Five Minutes
Gunner squeezed the trigger, and two savage tongues of fire bloomed across the barren desert. White smoke from the rocket motors painted long, pale trails as the rounds streaked toward their targets two hundred and fifty yards out.
The moment lasted only a heartbeat, but through the binoculars the world crawled.
The first warhead punched into the forward flank of the Stryker that had been swaggering at the head of the column — right above the front wheels of its eight-wheel chassis.
A dull metallic rupture. Then the distinctive detonation of a HEAT round. It did not blossom outward the way a conventional explosion did.
A copper penetrator, every ounce of its energy condensed into a single point, tore through the Stryker's armor, melted a hole through the hull, and detonated a second time inside the crew compartment — a private hell that burned and shredded everything it touched. A flash, and fragments of armor plate and unidentifiable chunks of metal erupted outward.
The twenty-ton steel hull lurched as if half-lifted onto its side, then bounced violently off the road. The front wheels were gone — vaporized. From the hull, instead of bright flame, a thick column of black smoke boiled skyward.
Almost simultaneously, the second warhead slammed into the face of the technical running behind it. Gunner had probably been aiming for the next armored vehicle, but the convoy's speed had put the truck in the way instead.
The detonation on the truck was far more theatrical. A roar, and the entire vehicle vanished inside a massive orange fireball. The ammunition stacked in the bed cooked off, stitching the sky with a fireworks display of secondary explosions. What was left of the truck tumbled across the road, a shapeless heap of scrap.
Gunner's attack was the bugle call that opened the battle, ringing out across the silent desert.
Before the flash of the explosions had even faded, every weapon on the hilltop position opened fire at once.
The roar of the M2 heavy machine guns hit like a fist to the chest. The sharper, faster crack of the M240s ripped the desert air. The soldiers' M4s added their dry, staccato chatter, and streams of tracer rounds slashed the overcast sky like red lasers, pouring into the enemy.
I dropped the camouflage panel covering the turret and wrapped my hand around the trigger of the Mk.19 automatic grenade launcher.
A dull, mechanical cadence — like a factory press stamping steel — hammered at my ears. Three hundred and seventy-five rounds a minute. I rode the heavy recoil through my shoulder and dumped 40mm high-explosive grenades into the heart of the enemy column without pause.
The grenades arced down between the vehicles and into the desert on either side of the road, chaining off in a series of detonations that hurled shrapnel and columns of dirt into the sky.
The enemy column slammed to a halt, thrown into chaos by the sudden assault — but they were trained men too. A moment later, the counterattack came on like a storm.
Muzzle flashes bloomed from the enemy vehicles, and a rain of bullets hammered down on our hilltop position.
Then I saw it: another Stryker at the rear of their column traversing its turret, pouring 30mm cannon fire toward the rocks where Gunner had taken his first shot.
A hideous sound tearing the air. The boulders Gunner had been hiding behind disintegrated into powder.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I grabbed the radio on reflex.
Static. Then, from the middle of that hellish barrage, a voice so calm it was almost unbelievable.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He'd probably already relocated to a new hide the instant he fired.
I'd expected it, but the enemy's firepower was beyond anything I'd imagined. Through the ceaseless hail of bullets, Matthews's urgent voice came over the earpiece.
The last few grenades left the tube, and the Mk.19's roar cut off. In a matter of seconds, an entire forty-eight-round ammo can had gone dry.
"Carlos — ammo can!"
From below the hatch, Carlos grunted and shoved a fresh can up to me. In the brief seconds it took to crack the scorching feed cover and load a new belt, the battle was already shifting.
The enemy had weathered the opening barrage. They weren't sitting stupid on the road anymore. Vehicles peeled off into the desert on both sides, spreading out into a wide dispersal.
Lieutenant Evans, voice tight. Their main armor was swinging in the opposite direction from Gunner's hunter-killer team.
At the same time, several armed Humvees and pickup trucks peeled toward Gunner's position — the same rocks the Stryker's cannon had just pulverized. They'd detached a squad specifically to neutralize our anti-armor team.
The heavy-weapons gunners on the hill poured suppressive fire in that direction, covering Gunner's team.
This won't work.
If that Stryker flanked our defensive position, the whole plan would come apart. I dropped out of the turret without hesitation, slung the Carl Gustaf over my shoulder, and shouted down at Carlos.
"Grab two rounds and follow me!"
