Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [66]
Each breath was a blast of frost shooting straight into Falco’s lungs. He knew he’d suffer frostbite on his face in a few minutes if he didn’t protect his skin, but that was the least of his problems. He crawled to a vantage point between a couple of square-topped rocks and snapped another full magazine, his second to last, into his G15. The pursuers were fanning out as they moved down the crest, and at the last second he lowered his carbine and picked up the Mark 30 Hammer rifle.
At less than 200 meters’ range there was no way he could miss, and in rapid succession he squeezed off six rounds, killing or wounding an equal number of the enemy. LaRue snapped off controlled bursts, the 6.8-mm slugs churning the snow around the pursuing soldiers, dropping several of them onto their faces. The SEALS could see several places where the pristine white snow was being stained a shocking bright red.
They heard it before they saw it: a grinding engine, treads crunching the snow. It loomed suddenly on the crest of the ridge like some arctic-equipped Abrams tank, rumbling up the crest and immediately toppling over to descend the near slope. Snow flew from the churning treads as the second snow tank came into view, veering and juking wildly to present a difficult target. The barrel in a low, flat turret was aimed toward the SEALS’ position, and it immediately spit a gout of flame. A high-explosive round smashed into the rocks before them, sending both men tumbling backward.
“Looks like you got your wish,” Falco said bitterly, climbing to his feet, “You had to hope they had tanks, didn’t you?”
LaRue didn’t reply as he was busily prepping Baby for more action. Certain he was ready, the big man stood up, lifting his huge, powerful weapon to his shoulder and aiming over the rocks toward the roaring snow machine. Stifling a curse, Falco rolled farther away from the backblast zone, still cradling his long rifle. Rising to a kneeling position, he aimed and shot, aimed and shot, successfully driving the accompanying infantry onto the ground again.
The tank and the rail gun fired, apparently at the same time. LaRue’s aim was true as he matched his other successful shot, the round penetrating the front air intake of the snow tank and incinerating the guts of the engine and fuel line. The tank’s round, meanwhile, crackled overhead with a sonic boom that knocked both SEALS flat. The shell itself, fortunately, passed a hundred meters beyond them to explode against the wall of the canyon.
They didn’t need to look to know that the infantry still was coming on: Rounds spattered all around them, chipping away at the rocks, speeding past in whining ricochets. Once more they crouched low and started to run, keeping the clump of rocks between themselves and their pursuers as much as possible. Here, in the very shadow of the canyon wall, they found that the ground was surprisingly clear of drifted snow, and they were able to make good time, sprinting away from their pursuers. The canyon favored them with a gradual bend to the right, and within a few dozen steps they had advanced around the curve to the point where they no longer could be seen by the shooters arrayed on the ridge and around the burning snow tank.
But both men were gasping for breath now, staggering with exhaustion and shock. Falco’s lungs were raw, and the water vapor from his breath had formed a layer of frost around his nose and mouth. He blinked and had to work to snap his eyelids shut as they were becoming frozen in place. Stumbling,