The Siege
Chapter 12: Broken Arrow
By JagdPanther
Arleigh propped himself up on his right elbow in the small valley made by the two hills the team used as cover. "Running real low on ammo." He put another magazine into his rifle. "Conserve ammo, guys. Pick your targets. One shot, one kill." The Lieutenant yawned and rubbed his forehead before crawling back up to the crest of the hill. He was down to six magazines for his M4A1. 'Christ, I carry more than this on standard patrols.'
Fire incoming on the team's position was sporadic again. Every few minutes a rifle or machine gun would fire a few short bursts, and the team would promptly throw back a few rounds just to remind the enemy that they were still alive. Ryker called in harassment artillery, too. For now the team could rest. But they knew they still couldn't move. Just because the enemy wasn't firing and attacking didn't mean that they weren't there.
"Sir, we're going to need more ammo. A lot more," Antonelli said from his position across from Rivera. "I'm running real low. Probably won't make it through another extended fight." The machine gunner tossed a few empty boxes that once contained 200-round belts of ammo into a pile on the slope. He took his last full belt-box and set it next to the gun, loaded with a belt of only 130 or so rounds.
Ryker nodded to his commander. "Yeah, we need a re-supply somehow." The Delta Sergeant also had his remaining magazines stacked next to his spot. Using some tape from his pack, he secured his empty magazines around the radio to protect it from flying shrapnel and debris.
"I'm working on it." Rivera picked up the handset and hailed Camp Zama. "Command, 5-1 is really low on ammo..." Arleigh was cut off by the explosion of an RPG to his front. Immediately, intense fire erupted around the team's position. A technical flew around the corner and came hurtling across the field. It's gunner tried vainly to keep the gun steady, but all his shots flew wildly about. Ryker dropped the artillery radio handset and began firing at the vehicle, killing the driver. The truck swerved to the left and kept going, apparently locked in drive. The gunner tried to swing the gun back around, but was tossed from the vehicle in doing so.
More RPGs ripped into the field. Arleigh was amazed and thankful for the ridiculous inaccuracy of the weapon. He fired several short, controlled bursts across the field. Slapping another magazine in, he noted that he was down to five. Snatching up the handset again, he called in, "This is Delta 5-1! We're in heavy contact! Need immediate support and above all ammo! Over!" Arleigh dropped another 40mm grenade in between two SDF soldiers manning a light machine gun. "I'm out of grenades!"
At the airport, Polley and Goodman were just landing to refuel. Up ahead, the two Apaches were already receiving their rearm. Barry jumped out upon landing to get a new strap for the machine gun. He'd broken it on the last run when it caught on the airframe of the MH-6.
The rotors came to a halt while Goodman did a quick systems check to make sure everything was still working. "Hydraulics... Good. Rotor shaft... Fine. Avionics... Okay." He looked up. "Windshield... Definitely needs to be replaced." Several bullet holes dotted the Plexiglas bubble. "But not now."
Polley returned with the M240 medium-machine-gun and a new harness strap. Just as he replaced his helmet and headset, Rivera's call for more ammo came in, followed shortly by the report; "We're in heavy contact!"
"Barry?"
"Yeah, I know. We'll pile as much ammo in the back as possible. I'll fly back there and shove it out over their position. Quick in and out."
"Roger that."
By that time, Goodman had the rotors up and spinning. He slid the chopper over to the hangar door. A technician ran out to the chopper.
"What's wrong?"
"Get all the ammo you can find and load it in back! We're going out to re-supply 5-1!" yelled Goodman over the rotor's whine. He checked the magazine of his MP-5K to make sure it was full.
"You're crazy! You'll never make it! Look at this thing, you've got bullet holes all over the place! If you hover, they'll nail you with an RPG!"
"Don't argue with me! Just do it! They need ammo!"
"Fine!" The technician spun around and ran back into the hangar while Goodman idled the chopper's engine. After a minute, several Delta Force administrators (non-field Deltas) ran out, hefting boxes of ammo. There were boxes of rifle ammo, machine gun ammo, hand grenades, launched grenades, and 4 AT-4 rockets.
Polley got out and oversaw the loading. Once he was certain everything was secure, he climbed into the back with his machine gun and motioned for Goodman to lift off. All the weight of the ammo provided for a difficult take-off, one that required Goodman to get a small bit of forward momentum first. Soon, the chopper was airborne and on its way back to the field to re-supply Delta 5-1.
Rivera directed one of the Apache gunships to strafe the part of the field directly adjacent to the road. Seventy-millimeter rockets lanced out from the warbird and laid waste to another group of terrorists and SDF personnel. Several more pulls of the trigger emptied Rivera's rifle's magazine. He grabbed another one. "Two more left!" he shouted over the din.
Johnson's gun misfired and he cursed. He slid back down into the center of the valley and began clearing the jam. The jam saved his life. An RPG sailed right through the spot where his head had been. "Son of a bitch!"
Chavez swore and tried to bat the exhaust smoke from rocket out of his face. The soldier resumed his firing position. He spotted several enemies attempting to flank the hills from the uncovered south west approach, which up to this point had been untouched.
All Johnson had to do was flip up the machine gun's feed cover, realign the belt, drop the cover, and pull the charging handle. Johnson then realized that he was down to his last ammo belt. "L-T! I've only got, like, a hundred rounds left!
Rivera turned around. "Ah, hell! Fire really short bursts!" He quickly returned to firing. The enemy assault increased in vigor. It seemed like the team's return fire was doing nothing to stem the tide. The M4A1's slide locked back and Arleigh gulped. He hit the release button, dropping the clip. Reaching into a pocket on his webbing, he pulled out a magazine. "Last mag!"
Nearby, Goodman keyed the com-set. "Delta 5-1, this is Halo One-One!" The MH-6 was slowly making its way over the canal, barely over the canal. The helicopter was small enough to fit mostly into the canal right above the waterline.
"Don't even bother asking, Chief! Just shoot at anything!" screamed Rivera back over the line. The crack of his MSG-90A1 came along with his voice. He was out of ammo for his M4A1.
"Negative, Lieutenant! We've got a full load of ammo! Prepare to receive it! Over!" Goodman popped the chopper out of the canal and sped up. Within a few short seconds, the MH-6 was racing towards the field. It made a pass at altitude over the field so Goodman could get a fix on the team's position again. The move would be quick, but it didn't take long for the enemy to realign their aim and nail the chopper with gunfire and RPGs. Already in back, Polley was preparing to push all the boxes out of the open rear compartment. Everything would have to go in one push. The less the chopper was over the target, the less of a chance they'd be struck.
Rivera was thoroughly confused. There was no way that anybody would be as stupid as to fly into this firefight and hover a chopper to deliver ammo. Then he remembered why people were recruited into the 160th SOAR in the first place. 'Oh, yeah. I forgot. The same reason they wanted me for the One-Six-Zero. I have no concept of personal survival.' Arleigh looked up and saw the MH-6 zip by over the field again. "Roger that, One-One! But it had better be fast or you'll be joining us down here!" He dropped his MSG-90A1, its final clip empty, and grabbed his Beretta M9. "Okay! Guys! We've got a re-supply coming it! Expend all of your remaining ammo! We have to cover them!" Rivera turned back towards the enemy and fired his pistol as fast as he could. 'I think I remember myself thinking that if I had to use this pistol it would already be too late. Well, time to see if that's true.'
Polley was positioned in the back of the MH-6. 'One shot. That's it. This had better work.' He braced himself against the airframe and prepared to push all the ammo out the side. His M240 was secured to the back wall, ready to fire as soon as everything was clear.
In the cockpit, Goodman was ready to zip in and zip out. He began his final approach. "Delta 5-1, this is Halo One-One. Here we come." The Chief Warrant Officer said a prayer to himself and began dropping the altitude of the chopper as it neared the field. The MH-6 was completely blacked out. No running lights, no cockpit lights, nothing. Hank watched as hordes of green tracers converged on a small part of the field below. 'Well, at least they're making it easy to find.' Very few red tracers left the point on the field. Traveling just above the rooflines, Goodman tried to keep the chopper as inconspicuous as possible until there was a good point in the fighting to zoom in and dump the ammo.
As if on cue, the enemy fired died down, almost like every enemy had to take a break and reload their weapon. Goodman immediately gave the Little Bird a burst of power and headed out over the field at 35 feet. He looked down through the windows near the pedals and saw he was exactly over the team's position. He turned in his seat and yelled as loud as he could, "Do it now, Barry!" In a flash, Barry Polley put all his energy into his legs, and thrust forward, pushing every box of ammo out the door. The heavy items plummeted into the small set of hills. Some banged off of the landing skids but kept going.
By the luck of God, the boxes all dropped inside the team's perimeter. Even better, none of the soldiers were hit except for Chavez. An AT-4 dropped onto his foot, but the combat boot's sole absorbed most of the impact and Chavez, firing off his last magazine, barely noticed.
Polley, immediately upon clearing the boxes out of the door, screamed at Goodman to lift out of the area. The pilot ripped the collective straight up, giving the chopper a huge jump. Working the pedals to counter-act the sudden increase in torque, Goodman gained forward momentum and sped away from the field, made a quick turn, and got confirmation from Polley that he was ready to begin firing the machine gun. "Okay! Here we go again!" As Polley fired, Goodman realized that in the few seconds over Delta Five- One's position, he hadn't seen or heard a single round from the enemy. The terrorists and SDF personnel had been so stunned by the appearance of the black shape directly over the field, for such a short time, that they hadn't even had a chance to open fire on it before it was rocketing away.
Down in the field, Miller ripped the lid off of a box of M-16 magazines with his K-Bar combat knife. He immediately fitted a clip into his rifle, thumbed it back over to burst-fire mode, and began returning fire. Chavez also reloaded his M-16, grabbing magazines from the box of 20 magazines. Each box had distinctive markings on top that denoted what kind of ammo was contained within it. Johnson grabbed opened a box of S.A.W. ammo, Antonelli grabbed a loose bandoleer of 7.62mm rounds that had also come down with the boxes, and Adams, Ryker, and Rivera pounced on the boxes of M4A1 clips and 40mm grenades.
Arleigh thumbed his rifle back over to full automatic and poured a magazine into the advancing line of terrorists. He saw Halo One-One pass over head, a long muzzle-flash coming from its side as Polley fired his M240 in support of the team. Shortly after clearing the area, a flight of AH-6 Little Birds screamed over, pouring rockets and minigun fire into the enemy.
Rearmed, the team began pouring out return fire at a blinding rate. But their fire was still puny in comparison to what they were receiving. The advantage that they held, though, was not in volume, but it accuracy and cover. SDF personnel and terrorists had to cross the relatively flat field under rifle and machine gun fire, let alone the deadly naval artillery and air support. The only hills on the property were along the canal where the team was.
Ryker gave the U.S.S. Chaffee and the U.S.S. Chancellorsville a grid to rake artillery over only while air support was idle, some aircraft on their way and the rest returning to the airport to rearm and refuel. After radioing in the instructions, Ryker picked his up his rifle and scanned the field ahead. He took a second before firing to analyze the situation. 'This is death.' With that, he began returning fire. A burst dropped an SDF rifleman in his tracks. Another burst felled a terrorist. 'What the hell is going on here? Why are they doing this? There's got to be some reason.' Ryker tried to dismiss all thought from his mind. As a Delta Operator, he was trained not to think about anything but the mission. One split-second of lost concentration could result in death. So it was back to firing.
A terrorist with an AK-74 equipped with a GP-40 grenade launcher moved up into position near the team. He had crawled through the rough grass all the way to a point only about 10 meters from the team. When he thought he had come close enough, the terrorist shot up to one knee and brought his rifle to bear. He grabbed the grenade launcher's pistol grip under the rifle barrel and squeezed the trigger.
Where the terrorist had come from was the uncovered side by the building Chavez had noted earlier. The terrorist's launched grenade flew right into the team's position, piercing the casing of one of the AT-4s. Neither object detonated. The terrorist was stupefied by the failure. So, he loaded another grenade and fired it again. Failure again.
As the second round landed, and failed to detonate, Ryker happened to be turned around to grab another magazine for his M4A1. He saw the round land and drive itself into the ground. Then he saw the damaged AT-4. Looking in the direction from where he saw the grenade come from, he saw the terrorist trying another shot. Just as the terrorist looked up from grabbing a grenade from his ammo pouch, Johnson put a single round through the man's head. Blood shot out of the back of the man's head as he fell. The terrorist had never known that the GP-40 grenade had to fly 15 meters before it armed itself.
