(no subject)
The first shot passed overhead with a SNAP.
The rest, as they say, was automatic.
Voodoo sprinted for a rock and slid into it just as the next bursts came, the rifles popping away and the machine gun splitting the air with a teeth-clenching DATDATDATDAT, the bullets kicking up snow and splintering rock. Pain shot up his leg as the first burst of adrenaline wore off, competing with the biting cold and the machine gun for his attention.
“Can you see them?”
That was…that was him shouting, voice ragged and cracking with hours upon hours of too much adrenaline and too little rest, head jerking around, searching the canyon for the others - Preacher was behind the next rock, the Army guys were -
Another DATDATDATDAT, one of the rounds snapping past his neck, the heat singeing skin, blood rising from the burn. He flinched, catching a glimpse of Ranger camouflage in the draw below -
bad spot bad spot they’re on the low ground
He pushed off into a sprint, legs straining to reach the next bit of cover -
And the canyon erupted.
A torrent of bullets split the air as he slid into cover, tracers arcing overhead like Roman candles gone wrong, bullets hissing and snapping every which way, a poorly tossed grenade exploding yards from their position.
“By the sandbags! They’re by the sandbags!”
That was - no, had to be Patterson. Voodoo peeked his head over the rocks - there was an intricate network of sandbags and earthworks near a cave mouth set into the canyon wall, complete with a camouflage net over the bigger fortifications. He could make out the DShK’s barrel poking out of the net, and people in camouflage smocks running about, black rifles in their hands -
The DShK winked light, and Voodoo ducked down just in time for a burst to tear off the top of his rock.
“Patters-” Another deafening DATDATDATDAT split the canyon, drowning out Voodoo’s shouts and sending his heartbeat skyrocketing, blood pounding in his throat.
the radio, you idiot, use the radio they’re on the net for Chrissake
“Patterson! Patterson, you on here?”
“’firmative, Voodoo. We’re in this fuckin’ draw on your three. Between the gizzies and the Dishka we’re pinned.”
“Yeah, us too.” Another DATDATDATDAT as more bullets smashed into the rock. “Motherfucker - listen, stay put and I’ll raise Bagram. Bagram, Bagram, Neptune Four, you read?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Send traffic.”
“Bagram, we got a -” a snap as a bullet passed by his ear, and Voodoo turned to see two Chechens advancing through the snow, rifles up -
- his pistol barked once, twice, thrice -
- and the duo crumpled into the snow.
“Assholes. Bagram, we got a Dishka and a squad or two of gizzies at our pos on the south slope, west of the peak. We’re pinned and we need close air, over. “
“Negative, Neptune Four. Fast movers are gone.”
The world stopped. Voodoo tried to swallow, but the dryness in his throat stopped him short. There couldn’t- there were- they had entire goddamn hangars-
“Say again, Bagram?”
“Say again, all close air assets are off-station to-“ Another burst, another crackle of rock splintering under the bullets.
“Oh, fuck this! Patterson, you still on this net?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Dishka fire’s coming awful close-”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Listen, we’ll have to deal with this on our own. How’re you guys on ammo?”
“Eight mags and one in the well for me, ten plus one for Adams.”
“Okay, wait one. Preacher!” Preacher’s head swiveled at the shout. “Got frags?”
Preacher patted himself down. “One. ”
“Fuck. Okay, Patterson, look. The Dishka’s got us pinned, but that asshole can’t shoot forever. He’s got a fifty-round belt and he’s shot off most of it. When you hear the fire slack off, I want you and Adams to pour everything you’ve got on it and drop anyone that tries to return fire. Preacher and I’ll move up along the rise to your left and try and get close enough to frag this fuckin’ thing.”
“Roger.”
Voodoo turned to Preacher. “You hear all that?” Preacher nodded.
