Part 23 (1/2)
”Hold your G.o.dd.a.m.ned fire,” the sergeant major shouted above the din, reminding the men. Even so, men snugged rifles closer to shoulders while others inspected linked machine-gun ammunition for kinks.
One near hit split a sand bag and drove sand and dust into Pendergast's eyes. By the time he had blinked away the grit and looked out again, a smoke screen was building.
”Top, I can't see s.h.i.+t,” called one gunner.
”That's 'Sergeant Major' to you, son. Just hold your fire.”
Pendergast raised his eyes to the view port. G.o.ddammit, can't see a d.a.m.ned thing. Can't hear much either. Wish I had one of those new thermal imaging rifle sights I was reading about a few months back. Then I could see through this d.a.m.ned smoke. Wish we all did. Might as well wish for the moon.
Outside, there was a steady crackle of small arms fire from the men behind the pylons. Behind those, in the dead s.p.a.ce-low ground protected from direct fire-grenadiers with 40mm grenade launchers popped up to fire small smoke sh.e.l.ls before ducking back down to reload.
”G.o.ddammit, I wish I had one lousy section of mortars to lay smoke,” fumed the B Company commander as he watched his grenadiers load and fire, load and fire the little 40mm, smoke grenades. ”We'd have a screen then, a real one.”
Even so, though, the grenades weren't doing a bad job. When he judged the time right, the screen adequate, he ordered forward two squads of men carrying much larger and more effective hexachloroethane, HC, smoke grenades. These they began to toss forward once they had crawled within throwing range of the screen laid by the grenadiers.
From both the forty-millimeter jobs, and the hand-thrown grenades, a mild cross wind blew an impenetrable screen; impenetrable by sight, that is.
That was when the commander ordered his a.s.sault team forward.
”Oh, you stupid, stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” fumed Pendergast as he heard the shouts and scuffle of approaching men. ”What the h.e.l.l did your men ever do to deserve having an idiot like you in charge? Didn't anyone ever tell you the difference between cover and concealment?”
Pendergast flipped the safeties off of the two clackers he still held in his hand. As the temporary plywood wall resounded with the impact of one or more men slamming against it, he muttered, ”Lord, for what they are about to receive...”
Then Pendergast squeezed the clackers.
Electricity, a mild charge actually, raced down the wires to two widely s.p.a.ced claymores. At the mines, the charge nudged the otherwise fairly insensitive blasting caps into action. Deciding that the charge was sufficient, the caps did their job, exploding inside the pound-and-a-quarter of C-4 held by each of the two mines.
The Composition-4, a very high explosive, also shocked into awakeness, duly detonated, fragmenting both the case and the layer of seven-hundred-odd resinated ball bearings to its front. Those twin explosions likewise set off the det cord running from the fuse wells in the mines that had no fuses in them.
As fast as the ball bearings were moving, it was as nothing compared to the speed of detonation of the det cord. Before the projectiles had managed to travel much more than a foot, the second set of mines likewise detonated as the exploding det cord reached them. These in turn set off another strand of det cord each, which likewise set off another pair of mines.
In all, fifteen claymores, packing over ten thousand ball bearings, went off within approximately one one hundred and fiftieth of a second.
And that was not the worst of it.
This close to the blasts, the worst of it was the gla.s.s from the deliberately broken out windows that had served to cover and camouflage the claymores. This was no lightweight stuff; nothing but the best for the Treasury Department. The gla.s.s shattered under the blast, yes. But it shattered into fragments even more lethal than the ball bearings.
Those men nearest the wall, the one squad that had reached it first, were literally torn into fragments-chunks of b.l.o.o.d.y, disa.s.sociated meat. Farther away, where the gla.s.s had lost some of its initial velocity due to its relatively low density, it merely ripped and blinded.
The ball bearings were denser. They continued on unless stopped by something. In the case of twenty-seven ”agents” of the PGSS, that something was human flesh. They went down as if scythed, arms flying and torsos hurled backwards.
Body armor stopped many of the gla.s.s and steel fragments, of course. Body armor did not cover arms, legs and faces.
