As everyone did his best to settle down, the butterflies in the stomachs were worse than those prior to a parachute jump. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins summed it up with one simple remark:
"This is what they're paying us for, but at times like this we should go on time-and-a-half."
.
0645 HOURS LOCAL
THE mortar shell ripped through the sky, going completely over West Ridge before slamming into the valley on the western side. The explosion was sharp, the sound echoing in waves across the open country below. It was immediately followed by a second that hit on the western slope of the ridge. Everyone in the platoon hunkered down, their jaw muscles tense and teeth tightly clenched.
A mujahideen mortar was zeroing in on the ridge top.
A couple of moments passed, and the SEALs knew the raghead gunners were using the time to adjust elevation and traverse knobs. The third explosion was dead in the center of the SEALs' position. Over on East Ridge the mujahideen forward observer was satisfied. He got on the old Soviet field radio to let the chief of the mortar battery know they had the range.
A half dozen detonations announced the arrival of the first real barrage of the exploding inferno to come. From that point on, the rounds began coming in separately, but spaced close together, giving evidence that the mortar battery was now doing independent fire. The ground shook like dozens of California earthquakes as the bombardment went into high gear. Sharp pains and a ringing in the ears dulled everyone's hearing as the incoming hell continued. Sometimes the nearness of a hit would create a vacuum that seemed to suck the air out of the lungs of anyone in close vicinity of the detonation. The spraying shards of shrapnel struck sandbags with hundreds of loud thuds and ripping sounds.
Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan checked in with Mike Assad, Frank Gomez, and Dave Leibowitz over his LASH headset, then spoke into the PRC-112 to his team leaders. "Report!"
They in turn contacted each man over the LASH headsets, then responded to the skipper in the proper order. "Bravo Team okay," Senior Chief Buford Dawkins said. "Charlie Team okay," Lieutenant Jim Cruiser stated. "Delta Team okay," Chief Matt Gunnarson said, then added, "All two of us."
"Mortar Crew okay," Connie Concord reported. "How about some counterbattery fire, sir?"
"Negative," Brannigan said, knowing their 60-millimeter mortar was outgunned and outnumbered. "This is the place, but it sure as hell isn't the time. Everybody stay down!"
.
0715 HOURS LOCAL
THE sudden silence caused the buzzing in the men's ears to intensify. The incoming from the enemy mortars had suddenly ceased, leaving the SEALs with concussion headaches to go along with the discomfort of their punished eardrums. Then new sounds erupted from skyward. Three helicopters came in at an altitude that would take them a couple of hundred feet above the ridge top. This aerial attack was obviously coordinated with the mortar barrage.
The aircraft were in a tight echelon right formation, and as soon as the first passed over the SEAL positions, the gunner in the front cockpit cut loose with the 12.7-millimeter heavy machine gun, pounding the SEAL positions with slugs. Within a beat his two buddies joined him.
Dozens of large steel bullets smacked into the shell-pocked ground, ricocheting off boulders with angry whines. Like the shrapnel from the mortars, these smaller projectiles ripped into sandbags, making the dirt within spurt out in dusty gushes. The SEALs had no choice but to maintain their crouching positions with heads down. The choppers pulled away and turned for a second run. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins took a chance for a quick look to the east. He ducked back down and got on the PRC-112.
"Skipper, this is Bravo," he said. "They's a shitpot full of them ragheads coming over the top of East Ridge! The sumbitches is headed right for us and they's spaced out proper as skirmishes. These ain't crazy-ass suicide shitheels. Them bastards is coming on like proper soldiers!"
"Roger," Brannigan said. He and his men were caught in a classic situation of being pinned down flat while the enemy maneuvered to close with them. The next time he took the platoon on a mission, he Was going to make sure there were at least a couple of Stingers in their arsenal to handle aerial assaults.
If there was a next time.
Once more the trio of Mi-24s began their attack in nose-down positions to give the gunners the best view of the target area. They swept in, firing sweeping salvos that once more splattered the ridge top. Kevin Albee of Charlie Fire Team looked up through his camouflage netting just as the second passed over his position. He impetuously stood up and cut loose at the departing Hind with his CAR-15 on full-auto. The range was less than fifty yards, and the 5.56 slugs bit into the old aircraft, punching into the engine and transmission behind the pilot. The helicopter veered off to the right and dove downward on the west side of the ridge, hitting the steep terrain and exploding.
Kevin had no time to see the result of his quick shooting. The third chopper's gunner gave a long burst that hit the SEAL in the back, slamming him with the intensity of a dozen sledgehammers. Kevin was kicked forward, falling half in and half out of his fighting hole.
"Corpsman!" Lieutenant Jim Cruiser said over his LASH system. "Albee's down!"
James Bradley leaped up and rushed toward the Charlies' positions, taking no notice that the two surviving helicopters had pulled away. He stopped at the hole, kneeling down to examine the casualty. The 12.7-millimeter slugs had done their worst. Kevin was raw, bleeding hamburger between his neck and waist. The hospital corpsman looked up as Cruiser joined him. "He's dead, sir."
"Fuck!" Cruiser said. "A good kid. Man! A good fucking kid. He got himself killed to destroy an enemy aircraft." He got on the LASH. "Skipper, one of the choppers is down, but we've lost Kevin Albee. He shot the son of a bitch out of the sky."
"Are you under ground attack on that side?" Brannigan asked.
"Negative, sir."
"All right," Brannigan said. "Get back to your position, but first tell Bradley and Chief Gunnarson to get their asses over here. We're about to engage what looks like a two-company force!"
"Aye, sir."
"I'm real sorry about Albee, Jim." "We all are, sir."
.
0730 HOURS LOCAL
CHIEF Matt Gunnarson and James Bradley were both loaded down with bandoleers and grenades, and they rushed to the First Squad's perimeter, sounding like a couple of pack horses. The two members of Delta Fire Team took a couple of auxiliary fighting positions that flanked those of Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz.
"Glad to see you," Mike said to James. He pointed below. "Take a look."
James glanced in the indicated direction and could see mujahideen skirmishers moving steadily up the slope toward them. These men were not shrieking zealots engaged in a running suicide charge. They moved carefully under the command of squad leaders as they took advantage of all the cover and concealment offered by the rugged terrain:
James studied them, and commented, "They're still out of range, aren't they?"
"Yeah," Mike said, "And I kind of wish they'd stay that way."
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan was over on the left side of the line, between Frank Gomez and Mike Assad. He had taken time to figure out what routes the different attack elements of the mujahideen were taking in their approach toward the top of the ridge. Now he spoke into the LASH. "Mortar Crew, we need some rounds dropped on the eastern slope. It's minimum range, so your tube is going to be almost vertical. Fire one round for effect."
In less than thirty seconds the sound of a sharp "crump" came from the mortar position: A couple of beats passed, then an explosion came from below. Brannigan liked what he saw. "Give 'em two dozen more."