sweeping salvos across the American positions. It was a combined barrage of 55 bullets and 11 grenades a second.
OVER in the SEALs' Third Section, the incoming machine-gun rounds pounded hell out of the sandbags, while three rapid grenade detonations tore others apart. Chad Murchison and J. T. Snooker were stunned by the concussion of the explosions, but quickly reacted. They bailed out of their fighting positions and sprinted toward the bunker, diving over the sandbags into the interior. They quickly whipped around to cover their area of fire responsibility from this position, although their angle of fire was drastically cut. But with their cover blown away, they had no choice.
More pounding from the enemy worked its way from both north to south and south to north along the entire American front. The rapidity of the grenade strikes was a nasty surprise, as was the fact that three more fighting positions had been blown to hell in a very short time. Once again several SEALs had to abandon their posts and head for the safety of the bunkers.
The Skipper, still on top of the mountain observing the battle, watched in dismay as the attackers scurried up the slopes to their fortress and disappeared over the defenses to the protection of their trenches. The enemy's heavy covering fire had prevented the Brigands from turning the salvos onto the enemy as they clambered to safety.
The incoming enemy fire suddenly ceased, leaving an eerie silence over the scene.
Brannigan crawled back to the hole and slid in, quickly going down the ladder into the Headquarters bunker. He went outside to check the condition of the detachment personnel and defenses. He gazed around through his NVGs, noting where several fighting positions had been completely destroyed. The sandbags were split and scattered around the immediate area, and the stone walls had been blown apart or had collapsed.
Then Jim Cruiser's voice came over the LASH. 'Skipper, we have a KIA here in the First Section. It's Halonen.'
'And I have a WIA in the Second, sir,' said Orlando Taylor, joining in. 'MacTavish has taken some hits in the face with shrapnel. He's pretty dazed. I dispatched Bernardi to help him over to the corpsman.'
'Okay,' Brannigan said. 'MacTavish is your SAW gunner, isn't he?'
'Affirmative, sir.'
Doc Bradley came over the air. 'I'm on my way back to headquarters to look after MacTavish.'
'He and Bernardi are here now,' the Skipper said. 'They're just walking up.' He turned to the two SEALs. 'Go on to Doc Bradley's place. How're you feeling, MacTavish?'
'I'm alright, sir,' he replied in his North Carolina accent. 'I just got some scratches, so I'll be fine directly.'
'I'm sure you will,' Brannigan said with an encouraging grin. But he noted MacTavish was pretty unsteady on his feet, even with Bernardi's help.
Doc Bradley and Frank Gomez came in together from their shared fighting position. Brannigan nodded to Doc. 'Bernardi took MacTavish into that clinic of yours.'
'On my way, sir,' the hospital corpsman said.
Frank Gomez said, 'We had some direct hits on several of the fighting positions, sir.
It looks like we'll be doing some rebuilding.'
'That goes without saying,' Brannigan said. 'You might as well go back to your position until daylight. I want a hundred percent alert until the sun comes up. Then get back here--I'll have some transmissions ready for you. We'll have Halonen flown out. And we might have a medevac for MacTavish.'
Bernardi reappeared from Doc Bradley's clinic, hurrying as he left the bunker to rejoin the Second Assault Section. Brannigan looked out over no-man's-land at the enemy positions. They seemed abandoned in the weird view provided by his NVGs. He took the binocular and made a slow sweep of the place. The Iranians and their Arab buddies were staying under cover. He replaced the device in its case, speaking into the LASH. 'Section commanders, report!'
'First Section one man KIA, sir.'
'Second Section one man WIA, sir.'
'Third Section all present and accounted for, sir.'
'Fire Support all present and accounted for, sir.'
'Okay,' Brannigan said. 'Stay where you are. Make sure any of your guys who had their fighting positions blown to hell have good cover. Those bastards might start shooting again.'
Doc Bradley appeared at his side. 'Sir, MacTavish will be in pretty good shape in a couple of days, but we have to medevac him. He wasn't hit by shrapnel; it was by rocks and dirt. I cleaned him up the best I could, but if he doesn't get to more sophisticated treatment all that debris in his skin is going to result in tattooing. At first he didn't want to go, but I told him what he'd look like if he didn't get all that crap cleaned out of his face. That made him change his mind.'
'I can't say that I blame him,' the Skipper said.
'That's what most guys worry about,' Doc commented. 'They're more afraid of being blinded or disfigured than getting killed.'
.
0700 HOURS
ALL the section commanders had reported to the Headquarters bunker for the Skipper's conference, and now sat around drinking MRE coffee, waiting for the meeting to begin. Brannigan was with Gomez, tending to the commo chores; the morning watch was on duty as things returned to normal; and MacTavish sat quietly smoking a cigarette by the bunker entrance with his face completely covered courtesy of Doc Bradley's skillful bandaging.
Brannigan walked up and took a seat with the section commanders. 'Hell of a thing, wasn't it?'
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins took a loud slurp from his canteen cup. 'I sure as the devil hope we ain't facing a dead heat here.'
'Mmm,' Ensign Orlando Taylor said with a nod. 'I am not as experienced as you gentlemen, but it seems to me we could well be entering a frustrating battle of attrition. This operation is going to be won by the side that lasts longer.'
'Before we start considering further consequences, I want to discuss last night's fight,' Brannigan said. 'Besides having a man killed and another wounded, there is something else that's bugging the hell out of me. We had three of our positions completely blown away. We're fortunate we don't have half a dozen casualties.'
'Lucky hits,' Chief Matt Gunnarson remarked.
'What the hell were them grenade launchers they was firing at us?' the senior chief wondered. 'It would be like having a belt-fed Two-oh-three that kept shooting out projectiles as long as the trigger was held down.'
'That's true,' Jim Cruiser said. 'I saw one place where four or five grenades in a row hit close together. From the size of the detonations I'd say they were forty millimeters like the Two-oh-three.'
Orlando Taylor spoke up again. 'During my training I was exposed to two such weapons. One model was from Singapore and the other Spanish. They fired belts as Senior Chief Dawkins just mentioned, and were automatic.'
Brannigan nodded. 'It sounds like something to report to Commander Berringer. He and the rest of intelligence staff can probably figure out what we're up against. Meanwhile, we have to rebuild those damaged positions.'
'It was only those old places that were blown apart,' Cruiser said. 'The ones we built came through the fight in fine fettle.'
'That's strange,' Brannigan commented. 'The ones the Pashtuns made were well built. And camouflaged too.' He was thoughtful for a moment, then exclaimed, 'Just a goddamn minute! Weren't we told that the Arabs on the other side spent some time here?'
'Yes, sir,' Cruiser said. 'And also an Iranian SF officer.'
'Those bastards!' Brannigan said. 'They must've pointed out the exact locations of those old defensive sites to their fire support. They knew exactly where they were. Their weapons support people were already zeroed in on them before the attack even started.'
'Jesus!' Chief Gunnarson exclaimed. 'We should've thought of that.'