“Okay. I’ll lead. Follow me, but maintain dispersion. We’re no good dead.” Preacher nodded again. There. He’d done it. He’d committed himself, the question not being if but when he would go up against that empty eye socket of death. He squeezed the pistol’s grip, trying to stop to twitching in his jaw that came and went like a flickering CHECK ENGINE light -
DATDATDATDAT
- trying to quell his racing heart, blood pounding in his ears -
DATDATDATDAT
- bile rising in his throat -
DATDATDATDAT
- muscles twitching, vision blurring -
DATDAT
His senses cleared. Everything snapped into place.
“On me!”
He pushed off, ignoring his ankle’s cries of protest, legs pumping like steam pistons as he sprinted toward the machine gun. The air exploded with tracer fire, the Ranger’s red and the Chechen’s green making streaks across the canyon.
one foot in front of the other, just like that
A man in a hooded parka rose from a foxhole up ahead, rifle raised at Patterson, then glanced in his direction, started to turn toward him -
ain’t no biggie, nothing to it
The pistol barked twice, and the man fell, two holes in his chest -
nothing at all, easy as breathing
His legs were on fire, his ankle begging for relief, but he couldn’t stop, not now, not this far away -
“The Dishka’s turning!” Patterson yelled. “It’s turning!”
He could see it plain as day, the long black barrel swiveling in their direction, the gunner racking back the bolt -
“Preacher, down, down!”
The muzzle winked light, and Voodoo collapsed by a rock as the first bullets whizzed overhead. Preacher was prone in the snow, cradling his carbine in his arms as he crawled forward to the protection of the rock, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a scowl.
“Think you can hit it from here?” Please oh please say yes.
Preacher eyed the distance. “Don’t know. Looks like fifty, sixty yards. Never thrown this far.” Fuck. Another string of bullets whizzed overhead with a DATDATDATDAT.
“First time for everything. Patterson, Voodoo!”
“Gotcha loud and clear, Voodoo.”
“Suppress on my mark!”
“WILCO.”
Voodoo looked to Preacher - the grenade was in his hands, his right curled around the lever, his left clutching at the pin.
“Ready?”
Preacher nodded.
“Three, two, one, mark!”
The staccato report of the M4s came from the draw as Voodoo leaned out, firing away at anything moving in the earthworks. Preacher let the lever fly, stood up, tossed it with a grunt, an olive-drab speck flying through the air -
- and exploding a good five yards from the DShK.
“It went short, it went short!” Patterson yelled. “That thing’s still firing!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Voodoo let his head fall into the snow, racking his brain for a solution. The gunner still had most of his belt left - by the time he shot it off, the other Chechens would already be moving in for the kill and who knew how many more they had in the cave and they were four guys against thirtysomething militants and that white dot in the sky wasn’t -
The white dot. In the sky.
The white dot with the bulbous head, tail-mounted propeller and the wheels mounted right underneath the -
“Bagram, Bagram, Neptune Four! I’ve got a Predator right over my fuckin’ head, is it armed?”
“Neptune Four, stand by.”
Another DATDATDATDAT as the bullets kicked up snow all around them. “Are you shitting me?”
A new voice came on the net. “Voodoo, it’s Panther. That UAV’s ‘Wildfire’, a CIA Predator. Get Jimmy on comms with Langley. He can fire remotely.”
“I could fucking kiss you, Panther. Jimmy! We’re in heavy contact at grid-” (fuck, what is it) - “-niner-Delta-Hotel-Golf-two-zero-one-eight-eight-niner-five-one! Sync up with Wildfire and get a Hellfire on this goddamn MG!”
“Roger. Syncing.” A pause, another DATDATDATDAT. “I can’t tell who’s who down there, Voodoo. You need to mark target.”
“With what?”
“Whatever you got.”
Fuck.
Voodoo looked to Preacher. “Got anything?”
“Red phosphorous for landing zones, but-”
“Good.” Voodoo held out his hand. “Give it here.”
