The wadded bullet momentarily accelerated as the obstructions fell away and traveled a little further before finally falling to the ground. Morrezzo, however, was dead before that happened.
Lefleur’s single shot initiated a fusillade which, in the best traditions of the French Foreign Legion, achieved its objective quickly, violently, and completely. First to fire after Lefleur was the
RPG
team. They engaged the armored Humvee first, firing at a range of less than one hundred meters. Their first round hit the engine compartment head-on. The jet stream created by the shaped-charge explosion sliced through the upper part of the engine, through the fire wall, and into the passenger compartment.
Though it missed the two men asleep in the front seats of the Humvee, the white-hot pencil-thin shaft of flame cut through the fiberglass tube containing one of the stored AT-4 antitank rockets, igniting the rocket propellent. This explosion, in turn, detonated the high-explosive antitank warhead of a second AT-4 rocket launcher stored next to the one that had been hit. From where the team sat, it seemed as if the armored Humvee blew itself apart, with doors flying open and a sheet of flame shooting up and out of the open hatch in the roof, engulfing the machine gunner who was standing watch in the hatch. For the machine gunner, as well as the two men inside the armored Humvee, the heavy duty construction and special Kevlar armor of the vehicle worked against them by containing and magnifying, the effects of the explosions better than a simple canvas-covered Humvee would have. All three men were dead in a matter of seconds.
Even before they died, a hail of machine-gun and automatic-rifle fire raked the left side of Sullivan’s Humvee. Sullivan, still sitting in the driver’s seat with his head resting on the steering wheel while he slept, caught the full weight of the initial machine-gun burst. Tod Alison, in the passenger seat, was shielded, for the most part, by Sullivan’s body. Even so, Alison took one round in the left shoulder and one in his right knee as well as numerous fragments frpm flying glass, fiberglass, and metal.
The sting of his wounds, as well as the shock of suddenly being under fire, momentarily paralyzed Alison. His first reaction was an instinctive pulling away from the source of the pain.
Reaching around with his right hand to grab the door handle while he watched in horror as Sullivan’s body jerked as more bullets hit it, Alison threw open the Humvee’s frail door just as secondary explosions rocked the armored Humvee, lighting up the night. Turning to watch the death of the armored Humvee, Alison realized that there was no escape in that direction either. The first conscious thought that flashed through his mind as he watched the machine gunner of the armored Humvee, his body engulfed in fire and writhing in pain, was that he too was about to die. His next thought was to report the attack before that happened. Twisting about in his seat, his body responding spasmodically as a result of multiple wounds, shock, and panic, Alison grabbed for the radio hand mike.
Someone had to be told. Someone had to help them.
The sudden flash, followed by one of the American Humvees blowing up, startled Lieutenant Marti. His first thought was that the Lynx that was overwatching him had fired. Standing upright in the open hatch of his own Lynx, Marti twisted about and looked at the other Lynx. He could see no indication, however, that it had fired. He was still puzzled when the sound of small-arms fire drifted across the river to his position.
Looking back to the American position, he could see muzzle flashes spewing out streams of tracers at the American recon vehicles.
Reaching down, Marti grabbed the radio hand mike and lifted it to his mouth. He was about to key the radio and submit an initial report, but he hesitated. What exactly was he going to report? What was it he was looking at? Unable to answer those questions and knowing that they were the first ones that his troop commander would ask, Marti put the radio hand mike down and, instead, ordered his driver to start the engine. They needed to get closer and investigate a little more before they reported.
Better, Marti thought, that he submit a complete report that clarified the situation than a partial one that confused or caused undue panic at headquarters.
As
the engine of the Lynx choked to life, the gunfire on the American side of the river died down. Ordering his second Lynx to cover his move, Marti switched back to the intercom and then instructed his driver to move forward. As they began to roll out of the shallow gully they had been in, Marti watched the far side of the river intently. Whatever had happened, Marti thought, was over. Perhaps that would make it easier to sort the situation out.
