Memorial Day by Vince Flynn

that was where the general had one more surprise waiting for them. Rapp couldn't help feeling satisfied at the hand he'd had in bringing this about. These were the fighters who smuggled weapons and explosives and fresh recruits across the border. These were the men who ambushed U.S. troops who were building roads and hospitals and bringing sanitary drinking water to people for the first time in their lives. These were zealots who hated America, and hated freedom whether it was religious, political, or otherwise.
    They had miscalculated, thinking they were safe sitting on the Pakistani side of the border. Once again they had underestimated their enemy. They thought America lacked the courage and resolve to take them on. They were bullies and thugs blinded by their misguided righteousness. War was the only thing that would ever dissuade them of their ways, and they'd picked a fight with the wrong enemy.
    THE FIRST60MMmortar shell came inbound, its high-pitched, ominous whistle giving anyone experienced enough in battle a second or two to find cover. Corrigan was one such man and he got small quick, hitting the ground and curling up in a ball. The Ranger mortar teams were good, but until they were zeroed in on a target anything could happen. Fire support and close air support were the number one cause of fratricide amongst American forces.
    Thankfully the shell exploded three full blocks away. There was a brief pause followed by the cry of a second round on its way in. This explosion was a bit closer and was followed a few seconds later by yet another one. Corrigan raised himself up to one knee and looked out the window in time to see the light show swing into full gear. The mortar teams were zeroed in and were bracketing his position with lethal indirect fire.
    For the briefest of moments the sergeant felt sorry for the men on the receiving end of the barrage. War was infinitely unpleasant with all of its hardships and death and mayhem, but to a foot soldier, there were few things more frightening than being shelled. The entire method of indirect fire was frustrating. Someone who was far away, too far away to shoot back at, was dropping high explosives on your position. With no way to fight back, your instinct for survival kicked in and your brain told you to run.
    There was only one problem, however. If you tried to run you'd almost certainly get cut to shreds by shrapnel, if not pulverized by a direct hit, so you were left to wrestle with one of your strongest survival instincts. You had to learn to ignore and override thousands of years of human evolution and stay right where you were. If possible, you had to try to squeeze your body into some depression or behind a heavy object. Crawl if you must, but never stand up and run.
    Corrigan saw a muzzle flash across the street and down a ways. He shouldered his rifle and looked through his night vision sight. The scope was able to pierce the shadows just enough to catch some movement, and he let loose with a three-round burst, knowing that the guy on the receiving end was either dead or seriously wounded. Not wanting the same thing to happen to him, Corrigan moved to the other side of the window.
    Over the rooftop of the building across the street the sky was alight with strobelike flashes from the mortar barrage that was hitting the southern edge of town. Between the explosions he could make out the building staccato of gunfire that meant the Rangers were joining the battle.
    Corrigan relaxed just a notch, taking comfort that things were proceeding as planned. Then his momentary relief vanished when he heard one of his men let loose with a string of expletives. The sergeant craned his neck skyward to look up at the ceiling. The swearing didn't sound like it had come from inside the house and he thought he recognized the voice. "Brian," he called out over his radio, "what's going on up there?"
    The reply came back as a torrent of profanity that ended with the dreaded phrase, "I'm