"Yeah, well I f.u.c.ked your mother."

"I f.u.c.kedyour mother which is how you got born. But thegood part dribbled down her leg."

"I'm older than you, you jacka.s.s. How does that work? You f.u.c.k her before you were born? I, on the other hand, reallydid f.u.c.k your mother. And she was loose from other men."

"Oh, f.u.c.k you. How do you c.o.c.k this thing?"

"You have to have a c.o.c.k, first."

"I'm serious."

"Father of All, you never listen, do you? Fifty-seven years I've been watching you pay attention only to your own bellowings and I'm about sick of it..."

"Oh...go to Hel! And tell me how toc.o.c.k this f.u.c.king thing, smart a.s.s! We're nearly there!"

Sayeed crouched behind a pile of bodies. They had nearly made it. But only nearly. The mortars had stopped too soon. The men had been too slow. Again, as they got close enough to throw rocks at them, the Keldara had opened up with a withering fire. How so many could be alive after the pounding of the mortars he couldn't imagine.

He lay p.r.o.ne, using the bodies for cover, and looked through the gap between the chest and mostly exploded head of one of the dead fedayeen. He would fire if he saw a good target. Otherwise, he was going to wait for Sadim's Brigade to finish off these Keldara f.u.c.kers before he was moving again.

Kiril threw his last two boxes of SAW ammo onto the ammo step and slid in a belt. He had a total of four but he wasn't going to bother belting them up. The next Chechen wave was already less than seven hundred meters away. This one wasn't just charging, either. Oh, they were running, but they were using fire and maneuver, running forward to cover then dropping and firing up the hill to cover the next group.

He ducked as rounds impacted his position then took a long swig from his camelbak. Ammo, Liquids...

d.a.m.n. It was in English and he still was struggling with that. And he didn't f.u.c.king care anymore. The only thing that mattered was ammo. He just wanted to see which ran out first, his ammunition or the f.u.c.king Chechens. When the ammo ran out, he was going to climb out of this f.u.c.king trench and take them the axe until theoceans ran with blood...

"Tiger Three."

"Go,"Adams said, taking a swig from his camelbak and breaking down his M4 by feel. It had started to get "hinky" on him in the last fight. Not jamming just... hinky. Probably the gas tube was getting fouled; he'd put a bunch of rounds through the d.a.m.ned thing.

"The next group, engage with the 60s," Mike said. "But not until I say. And tell Shota to stand by."

"Roger."

"How's Oleg?"

Adamslooked over at the Team Leader. He was discussing ammo crossloading with Dmitri. There was a big red rag over his stump. Every now and then he'd wince then go on talking as if nothing had happened.

"Great."

"Make sure that there's plenty of rounds for the 60s. Belt them together and when the time comes make sure the gunners know to just go to full scale rock and roll."

"Mike, that's going to burn the f.u.c.king barrels and we don't have any spares."

"It won't. Trust me. If we're still fighting afterthat long, we're not going to care."

"Jessia, Mother Lenka is at the gap. Go to white phosphorus now."

"Two gun! White phosphorus, traversing fire! Continuous!"

"Now they fire smoke?" Kamas asked as the white smoke drifted over the trench. Then he screamed as burning white metal fell on his skin and the white smoke started pouring from his shoulder and head.

White phosphorus is a chemical, mostly the metal phosphorus, that, once ignited, is practically impossible to extinguish. It carries its own oxidizer so it needs no oxygen to burn. Water will not quench it nor fire-fighting foam. Flesh, especially, will not put it out.

When it hits flesh, white phosphorus is drawn downward by gravity inexorably. It stops only when it hits bone and even then for mostly mechanical reasons. And it continues to burn. It is a poor killer for it cauterizes the flesh even as it burns it. Deaths from white phosphorus come from mainly mechanical issues, such as when it hits the throat and damages the trachea, or from shock. For white phosphorus is most intensely painful.

Much more common are blinding when it hits eyes, damage to the lungs from inhaling the freshly released smoke, which is extremely hot, and of course horrific scars. And it is frightening. It breaks the will more than it kills.

But for all its military utility, white phosphorus is considered a poor weapon. Steadfast units will take the horrific casualties and continue fighting. It does not, after all,kill . Not well.

The military value of white phosphorus lies mostly in its smoke. The burning metal releases clouds of the stuff. It's not inherently harmful; once it is cooled it can be breathed without serious shortor long-term damage. And created faster smoke than conventional smoke rounds with the added benefit of being, well, horrific.

It was for these dual purposes that most mortar "obscurement" rounds were made of white phosphorus.

The ladies of the Keldara had not intended to kill Kamas, they just wanted to blind the unit in a cloud of white.

Of course, burning a f.u.c.king Chechen was always a good thing. Blinding one, in truth, was even better.

Burning off b.a.l.l.s would be happy making.

The Keldara mortar womenloved white phosphorus.

