Reflexive Fire - 01 (15 page)

   Adam ducked back behind the boulder as AK-47 rounds kicked dirt into his face.

   Lower on the side of the mountain from Kurt’s squad, they had found themselves in relatively open terrain, even if it sloped at a vicious angle, making it difficult for the troops to maintain their footing.  Only a few lonely boulders and shallow depressions offered them any cover as the insurgents hammered them, apparently determined not to lose any more ground.

   “Right side!  Bound!”

   On taking fire, the squad broke down into two assault teams.  Adam and his team leaned out from behind the rocky outcropping and fired on the enemy positions.  It looked to him as if the muzzle flashes of several enemy rifles had blinked out permanently but he wasn't sure.

   The second assault team leaped out from the depression they had lain prone in, sprinting forward to a pile of rocks that had gathered at the base of the cliff to their right flank.  Meanwhile, their only PKM gunner moved up behind them, searching for his own position.

   Once Adam heard the automatic fire of the PKM, he signaled to his men that it was time to move.  With their counterparts laying down suppressive fire, the team ran forward, bullets still kicking up geysers of dust around their feet.

   When they collectively huddled behind the only boulder in otherwise open ground, Adam was relieved to see they had all made it, even if one young kid's face was covered in blood from god only knew what.  At least he was still on his feet.

   On each side of the boulder, a Kazakh got in the prone while another took a knee beside him.  Leaning out from behind cover, they fired high and low.  When one of the kneeling mercenaries went dry on his AK and had to reload, Adam pushed him back, taking his place.  They continued to sweep gunfire at known, likely, and suspected, targets until the PKM gunner came up behind them, moving Adam and his buddy out of the way.

   The gunner went cyclic again while the other fire team found relief in a nearby ditch created by weather erosion.  Finding their new positions, the assault team joined the AK fire stitching several insurgents across the middle, weapons falling from lifeless hands.

   “Let's go,” Adam ordered taking the lead.

   His team rushed forward, finding another small gully created by rainwater; it was knee deep at best.  By now incoming fire was reduced to the occasional crack that sent dust showering down over the edge of the ditch.

   “Grenades!”

   The Kazakhs looked back and forth, not understanding until he pulled an FMK2 grenade from his chest rig and pulled the pin out.  Tearing through chest harnesses, the Kazakhs primed their own grenades and waited for Adam's command.

   Five frag grenades arced through the night, coming down on top of the bastion.  Explosions knocked down haphazardly built stone walls and tore the insurgents limb from limb.

   Amid the pained screams coming from their front, the other assault team made one last bound before the entire squad formed a skirmish line and stalked across the enemy position, double-tapping bodies to make sure, while in a few cases delivering a final
coup de grace
.

   Halting the squad, Adam ran down the assault line, physically lifting them up and placing them where he felt they could best pull security in case of an enemy counter attack.  Finding the kid with blood gushing down his face, he pulled out some gauze and began wiping his head down, looking for the source of the bleeding.

   They turned in unison, as it sounded like strikes of thunder were slamming into the side of the mountain.

   Deckard sunk the blade into the terrorist's throat until it stopped at the hilt.

   Cutting through the thick muscles around the neck was somewhat more difficult than most people expected.  Slicing the rest of the way through the enemy's carotid artery, Deckard grabbed him by his
dishdasha
and cast the insurgent aside.

   The Kazakh who had been pinned underneath the insurgent got to his feet.

   He looked pretty good for having a near-death experience or two.

   With Frank distracting him, some of the assaulters had gotten spread a little thin.  By the time he caught up with them, one of the mercenaries had already been sideswiped and taken to the ground.

   Down the hall, assault teams looked back at him, giving the thumbs up.  The bunker complex was clear.  Finally.

   “Alexander!  Medic!”

   The platoon sergeant came rushing forward, his right hand covered in blood.  Pulling out a pair of medical shears, Deckard grabbed the Kazakh commando by the arm and sliced off his shirt sleeve.  Alexander grunted, just now noticing the shrapnel wound on his forearm that was pumping a steady flow of blood.

   Deckard began applying a field bandage while glancing up at Alexander's bloodshot eyes.

   “We need security,” he said, nodding.  “Security.  Casualties?  Bullets?”

   “Medic, yes.”

   Securing the bandage with its metal fasteners, Deckard patted the sergeant on the shoulder.

   “Go.”

   The platoon sergeant took off, making sure his men pulled security rather than just standing around.  Barking orders, squad leaders began to report in with any injuries their men had sustained and how much ammunition had been expended.  Deckard already knew they had several fatalities.

   “Frank?”

   “Yeah,” the Army veteran said, sticking his head out a door.

   “Start collecting whatever you think is relevant.”

   “Already on it.”  Then as an afterthought, “We got a couple prisoners here, too.”

