Direct Action

39

“I don’t see any tanks,” said Murdock.

“So they’re even stupider than I thought,” Razor replied.

A Syrian mechanized infantry company was heading up the road. A platoon of three BMPs, in column, was in the lead.

Then a gap, and the second platoon of three BMPs. Then the company commander’s BMP, and the third platoon bringing up the rear. Ten BMPs in all.

“Oh, Magic?” Razor called sweetly.

I see them,” came Magic’s voice from the rocks.

“Let me tell you what I want to do,” said Murdock.

The Syrians weren’t in any hurry to drive up the hill. They must have thought they were just going to clean up what the rockets had left. Another mistake, Murdock thought. He would have rushed the vehicles up while the MiGs were still firing, arriving at the position while the enemy was sucking dirt and bleeding from the ears. But that was him.

Murdock pulled his MSG-90 from the drag bag. It was a substantial weapon, except when compared to Magic’s McMillan M88. Unlike most sniper rifles, which were bolt-action weapons, the MSG-90 was a gas-operated semiautomatic. It was less accurate than a bolt-action, but faster at engaging multiple targets. The caliber was 7.62-X-51mm NATO. By way of comparison, the.50-caliber round was close to five and a half inches long. The 7.62mm NATO was two and three-quarter inches long.

The MSG-90 weighed fourteen pounds unloaded, and was forty-six inches long with an adjustable bipod, stock, and cheek rest.

Murdock stacked the eight twenty-round magazines filled with Lake City match ammo beside him. There was an opening in the rocks just large enough to accommodate the rifle barrel. Murdock dropped the bipod legs and adjusted them to the correct height. He took a square of camouflage cloth from the drag bag and placed it beneath the muzzle, so when he fired the gas wouldn’t kick up the dirt and dust and give his position away. At any range beyond six hundred yards it was almost impossible for anyone to tell where the bullet had come from. He grabbed the cocking handle mounted on the left hand side of the stock, pulled it all the way back, and released it, chambering a round. Then he stuck a set of foam earplugs in his ears. No sense in going deaf.

The lead BMP was approaching the still-smoldering hulk of the SEALs’ hijacked vehicle. It had to ease around very slowly and carefully; there wasn’t much room left on the road.

When the BMP came even with the hulk Murdock heard a boom from Magic’s McMillan.

Designers of armored vehicles have to make trade-offs in where they allocate the protection. Any vehicle equally armored all around, on top, and on the bottom would end up either under-protected, or so heavy it would be immovable under the highest-power engine able to fit inside.

The BMP was designed to be able to defeat up to.50-caliber rounds over its frontal arc. The rear was proof only against small arms. As in any armored vehicle, the armor was thinnest on the roof and belly.

In the mountains of Afghanistan the Russians quickly discovered how vulnerable the BMP was to fire from above. But these Syrian BMPs did not carry any of the add-on armor panels the Russians had developed.

Magic put his first round right through the roof of the BMP’s engine compartment. It was easily identified by the ventilation and exhaust grills at the right front of the vehicle.

The BMP came to a dead stop and black smoke began pouring out of the grills.

The rest of the BMPs halted and began firing their cannon and machine guns at the rocks near the top of the road.

Magic smoothly worked his bolt, sliding a new cartridge into the chamber. He made a small adjustment to his scope, and his next round punched into the engine of the very last BMP in the column. That BMP lurched forward a few feet and then stopped, also shedding smoke.

Murdock watched in amazement as the BMPs stayed frozen on the road. No one emerged, even from the smoking vehicles; the troops inside weren’t as stupid as their leaders. But none of the other BMPs tried to push their way either up or down the road.

And so they wouldn’t get the idea, Magic put his next round through the vehicle commander’s hatch of the company commander’s BMP.

The other vehicles continued to fire rapidly, but at the wrong place.

Magic’s fourth shot went into the engine of the second vehicle in the column.

