He was being bad, a bad Soldier. Leaning back on a chair he wasn’t supposed to use, helmet off, and earplugs in. The M240 was up against some sandbags inside the watchtower, and the sounds of an audiobook occupied his attention. He existed in another world instead of the shit hole he was really in. The narrator spun a web of fantasy and intrigue of an alien planet so far away it might actually exist. He relaxed balanced on the back legs of an old metal chair that protested under the combined weight of his armor, his ammunition, and his dreams.
Crack. Boom. Tat tat tat.
The pitch-black night lit up with an angry exchange of gunfire preceded by something more powerful, a recoilless rifle or maybe a mortar round. Tracer rounds zipped passed his position and sparks from bullets ricocheted as they impacted around him.
His entire body jerked in surprise, and his mind was torn from the book. The legs of the chair slipped, and he tumbled back and hit the floor hard. He flipped onto his hands and knees and began searching for his helmet. He looked like a blind beggar searching for a coin thrown to the ground as he used his hands for eyes feeling for the hard round object that was his helmet.
The radio crackled and came to life. East Tower! East Tower! Report!
He didn’t respond. He was still on the ground, now with the helmet in his hands. The radio and its mike were above him to the right of where he was supposed to have been all along.
He shoved his head into his helmet and fiddled with the straps. He couldn’t get it buckled. His hands and fingers were moving too fast. He swore. Loudly. Repeatedly. Then he got to his feet, grabbed the machine gun, and scanned his sector.
The sights and sounds of a firefight were all around him. He saw enemy muzzle flashes and estimated a larger force than usual. He placed the safety on fire and scanned looking for a target.
Someone on the radio screamed at him again. The TOC was trying to reach him.
He observed several muzzle-flashes forward of the main enemy line, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Too low. He adjusted and fired again. The 7.62-millimeter rounds shot out in a flat arc and were highlighted by tracers which zipped along the same trajectory. Other firing positions saw the display, and more than one targeted the same area and fired for effect.
He took cover, grabbed the radio’s hand-mike and in a nervous voice said, TOC – East Tower, over.
The TOC entered the net, and he gave a SITREP omitting his complacency. Then he left the net and returned to the battle.
Despite the Unified Forces’ combined firepower, the enemy was making progress and moving closer. They had firing positions of their own on high-ground providing cover-fire while a mobile force quickly moved towards his position.
He fired in bursts. The M240 chewed up the belt of ammunition as it was pulled inside. Bullets were propelled forward at an ungodly rate and pieces of the belt were spat out and piled on the floor.
Two Soldiers, two friends, two of his brothers in arms, called his name and climbed up and into the tower. The M240 burped as it finished consuming the last of the ammo-belt. The friends moved without needing to speak to coordinate. One grabbed a large green ammo can and retrieved another belt while he went through the procedure of locking the charging handle to the rear, and opening and clearing the chamber.
The largest of the three settled his old yet trusted friend onto the large 2 x 12 board that framed the bottom of the opening. It was the same board where the M240 and the radio were. He was between them. Beyond and below the board were row upon row of piled up sandbags creating a three or four foot thick wall, which separated the Soldiers from enemy fire.
He looked through the mil-dot-reticle scope that was perched on the M14, but it was too dark. The scope was wasted during the night. He scanned, nonetheless looking for a target, but it was impossible. Instead, he looked past the scope, not through it and watched the battlefield.
The enemy stopped firing. The flat terrain where their mobile force’s advance had been highlighted by muzzle flashes resolved back into the darkness of the night. The positions on high-ground that had been providing supporting-fire were also just a memory. The only proof that they had been there was seared into the eyes of the defenders along the east wall, for if they blinked bright flashes from tracers and explosions would dance on the backs of their eyelids.
One by one firing positions along the wall north and south of East Tower went quiet. The two finished reloading the 240 with the sound of the bolt sliding forward, and the safety switched to fire. Then silence. Only minutes had passed. Though, minutes such as these felt like hours. In the quiet, their other senses returned to them. The smell of gunpowder assaulted their noses, and the quiet of the night was somehow amplified.
