THE sudden silence caused the buzzing in the men's ears to intensify. The incoming from the enemy mortars had suddenly ceased, leaving the SEALs with concussion headaches to go along with the discomfort of their punished eardrums. Then new sounds erupted from skyward. Three helicopters came in at an altitude that would take them a couple of hundred feet above the ridge top. This aerial attack was obviously coordinated with the mortar barrage.
The aircraft were in a tight echelon right formation, and as soon as the first passed over the SEAL positions, the gunner in the front cockpit cut loose with the 12.7-millimeter heavy machine gun, pounding the SEAL positions with slugs. Within a beat his two buddies joined him.
Dozens of large steel bullets smacked into the shell-pocked ground, ricocheting off boulders with angry whines. Like the shrapnel from the mortars, these smaller projectiles ripped into sandbags, making the dirt within spurt out in dusty gushes. The SEALs had no choice but to maintain their crouching positions with heads down. The choppers pulled away and turned for a second run. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins took a chance for a quick look to the east. He ducked back down and got on the PRC-112.
'Skipper, this is Bravo,' he said. 'They's a shitpot full of them ragheads coming over the top of East Ridge! The sumbitches is headed right for us and they's spaced out proper as skirmishes. These ain't crazy-ass suicide shitheels. Them bastards is coming on like proper soldiers!'
'Roger,' Brannigan said. He and his men were caught in a classic situation of being pinned down flat while the enemy maneuvered to close with them. The next time he took the platoon on a mission, he Was going to make sure there were at least a couple of Stingers in their arsenal to handle aerial assaults.
If there was a next time.
Once more the trio of Mi-24s began their attack in nose-down positions to give the gunners the best view of the target area. They swept in, firing sweeping salvos that once more splattered the ridge top. Kevin Albee of Charlie Fire Team looked up through his camouflage netting just as the second passed over his position. He impetuously stood up and cut loose at the departing Hind with his CAR-15 on full-auto. The range was less than fifty yards, and the 5.56 slugs bit into the old aircraft, punching into the engine and transmission behind the pilot. The helicopter veered off to the right and dove downward on the west side of the ridge, hitting the steep terrain and exploding.
Kevin had no time to see the result of his quick shooting. The third chopper's gunner gave a long burst that hit the SEAL in the back, slamming him with the intensity of a dozen sledgehammers. Kevin was kicked forward, falling half in and half out of his fighting hole.
'Corpsman!' Lieutenant Jim Cruiser said over his LASH system. 'Albee's down!'
James Bradley leaped up and rushed toward the Charlies' positions, taking no notice that the two surviving helicopters had pulled away. He stopped at the hole, kneeling down to examine the casualty. The 12.7-millimeter slugs had done their worst. Kevin was raw, bleeding hamburger between his neck and waist. The hospital corpsman looked up as Cruiser joined him. 'He's dead, sir.'
'Fuck!' Cruiser said. 'A good kid. Man! A good fucking kid. He got himself killed to destroy an enemy aircraft.' He got on the LASH. 'Skipper, one of the choppers is down, but we've lost Kevin Albee. He shot the son of a bitch out of the sky.'
'Are you under ground attack on that side?' Brannigan asked.
'Negative, sir.'
'All right,' Brannigan said. 'Get back to your position, but first tell Bradley and Chief Gunnarson to get their asses over here. We're about to engage what looks like a two-company force!'
'Aye, sir.'
'I'm real sorry about Albee, Jim.' 'We all are, sir.'
.
0730 HOURS LOCAL
CHIEF Matt Gunnarson and James Bradley were both loaded down with bandoleers and grenades, and they rushed to the First Squad's perimeter, sounding like a couple of pack horses. The two members of Delta Fire Team took a couple of auxiliary fighting positions that flanked those of Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz.
'Glad to see you,' Mike said to James. He pointed below. 'Take a look.'
James glanced in the indicated direction and could see mujahideen skirmishers moving steadily up the slope toward them. These men were not shrieking zealots engaged in a running suicide charge. They moved carefully under the command of squad leaders as they took advantage of all the cover and concealment offered by the rugged terrain:
James studied them, and commented, 'They're still out of range, aren't they?'
'Yeah,' Mike said, 'And I kind of wish they'd stay that way.'
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan was over on the left side of the line, between Frank Gomez and Mike Assad. He had taken time to figure out what routes the different attack elements of the mujahideen were taking in their approach toward the top of the ridge. Now he spoke into the LASH. 'Mortar Crew, we need some rounds dropped on the eastern slope. It's minimum range, so your tube is going to be almost vertical. Fire one round for effect.'
In less than thirty seconds the sound of a sharp 'crump' came from the mortar position: A couple of beats passed, then an explosion came from below. Brannigan liked what he saw. 'Give 'em two dozen more.'
Now Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi went to work.
.
WARLORD KHAMAMI'S CP
EAST RIDGE
0745 HOURS LOCAL
WARLORD Hassan Khamami held the Soviet Army polevoi binoculars to his eyes as he watched his troops make their way up the side of the mountain opposite his CP. Several moments before, he had received an oral report via radio of the skeletal remains of Ayyub Durtami's dead mujahideen that lay scattered across the rocky slope. Such a situation was abhorrent to any Muslim. The dead of the faithful must be properly buried according to the dictates of the Holy Koran. Even the secular Khamami considered this important and respectful to those who died.
Now his radio operator, wearing an R-100 pack radio, spoke up. 'Amir, the chief helicopter pilot has entered the net desiring to speak with you.'
Khamami let the binoculars dangle around his neck by the strap as he took the handset. 'Yes, Captain Sheriwal?'
'Amir!' Mohammed Sheriwal said in his Russian-accented Pashto. 'We have lost the number two Mi-24. It was shot down by the infidels.'
'May they rot in hell for two eternities!' Khamami hissed angrily, using a traditional Pashto curse. 'Do they have Stingers?'
'I don't think so, Amir,' Sheriwal replied. 'It was either a lucky hit from infantry arms or they have an automatic antiaircraft weapon.'
'Ground the other helicopters and do not fly them over the objective,' Khamami said. 'I shall let the ground fighters take care of those interlopers.'
'How goes the battle, Amir?' Sheriwal asked.
'Our men progress upward in a proper, prudent manner,' Khamami said. 'They continue toward a sure victory. I must turn my attention back to the attack.' He gave the handset back to the radio operator, and once more gazed across the valley through the binoculars.
.
MUJAHIDEEN ATTACK FORCE
WEST RIDGE
0750 HOURS LOCAL
THE platoon and section leaders kept in close contact with the men as they moved upward, firing well-aimed volleys toward the area where the infidels were dug in. Mortar shells had been coming slowly but regularly, and caused a few casualties, but the barrage did not amount to much. It was quite evident that the unbelievers had no more than one such support weapon, and it was of a minimum caliber. However, they had managed to slow the assault with accurate drops of shells in key locations.
But now the warlord's fighters were getting closer to the crest of the ridge, and the effect of the small arms
