Ron's Worst Nightmares
Paying the Ferryman
By Pat Squared
Sergeant Miguel Cortez, USMC, was watching a crowd of militiamen smoking cannabis. Because of the rules of engagement the forward observe was not allowed to call in an artillery fire mission until this particular group marched past a predetermined deadline.
It was only a matter of time before the local militia launched another attack. They always smoked drugs before they attacked.
Six years spent fighting insurgents and foriegn Jihadistsin Iraqi, gave Sergeant Cortez a command of the Arabic language and a familiarity with the Koran.
The local mullah was reciting the passage that described the reward that martyrs for the cause of Islam shall receive in paradise. It was hard to make out the individual words, because the local mullah butchered the Arabic language.
Sudan was supposed to be a temporary assignment until the UN multinational force moved into the area. However, it was fast becoming a quagmire like Iraq.
At least there is hope for Iraq.
Iraq had a relatively civilized population with a high degree of morals and education. They took pride in being Iraqi. That was one of the major fuels for the insurgency.
The Sudanese could make the marines of African descend shudder in disgust. Sudan as a nation was destroyed. It was just a bunch of warlords and tribes fighting it out to be the king of a dung heap.
There were no real medical doctors. The number of university graduates could be counted upon one hand. There was no real road or communication network. The only things that seem to work in this country were the imported arms bought for by the blood of the oppressed.
The sound of a gunshot told Sergeant Cortez that someone else was in the game. It was too loud, too deep, too resonating to be a 7.62x39mm Soviet round. It sounded more authoritative.
Another gunshot confirmed Sergeant Cortez's guess.
It was an American gun, probably a sniper rifle.
The crowd returned fire in the general direction of the gun shot.
The gun fired twice in rapid succession. A package was throw outside the window.
Fifteen seconds later, the satchel charge blew up take a hand full of the militia with it.
Despite the fire, the lone shooter was still picking of the local militia.
There was no marines forward of Cortez's position.
Cortez scanned the area looking for the shooter.
The shooter was too smart to use a window.
Cortez scanned the wall.
There. Cortez spotted the muzzle flash as the shoot took out another militiaman.
Cortez quickly picked up the field telephone.
"Bravo Alpha six two ... Brave Alpha six two. This is Sierra Whiskey Six Shooter over."
"Sierra Whiskey Six Shooter ... This is Bravo Alpha six two standing by. Do you have a fire mission, over."
The voice on the end was metallic and distant.
"Negative. We have gunshots. Source appears to be a building east of the mosque. Source is firing into a crowd of militia. Say again someone is shooting into the militia. I also report that explosives have gone off in the vicinity of the mosque square."
"Are the militia firing in your direction?"
"Negative. Do I have permission to call in a fire mission on the square. The mullahs have passed the grass to the congregation."
"Negative. Do not fire until fired upon or the enemy had cross the red line."
Shit, one of our snipers could be in trouble and I can't do a damned thing.
The sniper struck again.
However you are, you have big balls you ESS OH BEE.
The concrete wall was being turned into Swiss cheese by gun fire, but the shooter kept on going, making every round count.
Bang. Every gunshot bought forth a response from the survivors.
The militia crashed the door to the building. Now Sergeant Cortez could not do a damned thing now for the poor shooter, even if he was allowed to call in a fire mission.
There was the sound of a large explosion as the building collapsed in upon itself.
Now there was silence.
Cortez was calling in his report when the building fell.
The shooter was no more. He took a lot of the enemy with him, but there were many more left to celebrate.
The locals were dancing while others pick their way though the rubble looking for the corpse of the shooter.
Cortez watched in sicken fascination as he relayed what he was seeing to headquarters.
Suddenly, the shooter made his presence known again.
Christ, this guy is looking for a medal to go with his coffin.
The militia started venting their frustration, burning their ammo on the rumble pile. Nevertheless, the shooter killed his targets methodically one at a time as if he was on the known distance range at Paris Island.
Now the locals were bringing in rocket propelled grenades against the shooter.
Three of them were shot into the rubble. However the shooter was too stubborn to die. Three more shots rang out and the three RPG wielders where turned into object lessons.
The local militia was upset to say the least. They hosed the building with automatic gunfire until they ran out of ammunition.
There was no return reply. The locals were whooping it up like they just whipped the entire corps.
Sergeant Cortez would forever remember this moment. He had been cheering on the shooter. One shooter was able to break up an attack before the local militia could kill some Marines. Cortez had a radio, but the damn rules of engagementprevented him from helping an unknown friend.
You have some big brass ones. Too bad I can't buy you a cold one buddy.