He tracked right and continued to fire at the charging fedayeen. They were getting close. On the other hand, they were starting to bunch up and the careful fire and maneuver that they’d used on the lower slopes was breaking up as the assault dissolved inot a human wave charge.
That was fine by Kiril. More Islamic fuckers to send to Allah. More souls for his Death Guard. Souls to share with his love…
Mahmud could hear the SAW even over the rest of the firing. It was firing in precise bursts. These Keldara might be ghosts to the local kids, but they were also good.
However, he could also tell, by the sound, when the machine-gun tracked away from him. The note of the firing changed, became more muted, when it wasn’t pointed directly at him.
He rolled up to one elbow and pointed towards the sound. He saw the SAW gunner immediately, just the shape of a helmet and an arm behind the weapon. But he was less than fifty yards away. Easy shot…
Kiril couldn’t understand how he’d gotten into the bottom of the position. He could see his SAW above him, still hanging onto the edge of the position by its bipod feet. It was hanging down, though, not being fired. It had to be fired. It should be served.
Above him he could see birds. Ravens. Circling above the battlefield. The eyes of the Father in a red sky.
“Gretchen… ?”
Mike was firing, now, hunkered down against the right-hand side of the opening to the bunker. They were individual, aimed shots at the Chechens that were at the fucking trenchline. Some of them were jumping it, heading for the bunker.
He saw one of the fedayeen jump the trenchline, a young guy, screaming at the top of his lungs and pulling frantically on the trigger of an empty weapon. The image was there but it was filed away in some corner that wasn’t in the present reality. The only present was the two rounds he put right into the screaming mouth and the automatic part that told him the tango was serviced, sir, you can move on.
Another part of his brain was waiting for something. He couldn’t describe it but it was like art: he would know it when it happened. Battles don’t just go to the best or the most numerous. Most battles in history had gone to the side that just held out the longest. The side that just refused to quit. The side that you could wipe out but would refuse to fucking quit. The side that committed its reserve the last. Who dares, wins.
Mike felt it, even as his earphone crackled.
“Kildar. They have committed their reserve.”
“Adams! 60s!”
Sawn looked up and around. Kiril’s SAW had stopped firing. They needed that firepower if they were going to hold on.
He stepped back and turned to run down the trench, M4 pointed down in a tactical carry. He could damned well run a SAW if he had to.
Mahmud darted forward and jumped into the empty SAW position. They would have to clear the trenchline and from where he was it made most sense to move to his right.
He ignored the weapon; it would be picked up after the battle, and turned right, holding his AK forward and ready to strike. He had fought in trenches plenty of times and knew that an enemy could appear at any time. The thing to do was to move forward, fast. Strike with the barrel or the butt. Fire when sight-lines made it possible but most of all move forward fast. Take the positions still trying to defend from behind.
The direct line on this trench was about four meters to a turn. He hurried that way and, at the turn, almost ran smack into one of the Keldara who was running down the trench. He had probably noticed the SAW was out of action and was going to see why.
Mahmud clutched at his trigger and fired three rounds, point blank, into the man’s chest.
Sawn grunted in surprise as the rounds hit him then struck out, a trained and reflexive reaction, the barrel of his M4 striking the AK upwards and to the right. He followed in with the butt of the weapon, smashing the fedayeen in the chest and knocking him backwards. The M4 was bent by the combined blows so he dropped it as his hand dropped to his belt, ripping out his axe as he darted forward.
The Islamic raised the AK, either in defense or to fire, but Sawn’s axe cut down in a lightning strike, sliding along the barrel and taking the man’s fingers off his left hand. A second blow laid open his head.
Sawn fell to his knees, suddenly feeling weak. Just combat reaction, he was sure. The sympathetic nervous system, the part that controlled direct action in the human body, went into full overdrive during intense moments of combat. When they passed, the parasympathetic nervous system, the part that was in charge during sleep and ran all the automatic systems, came back with a vengeance. You felt weak and nauseous. Your hands shook. You wanted to sleep.
The briefing had never covered being cold… though. And he couldn’t understand where the flood of bright red pouring out of the bottom of his body armor had come from…
Adams slammed the butt of his SPR into the back of one of the fedayeen’s head and watched it buckle. The head and the butt. Fucking M-16 series weapons were lousy for close combat!
“Adams! 60s!”
Fuck! They were down to hand to hand in the fucking trenches. How in the fuck did Mike expect him to get the fucking machine-gun into action.
Oleg, though, had heard the call. He left his axe in the face of the Chechen he had just killed and picked up the 60 off the ground where it had been hidden. Another Chechen tumbled into the pit but he ignored the fedayeen as he cocked the weapon.
Adams wasn’t about to let Oleg outdo him. Stopping only to kick the Chechen so hard his mother was gonna bleed, he picked up his own and dropped the bipod into the firing position.
The target view was pure Chechens. So, taking Mike’s advice against his better judgement, he pulled back the trigger and started firing continuous.
The M-60 series of weapons was first developed in the 1950s as a replacement for the WWI era .30 caliber machine gun. Air cooled, the series had suffered throughout its existence with many problems. It tended to jam, it overheated quickly and when overheated would tend to “cook off”, fire continuously despite releasing the trigger as rounds were heated hot enough to “explode” when they touched the smoking breach. The barrels also tended to heat quickly to the point that they would “droop” and cause an explosion that destroyed the gun. Mixing “cookoff” with “droop” was a sure recipe for disaster.
The Army had eventually replaced the venerable M-60 with the M240 series manufactured by the Belgian firm of Fabrique Nationale. Machine-gunners throughout the Army and various other users had breathed a sigh of relief because while the M240 had its problems, it was head and shoulders above the 60.
The M-60E4 was the manufacturers attempt to regain that vast market it had lost. Besides various improvements to make the gun more reliable, overall, they had paid tremendous attention to barrel and breach design, using a series of new materials to improve barrel life, barrel strength and cooling.
Adams knew, from too much experience, the sound, the smell, the feel of an M-60 that had been overworked. And he knew right when that feel should start. He knew he should be firing in short, controlled, bursts. But… damn there were just too many of the fuckers. The 7.62 rounds were dropping them in windrows, but there were still more! He knew he had to let up on the trigger, that the fucking 60 was going to overheat, cook-off, jam, fucking blow the fuck up at any moment. But if he stopped firing the fucking Chechens were going to overrun them. AS it was, his 60, Oleg’s and the two with Vil and Sawn had stopped them, butt cold. To even fire in bursts would mean they could move forward, maneuver, something. He had to keep firing, just holding the fucking trigger down. It was the only way to stop the assault!