Task Force Cobra: Strategic Risk by Jon Peak

Author:Jon Peak [Peak, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-02-26T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

We pointed our weapons out of the windows or over the beds of our pickup trucks and got the fuck outta Dodge. It was full daylight now, and our NVDs were on the floorboards, along with a bunch of empty brass. We were on the main highway heading north with nothing but flat terrain ahead.

Keying my mic, “All Cobra elements, this is Six. I’m gonna need an ACE check starting with Truck Four. You got two minutes, and everyone give me a fuel update.”

ACE was our acronym for ammo, casualties, and equipment.

I noticed the damage to the dash on my side of the vehicle. The laptop Powell installed was shattered by the enemy rounds. Didn’t really care since the damn thing barely worked anyway. The other casualty was the SAT phone I had laying on the dash. A bullet had split the handheld unit at the seam, leaving the circuit board in pieces.

That wasn’t good. The SAT phone was our backup for contacting T and Sam if the SATCOM relay for our comms went down.

In under two minutes, Caine checked in with his report for Truck Four. “Ammo is still good, over forty mags in our truck. Cobra Eight—No Fault Jones—has three grenades left for his launcher. Two thousand rounds for the M240. No wounded. Our windshield was shot out during the initial contact, so it’s a bit dusty in here. Our fuel status ain’t good. Less than a quarter tank.”

Michel Letourneau keyed up from the back seat of Truck Four to amend Cannibal’s report. “Jason, Cannibal took a round to the left bicep. In and out. It’s not deep, but I’m bandaging him.”

“That’s a negative, boss,” Caine said angrily. “Just a graze. I’m Oscar Mike.”

Caine was understating his injury, but he would never drop out of a fight just because he got shot.

I decided to move on. “Truck Three, sitrep.”

Mike Powell keyed up, but it sounded windy—he’d traded places with Lucy on the M240. “About the same, except our rear windshield was shot out in the initial contact. That kid we’re carrying was hit in the left shoulder during the first contact. Lucy is patching her up now. Fuel is low.”

My truck’s status was similar. The fuel gauge was under a quarter tank. Carter Mac reported he had less than two thousand rounds for the M240, and we had no injuries. I decided not to report the round I took to my rear plate carrier. Even with the pain, I could still fight.

“Billy?”

“Small arms ammo is good, we’re getting low on the fifty-cal for the GAU, maybe eighteen hundred rounds. That won’t last long the way that weapon eats ammo. Fuel status is bad, and…” Billy trailed off.

“What?”

“AC took a round or two to his front plate carrier. He says his okay, but his breathing isn’t great.” Red-headed Austin “AC” Cole was driving Truck One. “I checked him out,” Billy continued. “The round didn’t penetrate, but I’m willing to bet he’s got a busted rib or two.”

That’s not good.

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