Reflexive Fire - 01 (25 page)

   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 American 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.