The sniper nods. “Clear.”
“Can I go in with you?” Mac asks.
“I’d have you rather here watching my back,” Ahuizotl replies.
“Agreed,” Collins says. “Sorry Mac, but the men in my squad are a team and know their drill. A stranger among us would be a liability, no matter what a good shooter she is.”
“But—”
“I said no. Stay put and keep your eyes peeled. That’s even more important than having one more rifle in my team.”
The Lieutenant leaves the hill to rejoin his men waiting below. In a few minutes, he has gathered them around him in the cover of rocks and dense shrub.
“Textbook breach and clear, men,” he says. “I will move up from the southern end of the strip with Team One. Harper, your team is Two—proceed and take up position hundred and fifty meters to the west. Walker—Team Three, two hundred meters, east. Report when you’re ready. The word will be Geronimo. Infiltrate and clear the ruins. Have grenades at hand. Stay clear of the strip until I tell you it’s clear to proceed. Our objective is probably in the building with a roof, because I’ve seen an antenna that tells of a radio inside. We must take the command element alive. Any questions?”
“What if he resists?” a fighter asks.
“If I don’t get there first, use a flashbang when breaching and non-lethal force to subdue him or whoever is inside. Remember — our primary objective is grabbing the commander or at least the radioman. Are we set?” Seeing that all men have understood the plan, Collins nods. “Lock and load!”
He knows that the fighters spreading out to his left and right have their weapons already loaded, but no self-respecting officer would ever miss an opportunity to bark this adrenaline-boosting command.
In his estimation, visibility in the fog is limited to thirty meters. Fifty before the southern end of the runway, he raises his fist and ducks behind the sparse scrub. Then he puts his left wrist behind his back, signaling to his men to assume wedge formation.
Wishing mentally for a scope with infrared capability, the Lieutenant perks his ear to get an idea about the Bandit’s location. The faint Russian chatter betrays three or four of them around the nearest campfire.
“Blooper!” he calls out under his breath. He points to the campfire and uses another hand sign to tell the squad grenadier: prepare your M203 grenade launcher. Then he waves to the squad automatic weapon’s operator to move up with his M249.
A subdued voice crackles in his radio.
“Two. In position.”
“SAW ready,” the gunner whispers.
Collins waits for the other squad to report in. He has Team Three move up further for two reasons: first, to avoid the risk of friendly fire; the two infiltration teams had better not meet each other face to face. Second, having the infiltration point further away should also make sure that no hostiles escape to the north or fall into Team Two’s flank.
At this moment the wind rises and stirs up the fog. Collins sees that his estimation was right—four Bandits are squatting next to the campfire.
“Three. In position.”
“One. Two and Three, fog is lifting. You have visuals?”
Four clicks in the radio come in reply, an affirmative double-click from each team.
Collins nods to the grenadier who aims his rifle with the under-barrel launcher. At the same moment when the projectile is released with a clack, the Lieutenant yells into his microphone.
“Geronimo! Geronimo!”
His second call is suppressed by the detonating grenade that goes off right in the campfire.
“Fire mission!” he barks to the machine gunner. “Front, traversing! One hundred, sustained! Fire!”
The M249 begins to sweep the area ahead with a long, uninterrupted burst. The Bandits not incapacitated by the grenade are riddled with the machine gun’s hard-hitting M855 ball rounds. With every fifth a tracer, the arc of fire appears like a deadly fan covering the airstrip between the row of ruins. The three hostiles at the campfire further ahead are equally hit, sticking to the ground and firing blindly into Collins’ direction. Detonations and small-arms fire comes from the ruins where Teams One and Two have begun the infiltration. The door of the radio shack opens but is immediately closed again as bullets impact on the ground and in the mud bricks. A few Bandits foolish enough to follow their instincts and leave their cover to see what’s happening are mowed down. Those staying among the ruins will now be the job of Teams One and Two.
“Cease fire!” Collins yells and waves his hand in front of his face to ensure that the machine gunner understands the order. “Two and Three, proceed! One, on me! Let’s go!”
Using the ruins to their advantage, Collins’ team quickly moves forward. The distinctive barking of Kalashnikovs can be heard from where the other teams move among the ruins. The lighter muzzle noise of the Tribe fighters’ M16A4 and M27 rifles answers, but it is mostly the blast of a grenade detonating inside the roofless buildings that makes the final point.
Three swift-limbed fighters of Team Three reach the radio shack first. One smashes the rotten boards covering the window with his rifle butt, another throws in a flashbang. A deafening blast sounds inside. The third kicks the wooden door open and dashes inside with his weapon aimed, immediately followed by the other two.
“Freeze! Drop your weapons! Weapons down!”
Panting and spitting dust, Collins reaches the shack with his men. In a minute he has them arranged around the perimeter. By now, fighting goes on only in the sector to the north west from where defiant Russian and English cusswords mix with Kalashnikov fire.
“Ya tebya kak sobaku strelayu!”
“Give it up, suckers!”
“Kushay granata, pindos!”
“Grenade incoming!”
The men sparheading Team Three duck to avoid the worst of the blast. Someone shouts in pain.
“Fry those pigs! Grenades!”
“Tvoyu mat’!”
”Fire in the hole!”
Three blasts shake the Bandit’s last point of defense. A long scream ends in Russian swearing, ended with a single shot from an M16A4. Then silence falls.
Lieutenant Collins’ ears are slightly numb from the firefight, especially the SAW’s deafening bursts. He can barely hear the crackling voices through the radio, though now they are spoken out loud.
“Two. Clear. One WIA. Gunshot.”
“Three. Clear. Two WIA. Damned grenades.”
“One. Objective secured, all clear,” Collins says on the radio. He looks around and is relieved to see that everyone in his team appear unharmed. Then he notices the stinging pain in his shoulder where a lucky bullet went through the exoskeleton’s Kevlar pates. “One WIA,” he adds, thinking: shit!
The squad corpsman is already there to see to his wound. Collins waves him away. “See to the others first.”
He himself takes off his heavy rucksack, glad that the painful grimace coming to his face remains hidden under the shemagh he has wrapped around his face, like most of the others.
The man lying before his feet, wearing a black trench coat with a skull patch on the arm sleeve, has no option to hide his face. The fighters who captured him have already pulled his balaclava off. His eyes might appear intelligent in other circumstances but now reflect the fear of a captured animal.
“Objective secured,” Collins repeats, now directing his words to the two Stalkers. “Sniper, come down. Mac, keep watching the area.”