Just before they reached the front range marker, the music began to fade. The squad leaders shouted, “Front rank, ready!” and the first line knelt. Then came the order to “take aim!” and then, as we all held our breath, as the music clicked off, we heard “FIRE!”
The front rank just rippled, cracking like a SAW on full auto and dropping every G that crossed the first markers. We had strict orders, only the ones crossing the line. Wait for the others. We’d trained this way for months. By now it was pure instinct. Sister Montoya raised her weapon above her head, the signal for an empty mag. We switched positions, I flipped off my safety, and sighted my first target. She was a noob, 6 couldn’t have been dead more than a year or so. Her dirty blond hair hung in patches from her tight, leathery skin. Her swollen belly puffed through a faded black T-shirt that read G IS FOR GANGSTA. I centered my sight between her shrunken, milky blue eyes…you know it’s not really the eyes that make them look all cloudy, it’s actually tiny dust scratches on the surface, thousands of them, because Zack doesn’t make any tears. Those scratched-up baby blues were looking right at me when I pulled the trigger. The round knocked her on her back, steam coming from the hole in her forehead. I took a breath, sighted my next target, and that was that, I was locked in.
Doctrine calls for one shot every full second. Slow, steady, mechanical-like.
[He begins snapping his fingers.]
On the range we practiced with metronomes, all the time the instructors saying “they ain’t in no hurry, why are you?” It was a way of keeping calm, pacing yourself. We had to be as slow and robotic as them. “Out G the G,” they used to say.
[His fingers snap in perfect rhythm.]
Shooting, switching, reloading, grabbing sips from your camel pack, grabbing clips from the “Sandlers.”
Sandlers?
Yeah, the Recharge Teams, this special reserve unit that did nothing but make sure we never ran dry. You only had a certain number of clips on you and it would take a lot more time to reload each individual clip. The Sandlers ran up and down the line collecting empty clips, recharging them from crated ammo, and then passing them out to anyone who signaled. The story is that when the army started training with RTs, one of the guys started doin’ an Adam Sandler impression, you know, “Water Boy”—“Ammo Boy.” The officers weren’t too jazzed with the tag, but the Recharge Teams loved it. Sandlers were lifesavers, drilled like a fuckin’ ballet. I don’t think anyone that day or night ever found themselves one round short.
That night?
They just kept coming, full on Chain Swarm.
That’s a large-scale attack?
More than that. One G sees you, comes after you, and moans. A click away, another G hears that moan, comes after it, and moans himself, then another one another click away, then another. Dude, if the area’s thick enough, if the chain’s unbroken, who knows how far you can pull them in from. And we’re just talking one after the other here. Try ten every click, a hundred, a thousand.
They started piling up, forming this artificial palisade at the first range marker, this ridge of corpses that got higher and higher each minute. We were actually building an undead fortification, creating a situation where all we had to do was pop every head that popped over the top. The brass had planned for this. They had a periscope tower thingy 7 that let officers see right over the wall. They also had real-time downlinks from satellites and recon drones, although we, the grunts, had no idea what they were seeing. Land Warrior was gone for now so all we had to do was concentrate on what was in front of our faces.
We started getting contacts from all sides, either coming around the wall or else being drawn in from our flanks and even rear. Again, the brass was waiting for this and ordered us to form an RS.
A Reinforced Square.
Or a “Raj-Singh,” I guess after the guy who reinvented it. We formed a tight square, still two ranks, with our vehicles and whatnot in the center. That was a dangerous gamble, cutting us off like that. I mean, yeah, it didn’t work that first time in India only ’cause the ammo ran out. But there was no guarantee it wouldn’t happen again to us. What if the brass had goofed, hadn’t packed enough rounds or underestimated how strong Zack would be that day? It could have been Yonkers all over again; worse, because no one would be getting out of there alive.
But you did have enough ammunition.
More than enough. The vehicles were packed to their roofs. We had water, we had replacements. If you needed a fiver, you just raised your weapon and one of the Sandlers would jump in and take our place on the firing line. You’d grab a bite of I-Rations, 8 soak your face, stretch, drain the weasel. No one would ever volunteer for a fiver, but they had these KO 9 teams, combat shrinks who were observing everyone’s performance. They’d been with us since our early days on the range, knew us each by name and face, and knew, don’t ask me how, when the stress of battle was starting to degrade our performance. We didn’t know, I certainly didn’t. There were a couple times I’d miss a shot or maybe take a half second instead of a full. Then suddenly I’d get this tap on my shoulder and I knew I was out of it for five. It really worked. Before I knew it, I was back on the line, bladder empty, stomach quiet, a few less kinks and muscle cramps. It made a world of difference, and anyone who thinks we could have lasted without it should try hitting a moving bull’s-eye every second for fifteen hours.