   Evidence exploitation was specifically not included in the Operations Order.  They were supposed to kill and destroy everything they found.  Scorched earth.  His handlers didn't want him collecting up hard drives and documents, much less interrogating anyone. 

   They wanted him in an intelligence black hole and it wasn't his place to ask questions.  He had other ideas.

   “Shit, how the hell did that happen?”

   “Guess they missed a couple guys during the initial sweep who had tried to hide.”

   “Remember that for the AAR.”

   Alexander came stomping back.  What followed was an impossible to follow dialog, for any casual observer, that took place in English, Russian, and sign language, but the point was made.  The troops expended about two magazines each.  There were seven injuries, two dead.  The platoon medic was working on the most serious injury.

   Motioning for the platoon sergeant to lead the way, Deckard followed him to a critically wounded Kazakh, lying on the ground in the insurgent's kitchen area.  The American stood back, silently observing.

   The casualty had been shot through the abdomen, the bullet punching straight through his chest, leaving a ragged exit wound.  The commando gasped, struggling to breath.  Using the plastic packaging from a field dressing, the Kazakh medic taped it over the exit wound before pulling out a fourteen-gauge needle and carefully sticking it between the second and third mid-clavicle line below the collarbone.

   A whoosh of air escaped from his chest cavity, a successful tension pneumothorax treatment that decompressed the chest cavity.  As if someone had waved a magic wand, the casualty began to breath normally again.  If the medic was able to keep his patient alive all the way to the field hospital in Bagram, Deckard would make sure both the medic and the former Green Beret who trained him received a bonus.

   Deckard turned around, examining the other casualties that had been consolidated in the kitchen for triage and treatment.  Some cuts and non-life threatening gunshot wounds; the five Kazakhs would survive.  It was the final casualty that concerned the Samruk commander.

   “Richie, what the fuck?”

   “Bullocks, you bloody bastard,” he gasped.

   “That's a real gusher you got there.”

   The demo expert looked down at the mostly cauterized burn across his shoulder.

   “One of those fucking barbarians of yours got too close when we were clearing a room,” he spat through clenched teeth.  “Got caught with his muzzle flash.”

   “Hold on a sec,” Deckard said, sympathetically.  “Let me help you with that.”

   Reaching down, he grabbed Richie by the ear and painfully dragged him to his feet.

   “Does it feel better now?”

   “I'll slot the whole lot of you wankers!”

   “We don't have time for you to start sandbagging on us.  Gather up whatever demo you distributed to the platoon.  I want a line main down the corridor.  You can probably find enough mines and rockets in the stockpile they have here to sympathetically detonate and bring the roof down.  Got it?”

   Richie stormed out of the kitchen, ego bruised, but reputation still about par for the course.

   Back out in the hall, Deckard grabbed several Kazakhs who were standing by for further orders.

   He had no way of knowing the status of the assault topside, but it was time to open the bunker doors and find out.    

   The only way left to go was up.

   One of the Kazakhs leaned against the cliff face, making stirrups with his hands.

   Putting a hand on the merc's shoulder to steady himself, Kurt stuck a booted foot in his hands and sprung upwards, searching for and finding purchase on a rock sticking out of the dirt.  Scrambling up, he found himself on an embankment that looked to offer an easy way forward over open terrain.

   Leaning over the edge, he gave his squad the thumbs up to begin climbing up.

   Offering his hand, Kurt helped the next Kazakh up the slope, preventing him from sliding back down.  Grabbing him by his belt, the German's bicep flared as he lifted and flung him onto the embankment.  The Kazakh stood up, dusting himself off, when the hand of god seemed to swat the mercenary right out of the air, literally tearing him to pieces.

   His face now splattered with his comrade's blood, Kurt rolled out of the way as large caliber rounds tore apart the ground he had occupied a fraction of a second before, churning up a cloud of dust in their wake.

   The noise was deafening, twin barrels chewing apart everything in their line of fire.  What had become merely sporadic bursts from the support by fire line now ceased completely, the assault's momentum lost.

   Kurt rolled right, finding concealment if not cover behind a few rocks piled on top one another.  Stealing a glance at the enemy's hard site, he confirmed what he already knew from sound alone.  Another ZSU-23, so named for the dual 23mm anti-aircraft cannons, now turned on unarmored ground troops to ruthless and morale-depriving effect.

   With its crew spinning the gun turret's wheels, the cannon rotated, raking the side of the mountain with fire, causing both platoons to find immediate cover or be taken apart like a holiday turkey.  The ZSU was roughly one hundred meters away over sloping but open ground.  A frontal assault was out of the question.

   “Piet,” Kurt called to the sniper team leader on his radio.  “Do you see that other ZSU?”

   “No, the elevation is too high.  We can't see it from here but can sure as hell hear it.”