Countdown_ The Liberators Part 50

D-Day, four and a half miles west of Dhurbo, Ophir

"I don't think this is going to work," Morales observed. "And, no, the f.u.c.king radio doesn't work for trans, though I can pick up BBC, if you're curious." He whistled a few bars of "Lillibullero," to make the point.

He could see the distant flashes of what was probably a machine gun on the pursuing boat. He rotated his monocular down and scanned for splashes. Yep, about two hundred meters behind us and to port as we bear. On the plus side, they don't seem to be very good shots. He said as much to Eeyore.

Antoniewicz had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "How good do they need to be? They'll close to point blank, eventually. Best bring Simmons forward and get him in a life vest."

"Aye, aye," Morales agreed.

D-Day, south of Bandar Qa.s.sim Airport

Even though he was firing subsonic ammunition, with a suppressor that would probably work with a One-o-Five, and did a pretty fair job of holding in the muzzle flash, too, every now and again Buckwheat got the feeling that somewhere, someone, out on the long slope below him, had his number. He got the feeling again when a long burst of machine gun fire pelted the rock behind which he covered, sending off shards in all the wrong directions. At times like those, he thought it wise to back up and find someplace else to shoot from.

Rifle cradled in the crook of his elbows, he backpeddled down the slope and out of the line of fire. This was, as it turned out, a very good thing as the next burst of fire didn't hit the rock; it hit precisely where he had been posted.

Maybe the suppressor is about done for, he thought, They're only good for so many shots anyway. Flash might be leaking through. No, it's probably leaking through.

He heard an engine's roar from behind him, coupled with the sound of gravel being tossed out by spinning tires.

The Hummer pulled up behind him. "Jump in and get on the machine gun," Rattus said. "Watch out you don't step on the Brit."

"What?"

"Jump in and get on the machine gun," the medic repeated. "We've got company coming, and I have a cunning plan. Ever hear of Joshua Chamberlain?"

"A cunning plan? Little Round Top?" Fulton rolled his eyes, saying, "Why don't I just blow my brains out now?"

"Just get in."

"What about Fletcher?" Fulton asked.

"Wahab's getting him."

Buckwheat bolted at a crouch for the Hummer. As he did, he heard the on-board radio say, "Rattus, Biggus; we're ninety seconds out. We can see the burning aircraft. We can also see what looks to be a loaded truck convoy leaving the city heading west. One of the gunships is going after the convoy; the other's yours. Where do you want it?"

Biggus practically strained his neck, twisting his head to keep an eye on everything that was going on in the air and on the ground, as the medevac bird loitered. For all practical purposes he was playing FAC, or forward air controller. He may have been a little rusty, but he did have some limited experience at it.

From the radio came Rattus's words, "We're just behind the topographical crest. The bad guys are mostly along the northern military crest. That's about seventeen or eighteen hundred meters south of the airfield."

Biggus put the mike to his lips and asked, "Can you give us a marker?"

"We'll give you lights for ten seconds, both vehicles, in thirty."

"That'll do. Then what?"

"You'll probably need more than one pa.s.s," Rattus said. "When you've expended your load, or as much as you need to, let me know. Then we're gonna charge, right over the top, all guns-such as they are-blazing. We'll meet you at the airstrip, west of the burning aircraft."

"Roger," Thornton said. It sounded pretty desperate to him but, then again, they did have the hurt limey. So . . .

Biggus gave orders to the other two. After hearing a couple of "Rogers," he shut up and watched.

As the armed aircraft to his north made its first pa.s.s, all he could say was, "Awesome."

The aircraft carried fourteen of what were called "S-8, 80mm" rockets, seven under each wing. The rockets were the mixed lot Victor Inning had provided; two per pod carried flechettes; three were high explosive; one was incendiary. The first one set to fire from each pod was illumination. One of these, from his right pod, the pilot to Biggus's north fired first.

Four seconds after the flash of the rocket's ignition could be seen, a two-megacandle flare blossomed over the truck convoy, slightly off center and to the north. In that four seconds the CH-801 had closed its range by two hundred and forty meters, give or take. In the next several seconds, the pilot let loose one entire pod, walking them up the road at and around the seven trucks. Most missed. In fact, all the high explosive and incendiary rounds missed. The flechette rockets, on the other hand, each of them spitting out two thousand thin, finned, steel darts, didn't have to be all that on target. Close was good enough where "close" was defined as two and a half truckloads of human flesh reduced to twitching, screaming, moaning, bleeding, gagging, puking, s.h.i.tting lumps of meat . . . in a fraction of a second.

As the pilot turned away-safer that was than pa.s.sing over a convoy of armed men, even if their drivers were jinking like mad-to line up for another run, his door gunner, Manuel, let loose with a long, two hundred round burst of machine gun fire. Manuel didn't hit much either. But his tracers did add to the overall ambience.

