For a second, the men looked at him like he was insane. A bayonet charge in a dry riverbed in the 21st century? But then they understood. They weren’t going to die crawling backward. They were going to die standing up.
There was still a war to fight.
Hatch vaulted over the berm and ran straight into the teeth of the enemy. He fired his M4 from the hip, dropping one fighter, then another. He heard his men behind him, screaming primal, wordless roars.
Hatch pushed himself up. His ears rang. His throat was raw. He looked around. Delgado was weeping, still clutching his radio. Reyes was being bandaged by Doc. Miller’s boot lay in the crater, untouched. Heavy Fire Afghanistan
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 poured out into a furnace. The heat was a physical force, pushing them down into the cracked mud. Hatch was the third man out. He hit the deck, scanned left. The village was a maze of mud-walled compounds and dark, empty windows. It was too quiet. No children. No goats. No old men staring.
The chatter of AK-47s became a symphony of chaos. It wasn’t just one machine gun. It was a dozen. They were in a bowl, and the enemy owned the rim. For a second, the men looked at him like he was insane
Reyes took a round to the shoulder. He spun and fell, but kept firing his M4 with his off hand. Doc Rollins crawled through a hailstorm of lead to drag him behind a rock.
“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.
“Suppress! Suppress!” Hatch roared, bringing his SAW up. They weren’t going to die crawling backward
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.
Miller tried to dive, but the grenade was a direct hit. The explosion was a fist of black smoke and red dust. When it cleared, Miller was gone. There was just a crater and a single, smoldering boot.
Ten minutes. They wouldn’t last ten minutes.
The helicopter flared hard. The wheels kissed the earth, and the ramp dropped like a guillotine.