Those ball bearings that did not impact on a body, which was-indeed-most of them, continued on. Some of these went too high and were lost. Others buried themselves in the ground. In at least one case, however, a chunk of fourteen that had remained stuck fast together by the resin impacted on a grenadier who had neglectfully left his armored vest open. The chunk of steel and resin stayed together until it was halfway through his body. At that point, under the stress of rapid deceleration, the ball bearings said their goodbyes to each other and began to take somewhat different tracks out of the body.
And then, of course, came the gla.s.s-following the ball bearings dutifully. These slivers and splinters left a swath of screaming, face-tearing, blinded men in their wake.
Dutifully, the B Company commander had had his own head up, watching for signs of progress from his a.s.sault team. His eyes registered, indeed it was the last thing they ever registered, the sudden billowing of the smoke screen as the claymore on the far side of it detonated. Before another image could register, the man's face and eyes were hopelessly shredded by shards and splinters.
The commander felt nothing, at first; just the sudden shock of losing his vision. Then his ears were a.s.saulted, first by the blast, then by the rising tide of horrified, anguished screams from the torn, bleeding remnants of his company.
Then came pain and, with the pain, realization. Following the realization of what had happened came the realization that it was to be permanent.
The commander added his screams to those of his men: ”I'm bliiinnnddd!”
Pendergast fought down the nausea that threatened to engulf him. Ah, Jesus, you poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Ah, Jesus, you poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Drawing in a deep breath he shouted to the half-stunned defenders, ”Fire!” Drawing in a deep breath he shouted to the half-stunned defenders, ”Fire!”
Sawyers didn't need to be told to understand what had happened to his B Company. The ashen faced, trembling, vomiting and demoralized remnants that staggered out of the smoke, some dragging bodies and parts of bodies with them, told all that was needed.
One man-Sawyers didn't recognize him through the sheet of blood on his face and the strange, uncertain, staggering gait-walked right into the path of unseen tracers. The burst took him in the legs and spun him end over end.
It was a very long burst. Before it ended, and while the man was still flying, one bullet-at least one-pa.s.sed into the man's body where the armor did not cover, at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
”Those murdering motherf.u.c.kers!” he hissed to the media type that followed him. ”Did you see what they did to my man? Did you get it on film?”
Not waiting for an answer, Sawyers tore the microphone from Ricky's hand and screamed into it at the company facing the wall opposite the one B Company had tried, unsuccessfully, to breach. ”A Company! Get me in! Get me a G.o.dd.a.m.ned breach in that f.u.c.king wall!”
Down in an office labeled ”Security,” deep in the bowels of the WCF, Davis' eyes scanned the closed circuit cameras that ringed the building. Tapping the intercom, he announced, ”They're going to try for Wall Four.”
The B Company commander had been a not very bright treasury agent with a degree, transferred in for the chances of advancement. The A Company commander, a solid little fireplug of a man, was an ex-Marine infantryman with a combat action ribbon and a bronze star from the Second Gulf War. He had transferred in because he liked liked combat action and the PGSS had seemed like a good place for it. combat action and the PGSS had seemed like a good place for it.
The ex-Marine had heard the sound of the blasts, clearly-heard the screams, faintly-and had a very good idea of what the two added up to.
”Forget the effing effing smoke for now,” he ordered his grenadiers. ”I want HE grenades at every possible place along or in front of that wall.” smoke for now,” he ordered his grenadiers. ”I want HE grenades at every possible place along or in front of that wall.”
Within seconds the dull crump of exploding 40mm high explosive could be heard hitting the base of Wall Four. The A Company commander had no certain idea of how effective they were. In truth, he hardly expected to set off a string of daisy-chained claymores by sympathetic detonation of the HE. He did did expect to displace those claymores, to ruin their preset aim. expect to displace those claymores, to ruin their preset aim.
But, sometimes, one's expectations are exceeded. One round of 40mm HE, stray or random, managed to hit almost exactly dead center on almost the exactly most central claymore. The resulting small explosion resulted in a dozen larger ones.
Ball bearings, another ten thousand of them, arced out. Unfortunately for the defenders, they arced out where the PGSS should have been had they a.s.saulted directly.
”Anyone hit?” queried the commander through his radio.