He had a feeling he knew what he was looking at. To Saunders he said, “ZU-23s on those technicals!”
“Bloody hell,” Saunders muttered, and then he scanned to the east with his scoped rifle to confirm.
The ZU-23 was a 23-millimeter Russian twin-barrel antiaircraft cannon, but many insurgent groups around the world mounted them on technicals to make an extremely powerful and effective weapon that could be used for both air and ground targets. A couple of hits from a ZU-23 into a heavy truck could easily destroy it and all inside.
Saunders confirmed Court’s suspicion. He used the three-power scope on his rifle for a better view, ignoring supersonic rounds that cracked over his head and struck the rocks just feet behind him while he looked. He ducked back down to relative cover. “You’re right. We have to take those out before they rip us all to shreds.”
The trucks were still some six hundred yards distant, a long shot with a rifle, but this was all but point-blank range for the ZU-23.
The gunfire all around was unreal. It seemed that all the other regime forces in the fight were engaging individual fighters on the northern and southern hills, and even though a Russian had been the one to call out the approaching technicals, the fire was too heavy at closer distances for anyone to be able to take the time to engage the new threats effectively.
But Court had enough cover to pick his targets, so he rose to his knees again, aimed the simple blade sight of his weapon, and tried to get a bead on the operator sitting behind the closest gun. Through the smoke in the air from the rockets and the massive IED that had gone off a minute and a half earlier, and aiming at such a small target picture that was on the move, it was an impossible shot.
“I can’t get the gunners from here.”
Saunders spun to engage something up the hill to the south. His rifle fired three fully automatic bursts.
Court remained focused on the pickups; he shifted his aim to the windshield of the closest one. The vehicle moved in and out of thick brush now, so he could only see it an instant at a time. He gave up and resighted on the gun and the gunner behind it. Saunders sprayed another long volley of automatic fire on Court’s right, but Court maintained his concentration.
He squeezed off a single round, and it pinged off the firing mechanism of the ZU-23. His round showered the weapon with a spray of sparks, inches from the gunner’s head.
Saunders stopped firing and tracked over with his rifle just as Court fired again. Again Court hit the antiaircraft gun within inches of the operator. “Bloody close!” Saunders said, and then, “Right! Take mine!” He unslung his weapon, knowing the enhanced optic would give Court a better chance of making a shot that Saunders himself knew he had no chance of making. Court traded rifles, didn’t even bother slinging the SA80, and lined up the holographic red dot above the tiny exposed spot at the top of the ZU-23 operator’s head.
With a three-power scope the operator’s head was still one hell of a difficult target. Court fired a round, and the man tumbled backwards out of the pickup.
“He’s down,” Court said calmly.
“Fuck me!” Saunders shouted over the gunfire of the battle. “Shoot the other one!”
Just then, the second ZU-23 opened up. The twin cannons each flashed two times, and almost instantly the crashing sounds of cannon fire and shell impacts made it to Court and Saunders’s position. Four shells exploded right in front of the first Russian truck, sending fragments through the vehicle and knocking men down all over the length of the convoy.
Court fired at the second gunner, missed, then fired once more. This time he hit the man in the neck, spinning him from his seat, but he also drew an ungodly amount of fire from several directions. The entire weedy and rocky area in front of and behind him and Saunders began kicking up as bullets struck, so the two of them flattened in the depression next to each other.
The men made eye contact while they lay there, inches away from the line of fire. Saunders shouted over the noise, “I told ya!” He laughed maniacally and handed Court a fresh magazine for his rifle. “We’re gonna burn through all our ammo!”
Freak, Court thought. Saunders reloaded the AK from a magazine he pulled off Court’s vest, then held the weapon up over the side of the ditch and fired the entire thirty rounds blindly up the hill. Court reached up himself with the SA80, held it over the side of the depression in the direction of a cluster of distant attackers he’d spotted just as he’d dropped, and fired the entire magazine in short bursts.
He lowered the weapon and turned to Saunders to grab more ammo, and he was just reaching to the man’s load-bearing vest to pull out a magazine when he saw movement close in the ditch, just fifty feet away. Two figures stepped through the trees and onto the rocks higher on the hill. They wore black beards, carried wire-stocked Kalashnikovs, and approached the highway cautiously with their guns raised. Court could tell they were trying to flank whoever had managed to find a fighting position down here, and the only reason they hadn’t pinpointed his and Saunders’s location was that both he and Saunders had flattened lower and paused in their firing to reload.
Court knew he’d be spotted in a second, so his hand let go of the magazine on his battle buddy’s chest and slid down to the HK pistol holstered on Saunders’s belt. Court drew the weapon as he shot forward on his knees, flinging himself on top of Saunders to use him as a firing platform. He extended the pistol out in front of him as both gunmen ahead reacted to the movement, swinging their rifles in his direction.
Court opened fire. Two quick shots at the first man, two at the second, two more at the first, and another at the second. Both men crumpled as they fell back into the trees, ending up one on top of the other.
Neither of the two managed to squeeze off a single round from their AKs.
Saunders looked back over his right shoulder just in time to see the two men disappear in the brush as they fell.
The Brit said nothing; he just finished his reload, rose up a bit, and opened fire up the hillside.
The sound of one of the ZU-23s firing another four-round burst told both men a new gunner had taken position behind one of the big weapons, and Court dropped the pistol and reloaded the SA80 quickly with one of Saunders’s magazines, ready to try another long shot.
But just then he heard a new sound through the persistent gunfire.
Saunders heard it, too. “Helo inbound!”
“One of ours?” Court asked.
“This is Russian and Syrian airspace. The rebels and the jihadists don’t have any air.” He pulled his rifle away from Court, handed the AK back, and pointed to a spot in the sky to the west. There, a Russian Mi-28 attack helicopter bore down on the highway from fifteen hundred feet away. Almost as soon as Court noticed the aircraft, black streaks emanated from its pylons, racing towards the site of the ambush.
“Get down!” Court shouted, but Saunders was firing up the hill again and did not hear. Court reached out and grabbed the man by his body armor, then pulled him down flat in the gully, just as rockets streaked over the two men.
The Russian rockets exploded well clear of the depression, midway between Court’s position and the technical. The helo fired again, and this time Court could hear explosions farther to the east.
When the Mi-28 passed low overhead, Court climbed back up to his knees. Even without the scope of the SA80 he could see that both technicals were scattered and burning along the southern hillside.
As every surviving member of the convoy sprayed rifle fire up onto the two hills, the Russian helicopter circled above, using its machine gun and rocket pods to destroy enemy targets of opportunity.