… FAaRRrrtTT.
The tiniest hint of light flashes at the edge of the galaxy — and the sound of an interstellar FART rips into the completely uninterested vacuum of the Cosmos.
KILL TEAM KILL
Justin Coates
“This is bullshit.”
It was the second time Macy had said it during the long march up the mountain. Sergeant Nielsen glanced at his MK48 gunner in annoyance as the younger man leaned against an Afghan pine.
“Shut up, Macy,” he said, feeling the same exhaustion he knew the machine gunner felt but refusing to show it. “You can bitch about it once we make it back to Desolation. Take a knee, face out, drink water.”
Macy looked back at his team leader with barely disguised disdain. He lit a cigarette as he got down in the prone, popping out the machine gun’s bipod behind the roots of the pine tree. Nielsen made sure to stump the toe of his boot into Macy’s side plate as he went to check on the rest of Team 1.
Erwin was seated against a smooth limestone boulder. The marksman peered down the scope mounted on his MK14 EBR. The 7.62mm sniper rifle was pulled snug into his shoulder, between where his plate carrier met his Multicam-pattern combat blouse.
“See anything interesting?” Nielsen asked.
“Not a thing,” Erwin muttered, slowly scanning the valleys below. “Not since that weird goatherd guy following us after Meri Khel.” He cocked his head to the side, affecting a higher tone of voice. “Did you see that chicken guy?”
“Yeah,” Nielsen answered. “That guy was weird.”
They both laughed quietly, having shared the same inside joke with the rest of the team for six months now. Being stationed at COP Desolation wasn’t easy; finding humor in the most idiotic or vulgar circumstances had kept the men of the 25th Infantry Division from killing each other. The combat outpost was tiny, and the daily missions grueling. Bleak humor was all they had.
“We still set to meet with Team 2 on time?” Erwin asked, briefly glancing away from his scope.
“Yeah. If we make this our last stop, we should be fine.” Nielsen fiddled with his Camelback, sucking down a gulp of warm water from the hydration system hose. “Lemme know if you see anything.”
Folen and Coutts were on the other side of the small summit, overlooking a sheer drop of over a hundred feet. Coutts was in the prone behind his M249, the automatic rifle’s stubby barrel poking out into the open air. Folen’s M4 with underslung M320 grenade launcher was propped against a tree while Folen pissed a steady stream of clear liquid over the cliff.
“You’re gonna get shot in the dick if you keep silhouetting yourself like that,” Nielsen said.
Coutts looked up at him, grinning like an idiot. “Right in the diiiick,” he said, spitting out a thick black thread of chewing tobacco. “Quit diiiicking around, Folen.”
“I wanna see how far out I can get it,” Folen said, visibly struggling.
“I’m being serious, asshat. Cut it out.”
Folen buttoned his trousers and took up his position at the tail end of their small formation. “How much further we got to the objective, sarn’t?”
“Another five hundred meters up,” he said, briefly checking the GPS unit attached to his wrist. “As long as we follow this spur we should be fine. Team 2 will be waiting for us there. You all staying hydrated?”
“Roger,” they both replied, their heads returning to the slow, automatic swivel typical of anyone used to patrolling in a combat zone.
Returning to the center of the small patrol base, Nielsen keyed his microphone. “1–7, this is 1–1, over.”
Silence greeted him. He tried to keep his voice down. “1–7, 1–1. We’re within five hundred meters of the objective. How copy, over.”
Silence. Dead, cold, empty silence. Nielsen was sweating despite the cool of the evening. Not for the first time he cursed himself for not speaking out against their platoon leader’s idiotic plan for locating the enemy weapon caches. Splitting the platoon into such small teams was stupid. It flew in the face of common sense; it flew in the face of basic tactics. If not for the platoon sergeant’s total incompetence and unwillingness to confront the new lieutenant, it would never have happened.
There’d been no radio contact for almost twenty minutes now. That was absolutely unheard of. The only thing to do was drive on to the next objective and hope to meet them there. Beyond that, Nielsen didn’t have a clue but he’d be damned if he’d let his team down by showing his fear.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “Let’s pick it up.”
They pushed on another three hundred meters. Every step was the same grueling, knee-locked affair as the last. The air in the mountains was thin. Nielsen resisted the urge to give the order to swap their helmets for patrol caps. Nightfall was coming soon, and they’d need their helmet-mounted night vision for even the shortest movement up the mountain.
They’d made it almost four hundred meters up the spur when Macy abruptly opened fire with his MK48. “Contact,” he said, dropping to a knee behind a small pile of rocks. The machine gun thundered briefly, firing a burst of nine armor-piercing incendiary rounds. “Two hundred fifty meters. High on opposite ridge. One enemy RPG team.”
Nielsen’s response was drowned out by the heavy crump of an exploding RPG-7. The rocket propelled grenade detonated against a nearby pine, sending splinters of wood and sap flying.
“1–7, this is 1–1, troops in contact,” he said into his useless radio, dropping to a knee as Macy went down into the prone. “Talk the guns!” he shouted as Coutts’ lighter M249 opened up further down the spur. The M249 and the MK48 quickly began firing complimentary bursts, each one opening up when the other paused to re-acquire sight pictures or reload.
A High-Explosive Dual-Purpose grenade sailed through the air from Folen’s position. Nielsen fired his own grenade launcher a second later. AK-47 rounds snapped through the air past his head. He reloaded his underslung grenade launcher, taking note of the bright muzzle flash of the enemy RPK light machine gun.
Both his and Folen’s grenades landed solidly in the midst of the enemy position. A plume of smoke and dust rose from the stand of trees where the enemy had been.
“Cease fire,” Nielsen shouted immediately, fearful for the conservation of machine gun ammunition. “Folen, hit it again. Erwin, tag any squirters you can see.”
Mindful of where he’d seen the RPK, Nielsen sent another grenade hurtling through the air. Folen’s came shortly after, both of them hitting right on top of each other.
There was silence for a moment; then, a single round fired from Erwin’s EBR. “Erwin?” Nielsen said.
“Saw some movement. Just wanted to be sure.”
“All right. Buddy ACE report, then let’s get out of here.”
He moved to Macy’s position, quickly checking the other soldier for any injuries he might not have noticed in the brief adrenaline rush of combat. “Ammo count?” Nielsen said, checking the soldier’s night-vision pouch and tapping his rifle-mounted optic systems.
“Five hundred rounds,” Macy answered. “Should have shot more. Shit’s heavy.”
“Yeah, well, until we link up with Team 2 we need to play it safe.” Nielsen tapped his soldier’s helmet, and quickly showed Macy his own sensitive items. The junior infantryman quickly checked his team leader for any injuries before returning the helmet tap. “Good work, Macy.”
None of the others had been injured, and ammo levels were still at acceptable levels. Not like it matters, Nielsen thought. We’ve got one or two firefights like that left before we need a resupply. He pulled a HOOAH! energy bar out of his pocket, gnawing on the slimy peanut butter mess. Gonna need to start rationing chow if we get to the objective and no one else is there.