Buckwheat noticed that the fire snapping over the ridge slackened, indeed almost ceased, right after the northern sky lit up from the flare.

They're watching the fireworks, he thought. That, and probably s.h.i.tting their pants. Now's the time, now, for the other strike to go in.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE.

"A sword for the LORD and for Gideon!"

-Judges 7:20, the Bible, New International Version

D-Day, Rako-Dhuudo-Bandar Cisman highway, Ophir

Reilly listened to the reports from the scouts: "Scout Four . . . SitRep . . . fourteen tanks, moving east on the road . . . two groups . . . four tanks leading then ten more about four hundred meters after . . . dismounts riding on top . . . five or six, maybe seven, per." "Scout Two . . . same . . . just reaching the bend at Checkpoint Five." "Scout One, I make them at Checkpoint Four."

So far, so good, he thought. Fourteen tanks with a gap of four hundred meters . . . mmm . . . call the column one point one klicks long. That'll fit in the kill zone. Why only fourteen though? There were supposed to be up to twenty-four. He called the TOC, back on the ship, to ask.

Boxers voice answered, "When the UAV went over the lager there were ten still there, most with people working on them."

"Roger." Okay then, ten down for maintenance. Par for the course.

Then he heard, "This is Scout Two. Two more tanks, no dismounts on top. A klick and a half behind the others."

s.h.i.t! How did the UAVs miss that? Two tanks a kilometer and a half behind would put them out of the kill zone when he initiated the ambush. He didn't want to face one tank in a fair fight, let alone two. There's a solution, but . . . man, that sucks.

"Scout one, Alpha Six," Reilly sent.

"Scouts." Snyder's voice sounded worried. Ah, he understands the problem, too.

"When we initiate, I need you to engage the follow-on tanks."

There was a pause while Snyder formed a reply. That reply was, "Are you out of your f.u.c.king mind? We've got machine guns. That's it."

Reilly's voice stayed calm and firm. He understood perfectly well how Snyder felt. "I know. I don't expect you to kill anything. I just want you to b.u.t.ton them up and make them think they're in the kill zone, too. And don't lose track of them when they roll off the road."

The answer to that was long enough in coming. "Wilco." I will comply.

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

Boxer burst into the TOC and said, "s.h.i.t! We missed two tanks."

"What are you talking about?" Stauer asked.

"The UAV pa.s.sed over the tank column a few miles from the lager. It couldn't count the tanks in the column but counted ten in the camp. So we figured fourteen tanks Reilly would have to face and continued on to the town. On the flight back the pilot swung over the lager again and counted eight. So he followed the road for a while and found the other two, few enough he could count them, racing to join the rest."

"Will they catch up before Reilly's kill zone?"

"No. They'll still be out of it by the time Reilly has to engage."

"Ah . . . f.u.c.k. Get me Reilly on the horn."

D-Day, Rako-Dhuudo-Bandar Cisman highway, Ophir

"Yes, we identified the problem and I've got a handle on it, boss," Reilly answered. "Yes, it's a s.h.i.tty, greasy, sloppy handle, but I've got a handle."

Man, I hate being nagged.

Sergeant Abdan reported in, "First tank entering the KZ."

Reilly finished up, "And I got to go now. Busy, doncha know. Send the dustoff our way, would you? We're probably going to need it."

The radio spouted, "Alpha Six, One-Six. First tank at Checkpoint Three . . . "

Lana, wearing NVGs, watched the long steel snake slither through the kill zone with a mix of eagerness and fear. Some of the fear was for her life and health, true. More of it, though, was in the form of, Lord, G.o.d, don't let me fail.

In this she wasn't so very different from any of the others peering in at the sight of the ma.s.sacre they hoped to make.

Though she didn't have to whisper-the tanks made more noise than she could hope to-still she did. "Gunner . . . eleven o'clock . . . gunner . . . ten o'clock . . . gunner . . . eleven o'clock."

With each command, Viljoen deftly spun the traversing wheel that also held his firing b.u.t.ton. A certain tone crept into her voice, that same combination of fear for self and fear for self-image.

"Relax, Lana," Viljoen said. "It's . . . well, I won't say it's a piece of cake, but I will say you're as ready and as able as anyone I ever served with."

"Well, thanks a lot, lover," Dumisani piped in.

"I never served with you in combat, you black b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You were on the other side." Viljoen hesitated for a moment; he wasn't normally the maudlin sort. Then he added, "Dumi, if you were ever down range of my gun . . . I'm awfully glad I missed."

"What are you talking about?" the Zulu said. "You hit my tonsils every time."

"a.s.shole!"

"And sometimes that, too."