With a howl of divinely inspired ardor, a dozen insurgents broke from cover and started running toward the building, sweeping their AK-47s ahead of them as they ran, firing at random intervals. A round caught one of the snipers in the leg, and he went down in the open. The other man skidded to a halt, trying to reach his fallen comrade, but was driven back by a storm of lead.
Sigler held his ground. Two shots, new target…two shots, new target. Enemy fighters went down, one after another, but not all of them stayed down. Two shots, new target…two shots, new target…
Click.
It wasn’t a surprise. He habitually counted his shots so that he could be ready for a fast reload. The problem was he didn’t have any more magazines.
“I’m out!”
“Well you ain’t getting any of mine,” Parker shouted back, firing with the same rhythm.
Then his weapon fell silent, too.
Six of the original twelve mujahideen were still on their feet, still advancing.
Sigler drew his KA-BAR knife from its sheath. “Danno, let’s teach these assholes that you don’t bring a gun to a knife fight.”
“Foxtrot Alpha,” Parker replied, drawing his own blade — a standard issue M7 bayonet — and standing beside Sigler to meet the charge.
Something popped in the air high above them. For a moment, Sigler thought it must be another flare, but the sound repeated twice more in the space of a second, without any other accompanying fireworks. Just as Sigler started to look up, something big slammed into the ground fifty meters north of their position.
Suddenly, the head of the nearest insurgent exploded like a watermelon at a Gallagher show. A loud report echoed from above like thunder, and then there was another, and another, and one by one the charging fighters went down, their bodies erupting in geysers of blood.
A dark figure dropped out of the sky, landing less than twenty meters from the corner where Sigler and Parker were preparing to make their stand. He wore a black jumpsuit and helmet, but Sigler could distinctly make out a wisp of blond hair sprouting from the man’s chin. The paratrooper wielded a pair of enormous pistols, one in each hand, and as he fired them out, the last of the charging insurgents went down.
The newcomer shrugged out of his parachute harness before the canopy could settle around him, then hastened to join Sigler. He kept his pistols aimed in the direction from which the attack had come, but the balance of the enemy forces were well beyond pistol range, even a pistol as massive as the Desert Eagle. When he reached Sigler’s side, they all hastened into the relative safety of the concrete building.
“Heard you guys were throwing a party,” the blond man said, grinning. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing.”
Sigler was almost too stunned to reply. “The more the merrier, but I hope you brought some beer. We’re out.”
One of the other paratroopers stepped forward. “No beer, but we have these.” He passed over a clutch of magazines. “Sonny Vaughn, call me ‘Houston.’ Smiling boy over there is Stan Tremblay — Juggernaut.” He jerked a thumb toward the third paratrooper. “That’s Silent Bob. We’re Alpha team.”
In a rush of understanding, Sigler realized that these men had performed a HALO — a high altitude, low opening — parachute jump. The dangerous technique, which involved jumping out of a jet aircraft from an altitude of 35,000 feet, freefalling for two minutes, and then popping a chute just three hundred feet above the ground, was usually reserved for stealthy insertions into enemy territory, but it was an effective way to get a shooter onto the battlefield in a big hurry.
Alpha team…HALO jump… These guys are Delta.
For the first time since the battle had begun, Sigler felt a ray of hope. He took one of the magazines and reloaded his carbine. “Any more of you guys on the way?”
“Cherry should be around here…” Tremblay started to say, but Vaughn cut him off.
“Cherry burned in. What you see is what you’ve got.”
Sigler remembered the loud impact that had preceded the paratroopers’ arrival. There were no second chances with a HALO jump. You could get hypoxic during the long free-fall, or giddy with nitrogen narcosis… Your hands could freeze… Your chute could malfunction…and that was it. Game over, permanently.
“Aww shit, really?” Tremblay shook his head.
Three men. Sigler’s candle of hope flickered a little. Still, they were Delta operators, and that was nothing to sneeze at.
Parker clapped Tremblay on the shoulder. “You saved our asses with those hand cannons of yours. Is that Alpha standard issue? Jack, you gonna get us some of those?”
Tremblay sucked in a breath and then stoked his grin back to life. “I found these babies just lying around. They were too shiny to pass up.”
“Hang on to them. You’ll probably get another chance to use them.”
Sigler cleared his throat. “If you girls are done fixing your makeup, there’s work to do.”
“Roger that, boss. What’s the plan?”
Sigler had been pondering that very question. The enemy knew where they were, and the odds were good that they were already planning another mass attack. He hastily outlined his defensive plan: two sniper teams on the roof, shooters at every window.
Each of the Alpha team shooters had brought along eight thirty-round magazines, and they divided these so that everyone had at least two full mags. The newcomers had also brought along another five hundred rounds of loose ammunition. Everyone immediately set about reloading empty magazines, but it was a tedious chore, and Sigler doubted very much that enemy would give them time to complete it.
They got about four minutes.
The insurgents had used the brief lull to send a flanking element around to approach from the south. When one of the snipers on the roof spied their approach and started picking off targets, it was like opening the floodgates. The enemy fighters charged like a swarm of warrior ants.
The small concrete building seemed to vibrate with the rising crescendo of gunfire. The Delta shooters were the best in the world at their job, but for every insurgent that went down, five more advanced another ten meters, pouring lead at the defenders. The air was thick with sulfurous smoke and dust; the relentless assault pulverized the concrete walls.
Then a different sound cut through the tumult. There were long eruptions of noise that overpowered the random staccato pops of the AKs and HK 416s. It was the distinctive report of a Browning M-2 .50 caliber machine gun — affectionately nicknamed “Ma Deuce.”
And Ma Deuce never traveled alone.
Someone let out a whoop. “Hot damn. Now it’s a party.”
For a second, Sigler thought it was Jess Strickland, but then he remembered that Strickland had died when the helo blew up.
Must be the blond guy, Tremblay.
He didn’t dare look back. Twenty fighters…maybe more…were attempting to cross the last thirty meters to reach the building. There wasn’t even time to aim; he just kept pulling the trigger.
Out of nowhere, a blocky shape blasted through midst of the charge.
It was a Humvee.
Bodies went flying, and some were crunched under the heavy tires as the armored vehicle rolled to a stop between the besieged structure and the advancing horde. The Humvee’s gunner swept left and right with the .50 cal, but right below him, the rear door flew open and a soldier emerged, waving frantically to the men in the building.
Sigler got the message. “Our ride’s here! Move out.”
The Humvee was the first in a line of five similar vehicles, which had deployed in a semi-circle between the building and the two advancing fronts of enemy fighters. While the turret gunners laid down suppressive fire from their M240B and M2 machine guns, the rear doors on the sheltered side were thrown open to admit the beleaguered defenders. Sigler directed the wounded to the nearest trucks, and then with Parker right beside him, he headed for the front vehicle.