It seemed like only seconds had passed since Goodman and Polley had dropped the ammo onto the team's position. Actually, it had been well over an hour. Now around 0300 hours, the fighting was still raging and again the team was running low on ammo. Rivera called in that the team was low on ammo and needed a re-supply. The team had expended 4 rockets on troop concentrations, 40 launched grenades, 3,000 rounds of ammo each for two machine guns, 80 M-16 magazines, and 80 magazines of ammo for the M4A1. That was a lot of ammo in such a short period of time for seven men, but then again, so was the amount of troops they were facing.
"This is Delta 5-1-X-ray requesting immediate re-supply of ammunition! We're running dangerously low! We won't be able to hold on much longer! Over!" Miller ducked as an RPG sailed over his head and impacted in the canal behind the knoll. He picked up his M-16A2 and fired two three-round bursts into the advancing column.
By now, the enemy had a piece of cover much closer to the team. A few minutes earlier, the last air support run had nailed an APC. It had managed to works its way across the field during the air support runs. When aircraft were around, the navy couldn't fire their guns because of the risk of hitting something friendly. However, the aircraft had repeatedly failed to get the APC. So for a few scary seconds, the enemy was allowed to advance without resistance against the team as they cowered in the bottom of the depression, trying not to get their heads shot off by the 35mm rounds from the APC. One enemy soldier got so close that he was able to toss a grenade into the position. Fortunately, the grenade landed right in Adams' hand, who quickly forced it over the edge of the hill, where it exploded harmlessly. Right after it exploded, an AH-6 landed a rocket right under the turret of the APC, destroying it. However, the APC wasn't burning. It was just dead in the field. That meant the enemy could use its hulk to screen them while they moved closer.
Already, Halo One-One was on its way back with more ammo while the team tried to keep the enemy at bay. It seemed like there was an endless supply of terrorists and SDF personnel advancing on their position. The team killed one, and another one would pop right up to replace the downed comrade.
"This is insane!" yelled Adams, dumping another magazine in the general direction of the road. At this point, everyone was firing at anything that moved. The field was so littered with bodies that it was getting hard to distinguish living soldiers who were prone to dead or dying ones lying in pools of their own blood. Another grenade arced high into the air and landed with a thump beside Lance Corporal Javier Chavez. "Grenade!" Without thinking, he snatched up the grenade and tossed it back into the field. It airburst several feet over the ground, sending shrapnel back into the team's position.
One piece imbedded itself in Private, First Class Mark Miller's right thigh. "I'm hit!" He dropped his rifle and immediately dropped his rifle. "Damnit!" He dove for Antonelli's medic bag on the slope of the hill and dug for a dressing. Feeling around, he grabbed the largest olive-drab field dressing he could find and a syringe of Morphine. 'Thank God I paid attention during basic medical training.' PFC Miller felt his wound to see how much blood was coming out. The pain was staggering, and he was worried that the shrapnel could only cause that much pain if it struck something important. 'Good. It didn't hit my Femoral.' It was a popular misconception that only shots to the chest or head would quickly kill a person. In reality, any part of the body could become an instant kill if one of the major arteries was hit, such as the Femoral, which fed the legs. He tightened the dressing down and stuck himself with Morphine to keep the pain at bay while he fought.
Rivera turned around. "You all right?" he bellowed.
"Yes, sir!" To show his truthfulness, he struck up his rifle, chambered a new round, whipped around, and began firing bursts at the enemy. "I'm good!"
Returning to his position, Arleigh quickly analyzed his situation. Grenades were going to be a real problem if the enemy continued to get closer. Right now, the occasional grenade was relatively easy to deal with. But that wouldn't be the case if tens of the little buggers started to fly in. He thought of what each man had brought with him when they were packing up back at the station. "Adams!"
"Yes, sir!" The Marine Sergeant finished off another magazine for his Colt M4A1. Grabbing another, he glanced over at his commanding officer.
"Sergeant, I want you to stop fighting as soon as the enemy fire dies down a bit. Then I want you to dig a grenade sump in the middle of this depression." A grenade sump was a fixture common in bunkers. If an enemy soldier happened to get close enough to toss a grenade into the bunker, the grenade could be pushed by the soldiers inside into a hole where it would explode harmlessly. Well, harmlessly as long as no one was stupid enough to stand over the hole. In this case, Rivera decided to get gravity to be that soldier who pushed the grenade into the hole. 'Let's see if we can get basics physics working for us.' Any grenade that could get into the position would roll down the slopes into the hole. "Pile the extra dirt around the edges of the position to form as complete of a bowl-shape as you can. I want the grenades to be able to roll down into it by themselves if no one can get to it."
"Yes, sir!" He pulled his pack closer and removed the entrenching tool from the sling on the side. After a few more minutes, he decided the firing was down enough to start digging. First he removed all the debris from the center of the position, which was the lowest point. Shell casings, empty boxes of ammo magazines, empty magazines, and a few of the team's rucksacks. He placed them on the slopes and began to dig. The extra dirt was placed around the slopes as Rivera had requested, and in about twelve minutes he had a medium-sized grenade sump at the lowest point of the slopes. The team couldn't expect all the grenades to fall into the sump, and some might get caught on the items around the slope, including team members. So the team would still have to be on the look out for grenades to either toss back or shove into the grenade sump.
Sergeant Adams had just finished and was stowing his shovel when Halo One-One returned with another load of ammunition. Just as before, the blacked out chopper made it over the target without receiving any fire, and was on its way out before it did take any major hits. This time, however, the enemy wasn't as stunned and it did get a few shots off, and Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli noted a few sparks of rounds impacting on the rear side of the fuselage.
The fire died down once again after Halo One-One finished its supply run. It again returned to the sporadic bursts of fire from both sides. Team Delta Five-One, fully supplied with ammo again, sat tight while they prepared for another attack. Delta Sergeant, First Class Ryker helped Adams continued improving the fighting positions. They dug small platforms into the hill, sloped back towards the grenade sumps, for the men to take better positions on. The ammo was distributed equally, instead of the mad dash for ammo like the previous re-supply. Rivera shoved several clips for his rifle and several launched grenades into his web-gear pockets. The rest he put in a stack next to him on his fighting platform. This would make for quicker reloads in a pinch when he had split seconds to change out magazines in heavy fights. The rest of the men followed suit. "All right, time to wait for the next attack."
The Delta Lieutenant had a couple of the men stand down and drink some water. As he sat there, eating an LRSU ration he had hydrated earlier at the LP, he watched the tracers from Bokuto station arc high into the sky. The rumble of gunfire and explosions followed the flashes. He wondered how the battle was progressing there between, undoubtedly, a much larger force, and the station's defenders. Every now and then the sound would die down, and then slowly build back up to a frighteningly loud apex, and fall off once again. "They must be catching hell back there."
Chavez looked up from his canteen. "Excuse me, sir. And we're not?" The Lance Corporal shook his head and reached for a cracker from the MRE he hadn't finished from when they were all still in the LP.
"Yeah, we definitely are. I guess I should've noted that." Rivera gulped down the last of the ration and began to break down his Colt M4A1 rifle. He figured he had time for a quick cleaning of the rifle. It was better to be safe than sorry in this kind of situation. "Give me a couple minutes if things heat back up. I want to clean it out quick. Chavez, Antonelli, and Ryker, I suggest you do the same. Don't want these things to jam after all the firing we've done."
Amazingly, the enemy remained dormant long enough for all the members of the team to take breaks and clean their weapons. Ryker called in a few harassment rounds from the destroyers out to sea. The U.S.S. Lassen, DDG- 82, had just entered gunnery range and was beginning to fire rounds in support of the Americans in the Ward. Most of the fire support for now was being diverted to Bokuto since nothing much was happening around the team.
Then all hell broke loose.
"Jesus Christ!" Rounds began kicking up dirt all around Rivera's head as he supported himself on the slope of the hill. He fired wildly back into the darkness along with the other team members. It seemed like the entire JSDF had crawled up to within a few meters of the team. Grenades arced at the position, but the grenade sump began earning its pay. The grenades either rolled into the hole or were pushed back over the edge by the soldiers. They began throwing their own grenades back, weary of sticking their heads up over the edge for more than a few split seconds. By cooking the grenades, or letting their fuses burn for a few seconds, they were able to eliminate the possibility of the explosives being thrown back at them.
In one of the scariest moments in Sergeant Dale Adams' life, an SDF soldier jumped up and charged the hill. Just as Adams got a line on the man with his rifle, it clicked, signaling an empty magazine. "Son of a bitch! Die, damnit!" Adams didn't have time to grab his pistol and fire, unless he wanted to be skewered by the enemy's bayonet. So Adams' hand-to- hand combat training took over automatically. He turned to his side at the last moment, grabbing the rifle by the barrel with his left hand, and smashing his right elbow into the man's face. In a swift motion, he jarred the rifle from the man's hand and swung it up and into his jaw. Bringing the rifle down, he grabbed the pistol grip of the Type-89, cleared the chamber with a quick operation of the slide, and fired a long burst into the SDF soldier's chest. "Ooh-rah! Come and get me, jackasses!" With another long burst, he cut down the soldiers who had followed their fellow SDF soldier in his charge. Adams fell back into the team's position, dragging the enemy body with him. He figured that as long as he had an enemy weapon, he might as well use it so he didn't have to waste his own ammunition. Using the commandeered Type-89, Adams continued to cut down SDF personnel and terrorists attacking the position. "Semper Fi, goddamnit, Semper Fi!" he screamed as he fired entire clips off on full automatic mode.
Across the perimeter, Arleigh and Ryker called out target groups to each other, coordinating their attacks to eliminate what they thought were the most pressing threats. In short, whoever was closest died first.
"Lieutenant! Four guys, two o'clock!" Ryker bellowed, dropping a magazine and slamming home another one.
"Roger that!" Arleigh shifted the rifle to his alternate grip (left hand on the trigger) so he could get a better position on the group. He fired three bursts, dropping two of the men. A launched grenade finished off the other two. "Sarge, RPG, three o'clock!"
"Affirmative!" The Delta radioman rolled over onto his right side and took aim, dropping the RPG gunner with a single shot to the head and his assistant gunner with two chest shots. Noticing some more troops to his left, Ryker rolled back to the left while flipping his rifle over to full automatic. Firing a burst into the group, Sergeant, First Class Al Ryker felt a heavy thump against his shoulder. Looking down, he saw the dark outline of a grenade against his elbow. "Grenade!" Snatching up the grenade, he hurled it back at the enemies moving up. It exploded, taking out several men getting ready to charge the hill. "Hoo-ah!" Firing off the last of his magazine, Ryker reloaded and resumed fighting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a terrorist jump up a mere five meters from the position, sporting an AK-74 with a bayonet. "Lieutenant! Head's up!"
Rivera's head whipped around just in time to miss the blade by a few inches. He drove upward into the man's gut and slammed him down against the reverse side of the slope. Batting away the rifle with his free hand, Arleigh reached for his K-Bar combat knife, but couldn't get to it before the terrorist rolled over onto Arleigh. The two struggled while tossing around on the slope. Surprisingly, no one shot at them. Evidently the enemies thought that they wouldn't have to expose themselves to any return fire if this terrorist could finish the job up close. But the struggle continued. Arleigh flopped backwards over the lip of the hill and back into the team's position while attempting to dodge a punch. He slid back down the slope and over the grenade sump. The terrorist leaped onto him, nailing Arleigh with a knee to the gut. The terrorist punched him in the jaw and went for Arleigh's knife while Arleigh struggled for air. Just as the terrorist grabbed the knife and was about to stab Rivera, another grenade landed in the position, coming to a rest next to Arleigh. His body was blocking the sump. He knew if he didn't move, at least Miller, Antonelli, and Ryker would die in the blast. Forcing every last bit of strength he had left into his arms and legs, Rivera pushed the terrorist off of him and turned the man over, knocking the grenade into the sump. The explosion was muffled by the terrorist, who died instantly from the massive amounts of shrapnel filling his back. Arleigh picked the man up and rolled him over the edge of the hill, so he wouldn't block the sump.
Just as he was about to grab his M4A1, another terrorist jumped over the crest and slashed at Arleigh with an already-drawn knife. The first slash missed, as did the second. Arleigh jumped on top of the terrorist and tried to force the knife out of his hand, but Arleigh missed and the knife slashed ripped his fatigues up along the left arm. Arleigh bit back a cry of pain and kept on fighting. He rolled to his right, grabbing his arm with his right hand. He kept pressure on the slash while he reached up and grabbed the pistol from Antonelli's hip-holster. As he turned back to face his attacker, he felt pain blossom in his right thigh. Looking down, he saw that the terrorist had lunged for him, driving the knife into his leg. The terrorist lifted the knife up to strike again, but Miller turned around and tackled the terrorist, driving his own K-bar into the man's heart. This allowed Arleigh time to bring up the pistol and shoot two bayonet- wielding SDF personnel charging towards the team's position. Miller quickly dove back to his rifle and cut down more soldiers.