Preacher stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Voodoo, don’t. Even with suppression, they’re too close. You’re too big a target.” Another DATDATDATDAT, this one splattering snow onto Voodoo’s helmet.
“Jimmy needs us to mark target, Preacher, so I need that RP. Give it.” Preacher clasped a hand around the RP cylinder, attached by the lever to his combat vest.
After a moment, he unhooked it and slapped it into Voodoo’s palm. “Good luck.”
“Yeah. Patterson, how’s your ammo?”
“Getting low. Three plus one for me, four plus one for Adams.”
“Okay, suppress on my mark. Switch to semi if you have to, but don’t let up. Same with you, Preacher.” Preacher nodded.
“Okay.” The blood started rushing back. Voodoo pulled the pin.
“Mark, mark!”
Voodoo didn’t feel pain anymore. Whether it was from the adrenaline, the sleep deprivation, or the hunger he didn’t know, but all he could feel as he pushed off and sprinted toward the sandbags was the cold snow crunching under his boots. Time spun out before him. He could see the tracers buzzing all around, but the gunshots were muffled, distorted, as though he were underwater. He could see the machine gun, make out scratches and dents on the shield where bullets had ricocheted off, make out frays in the camouflage netting above it, the leaks in the sandbags below it, see the gunner’s mouth curl upward in a snarl as he inched the gun over to fire at him -
- he let go of the lever, and it flew off with a ka-CHIIIIING that seemed to echo forever -
- the gunner racked back the bolt, and the belt jumped in place as a new round flew into the chamber -
- he threw the cylinder, and it went up, up, up, red smoke trailing behind it as it arced down, down, down -
- right into the machine gun pit.
The world came rushing back in an explosion of gunfire and screams. “Voodoo, you stupid motherfucker! Get back here!”
That was Preacher.
Preacher never swore.
Voodoo turned on his heel and sprinted back (goddamn piece of shit ankle) ducking his head as more bullets snapped past (almost there couple more yards) and slid into the rock, biting back a scream as his shoulder flared up again.
call it in call it in FOR FUCK’S SAKE CALL IT IN
“Jimmy, Voodoo! Target is marked with RP! Friendlies are-” -he inched his head out to catch a glimpse of the plume- “-friendlies are upwind of the smoke!”
“Roger, I tally. Missile away.”
“Incoming!” Voodoo hollered. “Get your heads down!”
The missile shrieked overhead, trailing smoke as it slammed into the machine gun nest, kicking up a storm of dust and snow.
“Secondaries!”
What was left of the ammunition went up with a poppopPOPpoppop. Voodoo peeked his head out. There was nothing left of the earthworks. It looked like the surface of the moon, barren and dead save for a few pieces of sheet metal.
“Neptune Four, Bagram. What it’s look like there?”
“They’re gone, Bagram. Tell Jimmy good effect on target. We’re moving into the cave and continuing CSAR. Patterson, Adams, you there?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Got drag marks and a blood trail leading right into the cave.”
“Okay, we’ll catch up. Watch your fires. Rabbit and Mother might be in there. Let’s go, Preacher.”
The cave was dark and damp. Wooden supports creaked under the weight of stone and debris and dirt, and bloodstained planks lined the earthen floor.
“Blood trail’s getting fresher,” Preacher said. “Rabbit and Mother’re close.” Voodoo limped forward, his pistol up despite the protests of his shoulder.
Preacher froze and held up a fist. “Got a door. Blood trail leads right to it.”
Voodoo leaned to one side - indeed, there was a door, and the blood did disappear under the doorframe. His heart skipped a beat, and hours upon hours of frustration and exhaustion bore themselves out in the form of a limp-sprint as he took the lead.
“Stack up,” he said, taking one side of the door and stifling a cough. “Preacher on the squeeze, dynamic entry, dig your corners. A-box shots only. Adams, you’re the kicker.” He coughed again, squeezing the pistol’s grip for all it was worth.
“Fuckin’ do it!”