I jumped from the truck with the Gustaf on my shoulder and threw myself toward the hill.
The enemy Stryker was already grinding across the uneven open ground, hammering our position with its 30mm cannon without pause. Every time a round detonated, dirt and sand from the berm exploded into a fog, and through that smoke the enemy infantry's rifle fire came in like hail. Under that volume of fire, our soldiers couldn't even lift their heads.
I caught a glimpse of the machine-gunners on the crest barely managing to shift positions, scrambling to stay ahead of the barrage.
I checked Carlos behind me once, then cut along the ridgeline toward the far end of the position. Through the dust, the Stryker's massive silhouette resolved. I dropped flat and whispered to Carlos.
"On my left. Stay as low as you can."
I acquired the Stryker again. A steel monster rattling toward us. In the pitch dark, the only reality was the green world through the infrared sight.
I confirmed Carlos was flat on my left, held my breath, and squeezed the trigger.
A flash. The high-explosive round streaked out and slammed into the lower front hull of the moving Stryker. A roar, and the armored vehicle lurched to a halt. But that was all. It was still alive.
I'd led the target for its speed, but the rough open terrain had slowed it down — the round had landed short, in front of the hull. I hadn't scored a direct hit, but I'd stopped it. That counted for something.
Then the halted Stryker's turret traversed with a sickening smoothness, the cannon barrel swinging around until it was pointed straight at me.
"Moving!"
I was on my feet instantly, sprinting dozens of yards toward the midpoint of the hill position.
"Carlos — reload."
I dropped prone, gasping. Beside me, Carlos wiped the sweat from his face with shaking hands and loaded a fresh round.
"On my left!"
I shouted it again, confirmed he was down beside me, and came up. This time the target was stationary. The crosshairs settled dead center on the Stryker's flank.
The Gustaf round punched through the side armor — the crew compartment, the vehicle's weak point — dead center. A shriek of tearing steel, and from inside the hull a fountain of crimson flame and black smoke erupted through the hatches.
The great steel beast fell silent in the middle of the desert, a coffin on fire.
When the second Stryker went up in flames, a thunderous cheer erupted from the soldiers on the hill. It wasn't just a kill. It was the spark that lit their broken morale back on fire. Courage restored, the soldiers shoved their muzzles back over the crest and opened up with everything they had.
I returned to the hill position and took stock.
The enemy's momentum was broken, but their numbers were still overwhelming. More than forty vehicles were still scattered across the desert, spreading even wider, tightening the encirclement from every direction. And trapped in the middle of that closing ring was Gunner's ambush team.
"Evans!"
Lieutenant Evans came running at my shout.
"Concentrate fire toward Gunner's hide. Don't let them close on him! And double-check the Claymore clackers!"
"Yes, sir!"
Evans sprinted from machine-gun nest to machine-gun nest, redirecting their fire. Meanwhile Gunner, isolated and fighting, used his remaining Gustaf rounds to blow two armed trucks that had been closing on him, one after the other.
I slung the Carl Gustaf Carlos had reloaded over my shoulder and put a round into an armed truck charging our hill. I didn't hit it clean, but the blast went off right beside it and the pressure wave flipped the truck onto its side like a toy.
It wasn't enough.
The enemy had the numbers, and they were spending lives to squeeze the noose. Casualties started mounting on the hill, and I felt the limits of our firepower like a physical weight. I headed back to my truck.
Inside the trailer, Wolf was huddled in the sleeper cabin, whining with a restless, anxious sound. I gave his head a firm stroke.
"Just a little longer."
I climbed back into the turret. Below, Carlos was reloading the Gustaf.
I grabbed the Mk.19, but the turret's field of fire couldn't cover an enemy this widely dispersed. The best I could do was keep Gunner's hide under a thin umbrella of covering fire.
Then a sound that shook the earth itself rolled across the battlefield.
Two Claymores we'd planted a hundred and fifty yards up Highway 95 went off in succession. When the dust settled, several pickup trucks that had tried to rush the road sat riddled and dead on the asphalt.
Over the radio, someone was shouting that they were running dry.
While I was shouting, Carlos shoved another grenade can up from below.
"Carlos! When the soldiers get here, issue the ammo!"
The engagement stretched on without end. A war of attrition. The enemy was slowly choking us, paying for every yard in blood.
And then, in that desperate moment, the voice I'd been waiting for came through my earpiece like a miracle.