“What was that?” someone yelled.
“We’re gonna die!”
Pontowski stood up and took command. “I hope not. I haven’t shaved today.” The remark was so totally unexpected that everyone looked at him in surprise. Then Maggot snickered. “Calm down, folks,” Pontowski said. “My guess is that we took a direct hit that dudded. So we got lucky. Now let’s kill the bastard before he does it again. Janice, call Rockne and get a fire team on that tank. Maggot, get a Hog airborne outa Tengah that’s got some thirty mike-mike left and hose the shit outa him.” He stood there, defiant. “Come on, folks. Make it happen.”
The two sergeants stared at each other. “The Rock wants us to do what?” Paul Travis asked.
“Take out that damn tank,” Jake Osburn answered, looking at his radio in disbelief. “I didn’t join up to be a fuckin’ hero.” They looked toward the clanking sound coming from the trees. “I think it’s going away,” Jake said.
Paul picked up the LAW, a light antitank weapon, leaning against the side of their dugout. “Then a HEAT round up his ass will get his attention.” He was out of their DFP and running for cover, the LAW in one hand, his M-16 in the other.
“Shit,” Jake muttered. He grabbed his M249, better known as a SAW, or squad automatic weapon, and followed his buddy. They were a team, honed by years of training and playing weekend football, and they instinctively moved together. Paul skidded to cover behind a tree and chanced a peek. His hands flashed, motioning Jake to his far left. He waited and looked again. Now he could see the tank. It was not what he expected, but smaller, with a forward-mounted turret. The barrel was raised and firing randomly across the runway. He counted six men moving with it. He motioned to Jake and darted through the trees, trying to get closer. He needed to get within two hundred yards to get in range. But half that distance would significantly increase the probability of a kill. And he understood probability and range. On a football field a hundred yards is a far distance. In combat it qualifies as up close and personal. But thanks to countless football games, he knew exactly what a hundred yards looked like. He crouched and checked the LAW. It was ready. Jake crawled into position and set the bipod for his SAW. He signaled he was ready.
Paul lay on the ground and sighted the weapon. He depressed the trigger on top, and the sixty-six-millimeter round fired. At the same time Jake opened fire, spraying the area and cutting into the six soldiers. He emptied the magazine and pulled back while Paul rolled behind a tree. He grabbed his M-16 while Jake slapped a fresh magazine into his SAW. Again Jake signaled he was ready. Paul shoved his weapon around the trunk and squeezed off a short burst, firing blindly. A fraction of a second later Jake was moving, firing Rambo style. Paul ran for the next tree and crouched, his breath coming in ragged pants. He chanced a look. Smoke poured from the engine compartment at the rear of the tank, ample indication that the LAW had worked as advertised. A submachine gun clattered, driving him back behind the tree as splinters cut into his face and shattered his goggles. He ripped them off and could see again.
Jake fired again. Now all was silent except for a whirring sound. Paul looked and froze. The sound was coming from the tank’s turret as it traversed toward Jake. “Run!” Paul yelled. Jake started to run, but it was too late. The whirring sound stopped as Jake dove for cover. The cannon fired, and the round passed inches above Jake’s head. A burst of submachine gun fire cut into the tree where Paul was, pinning him down. The turret whirred again, slewing toward him, and Paul knew he was dead.
But Jake had other ideas. He was up and firing. The submachine gun fell silent as the turret turned. Paul broke from the tree and ran for all he was worth, but the turret kept coming. “Buttonhook!” Jake yelled. Paul jerked to his left as the cannon fired. It missed.
The tank exploded.
The sharp crack of projectiles traveling faster than the speed of sound reached them. Then they heard the GAU-8 cannon firing, a loud buzzing sound. The last to arrive was the Warthog itself. It flew over, rocking its wings. Paul gasped for air. “Fuckin’ silent death,” he muttered. There was no other way to describe what it meant to be on the receiving end of a Warthog’s cannon.
Jake walked through the carnage, poking at the bodies and checking the tank. He kept mumbling “Son of a bitch” over and over. He stopped and threw Paul a triumphant look. “Where’s the cheerleaders when you need them?”
Maggot pressed the transmit button to acknowledge the radio call from the Warthog. “Chief, this is Gopher Hole. Good work on the tank.” He gave Pontowski a thumbs-up as he spoke. “Understand you’re Winchester ammo. Recover at Hang Nadim.” Maggot relaxed for a moment and then was back at it. “That leaves three Hogs at Tengah.”
“We’re still taking sporadic gunfire on the eastern perimeter,” Clark reported. “But it’s quiet everywhere else. Hold on.” She listened to the voice in her headset. “We have problems at the med station. Too many wounded. Doc Ryan needs to make room.”
“How many’s he got?” Pontowski asked.
“Twelve,” Clark answered. “Maybe we can bring some here.”
“Do it,” Pontowski said.
Clark hit the phone button, but the line linking her to the medical station was dead. “Line’s down,” she said. “I better go see what’s happening.”
“Be careful,” Pontowski said.
Jessica stroked Boyca’s head while she fed her the last of the Nibbles in her butt bag. “Sorry, girl,” she said. “That’s it.” She stood up and scanned the minefield with her binoculars. “I got movement on the far side.” Cindy stood beside her and squinted. She was looking almost directly into the afternoon sun and shaded her eyes. She reached for her M-16. “What are you doing?” Jessica asked.
“Gonna waste the bastard.” She laid the barrel across a sandbag.
“He’s too far. Maybe a quarter of a mile.” The M-16’s effective range for a point target was half that distance. “Why draw attention?”
Cindy sighted the weapon and waited. “It won’t matter if he’s dead.”
“Give it up,” Jessica said. She set back down and stroked the dog’s head. But Cindy didn’t move. Jessica fell asleep.
Her eyes snapped open at the sharp crack of a single shot. “What the hell?”
“Got him,” Cindy said, sinking down beside her. Jessica stood and scanned the minefield. A body lay crumpled on the far side. Sporadic gunfire echoed from the east, well over a mile away. The distinctive shriek of artillery passing overhead split the air.
Kamigami pushed through the heavy brush in the river valley, following the grinding sounds coming from the missile transporter. Bravo Team’s sergeant was right behind him and spoke in English. “It sounds like the transmission’s going out.” Kamigami agreed and checked the time—1607 hours. They had been tracking the missile for five hours, keeping back from the road and hiding in the jungle. Although the big transporter/erector/launcher was going only at two miles an hour as it moved down the rough track, it had been a constant slog to keep up. The sound stopped.
Kamigami called for a much-needed break while he checked his GPS. He shook his head. “It’s not the best location,” he told the sergeant. “But they could launch from here.”
“Maybe they don’t have a choice,” the sergeant said, thinking about the grinding sound. Then a different sound echoed through the brush. “Maybe we should take a look.”