The rest, as they say, was automatic.
Voodoo sprinted for a rock and slid into it just as the next bursts came, the rifles popping away and the machine gun splitting the air with a teeth-clenching DATDATDATDAT, the bullets kicking up snow and splintering rock. Pain shot up his leg as the first burst of adrenaline wore off, competing with the biting cold and the machine gun for his attention.
“Can you see them?”
That was…that was him shouting, voice ragged and cracking with hours upon hours of too much adrenaline and too little rest, head jerking around, searching the canyon for the others - Preacher was behind the next rock, the Army guys were -
Another DATDATDATDAT, one of the rounds snapping past his neck, the heat singeing skin, blood rising from the burn. He flinched, catching a glimpse of Ranger camouflage in the draw below -
bad spot bad spot they’re on the low ground
He pushed off into a sprint, legs straining to reach the next bit of cover -
And the canyon erupted.
A torrent of bullets split the air as he slid into cover, tracers arcing overhead like Roman candles gone wrong, bullets hissing and snapping every which way, a poorly tossed grenade exploding yards from their position.
“By the sandbags! They’re by the sandbags!”
That was - no, had to be Patterson. Voodoo peeked his head over the rocks - there was an intricate network of sandbags and earthworks near a cave mouth set into the canyon wall, complete with a camouflage net over the bigger fortifications. He could make out the DShK’s barrel poking out of the net, and people in camouflage smocks running about, black rifles in their hands -
The DShK winked light, and Voodoo ducked down just in time for a burst to tear off the top of his rock.
“Patters-” Another deafening DATDATDATDAT split the canyon, drowning out Voodoo’s shouts and sending his heartbeat skyrocketing, blood pounding in his throat.
the radio, you idiot, use the radio they’re on the net for Chrissake
“Patterson! Patterson, you on here?”
“’firmative, Voodoo. We’re in this fuckin’ draw on your three. Between the gizzies and the Dishka we’re pinned.”
“Yeah, us too.” Another DATDATDATDAT as more bullets smashed into the rock. “Motherfucker - listen, stay put and I’ll raise Bagram. Bagram, Bagram, Neptune Four, you read?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Send traffic.”
“Bagram, we got a -” a snap as a bullet passed by his ear, and Voodoo turned to see two Chechens advancing through the snow, rifles up -
- his pistol barked once, twice, thrice -
- and the duo crumpled into the snow.
“Assholes. Bagram, we got a Dishka and a squad or two of gizzies at our pos on the south slope, west of the peak. We’re pinned and we need close air, over. “
“Negative, Neptune Four. Fast movers are gone.”
The world stopped. Voodoo tried to swallow, but the dryness in his throat stopped him short. There couldn’t- there were- they had entire goddamn hangars-
“Say again, Bagram?”
“Say again, all close air assets are off-station to-“ Another burst, another crackle of rock splintering under the bullets.
“Oh, fuck this! Patterson, you still on this net?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Dishka fire’s coming awful close-”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Listen, we’ll have to deal with this on our own. How’re you guys on ammo?”
“Eight mags and one in the well for me, ten plus one for Adams.”
“Okay, wait one. Preacher!” Preacher’s head swiveled at the shout. “Got frags?”
Preacher patted himself down. “One. ”
“Fuck. Okay, Patterson, look. The Dishka’s got us pinned, but that asshole can’t shoot forever. He’s got a fifty-round belt and he’s shot off most of it. When you hear the fire slack off, I want you and Adams to pour everything you’ve got on it and drop anyone that tries to return fire. Preacher and I’ll move up along the rise to your left and try and get close enough to frag this fuckin’ thing.”
“Roger.”
Voodoo turned to Preacher. “You hear all that?” Preacher nodded.