Haza looked down the zigzag trench as more of the Chechens began screaming in pain. Many were already dead or severely wounded from the terribly accurate mortar fire; most of the fire had been dropping rightin the trenchline. He couldhear the f.u.c.kers; they were close. But the way that sound echoed in this d.a.m.ned pa.s.s, he couldn't place where the fire was coming from. It could be anywhere.

But he knew what the white phosphorus meant.

"Get up!" he screamed, lifting himself to the lip of the trench. "Get up! They are coming!"

He didn't know who was coming, he wasn't sure what direction they were comingfrom . But smoke only meant one thing. The infantry would be right behind.

Mahmud fired at the shape of a helmet behind a pile of bodies then darted forward as the group ahead of him went to ground to provide covering fire.

There wasn't much in the way of cover on this slope. He could see where rocks had been pried out of the ground and even the remnant of sticks that had been range markers. The defenses were well prepared which just made this a.s.sault that much more idiotic.

Sho'ad was running beside him, as he'd been instructed, yelling as much as the thin air would permit and firing his AK in long, unaimed bursts. Mahmud considered telling the young idiot to conserve his ammunition then decided he didn't have the air or the care. He'd started the same way, screaming and running at the enemy, firing bullets everywhere but at the enemy. If he lived, the young idiot would learn.

Mahmud sensed rather than saw the rounds and dropped to his face, lying behind a convenient body, as bullets, sharp sounding, probably 5.56 from the enemy's squad automatic weapons, ripped overhead. He heard the thud of the bullets. .h.i.tting something and then the thud of a body hitting beside him.

Looking to his right he shrugged. Sho'ad wasn't going to be learning anything.

He reached over and took one of the dead idiot's magazines. He was going to need the ammo and Sho'ad sure as h.e.l.l didn't.

Kiril fired a burst at one of the Chechens but the guy dropped before he could have hit him. However, his partner was still on his feet, screaming at the Keldara lines and spraying and praying. Kiril fired a burst into his chest and sent him to Allah as he wished.

He tracked right and continued to fire at the charging fedayeen. They were getting close. On the other hand, they were starting to bunch up and the careful fire and maneuver that they'd used on the lower slopes was breaking up as the a.s.sault dissolved into a human wave charge.

That was fine by Kiril. More Islamic f.u.c.kers to send to Allah. More souls for his Death Guard. Souls to share with his love...

Mahmud could hear the SAW even over the rest of the firing. It was firing in precise bursts. These Keldara might be ghosts to the local kids, but they were alsogood .

However, he could also tell, by the sound, when the machine-gun tracked away from him. The note of the firing changed, became more muted, when it wasn't pointed directly at him.

He rolled up to one elbow and pointed towards the sound. He saw the SAW gunner immediately, just the shape of a helmet and an arm behind the weapon. But he was less than fifty yards away. Easy shot...

Kiril couldn't understand how he'd gotten into the bottom of the position. He could see his SAW above him, still hanging onto the edge of the position by its bipod feet. It was hanging down, though, not being fired. It had to be fired. It should be served.

Above him he could see birds. Ravens. Circling above the battlefield. The eyes of the Father in a red sky.

"Gretchen...?"

Mike was firing, now, hunkered down against the right-hand side of the opening to the bunker. They were individual, aimed shots at the Chechens that wereat the f.u.c.king trenchline. Some of them were jumping it, heading for the bunker.

He saw one of the fedayeen jump the trenchline, a young guy, screaming at the top of his lungs and pulling frantically on the trigger of an empty weapon. The image was there but it was filed away in some corner that wasn't in the present reality. The only present was the two rounds he put right into the screaming mouth and the automatic part that told him the tango was serviced, sir, you can move on.

Another part of his brain was waiting for something. He couldn't describe it but it was like art: he would know it when it happened. Battles don't just go to the best or the most numerous. Most battles in history had gone to the side that just held out the longest. The side that just refused to quit. The side that you could wipe out but would refuse to f.u.c.king quit. The side that committed its reserve the last. Who dares, wins.

Mikefelt it, even as his earphone crackled.

"Kildar. They have committed their reserve."

"Adams! 60s!"

Sawn looked up and around. Kiril's SAW had stopped firing. Theyneeded that firepower if they were going to hold on.

He stepped back and turned to run down the trench, M4 pointed down in a tactical carry. He could d.a.m.ned well run a SAW if he had to.

Mahmud darted forward and jumped into the empty SAW position. They would have to clear the trenchline and from where he was it made most sense to move to his right.

He ignored the weapon - it would be picked up after the battle - and turned right, holding his AK forward and ready to strike. He had fought in trenches before and knew that an enemy could appear at any time. The thing to do was to move forward, fast. Strike with the barrel or the b.u.t.t. Fire when sight-lines made it possible but most of all move forwardfast . Take the positions still trying to defend from behind.