The Lieutenant dropped another two enemies with Antonelli's pistol before the clip ran dry. Reloading it with one of his own, he took aim, despite the excruciating pain in his thigh, and continued firing. After another reload, he tossed the pistol to SpecFour Antonelli, who happened to reloading his M240.
"Thanks, Lieutenant!" The Italian machine gunner fielded the pistol and began suppressive fire with it while he tried to reload the machine gun with one hand. In a few seconds, he was back in action, laying waste to the advancing enemy. What Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli was doing was called "grazing" fire. That was a technique used to deal with enemies who might be crawling towards a position rather than standing or crouching. Fire was directed only nine inches to a foot and a half above to the ground in the hope that soldiers in the prone position would be caught in the head, shoulders, and arms by rounds.
"Keep firing, for God sakes men, fire!" Arleigh powered over the pain and resumed fire, cutting down anything that moved. When another clip ran dry, he reloaded. While reaching for the magazine, he also grabbed the radio handset with a couple fingers. After the clip was inserted and locked, he fired off a couple rounds at an SDF soldier firing his S.A.W. from the assault (standing) position. Arleigh snatched up the radio with his left hand and keyed the talk switch. "This is Delta Five-One! Broken Arrow! I say again, Broken Arrow! Broken Arrow!"
At Camp Zama, over thiry kilometers away, the radio operator in the Combat Center was stunned that a radio transmission had come in from the team. There hadn't been any communication with them for quite some time. Immediately, he keyed the com-set. "Delta Five-One, confirm Broken Arrow! Over!"
"Broken Arrow confirmed! Our position hasn't changed, just bring everything you have down right around us! We're being overrun!"
"Roger that, Five-One!" The radio operator turned around and informed General Walker that Delta Five-One was being overrun by enemy forces.
"Goddamnit! Screw the Japanese and their friggin' rules! Get TAC- AIR (Tactical Air-Support) over there right now!" Walker fumed as he watched the recon shots from the helicopter circling high above the battle at Bokuto station. There wasn't another Command and Control chopper available with direct-video support to watch the other battle at Delta Five- One's position, so he had been in the dark for a long time. "Brave men are dying out there and I can't do a damn thing about it because I can't see what's going on!"
Back at the airport, Polley and Goodman watched as a flight of Marine AH-1W Super-Cobra gunships lifted off and headed towards the battle. They had just been refueled after a flight up from a Marine base to the south of Tokyo. More Cobra's and the Army's Apache gunships were also getting rearmed and refueled at the moment.
Polley shook his head as he strapped himself back into the MH-6. "God help those boys."
As Goodman looked out the still-cracked windshield, he saw twin tongues of blue flames shoot out the back of a black silhouette. Another pair quickly joined it and the two pairs raced down the runway and rose quickly into the sky. They were U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter- bombers. They had been on hold since the battle started, but now General Walker had authorized their use above the Japanese government's wishes. They made a sharp bank to their left and headed towards the battle in Bokuto.
It was a ridiculously short flight for the two long-range jet-aircraft. The flight of Strike Eagles took up a pattern over the Ward to survey their targets. The two aircraft spent a minute in the pattern while they identified their targets and broke up. The lead aircraft headed towards Delta Five-One's position while the other went to support Bokuto.
Sierra Nine-Five, the lead Strike Eagle, lazed the field with an on-board laser designator. The gunner, seated behind the pilot, gave the pilot the flight instructions on his display. The computer handled control for a few seconds while it aligned the aircraft to drop its four bombs. Each bomb was assigned a different point around the team's position, marked clearly by where the most fire was concentrated.
"This is Sierra Nine-Five. Three, two, one, bombs away, bombs away!" The pilot kept his course since there was no apparent threat from any anti- aircraft artillery or missiles. The gunner watched the bombs into the target several seconds later.
"Boom, boom, boom, boom! All good hits! Woohoo!"
The Strike Eagle dove towards the ground like a predator. The pilot skillfully lined the aircraft up and lit off the plane's 20mm Vulcan Rotary cannon. A pole of flame burst out from the nose of the plane as shells rained down upon the enemy. Entire squads of enemy soldiers fled from the carnage just one Strike Eagle had brought. But after just three passes, the plane had exhausted its supply of shells and had to turn for home. As is lifted up and away, the JSDF AAA units finally opened fire, but none of the hastily fired 35mm rounds came close to the American fighter.
"Sierra Nine-Five is inbound to FARP Lion (Forward-Arming-and-Refueling- Point). Request immediate rearm for continued support of American forces in and around the Sumida Ward."
"Roger that, Nine-Five. Cleared to land on Runway 11."
Back at the team's position, Arleigh used the fear of the enemy to his advantage. While they cowered from the Strike Eagle's cannon, he had Antonelli help him patch up his arm and leg. The Army medic quickly applied bandages to Rivera's arm instead of the field dressing, which Arleigh said might hamper his shooting. After applying a dressing to Arleigh's leg, Antonelli gave his commanding officer a shot of morphine to keep the pain down in the leg.
"Thanks, Doc."
"Not a problem, Lieutenant." Mario Antonelli quickly turned back around and grabbed his machine gun. He thought of how odd it was that he had been selected to carry the M240 by his Lieutenant on this mission, since Antonelli was a medic and needed to be able to move to downed soldiers quickly. He made a mental note to get rid of the gun as soon as possible. "Hey, Miller!"
"Yeah, Anton?" Miller fired off a burst at a terrorist who had just reloaded his GP-40 grenade launcher.
"Take over for me on the –240, will ya? I need something lighter. Give me your –16."
Miller fired off a couple more bursts, reloaded, and shifted over to where Antonelli was lying. "Roger that." He handed over the M-16A2 and changed positions with the Specialist.
Antonelli accepted the assault rifle and crawled to where Miller had been. "Thanks a lot, man." He propped himself up on his elbows and fired off a few rounds as the Marine Cobras began their rocket runs, pouring 70mm rockets into the surroundings.
The team continued the battle. Even with all the support the team was getting, the enemy was still hanging on. Down the street, an Apache knocked out a tank before it could threaten the team. At least the enemy armor was now playing a factor in the battle. It was just infantry against infantry. For several more minutes, the two sides exchanged fire while helicopters buzzed overhead, laying waste with rockets, chain guns, miniguns, and the machine gun Polley was hefting in Halo One-One. As soon as the last chopper left for a rearm, the Strike Eagles, now reinforced by another two flights, one of Strike Eagles and one of F-16 Fighting Falcons, were back to drop more ordinance. More smart bombs crashed down around the team followed by bursts of 20mm cannon-fire. The bombs were dropped far enough away so that they wouldn't hit the team with shrapnel if they were a little off-target. The same couldn't be said for the enemy soldiers, out in the open.
Once the fighters finished off their cannon shell reserves, they turned for the airport to rearm once again. Over the radio, Arleigh gathered that the helicopters were just getting rearmed then and air support would be a few minutes late. Naval artillery would fill in for the moment. Like a one-gun-understrength battery, the three naval cannons from the Chaffee and Chancy began their salvos. The 125mm artillery rounds began crashing around the team. With the absence of deadly aircraft, the enemy renewed its assault. The men fired their weapons on cyclic. Waves of enemy soldiers rushed the position and were cut down by rifle and machine gun fire.
Lance Corporal Casey Johnson was a man with a mission: stay alive. He was burning up his S.A.W.'s barrel firing it constantly. The barrel began to glow from the massive heat generated by the belts of ammo flying out. Quickly diving for his pack, Johnson removed a spare barrel from a cloth casing inside his ruck. Using a set of gloves, Johnson ripped the hot barrel out of the gun and replaced it with the new one. He tossed the barrel with the gloves onto the ground beside him, covering it with lose dirt so he wouldn't burn himself.
Resuming fire, he cut down an SDF soldier charging with a bayonet. Without a weapon capable of holding a bayonet for him, Johnson unsheathed his K-bar and set it down next to him for quick use. Just as he looked up, another SDF soldier popped up several meters away and charged forward. Johnson snatched up his knife and bolted forward, slapping the soldier's rifle to the side, and slamming the knife deep into soldier's chest. Removing the knife and striking down the soldier with an elbow to the face, Johnson engaged another SDF soldier rising out of the grass to attack him. The two got into a scuffle, rolling along the ground before Johnson finally got the upper hand. He flipped the man over onto his back, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the man in the gut and chest. Casey heard someone scream for him to get back inside the perimeter. As he rose, he was struck in the left side by two bullets from an AK-74. Johnson collapsed to his knees, blood flowing out of his abdomen.
"Johnson!" Adams screamed and hopped over the crest. He grabbed Johnson by his web-gear harness and dragged the limp Lance Corporal back into the team's position. "Medic! Medic!" Since Johnson was a fellow Marine, it made it that much harder for Adams to comprehend that someone was hit. At the same time, Adams couldn't understand why Johnson had been so stupid as to leave himself exposed. If only he had told Johnson to get back sooner, maybe he'd be okay. "Goddamnit, medic!"
Army medic Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli swiveled on his butt to see what was happening. He saw Adams dragging Johnson's body back over the crest as bullets kicked up dirt all around. "Ah, shit!" Mario grabbed his medic kit. Before he moved he realized that he was leaving the entire backside of the position uncovered. With Johnson down, one of the team's two machine guns was down. From the looks of the wound from where he was, Antonelli figured he'd probably need Adams' help, thus eliminating another defender. He spun back around and grabbed Marine Lance Corporal Javier Chavez by the neck of his fatigues. "Chavez! Man the S.A.W.! Cover the back!"
Chavez managed to choke out a "Roger that" when he turned and saw Johnson's bloody body. "Goddamnit..." He recovered and scrambled around the hill to Johnson's silent light machine gun, picked it up, and resumed firing.
Antonelli immediately torn open the rest of Johnson's fatigue top and skivvies. "Sergeant, I need you to just keep applying pressure to his wounds! Hold on, I have to get set up!" Antonelli frantically searched through his kit for sulfa power, a wound disinfectant, and a bottle of serum albinum, a blood expander used when wounded soldiers were losing a lot of blood. Next he grabbed the largest dressings he could find and bandage wraps. He grabbed the scissors and morphine last. "Okay, just keep pressing down, Sarge."
The medic set to work quickly. He tore open the package of sulfa powder and poured it all over the two gun shot wounds. Lifting up Johnson to one side, Antontelli felt around for exit wounds. In-and-out gun shot wounds were much better than wounds where the bullet stayed inside the body. They were easier to treat and the risk of infection was much, much lower. There was only one exit hole. "Damnit! Sarge, talk to him! Just talk to him! Keep him from going into shock!"
SpecFour Antonelli poured the last of the powder onto the single exit wound. He quickly cut some bandages to size and, with Adams' help, fed them around Johnson's body several times. Next came the dressings. Using the largest he had, Antonelli attempted to seal the single wound that had an entrance and exit hole. If Johnson would die of blood loss, it would be from these holes. Dying from something else would be a result of the other wound. "Okay, Sarge, lift him up!"
Sergeant Adams lifted his fellow Marine up while Antonelli secured the second dressing to the exit wound. Even while Adams tried to talk to Casey Johnson to keep him alert, he was aware of all that was around him. Behind him, Chavez kept the S.A.W. roaring away. To his front, Miller kept the M240 chattering, laying down deadly 7.62mm fire. To his right, the Delta Lieutenant and Delta Sergeant were firing their carbines and grenade launchers, trying to keep the enemy at bay.
"Sarge! Sarge!"
Adams snapped out of his short departure from reality. "Yeah, what?"
"I can't do anything more for him," quipped Antonelli as he stuck Johnson with the morphine syringe. "Hey, Johnson, can you hear me?"
The Lance Corporal croaked, spitting up a large portion of blood, but he could talk. "Yeah, I can hear you. How bad is it, Doc? Am I gonna be okay?"
"Look, you hang in their, Corporal. You hang in there. You're going to be all right. Just keep hanging in there." Antonelli backed away, turned, and grabbed his rifle. "Sarge, don't move! Just keep applying as much pressure as you can! Keep the IV bottle above him so everything flows right! And keep talking to him!" He fired a few quick bursts and threw a grenade just to let the enemy know that he was still there. Then he moved across the position and hit Rivera on the boot. "Sir!"
"How bad is he, SpecFour?" Rivera finished off another clip, but didn't reload until after he had launched another 40mm grenade out into the field.
