Ficly

The Right to Kill

They stumbled down the ramp of the smoking track, scattering out, rifles raised, searching for targets. I lined them up in the sites of the machine gun and squeezed the trigger.

The weapon rattled on the bipod with loud rapid fire pops and streaking tracers. The jingling clinks of linked ammunition feeding into the shoulder fired meat grinder accompanied the report. It was an orchestra of death. And in a few quick bursts of fire, the orchestra gained a chorus of agonized screams.

The oily smoke from burning BFV’s, roasting human flesh, the muddy smell of rain soaked earth, cooked Javelin propellant, and the cordite smell of gunfire mixed together to form the smells of battle.

The wheeled vehicles in the convoy scattered and attempted to force through the kill zone while firing wildly towards the trees. I shifted my fire to the drivers.

Five or six round burst, pause, five or six more rounds. Shift fire. Repeat.
All up and down the road, our ambush was taking its toll on the Feds.
We were winning.

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