Three friendly explosions broke the stillness, and the radio came back to life.
All stations this net – we just sent up three IR lum-rounds – use your nods and scan for the enemy.
The three men in unison reached up and pulled their NVGs down over their eyes. The darkness turned to a green landscape confined to the round boundary of the night-vision lenses.
Another voice entered the net. TOC – IndiaAlphaOne, over.
The TOC came back. Send it!
Encrypted Enemy traffic observed bearing 253 degrees at time 0223 – break – possible enemy activity in sectors 3 and 4, over.
Roger, came the reply.
IndiaAlphaOne – out.
The three Soldiers in the east tower regarded one another, and the big guy spoke up in a deep yet quiet voice.
“This might be just a diversion.” He paused, thinking. “Woodhouse, Lundgren, you got this? I might need to run over to the West To…”
He was cut off by a massive explosion. Their eardrums were assaulted, and they could feel the compression waves caused by the detonation. The tower rattled and shook, and the radio threatened to fall off the board. Then the sound of debris could be heard as it pelted the roof of the tower and landed on the ground around it.
The radio squawked. West Tower! Report!
There was no reply. Then gunfire erupted from the west, inside the base.
TOC – Able23, West tower is gone. Totally blown away by some huge explosion. We’re being overrun. – break – an unknown number of walkers have penetrated the base through West Tower’s old position, over.
Roger Able23 – break – all stations this net, walkers reported inside the base. Find cover and hold position. Friendly rounds incoming, Danger Close.
Steel rain started falling west of the base. Like a wall of a maleficent storm, the barrage of artillery fire impacted ever closer to the West Tower’s smoking remains. Some walkers had made it inside, but the others wouldn’t.
Woodhouse spoke up. “You hear that?”
A swarm of flyers moved toward their position, making a buzzing racket as they approached.
“Chief, call it in,” Woodhouse said.
TOC – East Tower, over.
Go ahead East Tower
We’ve got a swarm of flyers moving towards our position, over.
Roger that, take out as many as you can.
Break Break Break. IndiaAlphaOne broke into the conversation.
TOC, be advised similar enemy COMMS seen bearing 121 degrees. We think the flyers are another diversion and the real threat is moving toward East Tower from the southeast, possible roller, over.
Roger IndiaAlphaOne, tango mike – break – East Tower target the unidentified roller at 121 degrees.
TOC – East Tower, Roger, over.
Chief put down the mike and flipped his nods back up on top of his helmet. Then he pulled out his compass, sighted 120 degrees, and drew a line on the 2 x 12 with a marker.
“Woodhouse, line up your weapon with this mark. I’ll spot and give you corrections.”
“Roger.”
Woodhouse shouldered the machine gun over the line and sighted down its length.
A continuous solution of mortar rounds could be heard from their own base. Friendly fire. Jim put the distraction to the back of his mind and let out a burst of automatic fire from his gun. Then again.
Chief yelled in his ear, “bring it left a few degrees and maintain elevation.”
Woodhouse nodded adjusted fire and continued to squeeze out 6 – 9 round bursts of automatic fire.
The sky above the area he was targeting lit up in a red glow as 81-millimeter red phosphorous rounds exploded. Tendrils of fiery death rained down, spreading out and created a space of destruction. The roller went right through it. It was large, about the size of a pickup truck and parts of its metal exterior now hissed and melted. It glowed red, but it kept advancing.
Woodhouse and other towers could see it. The black camouflaging skin now marred red where the phosphorus had impacted. They continued to fire, but it kept coming.
When it was almost 100 meters from the East Tower, it let out a high-pitched whine which drowned out the machine-gun fire and a fountain of blue flames burst from the top of the roller. The flames licked up 20 feet, and then the roller exploded in a supremely powerful display of destruction.
Woodhouse, Lundgren, and Chief were caught in the blast. The powerful explosion met the sands bags and pushed them as one away from the dead roller. The roof of the tower collapsed as the exterior wall supports and sandbags were blasted inwards and the three friends were crushed in the deluge of debris.
The crackle of a radio could be heard in a cloud of expanding dust.
East Tower – TOC, Report!
