Heavy Fire Afghanistan -

Hatch vaulted over the berm and ran straight into the teeth of the enemy. He fired his M4 from the hip, dropping one fighter, then another. He heard his men behind him, screaming primal, wordless roars.

The rotors of the Chinook thumped a heavy, arrhythmic beat against the Afghan sky, a sound that had long since ceased to be a warning and had become simply the background noise of war. Inside, the air was thick with dust, diesel fumes, and the metallic tang of sweat and gun oil.

“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. Heavy Fire Afghanistan

Hatch looked at his men. They were running low. Ammo pouches were flat. Faces were gray with dust and exhaustion. The sun was a white-hot eye glaring down at their funeral.

Miller tried to dive, but the grenade was a direct hit. The explosion was a fist of black smoke and red dust. When it cleared, Miller was gone. There was just a crater and a single, smoldering boot. Hatch vaulted over the berm and ran straight

“Outlaw! Follow me!”

The chatter of AK-47s became a symphony of chaos. It wasn’t just one machine gun. It was a dozen. They were in a bowl, and the enemy owned the rim. The rotors of the Chinook thumped a heavy,

The LZ was a dried-up riverbed outside the village of Ganjgal. Intel said it was a staging point for a major Taliban offensive. Hatch’s team, ‘Outlaw 2-1,’ was the anvil. The hammer was a company of Afghan Commandos moving in from the south. The plan was simple: drive the insurgents into the kill zone.

For a second, the men looked at him like he was insane. A bayonet charge in a dry riverbed in the 21st century? But then they understood. They weren’t going to die crawling backward. They were going to die standing up.

Hatch pushed himself up. His ears rang. His throat was raw. He looked around. Delgado was weeping, still clutching his radio. Reyes was being bandaged by Doc. Miller’s boot lay in the crater, untouched.

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