Heavy: Fire Afghanistan

“Contact front!” screamed Private First Class Miller, the point man.

The click of metal on rails was louder than the gunfire for a single, surreal second.

“Outlaw! Follow me!”

“No!” Hatch yelled, but the scream was lost in the din. He felt a cold, hard fury replace the fear. He stood up, ignoring the rounds cracking past his ears, and hosed the ditch. He emptied the entire two-hundred-round drum. The bodies of the flanking force crumpled into the tall grass.

“Miller! RPG!” someone shouted.

Delgado’s radio crackled. “Outlaw 2-1, we see your tracers. But we have a company-strength element between us. We cannot reach you. CAS is ten minutes out.”

The world dissolved.

“They’re flanking us!” yelled Sergeant Reyes, pointing to a dry irrigation ditch to the east. Hatch saw the black shadows of men sprinting, crouched low. They were wearing black tactical vests over traditional garb. Not farmers. Fighters.