Murdock sprinted five yards into the brush just as he heard a machine gun pounding out rounds from somewhere ahead. The rounds were aimed on the other side of the road toward Red. He rolled again, then lunged into the brush and behind a sturdy hardwood tree.
Murdock touched his mike. "Hold it, platoon. Take cover. We've got an MG up here somewhere. Red and I'll check it out. We move up on each side, Red. How in hell did you know he was there?"
"Saw something that didn't compute, L-T. Wasn't an animal, so had to be the rebs up there somewhere. Then there was the click of something metallic."
They worked slowly uphill in the brush, taking care not to break a dry branch or scuff dead leaves. The brush and vines were thick enough so they could see only twenty feet ahead. Murdock figured the MG had to be 250 yards up the hill. If the men working the weapon stayed there, the SEALs could even the odds more. Maybe he could encourage the Kenyans to stand pat.
"DeWitt. Move somebody up to see around the bend and put some rounds up the road. Ten or twelve. See if you get a reaction. Keep your fucking heads down."
Murdock and Red kept easing forward. He heard the slap of the AK-47 rounds, then an answering chatter of the machine gun. Good. Sounded a lot closer.
"About a hundred yards," Red said in his mike.
"Sounds right. Figure he's on my side." Murdock moved up again. The MG sputtered out more rounds down the roadway, where DeWitt must be baiting him. The sound helped cover Murdock's cautious movements. When he figured he was twenty yards from the machine gun, Murdock went on hands and knees and slipped under and through the brush, carrying his AK-47.
He stopped suddenly. There was a small opening in the brush, and he could see the MG in the ditch with some fallen logs dragged in front of it as a shield.
Fifteen yards. Three men worked the weapon. One feeding in a belt of ammo. One on the gun behind its bipod and resting the gun on the log. The third man looking around the barricade down the road.
Murdock stripped two fraggers off his harness, then changed his mind and used one HE, and one WP. He pulled the pins on both, and threw the fragger first, then the white phosphorous grenade.
The fragmentation grenade hit six feet from the gunner, and bounced once on the soft forest floor, then rolled forward almost to the edge of the ditch four feet from the machine gun. Murdock threw the WP quickly. The HE went off with a deadly whump. The machine gunner slammed forward over his weapon. The ammo bearer was thrown sideways. Four seconds after the first explosion, the WP went off, showering all three with the sticky, unstoppable burning phosphorus. The third man took a dozen globs of the material on his uniform. He tried to brush them off, but they burned through the cloth into flesh and bone and kept on going. He screamed again and again, until Murdock had an open shot at him and put him dead in the ditch.
Murdock touched his lip mike. "Move up, we're clear here."
They had a brief conference in the woods beyond the three dead Kenyans. Red Nicholson came back from scouting up front. He said it was all clear for at least a mile ahead past another small hill and around the side of a little valley.
"How's the ammo?" Murdock asked. Three of the men had used up their AK-47 ammo and discarded the heavy rifles.
"That damned AK really chews up the rounds in a rush," Ron Holt said.
Most of the others had two or three magazines left. "Ammo is going to be critical on this one," Murdock said. Use it, but with some caution. When we're out, we're out."
"Anybody hit?" Doc asked. Nobody replied. "We're going to go double time now. Magic, how many rounds left for the big one?"
"Last magazine, and it's getting heavy as hell. Find me a target, L-T."
They went ahead on the trail of a road. Red stayed a quarter of a mile out front now, keeping in touch with the Motorola.
Murdock kept them at the slow trot for a half mile, then went to a walk but with a long ground-eating stride.
They met Red Nicholson at the next corner. He pointed upward. The road took a long turn and headed up a sharp slope.
"See those figures on the road?" Red asked. Magic pulled out his McMillan fifty and looked through the scope.
"Oh, damn, yes," he yelped. "I count eight of them." He lifted the big weapon and looked for something to lean it across. Horse Ronson went on his hands and knees, and Magic dropped to the ground beside him and slanted the heavy barrel across Ronson's back.
"Oh, my, yes, this is good," Magic said. He had a ten-round magazine in the big weapon. He sighted through the scope and fired. At once he jerked the bolt to the rear and slammed a new round into the chamber.
He watched through the sight, and screeched when he saw the round hit between two of the men. He sighted and fired again. Then he fired four more times as fast as he could pull the bolt. He saw the men on the road scatter and vanish from his sight. He aimed once more and pulled the trigger, but he knew he was out of rounds.
"Give the bastards something to think about," Magic said.
"You gonna dump the fifty now that you're out of rounds?" Fernandez asked him.
"Shit, no. They might not buy me another one."
They marched again. Nicholson had vanished around a bend ahead of them.
A half hour later, they climbed the long slope and came to the spot where the troops had been when Magic had fired on them. They found one man in the far ditch with half of his chest blown out. The .50-caliber round had almost cut him into two pieces.
Murdock checked his watch. Just after 1400. Should be five more hours of daylight. They had to get this wrapped up before dark, or they could lose the big man in the night and the wilderness.
They marched again. Red held his lead of three hundred yards. The road leveled out some, then rose again. They could see the footprints of the others ahead of them. Red figured there were no more than seven of them now.
It could be getting close to desperation time for the general plodding ahead. The big man must be out of shape. This hike would kill him. What would Murdock do in the general's place? What? He'd make a stand. Find a favorable setup, and try to cut down the odds against him or wipe out the chasers. Murdock considered it, and watched the country on both sides of the road.
The woods closed in again, and Murdock watched closer. Red pulled back so he was one hundred yards ahead of the main body, where the men were still stretched out ten yards apart. That separation was basic combat technique. At ten yards a chance mortar round, grenade or machine gun couldn't get more than one or maybe two men with a lucky hit or a sudden attack.
Murdock was tired of hiking. They had been going uphill now for what he figured was seven or eight miles, maybe more. Some kind of a bird called in the woods. Murdock frowned. He hadn't heard any birds before. He studied the growth on both sides, then took a breath and relaxed.
That was when small-arms fire broke out on both sides of the road. The SEALs were in a cross fire. They hit the dirt, and returned fire on full automatic. The attackers were twenty yards ahead on each side so they didn't shoot each other. Murdock felt a round tug at his shirt sleeve. Then he was down returning fire on full auto with the AK-47.
All of the SEALS, scattered as they were, had perfect fields of fire. The first incoming rounds did the damage. Then the eleven weapons all on full automatic cut a swath through the brush, and the SEALs heard two men scream.
Red came running down the road, but it was over before he got there. Ronson brought his machine gun into play, and riddled the left side of the roadway where he figured the rounds came from.
Ching used his M-4A1, and emptied a new thirty-round clip of 9mm parabellum rounds into the right-hand side. All of the SEALs fired their magazines dry, and slammed in new ones.