"Real bad, sir. He's got two gunshot wounds. One was an in-and-out. The bleeding is terrible. But the other bullet is still in there. Where it is on his body, I think it might have hit something vital. Even if it didn't, I don't have enough equipment to keep him alive. If we don't get him to a surgery table within the hour, he's going to die. I can't control the bleeding. He needs surgery, and fast." Antonelli whipped up his rifle and shot two terrorists charging the position to Rivera's back.
"All right, you did good, Mario. Get back to him. Put Adams back on the line." Rivera fired off another clip as Antonelli returned to tend to Johnson. Adams returned to the crest of the rear slope. That left the team with only five guns on the line against however many were still out there. He picked up the radio handset and called in, "This is Delta Five- One! I've got a Marine down! I've got a Marine down! Critical casualty, he needs a doc, now! Over!"
Command immediately came back over the net. "Negative Five-One! It's too hot down there! Any chopper we send it is going to get blown out of the sky! There's no way anything can get in there, pick up your guy, and get him back out safely. I'm sorry, but he'll have to wait until we can get to you on the ground or you can evacuate your position and make it to a safe landing zone. Over."
"Christ! He's going to die long before then if we don't get him out now! We need an evac now! Not later, now! Over."
"I'm sorry, Five-One, it just can't be done. We can't send a chopper to certain death! Over."
"Ah, to hell with that, Command! There's no guarantee it'll get shot down! This man needs a doctor now! Or he's going to die! Now get me an evac chopper, goddamnit! Five-One out!" Rivera slammed the handset down and fired a long burst into a terrorist with an RPK near the roadside providing fire support for the enemy moving up. Arleigh didn't care if he hit the guy or not. 'Damnit, I need an evac.' The radio squawked.
"Delta Five-One, this is Halo One-One. We'll do it. Over."
Rivera just stared at the handset for a second. Bullets whizzed by his head, but he didn't seem to notice. 'Christ, those two are insane.' "Halo One-One, roger that! It's goddamn hot down here, we'll try to give you all the covering fire we can. This needs to be done real quick. Over."
"We know, Five-One. Can't stay long. We'll set down in the rear of your position. Be ready when we get there. Over."
"Roger that, One-One! We will be!" Just then, another voice cut in on the line.
"Delta Five-One and Halo One-One, this is Sierra Flight. Be advised, we'll provide covering fire for you. We'll make cannon passes along the front and side of your position, Delta, to cover you, Halo." The Air Force flight of two F-15E Strike Eagles had just lifted off from the airport and were headed towards the field.
"This is Crossbow Flight, we're inbound, too. We'll draw fire along the road. Suppress with rockets and chain gun." Crossbow was a flight of Marine Cobra gunships inbound from the airport. "Anything for a fellow Marine. Ooh-rah!"
"Much obliged, Sierra and Crossbow, much obliged. Okay, let's do this, Delta." Goodman goosed the MH-6 Little Bird forward. "What do ya say, Barry? Think the old girl can survive another trip into that hell hole?"
"Better hope so, or that guy is gonna die." The Chief Warrant Officer pulled back on the M240's charging handle, chambering the next belt.
"I meant us, Barry," Goodman replied, blacking out the chopper once again as it approached the field.
"Yeah, I know. But we have to do this." Polley unlatched himself from the safety harness. As soon as they landed, he'd jump out and assist loading the wounded soldier.
"Affirmative." Goodman dove to the deck and skimmed along the rooflines. He could see the battle still raging far ahead. Naval artillery bombarded the field while the choppers and fighters hung back, awaiting the extraction of the wounded Marine. "Sierra Flight and Crossbow Flight, this is Halo One-One. We're on final approach to Delta's position. Are you ready? Over."
The fighter pilots and chopper pilots came back loud and clear. "You just say the word and we'll start our run, Halo. Over."
"Okay, one mike (minute) out. One mike out. You ready, Delta?"
"Roger that! Let's do this!" Rivera dropped the handset and his rifle. He scuttled over to Johnson and Antonelli. "Okay, Halo's going to try an extraction. You stay here and man the line; I'm going to get him to the chopper. Got it?"
Antonelli picked up the M-16A2 by his feet. "Yes, Lieutenant!" He crawled back to the crest to fight, all the while saying a prayer for Johnson. 'Come on buddy, you can do it. Just hang on.'
"Miller, get over here! Hold up his IV packet! Just keep your head down and as soon as we get him inside the chopper, you run like all hell back to the position! You got me, soldier?"
"Yes, sir!" The Private, First Class scampered over and took hold of the IV canister.
Sergeant Adams turned around. "Let me take him, sir!"
"Negative, Adams. I'm taking him. You keep on firing!" Rivera got his arms under Johnson's body and lifted him up, while still trying to keep a low profile for the enemy troops firing at the position.
"Damnit, he's a Marine, sir! He's my responsibility! He's in my fireteam!" Adams pleaded with Rivera.
"I don't have time for this shit, Sergeant! Fire your weapon!" Rivera heard the chopper before he saw it. The black shape of the MH-6 began to settle into the field as the surroundings exploded. As one last naval artillery salvo fell the Air Force fighters began shredding the field with cannon fire as they dived in from over a thousand feet. The Marine choppers began tearing up the roadway and front portions of the field with rockets and cannon fire.
Halo One-One landed some twenty meters out behind the lip of the crest on uneven terrain. It began tilting to the right, so Goodman had to lift it up a little. "Shit! Got to keep her steady!"
Rivera jumped up and began running towards the chopper with Johnson in his arms and Miller by his side. It was the quickest twenty meters in his life. Before he knew it, he was beside the chopper. Polley had already jumped out and was in back, ready to receive Johnson.
"Here! Let me take him!" screamed Polley over the rotor wash.
Rivera shoved Johnson, a little too forcefully, into the chopper. Just as he did, Miller got hit in the back by an RPK machine gun round. Miller screamed out in pain. Polley was knocked over from the force of Miller being flung forward.
Goodman turned around in his seat quickly. "What the hell's going on? Come on, damnit! We're taking heavy fire!" Bullets pinged off the frame as he fought to keep the chopper steady.
As Polley regained his senses, he saw Rivera shoving Miller into the chopper along with Johnson. He banged his fist on Goodman's seat. "Get us the hell out of here!" He lunged forward, grabbing Miller by the seat of his pants and held on for dear life. The MH-6 jumped into the sky and sped off into the night sky, tracers reaching up at it. As they flew, Polley prayed that he wasn't crushing Johnson underneath the two other bodies. Carefully, he let go of Miller with one hand and felt for Johnson's neck. There was still a very faint pulse. 'Please dear God, don't let these boys die, please, God. Not today...'
Back at the field, Rivera sprinted into the position and dove for his rifle. Now the team was down to five men. "Keep firing! Keep firing!" The remaining two flights of choppers tried to maximize their time over the target area. The AH-6 Little Birds and AH-64 Apaches made pass after pass with rockets and cannon.
Each man remaining in the position fought for their life. As the fire died down, Rivera quickly reorganized the defense. With two men down, he had to shift everyone to fire in certain areas. "Okay, everyone has 72 degrees of the circle. We have to hold until either ground support arrives in late morning or we can exfiltrate the area. Everyone, I need your 110% out here right now. We've lost two men already, we can't afford to lose any more."
"Sir?" Sergeant, First Class Ryker Al Ryker spoke up. "Sir, we have to get out of here. We can't stay any longer." Ryker held the artillery net handset in his left hand, and his M4A1 in the other. "This place is death. We've been lucky to survive until now."
"I know that, Al." Rivera didn't even flinch as an artillery shell from the Chancy landed close to the team's position. He looked at his watch. "It'll be dawn in less than an hour." Thinking things over, and taking a quick mental inventory, he decided what the team should do. "Before first light, we're pulling back. We'll egress back to Bokuto station. It's two kilometers. I figure that with what we've faced tonight, and what Bokuto is probably facing right now, it'll take us two hours to get back safely."
"Risky," was all Adams could say. "Risky, but I don't think there is anything else we can do. We have to go."
"Right. Anyone else got an idea?" No one answered. "Okay, that's it. Here's what we'll do." He looked at his watch again. "In twenty minutes it'll be 0500 hours. At that time, we're going to envelope the position with as many smoke grenades as we can. Then under an air attack, we'll slip out. Our primary route is going to take us parallel to the canal. There's an alley that runs parallel to it for about 600 meters according to this map. We take as much as we can. Take the machine guns. Adams, you're now our second machine gunner. Raid Johnson's and Miller's packs for anything important. If you think it's important, take it. I don't want to leave behind anything that could aid the enemy. Take ammo, take maps, take claymores, take strobes, night-vision goggles, supposing any of them work." During the fight, most of the goggles had been rendered useless by shrapnel or bullets, anyway. "Take grenades, radio batteries, medical supplies, whatever. Fill your packs to the brim. Attach it to your person. If you can't carry it, leave it here. We'll blow as much of it as possible with what C4 we have left."
The team set to work preparing to move out. While Ryker and Antonelli raided the extra rucksacks, Rivera called in the team's plan to move out. Adams and Chavez provided cover with the machine guns, sending out random bursts to keep the enemy at bay. Since the last air attacks, the enemy had done little except the occasional burst of fire or moron charging with a bayonet alone. At 0455 hours, everything was set. The useless goggles, extra strobes, and claymores were all dumped into the grenade sump along with Adams' entire remaining supply of C4 plastic explosives. With the fuse set, the team was ready to roll.
"Okay, everyone ready?" Rivera got four confirmations. "Well, here goes a whole lot of nothing." He grabbed the handset from the radio on his back. With Miller evacuated, Arleigh was he own radioman now. He usually carried his own radio when he was an infantry commander, anyway, so it was easy for him to revert to it. "This is Delta Five-One. We're ready to haul ass."
"Roger that Delta. Crossbow, Comet, Sierra, and Romeo Flights beginning their attack runs now." Romeo flight was the F-16 flight that had arrived on station earlier.
"On five, everyone toss a smoke." Rivera counted to five, pulled the pin, and tossed a smoke grenade. A rainbow of white, red, green, yellow, and blue smoke formed from the five grenades. Another salvo contained two whites, a red, and two greens. A third salvo was two whites, and three blues. The entire field was a FUBAR of smoke, as Crossbow Three-Three described it over the air support frequency. "Delta team, move out."
Ryker and Rivera covered the team, tossing grenades back into the field. Sending Ryker back with the team, Rivera made one last look around the position. Some enemy bullets fired blindly zipped by, but they were all wide. Right before leaving, the Delta Force First Lieutenant reached into the grenade sump and turned on the timer on the C4. He had one minute to clear the area. Arleigh ran for dear life across the smoky field, stumbling across bodies of terrorists and SDF personnel. Behind him came the crashing explosions of rockets from helicopter gunships. Just as he reached the edge of the field by the canal, he heard the C4 detonate, destroying the last of their equipment. Once he reached the canal, he looked around. The rest of his team was no where in sight. He carefully and silently stalked down the edge of the canal in the early morning light. 'Where the hell are they?' he thought.
At Tokyo Airport, the MH-6 known as Halo One-One settled down. Medical personnel raced out to the chopper with stretchers. They quickly loaded the two faintly alive soldiers up and quickly moved them to a makeshift hospital in the hangar. A Delta Force surgeon and two Navy doctors were already prepared for surgery. With any luck, Marine Lance Corporal Casey Jones and Army Private, First Class Mark Miller would live.
Polley slid out of the rear of the chopper. Blood stained his flight suit as well as the cargo compartment.
Goodman was in the cockpit checking the chopper's systems when the warning lights all went off at the same time. He tried to engage the rotor brake, but it wouldn't work. "Holy shit! Barry! Run, damnit! Just get away from her, now!" Chief Warrant Officer Hank Goodman unlatched his belt and vaulted out of the chopper. He ran around, grabbed Barry Polley, and the two sprinted away. The chopper's main rotor began to smoke and rotate violently. Pieces of the rotor assembly flew off. The two pilots dove into a ditch on the side of the helipad. The rotor finally seized against the airframe and came to a halt. Emergency fire crews raced out to the chopper as the two 160th Special-Operations-Aviation-Regiment pilots peered over the edge of the helipad.
"Well, that was interesting," quipped Hank.
"Uh, yeah." Barry rubbed his face as the fire crew began spraying foam on the MH-6. "Guess that's the end of that."
The tail-boom fell off the chopper, only confirming his statement.
"Wow. We flew in that thing?"
A hand reached out and pulled him into a dark corner. With a knife thrust against his neck, all he could say was, "Goddamnit, Ryker. Never, ever do that again. Ever."
"Nice to see you too, Sir."
