“We are going in hard. Brace for impact”
Silence across the net, with the loss of communication from the crashing pilot and his team of Super 61. The Ops Center, sprang into action. Transponder tracking was activated.
Reports pushed up and out and down and through.
Its 1993, and the US Military is in a shit show of its own making.
“QRF [Quick Reaction Force] is go. Destination sent to tactical. No response on site, no data. How Copy?”
“Lt Smith here, solid copy, we are rolling in 2 mikes. Out”
The base in Somalia was several minutes from down town, the teams had rehearsed a dozen times and executed just a few. Each one a serial cluster fuck, as the Somali warlords adapted tactics to jack with the white man. There was no love lost, little respect earned. Each trip was a net new experience and both sides learned and died on the fly.
The soldiers had it all, technology, weapons, body armor and communications, armoured vehicles, but no true guiding mission. This was a poor substitute for the what the Somali had. Survival. Their way of life; criminal, harsh, backstabbing and ladder climbing, meant life was cheap, cheaper than a round of 5.56 if it got you a few bucks, and the notice of a player who might lift you up the survival ladder. Dying was not so bad until it happened.
The QRF convoy drove at speed, top gunners in HMMV’s manned 50 calibre turrets, trucks carried men. They drove fast. The vehicles veered and swerved around obstacles, ruined cars and the odd kid who invariable stopped to flip the bird or throw a rock.
“RPG”
The swirling contrail of the anti tank round whooshed past the lead vehicle in the convoy, exploding into a building. Lord knows who died inside as a result. As was said. Life is cheap.
Delta Force operators shot first with the regulars not far behind, armor piercing bullets zipped from muzzle breaks, peppering bodies. Most were through and throughs, Somalis’ or ‘skinnies’ as the grunts called them kept fighting. It often took several rounds to down these frightfully lean, and malnourished men brandishing ancient AK’s. Unless you popped a head shot.
The targeted vehicle swerved, taking rocks and debris as shrapnel peppering the vehicles armor and bullet proof glass.
Ahead, a truck swerves to the side allowing others to pass, more Delta Force two man teams rapid deployed to deal with the localised threat, more and more skinnies emerged in an obvious ambush. They however did not expect the violence of action response. The Operators surged forward, smooth fast walking shouldering weapons, covering angles and discharging double taps at anything that moved. Bodies fell.
Mayhem ensued. Rounds pounded through corrugated tin walls, wooden frames, and plastic sheeting wall screens. Cries and screams could be heard over the outgoing fire.
All the while the chunk, chunk chunk of the 50’s kept heads down on rooftops or exploded into the flanks of the wildly approaching ambushers.
Smith was on the radio. “Proceeding down Michigan Avenue about to take a Right onto 7th street 6 mikes out. ”
“ROE revision, weapons free all hostiles armed are open targets.” Shouted Smith over the local tacnet. This still meant unarmed crowds could be a problem, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
In the distance the lead drivers, and top gunners could see the smoking wreckage of Super 61. The troopers blood was up, they fired at everything, ‘fuck the ROE’ someone said across the net.
Then a swarm of skinnies hit the HMMV; windshields and door windows starred from the furious fusillade of fire. Literally dozens of guns fired at the vehicles. The sound inside was deafening.
The top gunner collapsed, dropping into the cabin, “Jones is hit, he’s hit bad!” blood spurted from an arterial hit to the neck. The Private applied compression, blood escaped everywhere, Jones bucked and convulsed gurgled wild eyed and died, legs twitching.
“Private get on the fucking 20 mike mike ASAP, or we are dead meat. “shouted the driver. “I’m running ’em down.” Round fragments peppered every inch of the vehicle. Scrambling and slipping on blood and casings the Private reached up and started pulling the trigger, and then either brave or stupid he fully engaged, popped up and shared the hate. Either way he reasoned he was a dead man, and someone had to pay it forward for Jones. The barrel ran hot.
A mob appeared blocking the way to the crash site.
Part 2 to come