“Any station this net, any station this net! This is Charlie eight eight Bravo. We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack! We need medevac and backup, over!”
For several seconds, Sergeant Wecas, back in front of the
TAC
fire unit, turned only his head and looked at the radio. Lieutenant Stolte, having resumed his position at the table with feet propped up and leaning back in the folding chair as he read, lowered his book and looked at Wecas in the command post carrier. Stolte was about to ask what the last call was all about when the radio blared again.
“Any station this net! This is Charlie eight eight Bravo. We are under attack! We need help, ASAP! Answer me. Someone, please answer me!”
Sitting up as if he had been shocked, Wecas grabbed the radio hand mike and keyed the radio. “Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. Give me your location and your status, over.”
There was a pause. While he waited, Wecas was motionless, staring at the radio in front of him. Stolte, realizing by now that something was going on, put his book on the table, swung his feet to the ground, and was in the process of entering the command post carrier when the voice on the radio came back. “We’re under attack, damn it. The sergeant’s dead. I’m hit. The other Humvee blew up. I need help. Please God. I need help.”
Though Wecas didn’t understand exactly what was happening, he understood that whoever was calling was hurt, frightened, and in need of help. In Vietnam he had heard many calls like this one. Young soldiers, often alone and in combat for the first time, trying to find someone, anyone, to help them and their buddies. Although the voice calling itself Charlie eight eight Bravo wasn’t the same one that had called before when they couldn’t reach their own battalion CP, it didn’t matter to Wecas. The first caller might already be dead, or wounded. Wecas didn’t know. Nor did that matter.. What did matter was that the fear, the excitement, the anger that came out of the radio speaker in the command post carrier was real. Someone, another American soldier like him, was in trouble out there. Wecas was not about to let him die alone.
“Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. Can you give me your location and a target reference point? I can have a fire mission for you in a minute, but I need your location and a target reference point, over.”
The shooting had stopped. For a moment, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by a low roar of flames consuming the armored Humvee and an occasional pop-pop as small-arms ammo in the armored Humvee cooked off. Thankful that someone had answered his call, Alison calmed down and considered what he should do next. He had no idea who had fired upon them and only a vague idea where the fire had come from.
Though he thought that the attackers were close and somewhere to the front, he couldn’t be sure. Whoever had fired on them was, no doubt, still out there. They might even be closing in. If that was the case, he needed to get out of the Humvee and hide, or at least get into a position where he could defend himself. Dropping the radio hand mike in his lap, Alison reached behind for his M-16 rifle. As he did so, a series of sharp pains wracked his body. Laying the rifle across his lap, he realized that escape would not be possible. Though he didn’t know how bad he had been hit, he. intuitively understood that he would not be able to get out of the Humvee and evade his attackers.
“Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. I say again, give me your location and a target reference point. I need your location and a target reference point, over.”
Looking at the radio, Alison realized that his only salvation was to give whoever Mike one Victor was what he asked for. Letting go of his rifle, he seized the radio hand mike with his right hand and the map, which was wedged under the radio, with his left hand. As he put the map in his lap, he keyed the radio. “Last station, this is Charlie eight eight, give me a minute, over.”
Calmer now that he had someone out there ready to help, Alison pulled the flashlight off of the clip that held it to the front windshield frame, flicked it on, and began to search the map for a mark that showed where they were. When he found the point on the map, Alison held the index finger of his left hand on the spot while he keyed the radio mike with his right hand.
He was about to speak when the door of the Humvee flew open.
Jerking about to see what was happening, he looked up. In the darkness, he could see no facial features, no details, only the black outline of shoulders and a head. He didn’t even see the automatic pistol as the apparition shoved it into his face. All Private Tod Alison felt was the sudden shock of the cold metal barrel slam into his jaw before the apparition pulled the trigger.
Wecas watched the orange radio call light come on, signaling the beginning of a transmission. Prepared to copy the information he had requested from Charlie eight eight and punch the data into the
TAC
fire computer, the sudden blast that came out of the radio speaker, followed by the call light going off, caught Wecas off guard. For a second, he didn’t move, waiting for the radio to come to life again. Stolte, now standing behind Wecas, looked at the radio, then at Wecas. “What was that all about?”
