“They’re flanking us!” yelled Sergeant Reyes, pointing to a dry irrigation ditch to the east. Hatch saw the black shadows of men sprinting, crouched low. They were wearing black tactical vests over traditional garb. Not farmers. Fighters.
The heavy barrel chugged to life. Brrrrrp. A three-round burst. Then another. He walked the fire onto a second-story window where he’d seen a muzzle flash. Mud chips exploded inward.
Hatch swung his SAW, but the barrel was overheating. The rounds started to keyhole, flying wild. He slapped in a fresh barrel, burning his hand through his glove. He didn’t feel it. Heavy Fire Afghanistan
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.
The rotors of the Chinook thumped a heavy, arrhythmic beat against the Afghan sky, a sound that had long since ceased to be a warning and had become simply the background noise of war. Inside, the air was thick with dust, diesel fumes, and the metallic tang of sweat and gun oil. “They’re flanking us
The helicopter flared hard. The wheels kissed the earth, and the ramp dropped like a guillotine.
Ten minutes. They wouldn’t last ten minutes. Not farmers
But they kept coming. A wave of them, screaming Allahu Akbar , pouring from a compound gate. Hatch’s SAW clicked empty. He dropped the hot weapon, drew his M4, and started picking them off, one by one. Chest, head, chest. It was mechanical. It was survival.