Same concept here, different wasps was all.
With his grenade launcher tucked against his side, Paul fired the shells in timed succession. He didn’t aim. Just pull the trigger, baby, while he flew the jetpack. That took all his concentration. That he could use his left trigger finger at all was amazing, what made him one among ten thousand.
He flew at the circled vehicles. The magnetically propelled grenades sailed in beautiful parabolic arcs. He let go of the launcher, letting it drop. When it hit the ground, the first egg-shaped explosive detonated, soon followed by the others.
A Chinese soldier lying on the firing line, getting a bead on Paul, screamed and rolled over. Most of his scalp disappeared as blood jetted. Paul hadn’t aimed a grenade at the man. He hadn’t even seen the enemy. It was just good luck, battle mojo of the best kind.
Throttling wide open, his jetpack whining like an out-of-control lawn mower, Paul zoomed toward the hard ground. It inched closer, closer to meet him.
“Son of a bitch!” he roared. Then Paul churned his legs as fast as he could go, running over the ground. He tripped, and might have plowed face-first into the sod, but he reflexively gave himself lift. His legs dangled for an instant and an enemy rocket-propelled grenade flew beneath him. It exploded fifty feet behind, a harmless expenditure of ordnance.
Paul tried it again, easing down. He ran faster than any hound, laughed crazily and quickly brought his speed to a manageable rate. This was the trickiest moment of all. He sprinted in his body armor as his arms roved about his body, fingers unbuckling clasps. He shed momentum fast, and then the jetpack fell away, striking the ground and raising dust behind him.
At that moment, enemy bullets scored. Their high-velocity impact killed much of his forward momentum, striking him hard against the chest. If he’d been standing still, the bullets would have knocked him down for sure. He lost his breath, and the impacts hurt, making him swear. When he’d played football, his opponents had quickly learned that giving pain to Paul Kavanagh gave him maddened strength. It was the same on the battlefield.
He didn’t know how it happened. Probably, the enemy soldier hidden in a fold of ground wasn’t sure either. Paul had his assault rifle in his hands. It was as if it just appeared. The rifle bucked each time he pulled the trigger. The Chinese major trying to line up another shot never got the chance for a repeat. A hole in his face ended the war for the major.
“They’re cutting us down!” the US commando colonel shouted over the link. “Go to ground. Go to ground.”
“We have to leave you, Colonel,” a Cherokee pilot said. “It’s too hot for us here, and the coordinator says bogies are on their way. We need air cover and we ain’t got any here.”
“Go!” the colonel shouted. “Save the helos.”
Paul heard the words. He didn’t check his HUD to watch the Cherokees book it out of there. He had backward-aiming cameras slaved to his computers. Every ounce of his concentration was focused on his task.
Even so, some part of his brain calculated. If the colonel told the men to go to ground, it meant the enemy had them under heavy fire. In a phrase, the Chinese had the commandos pinned, ducking for cover. All that the enemy needed to do then was wait for some air assets to eliminate the problem for them. That meant someone had to suppress the enemy fire so the boys could get moving again.
Paul’s HUD pinpointed the strongpoints: two IFVs poured 12.5mm machine gun fire and 30mm autocannons with fragmentation shells at the commandos. They would kill the team in short order.
The thoughts raced through Paul as he sprinted for a truck with a dead driver. A Chinese rifle lay just outside the door. Paul was far ahead of the pack. Speed happened to be his MO. Hit ’em fast and hit ’em hard.
Paul flipped his weapon’s selector switch to full auto. He jumped onto the running board, yanked open the door and crawled into the truck cabin. A back portal opened that led into the comm-vehicle’s interior. Paul’s burst caught the surprised Chinese soldier in the chest, hurling the skinny man backward. Paul followed, reaching the portal and looking in. Techs with headsets turned on their swivel chairs to stare at him, at the American. Several Chinese mouths dropped open. With quick bursts, Paul cut each of them down so they flopped and sprayed gore. Space was tight in here. It likely stank worse than an outhouse now. Good thing he wore his NBC helmet and integral mask.
Paul fixed a short bayonet on the end of his rifle and stabbed bodies. He didn’t want anyone jumping up and coming from behind once he passed the corpse.
For three seconds, he paused. He took deep breaths and held the last one. That helped cycle down his racing thoughts, allowing his tactical mind to take over.
“Give me a picture, sir,” he whispered over the battle-net.
“Where are you, Master Sergeant?” the colonel asked.
Paul gave him the position. With a split HUD, he spied the situation from the colonel’s vantage. Yeah, it was just as he thought. The enemy IFVs had the boys pinned out there on the prairie.
They needed a drone: a small, airmobile, robot warrior. Next time—if there ever was going to be a—
Paul shook his head. Forget distractions, just sweet concentration and action.
He kicked open the rear door. Three Chinese soldiers ran toward the truck. Paul didn’t have any time for niceties. Pulling the trigger, he hosed fire, cutting them down as if the enemy were part of the crew of a B-movie.
He found himself airborne—a leap—and then landed hard with a grunt, racing for the first IFV. The thing was a workhorse for the Chinese Army. It had a powerful rotary engine and carried space in its belly for six fully armed infantrymen. The IFV also boasted 73mm of ceramic and ultra-aluminum armor. The lightness of the armor shell together with the rotary gave the machine its speed.
Like good little boys that wanted to live forever, the crew inside were buttoned up tight. Every hatch must be sealed and locked. The autocannons and the machine guns belched and chattered at the commandos out there. One part of Paul’s brain doubted any of his buddies had survived: the impressive IFV firepower gave that feel. The cool part of Paul’s mind knew better. Bullets and shrapnel had to hit to wound or kill. Ground gave protection. That’s why infantrymen hugged it so enthusiastically.
Wish I still had my grenade launcher. Life was a bitch and combat made it worse. What were you going to do, huh?
Paul ran. Speed, baby, make it work for you. He emptied the assault rifle’s magazine and didn’t have time to put in another. He reached the IFV and slapped his satchel charge to its side. He was one of the few commandos to carry one. Normally, the team used them to breach bunkers, not vehicles.
He dropped to the dirt and crawled away. As he did, he switched magazines, leaving the empty one on the ground. A loud explosion made the IFV rock so its springs squealed, and black smoke drifted.
Paul stood, and exploding enemy bullets hitting his body armor made him stagger sideways. If they had been depleted uranium penetrators, he’d already be dead. A ricochet off his helmet made his ears ring. He didn’t have time to return fire.
Reaching the IFV breach, he tossed a fragmentation grenade inside and slammed his back against the vehicle’s armor. He heard a crump of sound from within. Men screamed. Paul came off the armor, poked his assault rifle through the beach and shot everyone inside the machine. He crawled through as more Chinese bullets whanged off IFV armor and struck his body armor with shrapnel.