“Okay. I’ll lead. Follow me, but maintain dispersion. We’re no good dead.” Preacher nodded again. There. He’d done it. He’d committed himself, the question not being if but when he would go up against that empty eye socket of death. He squeezed the pistol’s grip, trying to stop to twitching in his jaw that came and went like a flickering CHECK ENGINE light -
DATDATDATDAT
- trying to quell his racing heart, blood pounding in his ears -
DATDATDATDAT
- bile rising in his throat -
DATDATDATDAT
- muscles twitching, vision blurring -
DATDAT
His senses cleared. Everything snapped into place.
“On me!”
He pushed off, ignoring his ankle’s cries of protest, legs pumping like steam pistons as he sprinted toward the machine gun. The air exploded with tracer fire, the Ranger’s red and the Chechen’s green making streaks across the canyon.
one foot in front of the other, just like that
A man in a hooded parka rose from a foxhole up ahead, rifle raised at Patterson, then glanced in his direction, started to turn toward him -
ain’t no biggie, nothing to it
The pistol barked twice, and the man fell, two holes in his chest -
nothing at all, easy as breathing
His legs were on fire, his ankle begging for relief, but he couldn’t stop, not now, not this far away -
“The Dishka’s turning!” Patterson yelled. “It’s turning!”
He could see it plain as day, the long black barrel swiveling in their direction, the gunner racking back the bolt -
“Preacher, down, down!”
The muzzle winked light, and Voodoo collapsed by a rock as the first bullets whizzed overhead. Preacher was prone in the snow, cradling his carbine in his arms as he crawled forward to the protection of the rock, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a scowl.
“Think you can hit it from here?” Please oh please say yes.
Preacher eyed the distance. “Don’t know. Looks like fifty, sixty yards. Never thrown this far.” Fuck. Another string of bullets whizzed overhead with a DATDATDATDAT.
“First time for everything. Patterson, Voodoo!”
“Gotcha loud and clear, Voodoo.”
“Suppress on my mark!”
“WILCO.”
Voodoo looked to Preacher - the grenade was in his hands, his right curled around the lever, his left clutching at the pin.
“Ready?”
Preacher nodded.
“Three, two, one, mark!”
The staccato report of the M4s came from the draw as Voodoo leaned out, firing away at anything moving in the earthworks. Preacher let the lever fly, stood up, tossed it with a grunt, an olive-drab speck flying through the air -
- and exploding a good five yards from the DShK.
“It went short, it went short!” Patterson yelled. “That thing’s still firing!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Voodoo let his head fall into the snow, racking his brain for a solution. The gunner still had most of his belt left - by the time he shot it off, the other Chechens would already be moving in for the kill and who knew how many more they had in the cave and they were four guys against thirtysomething militants and that white dot in the sky wasn’t -
The white dot. In the sky.
The white dot with the bulbous head, tail-mounted propeller and the wheels mounted right underneath the -
“Bagram, Bagram, Neptune Four! I’ve got a Predator right over my fuckin’ head, is it armed?”
“Neptune Four, stand by.”
Another DATDATDATDAT as the bullets kicked up snow all around them. “Are you shitting me?”
A new voice came on the net. “Voodoo, it’s Panther. That UAV’s ‘Wildfire’, a CIA Predator. Get Jimmy on comms with Langley. He can fire remotely.”
“I could fucking kiss you, Panther. Jimmy! We’re in heavy contact at grid-” (fuck, what is it) - “-niner-Delta-Hotel-Golf-two-zero-one-eight-eight-niner-five-one! Sync up with Wildfire and get a Hellfire on this goddamn MG!”
“Roger. Syncing.” A pause, another DATDATDATDAT. “I can’t tell who’s who down there, Voodoo. You need to mark target.”
“With what?”
“Whatever you got.”
Fuck.
Voodoo looked to Preacher. “Got anything?”
“Red phosphorous for landing zones, but-”
“Good.” Voodoo held out his hand. “Give it here.”
Preacher stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Voodoo, don’t. Even with suppression, they’re too close. You’re too big a target.” Another DATDATDATDAT, this one splattering snow onto Voodoo’s helmet.