His fifth round took out the third vehicle. Scratch one platoon. Not to mention creating a nice set of obstacles for anyone trying to come up the road in the future. Magic paused to reload.

His sixth shot, into the engine of the first BMP of the second platoon, triggered the stampede.

BMPs had the capability of making their own smoke by injecting diesel fuel into the exhaust manifold. Billowing white smoke gusted from the BMPs spinning around on the road.

Murdock heard Razor say scornfully, “Of course they’re running away.”

The mountain wind was dissipating the smoke as fast as the BMPs could generate it.

Magic kept working his bolt, firing, reloading, picking his spots through gaps in the smoke.

The rear BMP that Magic had killed was blocking the way of the others. Murdock watched in amazement as two BMPs of the same platoon rammed the disabled vehicle off the road so they could escape. Panic was contagious.

The disabled BMP slid sideways down the slope, and then hung up on something and stopped. Murdock was almost glad.

Their way now clear, the BMPs roared down the road a lot faster than they’d come up. Magic didn’t want to waste any of his scarce.50-caliber ammunition.

The smoke cleared and seven BMPs sat immobilized in the road. Three had managed to escape.

Murdock could imagine what was going on inside those immobilized vehicles. But he didn’t want any of the Syrian troops suddenly growing themselves a set of balls and deciding that charging up the road was better than sitting around and waiting to get killed.

“Let’s get it done,” he said.

Magic called out range and windage numbers, then asked, “You all ready?”

Murdock was peering through his scope, the crosshairs settled on the rear of the first BMP. He thumbed off the MSG-90’s safety. “Flush ‘em out.”

Magic fired a single round into the troop compartment of the first BMP. Murdock could imagine it punching through the roof armor and exploding inside.

The rear doors swung open and the troops rushed out. At that range, even with a 10-power scope, the intersection of the crosshairs was as wide as the human figures.

Murdock knew that when shooting downhill it was important to aim low. The pad of his forefinger flattened against the wide trigger shoe. He took a deep breath, let it out halfway, and held the rest.

The rifle bounced against his shoulder, surprising him. That was good; the trigger break should always be a surprise. When the scope settled back down he saw his man on the ground. Magic’s firing dope was right on the money, as usual.

Murdock shifted to another target, a Syrian trying to hide behind the BMP, and fired. He could hear Razor’s MSG-90 hammering away.

Their fire drove the Syrians down the road. Magic put a round into the back of the second BMP, then the third.

The Syrians in the other BMPs didn’t wait for the Raufoss rounds to come smashing in. Those who weren’t dead or wounded were charging down toward the valley in a tight, screaming mob. They could have saved themselves by jumping off the road and taking cover behind the slope. But the Syrians were beyond reason, and therefore playing follow the leader. Murdock and Razor helped that happen by concentrating their fire on anyone who looked like they might shoot back or try and rally the others. Wounded fell. The lucky ones were abandoned by their comrades. The unlucky ones were trampled underfoot by their fellow Syrians running from behind.

One of the BMPs was still defiantly firing its cannon, though nowhere near the SEALS. Murdock admired the gunner. Magic fired a round through the turret roof and the cannon fell silent.

For the life of him, Murdock couldn’t understand why the Syrian commander down in the valley didn’t crank up his mortars and fire some smoke shells onto the road to screen his retreating troops.

In any case, Murdock kept on firing. Every man he killed was another less that would be shooting at him later.

Soon the mob was out of range. The BMPs sat quietly smoking. The road down the mountain was littered with tiny brown figures. Some were still moving, crawling slowly down the hill. The SEALs let them go, but not out of any misplaced chivalry. The wounded men were already out of action, and any more firing would be a waste of ammunition. SEALs had no illusions about fighting fair, as if there was such a thing. They were coldly professional warriors, and if they had a chance to kill an enemy by shooting him in the back they accepted it eagerly, because then there was less chance of being shot themselves.