30K was halfway to the hut when the night sky blinked to white as that second pair of Penguins exploded before they ever reached the LCS. The ship’s Phalanx CIWS (Close-In Weapons System) had put its 20mm M61 Vulcan Gatling autocannon on target and blasted apart both antiship missiles. Captain Wagner had given 30K and the others a tour of the entire vessel, including the high-tech bridge with its joystick controller and flat-screen monitors. Of course, he’d been sure to boast about the Phalanx’s capabilities. That the ship was still above water and still able to defend herself was a damned good sign.
30K reached the hut and crouched behind it. He fished out the drone’s remote from his pocket and got the UAV back in the air and on autopilot, in case Major Mitchell decided to take control of the drone himself for a bird’s-eye view of the battle.
A crude ladder constructed of planks and twine leaned against the hut, and 30K quietly mounted it, coming up on to the slightly angled roof that was made of tin and covered with palm fronds. He propped himself up on his elbows and was there one second, gone the next as his camouflage caught back up with his movements. He set up the Stoner on its bipod, with this particular weapon being magazine-fed from the top and the sights set off to the left to accommodate the mag.
He craned his head and scanned the jungle behind him, panning slowly to be sure no other FARC or Bedayat jadeda soldiers had moved up there — because the moment he opened fire, he’d become vulnerable. His escape plan involved a little jump off the back of the hut, nothing too elaborate, just a drop and run maneuver — a seven-foot bailout to the sand.
But then his hasty recon of the jungle to the rear gave him pause. What the hell was that, just behind that cluster of nipah palms? Was that a fifth APC? One they hadn’t seen before? It was just sitting nearby, heavily draped in foliage.
30K glanced back to the command hut, some fifty meters away. He thought about the position of his hut and the twenty-meter distance behind him, out to that hidden APC.
And he thought about the Hescos and his first reaction to them. Hamid’s men had dug trenches, but the dirt they’d collected was hardly enough to fill those broad Hesco walls, yet there was no sign of excavation anywhere else near or around the outpost.
He almost fell off the roof as he realized what they’d done … and what was about to happen.
SIXTY-FIVE
The discord rising to a crescendo across the outpost was enough to nearly deafen Ross and his men. The cracking of automatic gunfire, the blasting of fragmentation grenades and .50-caliber machine guns, and the roaring and subsequent bursts from RPGs were backed by the sudden and shockingly close whomping of rotors.
Ross looked up and saw the bulky silhouette of the Sea Stallion pass overhead, one of its door gunners delivering a blistering hailstorm of fire on a position out past the huts, presumably on one of the Penguin missile launchers, the .50-caliber shell casings falling just a meter away, thumping like bugs on the sand until a louder sound drowned them out: two more Hellfire missiles charged off from the remaining Seahawk, and a heartbeat later, a one-two explosive punch rumbled in the distance, followed by strobing bursts of light across the bellies of clouds.
‘Delta Dragon, this is Guardian,’ called Mitchell. ‘The Penguins are disabled. Now get me those men.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure, sir.’
Ross turned to Kozak, who’d just dropped on to his gut beside him. ‘You and our buddy good to go?’
Kozak glanced down at his remote control. ‘Just say the word.’
Ross looked past Kozak to Pepper. ‘I need a sniper on those APCs.’
Pepper gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll show them some love.’
After a quick glance back at the APCs, whose surfaces were still glinting with ricocheting gunfire, Ross took a deep breath and gave the order.
The Warhound came lumbering around the huts to confront both vehicles –
But then 30K was hollering over the radio, and Ross’s attention was divided — because he couldn’t hear a damned thing.
Just after he tried to call Ross, 30K tugged free a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and hurled it toward the ground between his hut and the others. He lowered his head as the ear-piercing ka-boom resounded and the hut rattled while the dirt began raining down –
And not two seconds after the dust was clearing, 30K was zooming in with his binoculars and probing the ground where he’d thrown that grenade … and there it was, a much deeper impression than normal, one too deep to be caused by just a single grenade …
Hamid’s men had created a tunnel system leading out from beneath the command hut to 30K’s hut, and from there, they could flee to the waiting APC in the jungle. That’s where they’d found the dirt to fill all those Hescos, and if 30K was right, those bastards were right under him at this very moment.
He saw now why Ross hadn’t replied: Kozak had brought around the Warhound, which was taking massive fire from the troops within the APCs — and Pepper was dishing out swift justice with his Remington, head shots routinely placed and delivered.
That sudden racket must’ve spooked the men inside the hut, and they must’ve heard 30K because gunfire came punching up through the tin roof, stitching a deadly line before 30K could shift to avoid it, the rounds ripping through his legs.
It was fortuitous that Pepper happened to be staring through his scope and had shifted his aim slightly to the right. There, out behind the huts, he saw them, at least three squads of troops, fifteen or twenty in all, racing back toward the command hut.
At the same time, Kozak put the Warhound between them and the APCs, the big boy glistening with gunfire, 60mm mortars bursting from its back to arc down on unseen bunkers beyond. A guided missile suddenly erupted from its launcher to streak toward one of the APCs and explode across its hood, sending the vehicle skittering sideways and the men falling out the back, some decapitated, some bloody and disoriented, others climbing over the bodies to whip around and fire from their hips.
This would’ve been a perfect moment for 30K to open up on them, his supporting fire finishing the Warhound’s job.
So where was he?
Pepper shifted his aim toward that far hut, where the door was now opening. Out burst Hamid, Valencia and Delgado, all wearing vests and armed with AK-47s. They saw the jungle, the raging battle around them, and the choice was damned clear. Jungle …
For a second, Pepper was so overwhelmed by the moment and the image (the men they sought were right there!) that he could barely get the words out of his mouth. But then, finally, they came.
And just as he finished his report to Ross, he panned up to spy 30K — his active camouflage disabled — dragging himself across the hut’s roof, trying to lift his machine gun in the direction of Hamid’s party.
Only a second-rate operator would get on the radio and scream, ‘I’m hit! I’m hit,’ thought 30K as he struggled to bring his rifle around. You don’t cry about your wounds. You suck it up and take revenge. But damn, his pack must’ve been hit as well, the active camouflage unit damaged, its status bar flickering in his HUD.
It was moments like this that made him appreciate all the training they did. The training made him harder, and hard men are tougher to kill –
Which was why getting shot in the legs and dragging his wounded ass into an upright position so he could kill the bastards trying to escape was not a problem …
Until one of them, Valencia, rolled back to face him, just as 30K was lifting his weapon.