“Jimmy needs us to mark target, Preacher, so I need that RP. Give it.” Preacher clasped a hand around the RP cylinder, attached by the lever to his combat vest.
After a moment, he unhooked it and slapped it into Voodoo’s palm. “Good luck.”
“Yeah. Patterson, how’s your ammo?”
“Getting low. Three plus one for me, four plus one for Adams.”
“Okay, suppress on my mark. Switch to semi if you have to, but don’t let up. Same with you, Preacher.” Preacher nodded.
“Okay.” The blood started rushing back. Voodoo pulled the pin.
“Mark, mark!”
Voodoo didn’t feel pain anymore. Whether it was from the adrenaline, the sleep deprivation, or the hunger he didn’t know, but all he could feel as he pushed off and sprinted toward the sandbags was the cold snow crunching under his boots. Time spun out before him. He could see the tracers buzzing all around, but the gunshots were muffled, distorted, as though he were underwater. He could see the machine gun, make out scratches and dents on the shield where bullets had ricocheted off, make out frays in the camouflage netting above it, the leaks in the sandbags below it, see the gunner’s mouth curl upward in a snarl as he inched the gun over to fire at him -
- he let go of the lever, and it flew off with a ka-CHIIIIING that seemed to echo forever -
- the gunner racked back the bolt, and the belt jumped in place as a new round flew into the chamber -
- he threw the cylinder, and it went up, up, up, red smoke trailing behind it as it arced down, down, down -
- right into the machine gun pit.
The world came rushing back in an explosion of gunfire and screams. “Voodoo, you stupid motherfucker! Get back here!”
That was Preacher.
Preacher never swore.
Voodoo turned on his heel and sprinted back (goddamn piece of shit ankle) ducking his head as more bullets snapped past (almost there couple more yards) and slid into the rock, biting back a scream as his shoulder flared up again.
call it in call it in FOR FUCK’S SAKE CALL IT IN
“Jimmy, Voodoo! Target is marked with RP! Friendlies are-” -he inched his head out to catch a glimpse of the plume- “-friendlies are upwind of the smoke!”
“Roger, I tally. Missile away.”
“Incoming!” Voodoo hollered. “Get your heads down!”
The missile shrieked overhead, trailing smoke as it slammed into the machine gun nest, kicking up a storm of dust and snow.
“Secondaries!”
What was left of the ammunition went up with a poppopPOPpoppop. Voodoo peeked his head out. There was nothing left of the earthworks. It looked like the surface of the moon, barren and dead save for a few pieces of sheet metal.
“Neptune Four, Bagram. What it’s look like there?”
“They’re gone, Bagram. Tell Jimmy good effect on target. We’re moving into the cave and continuing CSAR. Patterson, Adams, you there?”
“Roger, Voodoo. Got drag marks and a blood trail leading right into the cave.”
“Okay, we’ll catch up. Watch your fires. Rabbit and Mother might be in there. Let’s go, Preacher.”
The cave was dark and damp. Wooden supports creaked under the weight of stone and debris and dirt, and bloodstained planks lined the earthen floor.
“Blood trail’s getting fresher,” Preacher said. “Rabbit and Mother’re close.” Voodoo limped forward, his pistol up despite the protests of his shoulder.
Preacher froze and held up a fist. “Got a door. Blood trail leads right to it.”
Voodoo leaned to one side - indeed, there was a door, and the blood did disappear under the doorframe. His heart skipped a beat, and hours upon hours of frustration and exhaustion bore themselves out in the form of a limp-sprint as he took the lead.
“Stack up,” he said, taking one side of the door and stifling a cough. “Preacher on the squeeze, dynamic entry, dig your corners. A-box shots only. Adams, you’re the kicker.” He coughed again, squeezing the pistol’s grip for all it was worth.
“Fuckin’ do it!”