QUESTIONS & COMMENTS: Bravo26Flashpoint@yahoo.com
Chapter 12: Broken Arrow
By JagdPanther
Arleigh propped himself up on his right elbow in the small valley made by the two hills the team used as cover. "Running real low on ammo." He put another magazine into his rifle. "Conserve ammo, guys. Pick your targets. One shot, one kill." The Lieutenant yawned and rubbed his forehead before crawling back up to the crest of the hill. He was down to six magazines for his M4A1. 'Christ, I carry more than this on standard patrols.'
Fire incoming on the team's position was sporadic again. Every few minutes a rifle or machine gun would fire a few short bursts, and the team would promptly throw back a few rounds just to remind the enemy that they were still alive. Ryker called in harassment artillery, too. For now the team could rest. But they knew they still couldn't move. Just because the enemy wasn't firing and attacking didn't mean that they weren't there.
"Sir, we're going to need more ammo. A lot more," Antonelli said from his position across from Rivera. "I'm running real low. Probably won't make it through another extended fight." The machine gunner tossed a few empty boxes that once contained 200-round belts of ammo into a pile on the slope. He took his last full belt-box and set it next to the gun, loaded with a belt of only 130 or so rounds.
Ryker nodded to his commander. "Yeah, we need a re-supply somehow." The Delta Sergeant also had his remaining magazines stacked next to his spot. Using some tape from his pack, he secured his empty magazines around the radio to protect it from flying shrapnel and debris.
"I'm working on it." Rivera picked up the handset and hailed Camp Zama. "Command, 5-1 is really low on ammo..." Arleigh was cut off by the explosion of an RPG to his front. Immediately, intense fire erupted around the team's position. A technical flew around the corner and came hurtling across the field. It's gunner tried vainly to keep the gun steady, but all his shots flew wildly about. Ryker dropped the artillery radio handset and began firing at the vehicle, killing the driver. The truck swerved to the left and kept going, apparently locked in drive. The gunner tried to swing the gun back around, but was tossed from the vehicle in doing so.
More RPGs ripped into the field. Arleigh was amazed and thankful for the ridiculous inaccuracy of the weapon. He fired several short, controlled bursts across the field. Slapping another magazine in, he noted that he was down to five. Snatching up the handset again, he called in, "This is Delta 5-1! We're in heavy contact! Need immediate support and above all ammo! Over!" Arleigh dropped another 40mm grenade in between two SDF soldiers manning a light machine gun. "I'm out of grenades!"
At the airport, Polley and Goodman were just landing to refuel. Up ahead, the two Apaches were already receiving their rearm. Barry jumped out upon landing to get a new strap for the machine gun. He'd broken it on the last run when it caught on the airframe of the MH-6.
The rotors came to a halt while Goodman did a quick systems check to make sure everything was still working. "Hydraulics... Good. Rotor shaft... Fine. Avionics... Okay." He looked up. "Windshield... Definitely needs to be replaced." Several bullet holes dotted the Plexiglas bubble. "But not now."
Polley returned with the M240 medium-machine-gun and a new harness strap. Just as he replaced his helmet and headset, Rivera's call for more ammo came in, followed shortly by the report; "We're in heavy contact!"
"Barry?"
"Yeah, I know. We'll pile as much ammo in the back as possible. I'll fly back there and shove it out over their position. Quick in and out."
"Roger that."
By that time, Goodman had the rotors up and spinning. He slid the chopper over to the hangar door. A technician ran out to the chopper.
"What's wrong?"
"Get all the ammo you can find and load it in back! We're going out to re-supply 5-1!" yelled Goodman over the rotor's whine. He checked the magazine of his MP-5K to make sure it was full.
"You're crazy! You'll never make it! Look at this thing, you've got bullet holes all over the place! If you hover, they'll nail you with an RPG!"
"Don't argue with me! Just do it! They need ammo!"
"Fine!" The technician spun around and ran back into the hangar while Goodman idled the chopper's engine. After a minute, several Delta Force administrators (non-field Deltas) ran out, hefting boxes of ammo. There were boxes of rifle ammo, machine gun ammo, hand grenades, launched grenades, and 4 AT-4 rockets.
Polley got out and oversaw the loading. Once he was certain everything was secure, he climbed into the back with his machine gun and motioned for Goodman to lift off. All the weight of the ammo provided for a difficult take-off, one that required Goodman to get a small bit of forward momentum first. Soon, the chopper was airborne and on its way back to the field to re-supply Delta 5-1.
Rivera directed one of the Apache gunships to strafe the part of the field directly adjacent to the road. Seventy-millimeter rockets lanced out from the warbird and laid waste to another group of terrorists and SDF personnel. Several more pulls of the trigger emptied Rivera's rifle's magazine. He grabbed another one. "Two more left!" he shouted over the din.
Johnson's gun misfired and he cursed. He slid back down into the center of the valley and began clearing the jam. The jam saved his life. An RPG sailed right through the spot where his head had been. "Son of a bitch!"
Chavez swore and tried to bat the exhaust smoke from rocket out of his face. The soldier resumed his firing position. He spotted several enemies attempting to flank the hills from the uncovered south west approach, which up to this point had been untouched.
All Johnson had to do was flip up the machine gun's feed cover, realign the belt, drop the cover, and pull the charging handle. Johnson then realized that he was down to his last ammo belt. "L-T! I've only got, like, a hundred rounds left!
Rivera turned around. "Ah, hell! Fire really short bursts!" He quickly returned to firing. The enemy assault increased in vigor. It seemed like the team's return fire was doing nothing to stem the tide. The M4A1's slide locked back and Arleigh gulped. He hit the release button, dropping the clip. Reaching into a pocket on his webbing, he pulled out a magazine. "Last mag!"
Nearby, Goodman keyed the com-set. "Delta 5-1, this is Halo One-One!" The MH-6 was slowly making its way over the canal, barely over the canal. The helicopter was small enough to fit mostly into the canal right above the waterline.
"Don't even bother asking, Chief! Just shoot at anything!" screamed Rivera back over the line. The crack of his MSG-90A1 came along with his voice. He was out of ammo for his M4A1.
"Negative, Lieutenant! We've got a full load of ammo! Prepare to receive it! Over!" Goodman popped the chopper out of the canal and sped up. Within a few short seconds, the MH-6 was racing towards the field. It made a pass at altitude over the field so Goodman could get a fix on the team's position again. The move would be quick, but it didn't take long for the enemy to realign their aim and nail the chopper with gunfire and RPGs. Already in back, Polley was preparing to push all the boxes out of the open rear compartment. Everything would have to go in one push. The less the chopper was over the target, the less of a chance they'd be struck.
Rivera was thoroughly confused. There was no way that anybody would be as stupid as to fly into this firefight and hover a chopper to deliver ammo. Then he remembered why people were recruited into the 160th SOAR in the first place. 'Oh, yeah. I forgot. The same reason they wanted me for the One-Six-Zero. I have no concept of personal survival.' Arleigh looked up and saw the MH-6 zip by over the field again. "Roger that, One-One! But it had better be fast or you'll be joining us down here!" He dropped his MSG-90A1, its final clip empty, and grabbed his Beretta M9. "Okay! Guys! We've got a re-supply coming it! Expend all of your remaining ammo! We have to cover them!" Rivera turned back towards the enemy and fired his pistol as fast as he could. 'I think I remember myself thinking that if I had to use this pistol it would already be too late. Well, time to see if that's true.'
Polley was positioned in the back of the MH-6. 'One shot. That's it. This had better work.' He braced himself against the airframe and prepared to push all the ammo out the side. His M240 was secured to the back wall, ready to fire as soon as everything was clear.
In the cockpit, Goodman was ready to zip in and zip out. He began his final approach. "Delta 5-1, this is Halo One-One. Here we come." The Chief Warrant Officer said a prayer to himself and began dropping the altitude of the chopper as it neared the field. The MH-6 was completely blacked out. No running lights, no cockpit lights, nothing. Hank watched as hordes of green tracers converged on a small part of the field below. 'Well, at least they're making it easy to find.' Very few red tracers left the point on the field. Traveling just above the rooflines, Goodman tried to keep the chopper as inconspicuous as possible until there was a good point in the fighting to zoom in and dump the ammo.
As if on cue, the enemy fired died down, almost like every enemy had to take a break and reload their weapon. Goodman immediately gave the Little Bird a burst of power and headed out over the field at 35 feet. He looked down through the windows near the pedals and saw he was exactly over the team's position. He turned in his seat and yelled as loud as he could, "Do it now, Barry!" In a flash, Barry Polley put all his energy into his legs, and thrust forward, pushing every box of ammo out the door. The heavy items plummeted into the small set of hills. Some banged off of the landing skids but kept going.
By the luck of God, the boxes all dropped inside the team's perimeter. Even better, none of the soldiers were hit except for Chavez. An AT-4 dropped onto his foot, but the combat boot's sole absorbed most of the impact and Chavez, firing off his last magazine, barely noticed.
Polley, immediately upon clearing the boxes out of the door, screamed at Goodman to lift out of the area. The pilot ripped the collective straight up, giving the chopper a huge jump. Working the pedals to counter-act the sudden increase in torque, Goodman gained forward momentum and sped away from the field, made a quick turn, and got confirmation from Polley that he was ready to begin firing the machine gun. "Okay! Here we go again!" As Polley fired, Goodman realized that in the few seconds over Delta Five- One's position, he hadn't seen or heard a single round from the enemy. The terrorists and SDF personnel had been so stunned by the appearance of the black shape directly over the field, for such a short time, that they hadn't even had a chance to open fire on it before it was rocketing away.
Down in the field, Miller ripped the lid off of a box of M-16 magazines with his K-Bar combat knife. He immediately fitted a clip into his rifle, thumbed it back over to burst-fire mode, and began returning fire. Chavez also reloaded his M-16, grabbing magazines from the box of 20 magazines. Each box had distinctive markings on top that denoted what kind of ammo was contained within it. Johnson grabbed opened a box of S.A.W. ammo, Antonelli grabbed a loose bandoleer of 7.62mm rounds that had also come down with the boxes, and Adams, Ryker, and Rivera pounced on the boxes of M4A1 clips and 40mm grenades.
Arleigh thumbed his rifle back over to full automatic and poured a magazine into the advancing line of terrorists. He saw Halo One-One pass over head, a long muzzle-flash coming from its side as Polley fired his M240 in support of the team. Shortly after clearing the area, a flight of AH-6 Little Birds screamed over, pouring rockets and minigun fire into the enemy.
Rearmed, the team began pouring out return fire at a blinding rate. But their fire was still puny in comparison to what they were receiving. The advantage that they held, though, was not in volume, but it accuracy and cover. SDF personnel and terrorists had to cross the relatively flat field under rifle and machine gun fire, let alone the deadly naval artillery and air support. The only hills on the property were along the canal where the team was.
Ryker gave the U.S.S. Chaffee and the U.S.S. Chancellorsville a grid to rake artillery over only while air support was idle, some aircraft on their way and the rest returning to the airport to rearm and refuel. After radioing in the instructions, Ryker picked his up his rifle and scanned the field ahead. He took a second before firing to analyze the situation. 'This is death.' With that, he began returning fire. A burst dropped an SDF rifleman in his tracks. Another burst felled a terrorist. 'What the hell is going on here? Why are they doing this? There's got to be some reason.' Ryker tried to dismiss all thought from his mind. As a Delta Operator, he was trained not to think about anything but the mission. One split-second of lost concentration could result in death. So it was back to firing.
A terrorist with an AK-74 equipped with a GP-40 grenade launcher moved up into position near the team. He had crawled through the rough grass all the way to a point only about 10 meters from the team. When he thought he had come close enough, the terrorist shot up to one knee and brought his rifle to bear. He grabbed the grenade launcher's pistol grip under the rifle barrel and squeezed the trigger.
Where the terrorist had come from was the uncovered side by the building Chavez had noted earlier. The terrorist's launched grenade flew right into the team's position, piercing the casing of one of the AT-4s. Neither object detonated. The terrorist was stupefied by the failure. So, he loaded another grenade and fired it again. Failure again.
As the second round landed, and failed to detonate, Ryker happened to be turned around to grab another magazine for his M4A1. He saw the round land and drive itself into the ground. Then he saw the damaged AT-4. Looking in the direction from where he saw the grenade come from, he saw the terrorist trying another shot. Just as the terrorist looked up from grabbing a grenade from his ammo pouch, Johnson put a single round through the man's head. Blood shot out of the back of the man's head as he fell. The terrorist had never known that the GP-40 grenade had to fly 15 meters before it armed itself.
