Victory Point - Ed Darack [111]
The buttstock of his M16 planted against his right shoulder, Konnie locked onto one of Shah’s men high on a ridge to his east who was scrambling to reload another RPG round below the dissipating smoke of his last shot. The lieutenant judged the shooter to be about 650 meters distant, out of point-target range of his M16, but nevertheless, if he put enough rounds downrange, something might hit. Right? Get some! Elevating his gun to adjust for range, Konnie aimed through the M16’s iron sights and loosed round after round. Crack! Crack! Crack! Streaks of red marked the trajectory of Konnie’s bullets; like many U.S. Marine Corps platoon commanders, he used a magazine of tracer rounds in the opening shots of a firefight in order to help others orient themselves and get rounds on target. The gun weighed a little less with each burst, until the bolt locked open, indicating his thirty-round magazine was spent. Without looking—without even thinking, for that matter—the lieutenant slapped the ejector button and popped out the empty mag, then slammed another one packed with tracers into the gun’s well, releasing the bolt catch with a flick of his right thumb. The bolt thrust forward, locking another 5.56 mm round into place, and Konnie immediately began firing, alternating between “semi” and three-shot “burst.” The M16 has to be one of the greatest creations humanity has ever developed, he thought, bracing the perfectly balanced weapon against his shoulder. It’s just damned functional art.
Put-sheeew . . . boom! Another RPG exploded, and another—then yet another. Mortars rained down, closer each time. A forward observer for Shah’s mortar team “walked on” the high explosive rounds by relaying fire-adjustment instructions after each impact, zeroing in on the Marines. Shah had clearly added a large number of highly trained, seasoned fighters to his cadre, no doubt the extremists that intel had identified as funneling through Pakistan from throughout the globe. Ahmad Shah’s small army couldn’t have done a better job. That intel had stated that Shah’s band now ranked among the world’s fiercest, best organized, and capable. Now the Marines were experiencing this proficiency firsthand.
But despite their entrenched positions, their skills, their multiple weapons platforms, and their knowledge of these mountains, Shah and his men were attacking United States Marines. And within thirty seconds, the extremist’s cell would experience the infamous and overwhelming force and fury of a United States Marine Corps unit under attack—giving it right back, in spades. The Marines had proven themselves to be the fiercest, most effective fighting force in the history of warfare.
The Operation Whalers chapter of this tradition now opened.
Lance Corporal Dustin Epperly had left his flak jacket, with thirteen full mags of 5.56 mm attached to it, on the ground near the spot onto which Konnie had dropped and started firing. Convenient, thought the lieutenant. Now where the fuck is Epperly? Konnie called for Lance Corporal Karsten Machado.
“Yes sir!” the lance corporal barked as he finished off another of his magazines.
“Where’s your Kevlar?” Konnie asked.
“Uh . . .” Machado gave Konnie the “what you looking at me for?” look. “Where’s yours, sir?” he asked back.
“Right here next to Epperly’s flak and all his rounds that I’m about to send downrange on these motherfuckers.” Konnie picked up his helmet and tossed it the three odd feet to Machado. “Now get back to what you were doin’, Machado. And keep up that good work, Marine.”
“Oorah! Sir!” Konnie continued to do his part to saturate ridges to the east, north, and southeast with rounds, courtesy of Epperly’s well-placed, ammo-adorned flak jacket.
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