The direct line on this trench was about four meters to a turn. He hurried that way and, at the turn, almost ran smack into one of the Keldara who was running down the trench. He had probably noticed the SAW was out of action and was going to see why.

Mahmud clutched at his trigger and fired three rounds, point blank, into the man's chest.

Sawn grunted in surprise as the rounds. .h.i.t him then struck out, a trained and reflexive reaction, the barrel of his M4 striking the AK upwards and to the right. He followed in with the b.u.t.t of the weapon, smashing the fedayeen in the chest and knocking him backwards. The M4 was bent by the combined blows so he dropped it as his hand dropped to his belt, ripping out his axe as he darted forward.

The Islamic raised the AK, either in defense or to fire, but Sawn's axe cut down in a lightning strike, sliding along the barrel and taking the man's fingers off his left hand. A second blow laid open his head.

Sawn fell to his knees, suddenly feeling weak. Just combat reaction, he was sure. He had been trained in this, had read the book on it. The sympathetic nervous system, the part that controlled direct action in the human body, went into full overdrive during intense moments of combat. When they pa.s.sed, the parasympathetic nervous system, the part that was in charge during sleep and ran all the automatic systems, came back with a vengeance. You felt weak and nauseous. Your hands shook. You wanted to sleep.

The briefing had never covered being cold...though. And he couldn't understand where the flood of bright red pouring out of the bottom of his body armor had come from...

Adamsslammed the b.u.t.t of his M4 into the back of one of the fedayeen's head and watched it buckle.

The headand the b.u.t.t. f.u.c.king M-16 series weapons werelousy for close combat!

"Adams! 60s!"

f.u.c.k! They were down to hand to hand in the f.u.c.kingtrenches . How in the f.u.c.k did Mike expect him to get the f.u.c.kingmachine-gun into action.

Oleg, though, had heard the call. He left his axe in the face of the Chechen he had just killed and picked up the 60 off the ground where it had been hidden. Another Chechen tumbled into the pit but he ignored the fedayeen as he c.o.c.ked the weapon.

Adamswasn't about to let Oleg outdo him. Stopping only to kick the Chechen so hard hismother was gonna bleed, he picked up his own and dropped the bipod into the firing position.

The target view was pure Chechens. So, taking Mike's advice against his better judgment, he pulled back the trigger and started firing continuous.

The M-60 series of weapons was first developed in the 1950s as a replacement for the WWI era .30 caliber machine gun. Air cooled, the series had suffered throughout its existence with many problems. It tended to jam, it overheated quickly and when overheated would tend to "cook off", fire continuously despite releasing the trigger as rounds were heated hot enough to "explode" when they touched the smoking breach. The barrels also tended to heat quickly to the point that they would "droop" and cause an explosion that destroyed the gun. Mixing "cook-off" with "droop" was a sure recipe for disaster.

The Army had eventually replaced the venerable M-60 with the M240 series manufactured by the Belgian firm of Fabrique Nationale. Machine-gunners throughout the Army and various other users had breathed a sigh of relief because while the M240 had its problems, it was head and shoulders above the The M-60E4 was the manufacturers attempt to regain that vast market it had lost. Besides various improvements to make the gun more reliable, overall, they had paid tremendous attention to barrel and breach design, using a series of new materials to improve barrel life, barrel strength and cooling.

Adamsknew, from too much experience, the sound, the smell, thefeel of an M-60 that had been overworked. And he knew right when thatfeel should start. He knew he should be firing in short, controlled, bursts. But...d.a.m.n there were just toomany of the f.u.c.kers. The 7.62 rounds were dropping them in windrows, but there were stillmore ! He knew he had to let up on the trigger, that the f.u.c.king 60 was going to overheat, cook-off, jam, f.u.c.king blow the f.u.c.k up at any moment. But if he stopped firing the f.u.c.king Chechens were going tooverrun them. As it was, his 60, Oleg's and the two with Vil and Sawn had stopped them, b.u.t.t cold. To even fire in bursts would mean they could move forward, maneuver, something. He had to keep firing, just holding the f.u.c.king trigger down. It was the only way to stop the a.s.sault!

And the funny thing was... the f.u.c.ker was still rocking! He could feel it. Like driving a car, you can feel when the car is at its maximum, when you'd pushed it too far. He had that same sense with a weapon, especially the 60 which he'd had to f.u.c.k with for far too long in the teams. And this f.u.c.ker, this bad boy, it wasn't havingany trouble with continuous f.u.c.king fire! The screaming Islamics were being ripped to f.u.c.king dogmeat by this beautiful f.u.c.king weapon and it wasn't even giving a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned hiccup!

"YEAH!" he screamed. This motherf.u.c.ker was ROCKING AND ROLLING! "EAT HOT LEAD THINLY COATED WITH COPPER YOU ISLAMIC MOTHERf.u.c.kERS!".

The Kildar called it "the money shot."

Sniping is, essentially, just a normal form of infantry combat. The sniper fired at the enemy with a rifle.