Victory Point - Ed Darack [110]
“Roger that,” Crisp responded before turning toward his Marines, “Okay, Devil Dogs! Rest up—without your gear on—but keep the fuck in a covered position.” Pondering the troops’ upcoming noon movement into the unknown terrain looming above, he glanced at his watch: a few seconds past 9:00 A.M. The staff sergeant peered through the morning quiet, visualizing fighters lurking in the terrain above, watching his platoon through binoculars, readying RPGs, PK machine guns, AK-47s—fighters who knew how to melt into this raw, unforgiving landscape, who were motivated and skilled, who had experience organizing and executing complex and well-coordinated ambushes. He didn’t care that intel had suggested that the Korangal was the likeliest location for a showdown. They could attack from anywhere. Like the others, Crisp had been worn down—but his flak and Kevlar would never come off. He couldn’t see any immediate threat, but that didn’t mean the enemy wasn’t out there, somewhere.
“Konnie! Get over here!” Captain Grissom ordered the young lieutenant—who, like his Marines had been told, had dropped his body armor and Kevlar helmet—to see him for a face-to-face discussion. Konnie knew that he’d be grilled about having the Marines keep their gear donned; he could tell by Grissom’s stare that he was pissed. But the discussion would have to wait for another time. As the lieutenant took his first step toward the peeved captain, the very worst of Crisp’s premonitions exploded into reality: the ridgelines surrounding Fox-3 erupted in a maelstrom of machine-gun and RPG fire, focused expertly on Fox-3’s position. So it would be the Chowkay, Konnie realized.
Rounds began to split tree branches and ping off rocks. Konnie could hear the heavy 7.62 × 54 mm PKM machine-gun rounds whizzing just feet above him; then came the frightful crack that rounds passing just inches from one’s head leave in their wake. RPG explosions encircled the Marines. Blasts of impacting 82 mm mortar shells came next, bursting in massive yellow-and-black-smoke fireballs, turning rocks into dust, splintering trees, smashing the morning air with earsplitting concussions. Konnie might not have had his body armor on, but he, like all Marines, was never without his weapon. Overwhelming fire superiority. Rounds downrange! The muzzle of Konnie’s M16A4 sprang to his right eye’s level with a flick of his wrist as he dropped to the ground in the “Marine Corps sitting position.” Does anyone really shoot from this position? he wondered, laughing to himself. He’d been taught to assume this position in TBS, but he’d never heard of anyone in a firefight really shooting from it. Holy shit! I’m in a fucking firefight, and doing it sitting Indian style—with no flak or Kevlar! he thought. His ass hit the ground as his thumb flicked the selector to semi on his condition-1 weapon. Well-placed shots! But where to shoot? Wherever those rounds are coming from, that’s where, Konnie thought. Everywhere. They’re coming from everywhere atop the surrounding ridges!
Put-sheeew . . . boom! As the distinctive, bloodcurdling screech of a launched RPG connecting with a target rocked Konnie’s eardrums and sent a flash of heat to his right cheek and head, he spotted the point of origin of the launcher, a puff of rising white smoke. The lieutenant quickly realized that Shah’s force had set up an L-shaped attack, with a line of men to the east, on the southwest side of Cheshane Tupay, and another to the Marines’ north, from a ridge on a mountain named Lamkandah Sar, which defined the very upper limits of the Chowkay. Crisp, too, immediately oriented himself