Free Cambodian Hellhole by Stephen Mertz

again.
    If you had another launcher handy.
    If you got a second chance.
    If, yes, you were still alive after the first round missed its target.
    Stone did not intend to miss. He braced the launcher on his shoulder, sights adjusted to his eye, before he even tried to make a target acquisition. He would have no more than a few seconds to do everything before the hostile gunners zeroed in on him . . . and once they had him sighted, he was dead.
    Stone took a breath, released part of it, and held the rest. Moving fully erect now, he rounded the corner, deliberately exposing himself to fire as he brought the rocket launcher into play.
    A single glance was all he needed to pick out the RPG crew, wrestling to reload their bulky weapon. They were almost finished, and the riflemen covering them were alert to any sign of danger, one of them already pointing off in Stone's direction, swinging his AK-47 around to bring him under fire.
    Another second, no more, and they would have him.
    Stone sighted quickly, calculating azimuth and range, smoothly depressing the firing lever of the LAW. It shuddered on his shoulder, sending out a fiery backblast that would have denuded any living vegetation for twenty feet . . . and he could actually see the rocket as it streaked along its course, homing on the little clutch of human targets.
    The whistling rocket struck a tree trunk three feet to the left of Stone's primary target, detonating into smoke and oily flame, the thunderclap rolling back to envelop him despite the range. The explosion flattened the RPG team and their surrounding gunners, and deafened those close by, but under cover.
    Stone dropped the useless tube of Fiberglas, and he had his rifle in hand, ready to respond to any answering fire, when he suddenly realized that it was over.
    Straggling survivors—three of them—were standing up along the ridge, hands raised high overhead, now advancing out of their positions, coming down the slope. Stone watched them come, risking a sideways glance toward either flank, reassuring himself that Loughlin had survived the RPG blast and was on his feet.
    Almost incredibly, they had not suffered any casualties beyond the one Hmong guerrilla. They were short one rifle now, but taken altogether, it could have been much worse.
    The Cambodian regulars had reached the foot of the slope, and they were entering the wasted village proper when Stone saw Lon Ky advancing on them, his AK-47 leveled from the hip. It took an instant for Stone to realize precisely what the Khmer Rouge fighter had in mind, and by the time he started moving out to intercept their guide, it was too late.
    Lon Ky let loose a single, rattling burst that raked the three surrendering regulars from left to right and back again, almost cutting them in two at waist level, blowing them back and out of frame, out of life. They lay twitching on the blood-soaked ground for perhaps an instant, then were still.
    "Goddammit!" Stone saw Wiley closing on the guide, his CAR-15 primed and ready to explode in his big, hairy fists. "What the hell are you doing?"
    "Killing vermin," Lon Ky told the Texan impassively. He turned to Stone, no expression whatsoever on his face. "We have no food, no time for prisoners. The captain knows this."
    "Well, Jesus Christ—"
    "He's right," Stone said, trying to keep the disgust he felt from showing in his voice. "Anyway, it's done now."
    "Listen, Cap—"
    "It's done," he said again, and pinned Wiley with his eyes. "No way to bring them back."
    Hog Wiley hesitated, glaring daggers at their guide, and finally nodded and turned away, muttering under his breath.
    Stone recognized the truth of what Lon Ky had said, the possible necessity of his action . . . but that did not help murder to set any better with him. Whether the Khmer Rouge guerrilla fighter had been right or not, whether the little massacre had served a purpose or been all in vain, there was no time to agonize about it now.
    But he would watch