Prime by Jeremy Robinson, Sean Ellis Page A

off targets, it
was like opening the floodgates. The enemy fighters charged like a swarm of
warrior ants.
    The small concrete building seemed to vibrate
with the rising crescendo of gunfire. The Delta shooters were the best in the
world at their job, but for every insurgent that went down, five more advanced
another ten meters, pouring lead at the defenders. The air was thick with
sulfurous smoke and dust; the relentless assault pulverized the concrete walls.
    Then a different sound cut through the
tumult. There were long eruptions of noise that overpowered the random staccato
pops of the AKs and HK 416s. It was the distinctive report of a Browning M-2
.50 caliber machine gun—affectionately nicknamed “Ma Deuce.”
    And Ma Deuce never traveled alone.
    Someone let out a whoop. “Hot
damn. Now it’s a party.”
    For a second, Sigler thought it was Jess
Strickland, but then he remembered that Strickland had died when the helo blew
up.
    Must
be the blond guy, Tremblay .
    He didn’t dare look back. Twenty
fighters…maybe more…were attempting to cross the last thirty meters to reach
the building. There wasn’t even time to aim; he just kept pulling the trigger.
    Out of nowhere, a blocky shape blasted
through midst of the charge.
    It was a Humvee.
    Bodies went flying, and some were crunched
under the heavy tires as the armored vehicle rolled to a stop between the besieged
structure and the advancing horde. The Humvee’s gunner swept left and right
with the .50 cal, but right below him, the rear door flew open and a soldier
emerged, waving frantically to the men in the building.
    Sigler got the message. “Our ride’s here!
Move out.”
    The Humvee was the first in a line of five
similar vehicles, which had deployed in a semi-circle between the building and
the two advancing fronts of enemy fighters. While the turret gunners laid down
suppressive fire from their M240B and M2 machine guns, the rear doors on the
sheltered side were thrown open to admit the beleaguered defenders. Sigler
directed the wounded to the nearest trucks, and then with Parker right beside
him, he headed for the front vehicle.
    A familiar percussive boom thundered across
the desert—an RPG launch. He didn’t see the rocket, but a moment later, the
grenade impacted the front end of the lead truck. The high-velocity jet cut into
the engine block like a Jedi lightsaber, and the subsequent detonation flipped
the Humvee onto its side.
    Parker was halfway in the truck when the
grenade hit. The force of the explosion spilled him out, and he fell next to
Sigler, who had thrown himself flat. The armored
vehicle rose above them like a looming wave, and they scrambled to avoid being
crushed beneath it. The soldier manning the machine gun was catapulted from the
turret and hurled against the side of the building.
    Then something extraordinary happened. The
soldier sat up, shook his head like a football player trying to shake off a hit
and then slowly climbed to his feet and stalked toward the wreckage of his
vehicle. He was big, at least as tall as Sigler but broader, and in his full
body armor he looked like a walking mountain. He strode past the two Delta
operators, glancing their direction as if to verify
that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he went right back to his weapon.
    Sigler wasn’t sure what the big soldier
expected to accomplish. With the Humvee on its side, the M2 was useless. The
heavy machine gun was hanging from its mount like a broken wing, its long
barrel jammed into the ground, but the soldier approached it like this wasn’t
even a minor inconvenience and pulled the quick release pin on the swivel
mount, wrestling the gun into his arms.
    Parker whispered something, a name perhaps,
and Sigler saw the look of recognition on his friend’s face, but there wasn’t
time to ask for clarification. He didn’t know what the walking mountain planned
to do with the Ma Deuce—it wasn’t the kind of weapon you could shoot from the
hip—but