We are five minutes out from the objective when the radios suddenly come alive with intelligence updates. There are more fighters at the target building than originally reported and evidence surfacing of two machine gun nests preparing for our arrival. Everything has the makings of an ambush. After hearing what is waiting for us, the bird crew chief looks to me and simply asks, “Are we still a go?” I don’t bother to answer him, but lift my rifle, pulling the charging handle and letting it slip out of my fingers. The weapon jolts to life loading a bullet into the barrel and is ready to fire. My men also hear the Intel as they awake. They are not phased as they ready their weapons, saving themselves one step before hitting the ground. No words need to be spoken.
On the ground and in the fight my men and I find ourselves hopelessly outnumbered and pinned down. Sweat pours down my face, blood rushes through my body, and I am terrified. I look to my right and see my medic hovering over one of my boys. His frantic routine slows. I don’t need any more information to know that Pete is gone. I watch him drag the body closer to an alley and out of the way of the battle. There isn’t time to mourn a good man’s death. Right above me a Chinook helicopter making a gun run is banking so hard that the door gunner’s body is almost horizontal to the ground as the chopper turns to avoid small arms fire. Our transport leaves behind a breadcrumb trail of brass and spent casings pouring out of the two machine guns. Another helicopter roars overhead and this time it is so low that it shatters the glass of the second and third story windows of buildings that line the street. The gunners unleash their 20mm canons and the buzz sound causes every enemy fighter to duck for cover giving us a slight reprieve from the bullets directed at us.
The target building is 100 meters to my front. The distance can be covered in about 15 seconds by my men, but in this confrontation those short seconds would be suicide. Instead, I instruct them to focus on the rooftops and the RPK automatic weapons that have spun into the fight. My boys are in pairs, most of them kneel down behind cover with their backs against each other; one faces the target building, while the other scans the rooftops looking for opportunities to present themselves. Without warning the enemy fire from the rooftops suddenly stops. A sharp sting of terror fills my mind. Something is coming. Soldiers are all the same, whether they are from America or Afghanistan. Just as my men would slow to catch a peek at a car wreck, our enemy on this day does the same. Similar to screeching tires and tightening muscles preparing for an inevitable impact, my fear swells. “Lock it up men, fresh magazines,” I sternly call over the radio. The action takes half a second and for these soldiers requires no more thought than swatting a fly.
The massive iron-gate standing guard over the target building creaks in movement and the air fills with the sound of locking weapons as my men turn ready. The gothic ornamentation begins to fall under shadow as the gate swings inward. The screech of metal on metal ends and the gate fully open reveals a dark world within. I hear movement coming from the shadows behind the Great Wall that surrounds the objective, but without visuals I am guessing. A car motor roars to life, followed by the battle cries of countless men from the darkness. “203, now and keep it coming!” I yell to my grenadiers. Almost immediately my need is answered by the metallic thump of grenade launchers. Into the emptiness they land and light the cavern with flashbulb intensity. The battle cries die and are replaced by panicked shrieks of pain. “Hit them again,” I respond without emotion. More comforting thumps follow, but this time there are no screams of panic, just the growing thunderous call for battle from within their keep. I fight the fear in my voice and launch a warning, “Get ready boys, here they come.”
Eye deep in my scope, finger sliding into my trigger, one last breath, maybe one of my last, and it begins. Into the sun a truck bolts out of the darkness heading right at us. Two men stand in the bed of the truck. The rocket propelled grenades they hold fire simultaneously. One screams over my head while the other finds its way to a car and explodes. Two of my men hiding behind the vehicle fall away onto their backs trying to escape the inferno. Nova moves just in time, but Olson is engulfed in flames, his hands clawing at burning eyes. He rolls and flails wildly as Nova dives onto his friend trying to smother the blaze. The last thing I see before turning back to the battle is Nova fighting to remove Olson’s helmet. I attempt to block out the man’s screams, but his pain cuts through the gunfire to the deepest part of me.