It seemed like only seconds had passed since Goodman and Polley had dropped the ammo onto the team's position. Actually, it had been well over an hour. Now around 0300 hours, the fighting was still raging and again the team was running low on ammo. Rivera called in that the team was low on ammo and needed a re-supply. The team had expended 4 rockets on troop concentrations, 40 launched grenades, 3,000 rounds of ammo each for two machine guns, 80 M-16 magazines, and 80 magazines of ammo for the M4A1. That was a lot of ammo in such a short period of time for seven men, but then again, so was the amount of troops they were facing.
"This is Delta 5-1-X-ray requesting immediate re-supply of ammunition! We're running dangerously low! We won't be able to hold on much longer! Over!" Miller ducked as an RPG sailed over his head and impacted in the canal behind the knoll. He picked up his M-16A2 and fired two three-round bursts into the advancing column.
By now, the enemy had a piece of cover much closer to the team. A few minutes earlier, the last air support run had nailed an APC. It had managed to works its way across the field during the air support runs. When aircraft were around, the navy couldn't fire their guns because of the risk of hitting something friendly. However, the aircraft had repeatedly failed to get the APC. So for a few scary seconds, the enemy was allowed to advance without resistance against the team as they cowered in the bottom of the depression, trying not to get their heads shot off by the 35mm rounds from the APC. One enemy soldier got so close that he was able to toss a grenade into the position. Fortunately, the grenade landed right in Adams' hand, who quickly forced it over the edge of the hill, where it exploded harmlessly. Right after it exploded, an AH-6 landed a rocket right under the turret of the APC, destroying it. However, the APC wasn't burning. It was just dead in the field. That meant the enemy could use its hulk to screen them while they moved closer.
Already, Halo One-One was on its way back with more ammo while the team tried to keep the enemy at bay. It seemed like there was an endless supply of terrorists and SDF personnel advancing on their position. The team killed one, and another one would pop right up to replace the downed comrade.
"This is insane!" yelled Adams, dumping another magazine in the general direction of the road. At this point, everyone was firing at anything that moved. The field was so littered with bodies that it was getting hard to distinguish living soldiers who were prone to dead or dying ones lying in pools of their own blood. Another grenade arced high into the air and landed with a thump beside Lance Corporal Javier Chavez. "Grenade!" Without thinking, he snatched up the grenade and tossed it back into the field. It airburst several feet over the ground, sending shrapnel back into the team's position.
One piece imbedded itself in Private, First Class Mark Miller's right thigh. "I'm hit!" He dropped his rifle and immediately dropped his rifle. "Damnit!" He dove for Antonelli's medic bag on the slope of the hill and dug for a dressing. Feeling around, he grabbed the largest olive-drab field dressing he could find and a syringe of Morphine. 'Thank God I paid attention during basic medical training.' PFC Miller felt his wound to see how much blood was coming out. The pain was staggering, and he was worried that the shrapnel could only cause that much pain if it struck something important. 'Good. It didn't hit my Femoral.' It was a popular misconception that only shots to the chest or head would quickly kill a person. In reality, any part of the body could become an instant kill if one of the major arteries was hit, such as the Femoral, which fed the legs. He tightened the dressing down and stuck himself with Morphine to keep the pain at bay while he fought.
Rivera turned around. "You all right?" he bellowed.
"Yes, sir!" To show his truthfulness, he struck up his rifle, chambered a new round, whipped around, and began firing bursts at the enemy. "I'm good!"
Returning to his position, Arleigh quickly analyzed his situation. Grenades were going to be a real problem if the enemy continued to get closer. Right now, the occasional grenade was relatively easy to deal with. But that wouldn't be the case if tens of the little buggers started to fly in. He thought of what each man had brought with him when they were packing up back at the station. "Adams!"
"Yes, sir!" The Marine Sergeant finished off another magazine for his Colt M4A1. Grabbing another, he glanced over at his commanding officer.
"Sergeant, I want you to stop fighting as soon as the enemy fire dies down a bit. Then I want you to dig a grenade sump in the middle of this depression." A grenade sump was a fixture common in bunkers. If an enemy soldier happened to get close enough to toss a grenade into the bunker, the grenade could be pushed by the soldiers inside into a hole where it would explode harmlessly. Well, harmlessly as long as no one was stupid enough to stand over the hole. In this case, Rivera decided to get gravity to be that soldier who pushed the grenade into the hole. 'Let's see if we can get basics physics working for us.' Any grenade that could get into the position would roll down the slopes into the hole. "Pile the extra dirt around the edges of the position to form as complete of a bowl-shape as you can. I want the grenades to be able to roll down into it by themselves if no one can get to it."
"Yes, sir!" He pulled his pack closer and removed the entrenching tool from the sling on the side. After a few more minutes, he decided the firing was down enough to start digging. First he removed all the debris from the center of the position, which was the lowest point. Shell casings, empty boxes of ammo magazines, empty magazines, and a few of the team's rucksacks. He placed them on the slopes and began to dig. The extra dirt was placed around the slopes as Rivera had requested, and in about twelve minutes he had a medium-sized grenade sump at the lowest point of the slopes. The team couldn't expect all the grenades to fall into the sump, and some might get caught on the items around the slope, including team members. So the team would still have to be on the look out for grenades to either toss back or shove into the grenade sump.
Sergeant Adams had just finished and was stowing his shovel when Halo One-One returned with another load of ammunition. Just as before, the blacked out chopper made it over the target without receiving any fire, and was on its way out before it did take any major hits. This time, however, the enemy wasn't as stunned and it did get a few shots off, and Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli noted a few sparks of rounds impacting on the rear side of the fuselage.
The fire died down once again after Halo One-One finished its supply run. It again returned to the sporadic bursts of fire from both sides. Team Delta Five-One, fully supplied with ammo again, sat tight while they prepared for another attack. Delta Sergeant, First Class Ryker helped Adams continued improving the fighting positions. They dug small platforms into the hill, sloped back towards the grenade sumps, for the men to take better positions on. The ammo was distributed equally, instead of the mad dash for ammo like the previous re-supply. Rivera shoved several clips for his rifle and several launched grenades into his web-gear pockets. The rest he put in a stack next to him on his fighting platform. This would make for quicker reloads in a pinch when he had split seconds to change out magazines in heavy fights. The rest of the men followed suit. "All right, time to wait for the next attack."
The Delta Lieutenant had a couple of the men stand down and drink some water. As he sat there, eating an LRSU ration he had hydrated earlier at the LP, he watched the tracers from Bokuto station arc high into the sky. The rumble of gunfire and explosions followed the flashes. He wondered how the battle was progressing there between, undoubtedly, a much larger force, and the station's defenders. Every now and then the sound would die down, and then slowly build back up to a frighteningly loud apex, and fall off once again. "They must be catching hell back there."
Chavez looked up from his canteen. "Excuse me, sir. And we're not?" The Lance Corporal shook his head and reached for a cracker from the MRE he hadn't finished from when they were all still in the LP.
"Yeah, we definitely are. I guess I should've noted that." Rivera gulped down the last of the ration and began to break down his Colt M4A1 rifle. He figured he had time for a quick cleaning of the rifle. It was better to be safe than sorry in this kind of situation. "Give me a couple minutes if things heat back up. I want to clean it out quick. Chavez, Antonelli, and Ryker, I suggest you do the same. Don't want these things to jam after all the firing we've done."
Amazingly, the enemy remained dormant long enough for all the members of the team to take breaks and clean their weapons. Ryker called in a few harassment rounds from the destroyers out to sea. The U.S.S. Lassen, DDG- 82, had just entered gunnery range and was beginning to fire rounds in support of the Americans in the Ward. Most of the fire support for now was being diverted to Bokuto since nothing much was happening around the team.
Then all hell broke loose.
"Jesus Christ!" Rounds began kicking up dirt all around Rivera's head as he supported himself on the slope of the hill. He fired wildly back into the darkness along with the other team members. It seemed like the entire JSDF had crawled up to within a few meters of the team. Grenades arced at the position, but the grenade sump began earning its pay. The grenades either rolled into the hole or were pushed back over the edge by the soldiers. They began throwing their own grenades back, weary of sticking their heads up over the edge for more than a few split seconds. By cooking the grenades, or letting their fuses burn for a few seconds, they were able to eliminate the possibility of the explosives being thrown back at them.
In one of the scariest moments in Sergeant Dale Adams' life, an SDF soldier jumped up and charged the hill. Just as Adams got a line on the man with his rifle, it clicked, signaling an empty magazine. "Son of a bitch! Die, damnit!" Adams didn't have time to grab his pistol and fire, unless he wanted to be skewered by the enemy's bayonet. So Adams' hand-to- hand combat training took over automatically. He turned to his side at the last moment, grabbing the rifle by the barrel with his left hand, and smashing his right elbow into the man's face. In a swift motion, he jarred the rifle from the man's hand and swung it up and into his jaw. Bringing the rifle down, he grabbed the pistol grip of the Type-89, cleared the chamber with a quick operation of the slide, and fired a long burst into the SDF soldier's chest. "Ooh-rah! Come and get me, jackasses!" With another long burst, he cut down the soldiers who had followed their fellow SDF soldier in his charge. Adams fell back into the team's position, dragging the enemy body with him. He figured that as long as he had an enemy weapon, he might as well use it so he didn't have to waste his own ammunition. Using the commandeered Type-89, Adams continued to cut down SDF personnel and terrorists attacking the position. "Semper Fi, goddamnit, Semper Fi!" he screamed as he fired entire clips off on full automatic mode.
Across the perimeter, Arleigh and Ryker called out target groups to each other, coordinating their attacks to eliminate what they thought were the most pressing threats. In short, whoever was closest died first.
"Lieutenant! Four guys, two o'clock!" Ryker bellowed, dropping a magazine and slamming home another one.
"Roger that!" Arleigh shifted the rifle to his alternate grip (left hand on the trigger) so he could get a better position on the group. He fired three bursts, dropping two of the men. A launched grenade finished off the other two. "Sarge, RPG, three o'clock!"
"Affirmative!" The Delta radioman rolled over onto his right side and took aim, dropping the RPG gunner with a single shot to the head and his assistant gunner with two chest shots. Noticing some more troops to his left, Ryker rolled back to the left while flipping his rifle over to full automatic. Firing a burst into the group, Sergeant, First Class Al Ryker felt a heavy thump against his shoulder. Looking down, he saw the dark outline of a grenade against his elbow. "Grenade!" Snatching up the grenade, he hurled it back at the enemies moving up. It exploded, taking out several men getting ready to charge the hill. "Hoo-ah!" Firing off the last of his magazine, Ryker reloaded and resumed fighting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a terrorist jump up a mere five meters from the position, sporting an AK-74 with a bayonet. "Lieutenant! Head's up!"
Rivera's head whipped around just in time to miss the blade by a few inches. He drove upward into the man's gut and slammed him down against the reverse side of the slope. Batting away the rifle with his free hand, Arleigh reached for his K-Bar combat knife, but couldn't get to it before the terrorist rolled over onto Arleigh. The two struggled while tossing around on the slope. Surprisingly, no one shot at them. Evidently the enemies thought that they wouldn't have to expose themselves to any return fire if this terrorist could finish the job up close. But the struggle continued. Arleigh flopped backwards over the lip of the hill and back into the team's position while attempting to dodge a punch. He slid back down the slope and over the grenade sump. The terrorist leaped onto him, nailing Arleigh with a knee to the gut. The terrorist punched him in the jaw and went for Arleigh's knife while Arleigh struggled for air. Just as the terrorist grabbed the knife and was about to stab Rivera, another grenade landed in the position, coming to a rest next to Arleigh. His body was blocking the sump. He knew if he didn't move, at least Miller, Antonelli, and Ryker would die in the blast. Forcing every last bit of strength he had left into his arms and legs, Rivera pushed the terrorist off of him and turned the man over, knocking the grenade into the sump. The explosion was muffled by the terrorist, who died instantly from the massive amounts of shrapnel filling his back. Arleigh picked the man up and rolled him over the edge of the hill, so he wouldn't block the sump.
Just as he was about to grab his M4A1, another terrorist jumped over the crest and slashed at Arleigh with an already-drawn knife. The first slash missed, as did the second. Arleigh jumped on top of the terrorist and tried to force the knife out of his hand, but Arleigh missed and the knife slashed ripped his fatigues up along the left arm. Arleigh bit back a cry of pain and kept on fighting. He rolled to his right, grabbing his arm with his right hand. He kept pressure on the slash while he reached up and grabbed the pistol from Antonelli's hip-holster. As he turned back to face his attacker, he felt pain blossom in his right thigh. Looking down, he saw that the terrorist had lunged for him, driving the knife into his leg. The terrorist lifted the knife up to strike again, but Miller turned around and tackled the terrorist, driving his own K-bar into the man's heart. This allowed Arleigh time to bring up the pistol and shoot two bayonet- wielding SDF personnel charging towards the team's position. Miller quickly dove back to his rifle and cut down more soldiers.
