Victory Point - Ed Darack [114]
“Oorah, Staff Sergeant,” the vastly relieved PFC responded.
“Hey, Vargas!” Konnie thought for a second. “We need to get on that 240. It’s quiet. I don’t like that. Get on the 240 and shoot the fuck out of that ridge!” Put-sheeew . . . boom! . . . How many RPGs were going to rain down? the lieutenant wondered.
“Okay. But, sir,” Vargas began, “I think you’d better get over here with us.”
Konnie turned to dash behind the rock where Vargas and the others were positioned—with the 240. He put his hand down to brace himself . . . and slipped on hundreds of spent brass casings. Boy, I guess I put a lot of rounds downrange, he thought.
“Hey, Vargas!” Konnie boomed as he began sprinting to the rock. “Make sure that when you start shooting that 240, you don’t shoot me!”
“No problem . . . no problem at all, crazy ass lieutenant!” Vargas yelled, part laughing, part gasping from his sprint with Einarson. Then he let the 240 rip. Konnie dove behind the rock just as the machine gun started belching fire. Streaks of red marked the rounds’ trajectories, gouging into Shah’s men’s hides on Cheshane Tupay’s shoulders.
“You guys good?” Konnie asked once he got to Vargas and Greenfield. “I wanna make sure you know where you need to shoot.” The lieutenant double-checked that they had Shah’s positions locked on. They did. And with that, he took off to Crisp, who was with Einarson and Wilson at the casualty collection point. “What’s the status, Staff Sergeant?” Konnie asked Crisp.
“Yo’ crazy ass is fucking crazy as ever, dat’s the status!” Crisp replied.
“Don’t make me laugh. I’m afraid I might hurt myself. Now really, what’s the status?” Konnie asked.
“Einarson’s got it pretty good. But the corpsman says he’ll make it. Wilson got shot twice in the leg, once in the ass. He’ll make it, too. Stuffed rocks in his arteries to keep him alive—I don’t know, some crazy corpsman trick. Three others got shot, but not bad enough that they can’t keep fighting.”
“Good. I’m off to Grissom and Pigeon.”
“Keep yo’ crazy ass head down, Lieutenant!” Crisp barked.
Konnie nodded, then bolted to Grissom’s position. Put-sheeew . . . boom! Halfway there, though, one of Shah’s RPGs impacted just a little too close to the lieutenant. Konnie sailed through the air, landing on his side in a wave of smoke, dirt, rocks, and splintered wood. He rolled over and checked to see if he still had his M16. He did. Then he checked to see if he was bleeding. He wasn’t (not too badly, at least). No shrapnel that I can feel. Keep going, he thought.
Moments later, Konnie lunged behind a rock to see Grissom and Pigeon, staring at their respective radio operators, who were furiously trying to coax uncooperative comm boxes into sending and receiving. “Sir.” Konnie snagged Grissom’s attention.
“What, Konnie?” the captain replied with an annoyed tone.
“Does battalion know what’s going on?”
“No,” Grissom shot back.
“We got mortars?” the lieutenant asked.
“No. Not yet,” Grissom responded.
“Pigeon?” Konnie turned to the forward air controller.
“What?”
“We got CAS yet?” Konnie was referencing close air support assets—A-10s and AH-64 Apache gunships
“No,” Pigeon responded.
“Well then, what do we have?” Konnie asked with a laugh.
“Radios that don’t fucking work because this fucking Afghan heat is making them melt down!” Grissom furiously barked. “Mountains are supposed to be damn cold. Not like a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade!”
“Well then, you know what they say? Never go anywhere without at least two captains,” the lieutenant retorted sarcastically.
“Not fucking now, Konnie,” Grissom roared. “This isn’t the time for your smart ass bullshit!” Konnie just laughed to himself.
“Got battalion!” one of the radio operators piped up.
“Get