Though Wecas knew, he didn’t answer. Instead, he keyed the radio mike. “Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. I say again, give me your location and a target reference point.
I need your location and a target reference point, over.”
Finished, Wecas picked up the hand mike for the radio set on the firing battery net and gave the fire direction center an order to be prepared to receive and fire a real mission.
Lefleur was in the process of putting his automatic pistol back into its holster when the orange call light of the Humvee’s radio came on and he heard a voice, asking for a location and target reference point. Looking at the radio, then down at the body in front of him, he noticed a map.
Picking up the flashlight and shining it down, Lefleur studied the map. As he did so, one of his men came up behind him.
“Everyone in the other vehicle is dead. Poof, all gone. And one of the Mexican recon vehicles is moving down to the river to get a closer look.”
The voice, belonging to a Mexican-American mercenary, gave Lefleur an idea. Turning to his man, Lefleur surprised him. “Amigo, do you remember how to direct artillery fire?”
Straightening up and puffing out his chest, the Mexican-American responded with pride, “I was in force recon for three years. Every marine in force recon knows how to call for and direct artillery fire. Child’s play, there child’s play.”
Reaching into the Humvee, Lefleur pried the radio hand mike from the dead guardsman’s hand. Turning around, he handed the mike to the Mexican-American. “Then this should be fun. Here, call Mike one Victor three two and tell them you are at . . .” Lefleur paused as he leaned over to shine the flashlight on the map and find the information he needed.
“Ah, here we are. Tell them you are located at checkpoint Quebec five two and the target, two Mexican armored cars, is located near target reference point . . . Yes, target reference point Bravo Tango zero one five. Got that?”
The Mexican-American shrugged his shoulders. “No problem.” Keying the hand mike, he began the call.
Before he spoke, Lefleur put his hand over the mike. “When you talk, sound excited, frightened, amigo. Sound like you are under attack. And ask for
DPICM
. No adjusting rounds. Let’s do this right.”
Again the Mexican-American responded with a simple, matter of fact
“No problem, boss.”
Stolte, still standing behind Wecas, suddenly realized what was going on.
With an appreciation of the situation came a sudden feeling of disbelief.
For a moment, he stood riveted to the floor of the command post carrier, watching and listening while Wecas yelled at the chief of the gun section to get his men out of the sack and ready to fire. The gun section chief, like Stolte, was having, difficulty believing that they were about to execute a real fire mission. Stolte was about to interfere, asking Wecas if it was a good idea to process the fire mission without permission from battalion first, when Charlie eight eight Bravo came back on the air. Rather than interfere, Stolte watched Wecas take down the data coming in. As he did so, Stolte noticed that the voice was different. It was lower, calmer, more collected. That, however, changed when the sound of a three-round burst of rifle fire screamed over the radio, followed by a loud “Jesus,” then silence. The attack, apparently, was still in progress.
The sudden burst of rifle fire behind his back caused the Mexican American literally to jump. In the process, he dropped the radio hand mike. Turning around, his eyes as big as saucers, the Mexican-American saw Lefleur, a broad smile on his face, standing behind him holding a smoking M-16, taken from the dead guardsman, pointed in the air. ‘ ‘What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid bastard?”
Lefleur chuckled. “My friend, you were not excited enough. You were not convincing. I thought you could use a little help.”
Reaching down to retrieve the hand mike, keeping an eye on Lefleur as he did so, the Mexican-American warned him that if he pulled a stunt like that again, he would shove the M-16 up his ass.
When the voice of Charlie eight eight Bravo came back on the air, it seemed more animated and a little shaken. Wecas confirmed the target location and signed off. As he began to punch the data into the
TAC
fire computer, Stolte, for the first time, intervened. “Buck, shouldn’t we call someone first and get permission before we shoot?”