Victory Point - Ed Darack [113]
“Okay. Sounds good . . .” Einarson responded. Thud! “Ugh!” Einarson gasped as one of Shah’s rounds slammed into his right rib cage, exiting his chest—narrowly missing his heart—but shredding a good chunk of his lung. As Einarson reached up to Konnie, he fell to the ground.
“Einarson! Crawl back behind cover! Get COVER! NOW!” Konnie boomed. Crack! Crack! Crack! The situation became dire within the first salvos of the attack. RPGs and mortars exploded throughout their position, a roar of machine-gun fire deluged them, and now a Marine lay dying. Crack! Crack! Crack! More rounds downrange. “Vargas! Greenfield!” Konnie bellowed. The two Marines had been firing shredding volleys of 7.62 onto Shah’s positions, but the lieutenant needed them to get Einarson into a covered position. “Get your asses over here and take care of Einarson!”
“Roger that, sir!” Sergeant Carlos Vargas responded. Put-sheeew . . . boom! Yet another in an endless shower of RPGs rocketed toward them.
From a large rock about fifteen meters behind Konnie, Vargas and Greenfield emerged, grabbed Einarson, and dragged him to safety. Crack! Crack! Crack! “We need to get on that 240! It’s fuckin’ sittin’ there not doing anything but gettin’ shot at!” Konnie yelled. He had been so wrapped up in scanning the ridges, then making sure that Einarson got to a safe position—and then firing on those ridgelines—that he forgot that he was on the receiving end of machine-gun fire himself. Man . . . I don’t see any clouds, but it’s raining . . . raining all around. Big-ass raindrops, but where are the puddles of water? he wondered.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Oh . . . yeah, I’m getting shot at, not just shooting. Pretty intense now, too. Lots of rounds impacting all around me . . .
“Sir! Sir! SIR!” Vargas screamed at Konnie. “How the fuck you not gettin’ your ass shot off, sir?”
“I don’t know.” Konnie paused for a minute. “I have no idea. Thought for a minute it was raining!” He and Vargas started laughing hysterically.
“You’re fucking crazy, Lieutenant. I mean, damned motherfucking crazy!”
Crack! Crack! Crack!
“You CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER!” Crisp shouted at Konnie, amazed that the lieutenant was still alive, sitting within a hale of impacting rounds, wearing a flopping “boonie cover” in place of his Kevlar helmet. “Git ya ass back behind some cover, Lieutenant! Can’t be getting the commander shot the fuck up!” Crisp then saw Einarson lying in a growing pool of his own blood. Turning to aid the wounded grunt, the staff sergeant slipped and accidentally kneed Einarson in the head. “Damn! You dead? I think I killed you!”
“Am I gonna get the Silver Star?” the lance corporal asked Crisp, shaking off the jolt to his face.
“You ignored my ass this mornin’ when I was tryin’ to keep y’all at least in covered positions without your gear on. You be lucky you don’t get a silver bullet!” Crisp yelled, and Einarson laughed. “Quit ya laughing—and here . . .” Crisp grabbed the lance corporal’s hand and pulled on his index finger. “Shut ya mouth and plug your suckin’ chest wound with ya finger!” Einarson nodded, and did just that. Crisp then saw the Rock, the interpreter, who’d been shot twice in the chest, still standing—open to more of Shah’s rounds. “Get down!” he yelled, then grabbed the ’terp and slammed him to the dirt. “What the fuck? Two holes in your chest not enough?” With the Rock safely on the ground, Crisp turned his attention back to Konnie. “Crazy-ass lieutenant! Get the fuck behind some cover.” Crisp raised his M16 and loosed rounds into Cheshane Tupay’s bulk, which cloaked Shah’s fighters—but not their muzzle flashes. Crack! Crack! “Whachoo doin’, PFC?” Crisp looked down to see one of the platoon’s privates first class crawling under his legs. Crack! Crack! Crack! The staff sergeant continued to put rounds downrange.
“AAHHH! I’m hit! I’m hit!” the PFC shrieked.
Crisp knelt down next to the teenage Marine. “What the