Assist
One
French Foreign Legion Corporal Kajetán Kölyökkutya crouched down behind the chipped, weather-worn wall. The twenty-eight year old blinked against the flying bits of stone, flinched and spit to his right after yet another batch of rounds shattered his team's minimal cover. What had begun as a routine patrol was now more of a life and death standoff. An unexpectedly strong rebel force had his five man squad out gunned, outnumbered and pinned down five long klicks from their objective, a small goat herder's village perched on the edge of the scree swept gully that they needed to cross. While the squad hunkered down taking constant mortar, RPG and small arms fire, Kajetán poured over his map while chatting with his HQ. The news was decidedly grim, which did not surprise the American. Being disposable was simply part of a Legionnaire's job, but being a tough enough bastard to prevent being disposed of was also part of it, and Kajetán liked to think his 2nd REP team was better than most. Still, they were 180 klicks from home and the unforeseen contacts were picking them apart. Just as he reached up to key his mic, a sharp distinct shot report shattered the cacophony and echoed through the valley.
"The hell was that, Chiot?" Theo hissed. Sinking even lower, and pressing against his right shoulder.
"Fuck if I know." Kajetán hissed.
"And again, Chiot, fuck!"
"Fifty cal, by sound of it, Theo." Kajetán replied, breathlessly to his second, "Out of the east, out of those hillocks. Whoever it is can't hit shit if they're aiming at us."
"Not us, Chiot, them!" Henri hollered incredulously, then, making use of the lull in fire, and looking over the low wall through his binoculars at the village, "RPG is down. Second round took out mortar, oh, oh, oh and yes, there goes second mortar with round three. The sorry fucks are running, Chiot. I can't believe this shit. Who the fuck's up in those hills?"
"I don't know, but we damn sure needed the assist. Henri, move us out. We need to make that village by nightfall."
#
Six hundred meters to the Legionnaire's east, Salem squinted through the Barret M107 .50 caliber's scope and watched the Legionnaires form up and move tactically across the now safe valley bottom. He smiled and flipped the scope's protective lids closed. Rios' furious voice filled his left ear. The younger man hadn't answered his comms in over an hour, not since he'd stumbled upon the beleaguered squad. The poor bastards were pinned down, pretty much out in the open. What was he supposed to do? Just sit back and watch them get picked off or blasted to bits while they waited for nightfall. Démerde toi my happy ass, he thought. Sometimes a fellow needed a leg up.
Content with his assist, the twenty-five year old, SSC operator slowly slid on his belly back from the ridge and out from in between the boulders that he was using as cover. Once clear, he rolled to his right and scooted back against the large barrier. He could feel the warmth of the sun scorched rock leeching out against the back of his bare, sand scathed neck. Salem sighed, took a long pull from his Camelback and let his head loll back against the stone. Then, after closing his eyes against the blinding sun, for ten long minutes, he snapped them open, settled his sunglasses on his sun burnt nose and got moving. With practiced ease, he broke down the Barret and slipped it into his desert tan drag bag. Then, he reloaded the clip. The simple task elicited another sigh. He had used three precious rounds rescuing the Legionnaires. That left him seven. Best case scenario, he needed three for his own objective, and he was feeling a bit under supplied. The .50 caliber rounds were heavy, and when going it solo Salem paid a dear price carrying extra weight. Now, he'd used some of that extra weight on strangers foolish enough to get caught out in the open. With Rios still screeching at him, he slung his packs onto his back and set off north-west into the setting sun and toward his own objective.