same voice. “I’m here with the Professor.”
Murdock found DeWitt applying direct pressure, with his only good hand, to a wound in Higgins’s side.
“I didn’t see any other wounds,” DeWitt said to Doc. And then: “I … I tried to get a battle dressing open, but I couldn’t.”
“You did just fine, sir,” the Doc said soothingly. “Don’t worry, Higgo, we’re under control here.”
Murdock stripped off Higgins’s radio pack, then elevated his legs to force blood back into the upper extremities and prevent shock.
Doc cut away part of Higgins’s jacket so he had room to work. “Okay, sir,” he said to DeWitt. “Take your hand off.”
Doc took a close look at the wound, then inserted a woman’s tampon into the hole. It was a little battlefield medical trick. The tampon absorbed blood and swelled outward, sealing off the wound and effectively stopping the bleeding. The size and shape were perfect for fitting inside wounds.
Higgins was staring into the sky, blinking hard, groaning through gritted teeth, but not saying a word.
Then Doc placed a four-by-seven-inch battle dressing compress over the wound, winding the two long green gauze strips around Higgins’s torso and then tying the ends together over the compress. He checked Higgins for other wounds. Finding none, the Doc listened to Higgins’s chest with his stethoscope and slid on a blood pressure cuff. He gave Higgins a shot of morphine, clipping the empty syrette to his collar to keep track of the dosage. Finally, Doc started an intravenous line and hooked up a clear plastic bag of Lactated Ringer’s solution. DeWitt held the IV bag up.
“No sweat, Higgo,” the Doc said confidently. “You’re going to be fine.”
Higgins nodded. The morphine was starting to kick in.
Doc slid his nylon stretcher underneath Higgins in case they had to move fast. He covered the Professor with a green foil space blanket to keep him warm, and then wrapped the stretcher straps around the whole setup. Then he slipped away to give Murdock the score.
“It doesn’t sound like the fragment’s in the thoracic cavity,” Doc repeated. “Lungs are clear, and thanks to Mister DeWitt he didn’t lose too much blood. He’s stabilized. Other than that, I’m not psychic.”
“I know you’d like to get him out now,” Murdock said. “Can he wait until dark?”
“He’s got to,” Doc replied, putting it as simply and bluntly as a SEAL corpsman could. “If he stays stable, he should be all right. But not too long after dark, okay, sir?”
“Do my best,” said Murdock.
37
Saturday, November 11
1650 hours North central Lebanese mountains
“They know where we are now,” Murdock said to Razor Roselli. “And I don’t like that one bit, no matter how defensible the position is. Not with only five of us in fighting shape.”
Razor nodded in agreement. “If we move two or three klicks south down this mountain range, we’ll still be in a good position to dominate the road up.”
“You’re reading my mind again,” Murdock replied.
SEAL officers did not delegate the grunt work. Murdock sent Jaybird out ahead to scout a good route. He, Razor, Magic, and Doc would carry Higgins on the stretcher. It would take all four of them to negotiate the rocks. Ed DeWitt would have to cover the rear single-handed. In more ways than one, as Razor humorously told him.
Moving two kilometers, or little over a mile, was no easy matter when you were doing it across the top of a rocky mountain range in thin high-altitude air while carrying a wounded man on a stretcher. And despite their superb physical condition, the SEALs were already exhausted. Since the early hours of the morning they had been walking and running a marathon over the Lebanese hills under almost constant enemy pressure.
The enemy pressure was the key. When SEALs did a for-real combat swim during the invasion of Panama, they found that the increased stress caused them to use up the air supply in their Draeger rebreathers at twice the rate of regular training swims.
They had been out of drinking water for some time, and were all dehydrated. There was snow on the peaks, but it had to be melted. And that took time and heat, both of which were in short supply. You could operate a long time without food, but not without water.
The air was cold and dry, which made their thirst worse. There were only the rocks for shelter from the whipping wind on the peaks. The solution was movement, fast enough to keep their body temperatures elevated and prevent hypothermia. As long as they kept moving, the
ir relatively light dress would be no problem. As a matter of fact, light dress was a necessity since sweat-soaked clothing caused dangerous overheating and then rapid cooling. The result was a potentially fatal drop in body temperature — hypothermia.
Having been pushed to the limits of physical endurance in their selection and training, the SEALs were used to constantly monitoring their bodies and staying alert for danger signals. But what made them so formidable was the extreme outer threshold of their physical limits.
The snow was patchy, mostly accumulating among the rocks that were out of direct sunlight. Jaybird moved along gingerly.
The snow might be concealing holes or crevasses; he knew that a broken leg and one more man down would mean disaster for the whole unit. The four carrying the stretcher were careful to follow in Jaybird’s footprints.
There was nothing approaching a path available to them as they trudged down the mountain range. Jaybird chose the easiest going, but all that meant was having to climb over the smallest rocks.
After the first few halting attempts, a system was developed. Murdock and Razor would take the stretcher themselves while Magic and Doc climbed up the larger rocks. Then they passed the stretcher up and climbed on their own. Occasionally they had to stop and give DeWitt a hand up.
After lifting Higgins up and over a particularly narrow boulder, Razor said smugly, “Now you know why they made you carry those rubber boats and logs around on your head during BUD/S.”
Magic winked at Doc. “And all this time I thought they did that just to fuck with us.”
“You hang around with Razor Roselli,” Doc pronounced, “and you learn something new every day.”
“Disrespectful bastards,” Razor grumbled good-naturedly to Murdock. “You know, sir, that gets me to thinking. Master Chief Mac was looking for a couple of guys to give one of the gear lockers at Chocolate Mountain a fresh coat of paint. Money’s tight these days. Uncle Sam can probably swing the paint, but the two guys who volunteer just might have to use their toothbrushes.”
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