The Lieutenant dropped another two enemies with Antonelli's pistol before the clip ran dry. Reloading it with one of his own, he took aim, despite the excruciating pain in his thigh, and continued firing. After another reload, he tossed the pistol to SpecFour Antonelli, who happened to reloading his M240.
"Thanks, Lieutenant!" The Italian machine gunner fielded the pistol and began suppressive fire with it while he tried to reload the machine gun with one hand. In a few seconds, he was back in action, laying waste to the advancing enemy. What Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli was doing was called "grazing" fire. That was a technique used to deal with enemies who might be crawling towards a position rather than standing or crouching. Fire was directed only nine inches to a foot and a half above to the ground in the hope that soldiers in the prone position would be caught in the head, shoulders, and arms by rounds.
"Keep firing, for God sakes men, fire!" Arleigh powered over the pain and resumed fire, cutting down anything that moved. When another clip ran dry, he reloaded. While reaching for the magazine, he also grabbed the radio handset with a couple fingers. After the clip was inserted and locked, he fired off a couple rounds at an SDF soldier firing his S.A.W. from the assault (standing) position. Arleigh snatched up the radio with his left hand and keyed the talk switch. "This is Delta Five-One! Broken Arrow! I say again, Broken Arrow! Broken Arrow!"
At Camp Zama, over thiry kilometers away, the radio operator in the Combat Center was stunned that a radio transmission had come in from the team. There hadn't been any communication with them for quite some time. Immediately, he keyed the com-set. "Delta Five-One, confirm Broken Arrow! Over!"
"Broken Arrow confirmed! Our position hasn't changed, just bring everything you have down right around us! We're being overrun!"
"Roger that, Five-One!" The radio operator turned around and informed General Walker that Delta Five-One was being overrun by enemy forces.
"Goddamnit! Screw the Japanese and their friggin' rules! Get TAC- AIR (Tactical Air-Support) over there right now!" Walker fumed as he watched the recon shots from the helicopter circling high above the battle at Bokuto station. There wasn't another Command and Control chopper available with direct-video support to watch the other battle at Delta Five- One's position, so he had been in the dark for a long time. "Brave men are dying out there and I can't do a damn thing about it because I can't see what's going on!"
Back at the airport, Polley and Goodman watched as a flight of Marine AH-1W Super-Cobra gunships lifted off and headed towards the battle. They had just been refueled after a flight up from a Marine base to the south of Tokyo. More Cobra's and the Army's Apache gunships were also getting rearmed and refueled at the moment.
Polley shook his head as he strapped himself back into the MH-6. "God help those boys."
As Goodman looked out the still-cracked windshield, he saw twin tongues of blue flames shoot out the back of a black silhouette. Another pair quickly joined it and the two pairs raced down the runway and rose quickly into the sky. They were U.S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagle fighter- bombers. They had been on hold since the battle started, but now General Walker had authorized their use above the Japanese government's wishes. They made a sharp bank to their left and headed towards the battle in Bokuto.
It was a ridiculously short flight for the two long-range jet-aircraft. The flight of Strike Eagles took up a pattern over the Ward to survey their targets. The two aircraft spent a minute in the pattern while they identified their targets and broke up. The lead aircraft headed towards Delta Five-One's position while the other went to support Bokuto.
Sierra Nine-Five, the lead Strike Eagle, lazed the field with an on-board laser designator. The gunner, seated behind the pilot, gave the pilot the flight instructions on his display. The computer handled control for a few seconds while it aligned the aircraft to drop its four bombs. Each bomb was assigned a different point around the team's position, marked clearly by where the most fire was concentrated.
"This is Sierra Nine-Five. Three, two, one, bombs away, bombs away!" The pilot kept his course since there was no apparent threat from any anti- aircraft artillery or missiles. The gunner watched the bombs into the target several seconds later.
"Boom, boom, boom, boom! All good hits! Woohoo!"
The Strike Eagle dove towards the ground like a predator. The pilot skillfully lined the aircraft up and lit off the plane's 20mm Vulcan Rotary cannon. A pole of flame burst out from the nose of the plane as shells rained down upon the enemy. Entire squads of enemy soldiers fled from the carnage just one Strike Eagle had brought. But after just three passes, the plane had exhausted its supply of shells and had to turn for home. As is lifted up and away, the JSDF AAA units finally opened fire, but none of the hastily fired 35mm rounds came close to the American fighter.
"Sierra Nine-Five is inbound to FARP Lion (Forward-Arming-and-Refueling- Point). Request immediate rearm for continued support of American forces in and around the Sumida Ward."
"Roger that, Nine-Five. Cleared to land on Runway 11."
Back at the team's position, Arleigh used the fear of the enemy to his advantage. While they cowered from the Strike Eagle's cannon, he had Antonelli help him patch up his arm and leg. The Army medic quickly applied bandages to Rivera's arm instead of the field dressing, which Arleigh said might hamper his shooting. After applying a dressing to Arleigh's leg, Antonelli gave his commanding officer a shot of morphine to keep the pain down in the leg.
"Thanks, Doc."
"Not a problem, Lieutenant." Mario Antonelli quickly turned back around and grabbed his machine gun. He thought of how odd it was that he had been selected to carry the M240 by his Lieutenant on this mission, since Antonelli was a medic and needed to be able to move to downed soldiers quickly. He made a mental note to get rid of the gun as soon as possible. "Hey, Miller!"
"Yeah, Anton?" Miller fired off a burst at a terrorist who had just reloaded his GP-40 grenade launcher.
"Take over for me on the –240, will ya? I need something lighter. Give me your –16."
Miller fired off a couple more bursts, reloaded, and shifted over to where Antonelli was lying. "Roger that." He handed over the M-16A2 and changed positions with the Specialist.
Antonelli accepted the assault rifle and crawled to where Miller had been. "Thanks a lot, man." He propped himself up on his elbows and fired off a few rounds as the Marine Cobras began their rocket runs, pouring 70mm rockets into the surroundings.
The team continued the battle. Even with all the support the team was getting, the enemy was still hanging on. Down the street, an Apache knocked out a tank before it could threaten the team. At least the enemy armor was now playing a factor in the battle. It was just infantry against infantry. For several more minutes, the two sides exchanged fire while helicopters buzzed overhead, laying waste with rockets, chain guns, miniguns, and the machine gun Polley was hefting in Halo One-One. As soon as the last chopper left for a rearm, the Strike Eagles, now reinforced by another two flights, one of Strike Eagles and one of F-16 Fighting Falcons, were back to drop more ordinance. More smart bombs crashed down around the team followed by bursts of 20mm cannon-fire. The bombs were dropped far enough away so that they wouldn't hit the team with shrapnel if they were a little off-target. The same couldn't be said for the enemy soldiers, out in the open.
Once the fighters finished off their cannon shell reserves, they turned for the airport to rearm once again. Over the radio, Arleigh gathered that the helicopters were just getting rearmed then and air support would be a few minutes late. Naval artillery would fill in for the moment. Like a one-gun-understrength battery, the three naval cannons from the Chaffee and Chancy began their salvos. The 125mm artillery rounds began crashing around the team. With the absence of deadly aircraft, the enemy renewed its assault. The men fired their weapons on cyclic. Waves of enemy soldiers rushed the position and were cut down by rifle and machine gun fire.
Lance Corporal Casey Johnson was a man with a mission: stay alive. He was burning up his S.A.W.'s barrel firing it constantly. The barrel began to glow from the massive heat generated by the belts of ammo flying out. Quickly diving for his pack, Johnson removed a spare barrel from a cloth casing inside his ruck. Using a set of gloves, Johnson ripped the hot barrel out of the gun and replaced it with the new one. He tossed the barrel with the gloves onto the ground beside him, covering it with lose dirt so he wouldn't burn himself.
Resuming fire, he cut down an SDF soldier charging with a bayonet. Without a weapon capable of holding a bayonet for him, Johnson unsheathed his K-bar and set it down next to him for quick use. Just as he looked up, another SDF soldier popped up several meters away and charged forward. Johnson snatched up his knife and bolted forward, slapping the soldier's rifle to the side, and slamming the knife deep into soldier's chest. Removing the knife and striking down the soldier with an elbow to the face, Johnson engaged another SDF soldier rising out of the grass to attack him. The two got into a scuffle, rolling along the ground before Johnson finally got the upper hand. He flipped the man over onto his back, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the man in the gut and chest. Casey heard someone scream for him to get back inside the perimeter. As he rose, he was struck in the left side by two bullets from an AK-74. Johnson collapsed to his knees, blood flowing out of his abdomen.
"Johnson!" Adams screamed and hopped over the crest. He grabbed Johnson by his web-gear harness and dragged the limp Lance Corporal back into the team's position. "Medic! Medic!" Since Johnson was a fellow Marine, it made it that much harder for Adams to comprehend that someone was hit. At the same time, Adams couldn't understand why Johnson had been so stupid as to leave himself exposed. If only he had told Johnson to get back sooner, maybe he'd be okay. "Goddamnit, medic!"
Army medic Specialist, Fourth Class Mario Antonelli swiveled on his butt to see what was happening. He saw Adams dragging Johnson's body back over the crest as bullets kicked up dirt all around. "Ah, shit!" Mario grabbed his medic kit. Before he moved he realized that he was leaving the entire backside of the position uncovered. With Johnson down, one of the team's two machine guns was down. From the looks of the wound from where he was, Antonelli figured he'd probably need Adams' help, thus eliminating another defender. He spun back around and grabbed Marine Lance Corporal Javier Chavez by the neck of his fatigues. "Chavez! Man the S.A.W.! Cover the back!"
Chavez managed to choke out a "Roger that" when he turned and saw Johnson's bloody body. "Goddamnit..." He recovered and scrambled around the hill to Johnson's silent light machine gun, picked it up, and resumed firing.
Antonelli immediately torn open the rest of Johnson's fatigue top and skivvies. "Sergeant, I need you to just keep applying pressure to his wounds! Hold on, I have to get set up!" Antonelli frantically searched through his kit for sulfa power, a wound disinfectant, and a bottle of serum albinum, a blood expander used when wounded soldiers were losing a lot of blood. Next he grabbed the largest dressings he could find and bandage wraps. He grabbed the scissors and morphine last. "Okay, just keep pressing down, Sarge."
The medic set to work quickly. He tore open the package of sulfa powder and poured it all over the two gun shot wounds. Lifting up Johnson to one side, Antontelli felt around for exit wounds. In-and-out gun shot wounds were much better than wounds where the bullet stayed inside the body. They were easier to treat and the risk of infection was much, much lower. There was only one exit hole. "Damnit! Sarge, talk to him! Just talk to him! Keep him from going into shock!"
SpecFour Antonelli poured the last of the powder onto the single exit wound. He quickly cut some bandages to size and, with Adams' help, fed them around Johnson's body several times. Next came the dressings. Using the largest he had, Antonelli attempted to seal the single wound that had an entrance and exit hole. If Johnson would die of blood loss, it would be from these holes. Dying from something else would be a result of the other wound. "Okay, Sarge, lift him up!"
Sergeant Adams lifted his fellow Marine up while Antonelli secured the second dressing to the exit wound. Even while Adams tried to talk to Casey Johnson to keep him alert, he was aware of all that was around him. Behind him, Chavez kept the S.A.W. roaring away. To his front, Miller kept the M240 chattering, laying down deadly 7.62mm fire. To his right, the Delta Lieutenant and Delta Sergeant were firing their carbines and grenade launchers, trying to keep the enemy at bay.
"Sarge! Sarge!"
Adams snapped out of his short departure from reality. "Yeah, what?"
"I can't do anything more for him," quipped Antonelli as he stuck Johnson with the morphine syringe. "Hey, Johnson, can you hear me?"
The Lance Corporal croaked, spitting up a large portion of blood, but he could talk. "Yeah, I can hear you. How bad is it, Doc? Am I gonna be okay?"
"Look, you hang in their, Corporal. You hang in there. You're going to be all right. Just keep hanging in there." Antonelli backed away, turned, and grabbed his rifle. "Sarge, don't move! Just keep applying as much pressure as you can! Keep the IV bottle above him so everything flows right! And keep talking to him!" He fired a few quick bursts and threw a grenade just to let the enemy know that he was still there. Then he moved across the position and hit Rivera on the boot. "Sir!"
"How bad is he, SpecFour?" Rivera finished off another clip, but didn't reload until after he had launched another 40mm grenade out into the field.
