Page 51 of The 9th Man

Neither was going to happen.

Men like those under Talley’s command neither wavered nor surrendered.

Moments later the machine guns opened up. Rounds slammed into the outcrop above Talley’s head, sending rocky shrapnel whizzing over their encampment. This was heavier, he noted, preparatory fire for another charge. The AQ forces weren’t going to risk their quarry slipping away under the cover of darkness.

“OP coming in,” he heard over his radio.

Talley had dispatched a single soldier to an observation post in the no-man’s-land between them and the enemy. Now he was coming back.

“Give him covering fire,” he ordered.

Despite the incoming .50-caliber barrage, Talley’s men rose and returned fire, picking off exposed AQ soldiers and driving others to cover as their OP sprinted back to the command post. The enemy had more guns and ammunition but were no match for the accuracy of Talley’s troopers who were one-shot, one-kill trained. The OP baseball slid over the rock shelf and landed in a heap in the snow. Talley grabbed the guy’s collar and dragged him to cover.

Panting, the man said, “They’re not messing around this time, boss. I estimate 150 massing.”

“Trading bodies for ground,” Talley said. “All Deltas, they’re coming hard this time. Get ready to go hands-on.”

“About time,” came a reply.

“Damn straight,” someone added.

“Here they come.”

Talley radioed, “As soon as the fifties go quiet, start dropping bodies. Make ’em pay for every inch.”

Shouts could be heard up the slope as the AQ soldiers ramped themselves up for the charge. It was an unnerving animal-like sound, indecipherable, guttural.

The .50-caliber machine guns stopped.

Talley peeked his head up.

The AQ soldiers were moving down the slope at a sprint, so thick they were shoulder-to-shoulder and backed by multiple lines.

“Open fire,” he shouted.

Across the front M4s began popping. Their lone machine gun, an M249 SAW, started chugging, mowing down groups of front-line soldiers. The ones behind didn’t hesitate, leaping over their fallen comrades as they closed the gap to Talley’s line.

This was it. The end.

Hell, you can’t live forever.

Geysers of snow erupted amid the enemy lines. Then Talley heard it, the familiar whump of mortars somewhere to their rear. The rounds, fused to detonate ten feet off the ground, walked down the enemy front, scything through bodies and dropping eight or ten soldiers at a time.

Sixty-millimeter mortars.

Several firing in unified volleys. In less than a minute a third of the charging enemy were gone, either dead or writhing in the snow, trying to crawl back up the slope.

“Pour it on,” Talley ordered. “We’ve got friendlies at our six.”

Heartened now, the Deltas concentrated their fire on what few AQ soldiers were still charging. These too began dropping. The charge hesitated, then broke apart. In Pashto, Talley heard calls of retreat.

From his rear, Talley heard, “Rangers coming in.”

Damn straight. Welcome to the party.

Through the swirling snow a dozen figures emerged, then more on top of that, some making their way to where the wounded were collected. Most assumed positions at the rock ledge beside Talley’s Delta Force.

“Who’s in command?” one of the Rangers called.

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