Free Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Combat Ops by David Michaels Page B

concrete bricks near the rest of my team.
    As the debris flew and the smoke and flames slowly dissipated, I led my group along the wall and back toward the brick pile, where we linked up with the  others, who were stunned but all right. Nolan had found a hole in the wall, and we all passed through, reaching the first row of houses and rushing back toward them, where to our right the wall continued onward until it terminated in a big wooden gate. “We’ll get out that way,” I hollered, pointing.
    We reached the first house, sprinted to the next, and then had to cross a much wider road, on the side of which stood a donkey cart with the donkey still attached but pulling at his straps. The moment I peered around the corner, a salvo ripped into the wall just above my head. I stole another quick glance and saw a guy duck ing back inside his house, using his open window and the thick brick walls as cover. We could fire all day at those walls, but our conventional rounds wouldn’t pen etrate.
    Another glance showed a second gunman in the win dow next door. Two for one. Double your pleasure. Wonderful. We were pinned down.
    I turned back to the group and gave Beasley a hand signal: We can’t get across. Got two. You’re up.
    Over the years I’ve come to appreciate advances in weapons technology for two reasons: One, as a member of an elite gun club called the Ghosts, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the instruments that kept me alive, and two, like everyone else in the Army, I enjoyed things that went BOOM!
    The XM-25 launcher that Beasley was about to present to the enemy made one hell of a twenty-five-thousand dollar boom, which was the CPU or cost per unit.
    “Hey, wait, before he fires, maybe we can call Har ruck and ask for mortar support,” said Ramirez, making a very bad joke.
    I snorted and gave Beasley the all clear.
    The team sergeant lifted the launcher, which was much thicker than a conventional rifle and came equipped with a pyramid-shaped scope.
    With smooth, graceful movement, Beasley laser-des ignated his target, used the scope to set range, and then without ceremony fired.
    Each twenty-five-millimeter round packed two war heads that were more powerful than the conventional forty-millimeter grenade launchers. Next came the moment when gun freaks like me got our jollies: The round didn’t have to burrow through the wall and kill the guy on the other side, no. The round passed through the open win dow and detonated in midair, sending a cloud of fragmen tation inside that would shred anyone, most particularly Taliban fighters attempting to play Whac-A-Mole with Ghost units.
    The moment his first round detonated, Beasley turned his attention to window number two, got his laser on target, set his distance for detonation, and boom, by the time the echo struck the back wall, we were already en route toward the wooden gate, even as that donkey broke his straps and clattered past us.
    “This one’s a keeper,” Beasley told me, patting the XM-25 like a puppy.
    Before Ramirez could try the lock, Jenkins put his size thirteen boot to the wooden gate panel and smashed  it open. We rushed through and ran to the right, work ing back along the wall while Treehorn lingered behind, throwing smoke grenades into the street to create a little chaos and diversion.
    The choppers were still whomping somewhere over the mountains, out of range now, as we charged toward the foothills, only drawing fire once we reached the first ravine. There, we dove for cover, rolled and came back up, on our bellies, ready to return fire—
    But I told everyone to hold. Wait. Keep low. And watch. Treehorn’s smoke grenades kept hissing and cast ing thick clouds over the village.
    Many of the Taliban were running from the front gate, and two went over to the jingle trucks and fired them up. “They’re going to chase us in those?” Ramirez asked. “Looks like it,” I said. “Let’s fall back. Up the moun tain, back to the pickup