"Real bad, sir. He's got two gunshot wounds. One was an in-and-out. The bleeding is terrible. But the other bullet is still in there. Where it is on his body, I think it might have hit something vital. Even if it didn't, I don't have enough equipment to keep him alive. If we don't get him to a surgery table within the hour, he's going to die. I can't control the bleeding. He needs surgery, and fast." Antonelli whipped up his rifle and shot two terrorists charging the position to Rivera's back.
"All right, you did good, Mario. Get back to him. Put Adams back on the line." Rivera fired off another clip as Antonelli returned to tend to Johnson. Adams returned to the crest of the rear slope. That left the team with only five guns on the line against however many were still out there. He picked up the radio handset and called in, "This is Delta Five- One! I've got a Marine down! I've got a Marine down! Critical casualty, he needs a doc, now! Over!"
Command immediately came back over the net. "Negative Five-One! It's too hot down there! Any chopper we send it is going to get blown out of the sky! There's no way anything can get in there, pick up your guy, and get him back out safely. I'm sorry, but he'll have to wait until we can get to you on the ground or you can evacuate your position and make it to a safe landing zone. Over."
"Christ! He's going to die long before then if we don't get him out now! We need an evac now! Not later, now! Over."
"I'm sorry, Five-One, it just can't be done. We can't send a chopper to certain death! Over."
"Ah, to hell with that, Command! There's no guarantee it'll get shot down! This man needs a doctor now! Or he's going to die! Now get me an evac chopper, goddamnit! Five-One out!" Rivera slammed the handset down and fired a long burst into a terrorist with an RPK near the roadside providing fire support for the enemy moving up. Arleigh didn't care if he hit the guy or not. 'Damnit, I need an evac.' The radio squawked.
"Delta Five-One, this is Halo One-One. We'll do it. Over."
Rivera just stared at the handset for a second. Bullets whizzed by his head, but he didn't seem to notice. 'Christ, those two are insane.' "Halo One-One, roger that! It's goddamn hot down here, we'll try to give you all the covering fire we can. This needs to be done real quick. Over."
"We know, Five-One. Can't stay long. We'll set down in the rear of your position. Be ready when we get there. Over."
"Roger that, One-One! We will be!" Just then, another voice cut in on the line.
"Delta Five-One and Halo One-One, this is Sierra Flight. Be advised, we'll provide covering fire for you. We'll make cannon passes along the front and side of your position, Delta, to cover you, Halo." The Air Force flight of two F-15E Strike Eagles had just lifted off from the airport and were headed towards the field.
"This is Crossbow Flight, we're inbound, too. We'll draw fire along the road. Suppress with rockets and chain gun." Crossbow was a flight of Marine Cobra gunships inbound from the airport. "Anything for a fellow Marine. Ooh-rah!"
"Much obliged, Sierra and Crossbow, much obliged. Okay, let's do this, Delta." Goodman goosed the MH-6 Little Bird forward. "What do ya say, Barry? Think the old girl can survive another trip into that hell hole?"
"Better hope so, or that guy is gonna die." The Chief Warrant Officer pulled back on the M240's charging handle, chambering the next belt.
"I meant us, Barry," Goodman replied, blacking out the chopper once again as it approached the field.
"Yeah, I know. But we have to do this." Polley unlatched himself from the safety harness. As soon as they landed, he'd jump out and assist loading the wounded soldier.
"Affirmative." Goodman dove to the deck and skimmed along the rooflines. He could see the battle still raging far ahead. Naval artillery bombarded the field while the choppers and fighters hung back, awaiting the extraction of the wounded Marine. "Sierra Flight and Crossbow Flight, this is Halo One-One. We're on final approach to Delta's position. Are you ready? Over."
The fighter pilots and chopper pilots came back loud and clear. "You just say the word and we'll start our run, Halo. Over."
"Okay, one mike (minute) out. One mike out. You ready, Delta?"
"Roger that! Let's do this!" Rivera dropped the handset and his rifle. He scuttled over to Johnson and Antonelli. "Okay, Halo's going to try an extraction. You stay here and man the line; I'm going to get him to the chopper. Got it?"
Antonelli picked up the M-16A2 by his feet. "Yes, Lieutenant!" He crawled back to the crest to fight, all the while saying a prayer for Johnson. 'Come on buddy, you can do it. Just hang on.'
"Miller, get over here! Hold up his IV packet! Just keep your head down and as soon as we get him inside the chopper, you run like all hell back to the position! You got me, soldier?"
"Yes, sir!" The Private, First Class scampered over and took hold of the IV canister.
Sergeant Adams turned around. "Let me take him, sir!"
"Negative, Adams. I'm taking him. You keep on firing!" Rivera got his arms under Johnson's body and lifted him up, while still trying to keep a low profile for the enemy troops firing at the position.
"Damnit, he's a Marine, sir! He's my responsibility! He's in my fireteam!" Adams pleaded with Rivera.
"I don't have time for this shit, Sergeant! Fire your weapon!" Rivera heard the chopper before he saw it. The black shape of the MH-6 began to settle into the field as the surroundings exploded. As one last naval artillery salvo fell the Air Force fighters began shredding the field with cannon fire as they dived in from over a thousand feet. The Marine choppers began tearing up the roadway and front portions of the field with rockets and cannon fire.
Halo One-One landed some twenty meters out behind the lip of the crest on uneven terrain. It began tilting to the right, so Goodman had to lift it up a little. "Shit! Got to keep her steady!"
Rivera jumped up and began running towards the chopper with Johnson in his arms and Miller by his side. It was the quickest twenty meters in his life. Before he knew it, he was beside the chopper. Polley had already jumped out and was in back, ready to receive Johnson.
"Here! Let me take him!" screamed Polley over the rotor wash.
Rivera shoved Johnson, a little too forcefully, into the chopper. Just as he did, Miller got hit in the back by an RPK machine gun round. Miller screamed out in pain. Polley was knocked over from the force of Miller being flung forward.
Goodman turned around in his seat quickly. "What the hell's going on? Come on, damnit! We're taking heavy fire!" Bullets pinged off the frame as he fought to keep the chopper steady.
As Polley regained his senses, he saw Rivera shoving Miller into the chopper along with Johnson. He banged his fist on Goodman's seat. "Get us the hell out of here!" He lunged forward, grabbing Miller by the seat of his pants and held on for dear life. The MH-6 jumped into the sky and sped off into the night sky, tracers reaching up at it. As they flew, Polley prayed that he wasn't crushing Johnson underneath the two other bodies. Carefully, he let go of Miller with one hand and felt for Johnson's neck. There was still a very faint pulse. 'Please dear God, don't let these boys die, please, God. Not today...'
Back at the field, Rivera sprinted into the position and dove for his rifle. Now the team was down to five men. "Keep firing! Keep firing!" The remaining two flights of choppers tried to maximize their time over the target area. The AH-6 Little Birds and AH-64 Apaches made pass after pass with rockets and cannon.
Each man remaining in the position fought for their life. As the fire died down, Rivera quickly reorganized the defense. With two men down, he had to shift everyone to fire in certain areas. "Okay, everyone has 72 degrees of the circle. We have to hold until either ground support arrives in late morning or we can exfiltrate the area. Everyone, I need your 110% out here right now. We've lost two men already, we can't afford to lose any more."
"Sir?" Sergeant, First Class Ryker Al Ryker spoke up. "Sir, we have to get out of here. We can't stay any longer." Ryker held the artillery net handset in his left hand, and his M4A1 in the other. "This place is death. We've been lucky to survive until now."
"I know that, Al." Rivera didn't even flinch as an artillery shell from the Chancy landed close to the team's position. He looked at his watch. "It'll be dawn in less than an hour." Thinking things over, and taking a quick mental inventory, he decided what the team should do. "Before first light, we're pulling back. We'll egress back to Bokuto station. It's two kilometers. I figure that with what we've faced tonight, and what Bokuto is probably facing right now, it'll take us two hours to get back safely."
"Risky," was all Adams could say. "Risky, but I don't think there is anything else we can do. We have to go."
"Right. Anyone else got an idea?" No one answered. "Okay, that's it. Here's what we'll do." He looked at his watch again. "In twenty minutes it'll be 0500 hours. At that time, we're going to envelope the position with as many smoke grenades as we can. Then under an air attack, we'll slip out. Our primary route is going to take us parallel to the canal. There's an alley that runs parallel to it for about 600 meters according to this map. We take as much as we can. Take the machine guns. Adams, you're now our second machine gunner. Raid Johnson's and Miller's packs for anything important. If you think it's important, take it. I don't want to leave behind anything that could aid the enemy. Take ammo, take maps, take claymores, take strobes, night-vision goggles, supposing any of them work." During the fight, most of the goggles had been rendered useless by shrapnel or bullets, anyway. "Take grenades, radio batteries, medical supplies, whatever. Fill your packs to the brim. Attach it to your person. If you can't carry it, leave it here. We'll blow as much of it as possible with what C4 we have left."
The team set to work preparing to move out. While Ryker and Antonelli raided the extra rucksacks, Rivera called in the team's plan to move out. Adams and Chavez provided cover with the machine guns, sending out random bursts to keep the enemy at bay. Since the last air attacks, the enemy had done little except the occasional burst of fire or moron charging with a bayonet alone. At 0455 hours, everything was set. The useless goggles, extra strobes, and claymores were all dumped into the grenade sump along with Adams' entire remaining supply of C4 plastic explosives. With the fuse set, the team was ready to roll.
"Okay, everyone ready?" Rivera got four confirmations. "Well, here goes a whole lot of nothing." He grabbed the handset from the radio on his back. With Miller evacuated, Arleigh was he own radioman now. He usually carried his own radio when he was an infantry commander, anyway, so it was easy for him to revert to it. "This is Delta Five-One. We're ready to haul ass."
"Roger that Delta. Crossbow, Comet, Sierra, and Romeo Flights beginning their attack runs now." Romeo flight was the F-16 flight that had arrived on station earlier.
"On five, everyone toss a smoke." Rivera counted to five, pulled the pin, and tossed a smoke grenade. A rainbow of white, red, green, yellow, and blue smoke formed from the five grenades. Another salvo contained two whites, a red, and two greens. A third salvo was two whites, and three blues. The entire field was a FUBAR of smoke, as Crossbow Three-Three described it over the air support frequency. "Delta team, move out."
Ryker and Rivera covered the team, tossing grenades back into the field. Sending Ryker back with the team, Rivera made one last look around the position. Some enemy bullets fired blindly zipped by, but they were all wide. Right before leaving, the Delta Force First Lieutenant reached into the grenade sump and turned on the timer on the C4. He had one minute to clear the area. Arleigh ran for dear life across the smoky field, stumbling across bodies of terrorists and SDF personnel. Behind him came the crashing explosions of rockets from helicopter gunships. Just as he reached the edge of the field by the canal, he heard the C4 detonate, destroying the last of their equipment. Once he reached the canal, he looked around. The rest of his team was no where in sight. He carefully and silently stalked down the edge of the canal in the early morning light. 'Where the hell are they?' he thought.
At Tokyo Airport, the MH-6 known as Halo One-One settled down. Medical personnel raced out to the chopper with stretchers. They quickly loaded the two faintly alive soldiers up and quickly moved them to a makeshift hospital in the hangar. A Delta Force surgeon and two Navy doctors were already prepared for surgery. With any luck, Marine Lance Corporal Casey Jones and Army Private, First Class Mark Miller would live.
Polley slid out of the rear of the chopper. Blood stained his flight suit as well as the cargo compartment.
Goodman was in the cockpit checking the chopper's systems when the warning lights all went off at the same time. He tried to engage the rotor brake, but it wouldn't work. "Holy shit! Barry! Run, damnit! Just get away from her, now!" Chief Warrant Officer Hank Goodman unlatched his belt and vaulted out of the chopper. He ran around, grabbed Barry Polley, and the two sprinted away. The chopper's main rotor began to smoke and rotate violently. Pieces of the rotor assembly flew off. The two pilots dove into a ditch on the side of the helipad. The rotor finally seized against the airframe and came to a halt. Emergency fire crews raced out to the chopper as the two 160th Special-Operations-Aviation-Regiment pilots peered over the edge of the helipad.
"Well, that was interesting," quipped Hank.
"Uh, yeah." Barry rubbed his face as the fire crew began spraying foam on the MH-6. "Guess that's the end of that."
The tail-boom fell off the chopper, only confirming his statement.
"Wow. We flew in that thing?"
A hand reached out and pulled him into a dark corner. With a knife thrust against his neck, all he could say was, "Goddamnit, Ryker. Never, ever do that again. Ever."
"Nice to see you too, Sir."
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