John Ringo: Unto the Breach

“Six Mississippi, Seven Mississippi,” she muttered then let the round drop, sliding her hands down the tube and doing it all over again.

She wasn’t sure where or what Mississippi was, but it must be a horrible thing if it was used as a mantra for the guns.

“Oh, fuck,” Kacey muttered as she approached the pass.

Helicopters and firing mortars do not mix. They have to occupy the same airspace and have a horrible tendency to occupy the same three dimensional point at the same time.

There was room to the side for her to pass, but she assumed they were firing in support of the Keldara trapped on the ridgeline. If so she was going to be following the gun-target line the whole way. That was really gonna suck big donkey dicks.

However, as she crabbed by she could tell they were pointed away from the Keldara position. What in the fuck were they firing at?

The answer became clear as she crossed the pass. The mortars were pounding the shit out of the Chechens blocking the pass. And, what’s more, a line of Keldara women were just shaking out in what was clearly an assault line.

“Uh, hey, Father… uh… Ferrari?” Kacey said, keying the intercom.

“Da?”

“Those women, they’re attacking the Chechens. Should we help them?”

“Nyet,” the oldster replied. There was the loud chain-saw sound of a minigun from the left side of the bird as they passed the Chechen position. “Mother Lenka… Bad fucking news, yes? To the other battle.”

Kacey didn’t know who “Mother Lenka” was, but if the old fucker in the back considered her “bad news” she really wanted to meet her.

And she had to admit that the conditions up ahead looked worse. The fucking Chechens covered the damned ridge.

Well… good.

The Dragon was hungry.

“Gregor,” Father Ferani said over the intercom.

“What do you want?” Father Devlich snarled. He hadn’t gotten to fire at the Chechens and it rankled.

“Sion was right,” Father Ferani said. “I just saw the tiger he was talking about. Up on the ridge watching over the women. They will succeed.”

“And on this side are fucking ravens looking to eat your eyes,” Father Devlich replied.

“The Father of All watches.”

“Yeah, he’s gonna watch you piss your pants when the Chechens start firing at us.”

“Fuck you.”

“You fuck goats, I fuck women. Who wins?”

“That’s just because goats are too fast for you. You only fuck the old women that you need a crowbar to open.”

“And you still fuck goats. I win.”

“Yeah, well I fucked your mother.”

“I fucked your mother which is how you got born. But the good part dribbled down her leg.”

“I’m older than you, you jackass. How does that work? You fuck her before you were born? I, on the other hand, really did fuck your mother. And she was loose from other men.”

“Oh, fuck you. How do you cock this thing?”

“You have to have a cock, first.”

“I’m serious.”

“Father of All, you never listen, do you? Fifty-seven years I’ve been watching you pay attention only to your own bellowings and I’m about sick of it… ”

“Oh… go to Hel! ///sic/// And tell me how to cock this fucking thing, smart ass! We’re nearly there!”

Sayeed crouched behind a pile of bodies. They had nearly made it. But only nearly. The mortars had stopped too soon. The men had been too slow. Again, as they got close enough to throw rocks at them, the Keldara had opened up with a whithering fire. How so many could be alive after the pounding of the mortars he couldn’t imagine.

He lay prone, using the bodies for cover, and looked through the gap between the chest and mostly exploded head of one of the dead fedayeen. He would fire if he saw a good target. Otherwise, he was going to wait for Sadim’s Brigade to finish off these Keldara fuckers before he was moving again.

Kiril threw his last two boxes of SAW ammo onto the ammo step and slid in a belt. He had a total of four but he wasn’t going to bother belting them up. The next Chechen wave was already less than seven hundred meters away. This one wasn’t just charging, either. Oh, they were running, but they were using fire and maneuver, running forward to cover then dropping and firing up the hill to cover the next group.

He ducked as rounds impacted his position then took a long swig from his camelbak. Ammo, Liquids… Damn. It was in English and he still was struggling with that. And he didn’t fucking care anymore. The only thing that mattered was ammo. He just wanted to see which ran out first, his ammunition or the fucking Chechens. When the ammo ran out, he was going to climb out of this fucking trench and take them the axe until the oceans ran with blood…

“Tiger Three.”

“Go,” Adams said, taking a swig from his camelbak and breaking down his SPR by feel. It had started to get “hinky” on him in the last fight. Not jamming just… hinky. Probably the gas tube was getting fouled; he’d put a bunch of rounds through the damned thing.

“The next group, engage with the 60s,” Mike said. “But not until I say. And tell Shota to stand by.”

“Roger.”

“How’s Oleg?”

Adams looked over at the Team Leader. He was discussing ammo crossloading with Dmitri. There was a big red rag over his stump. Every now and then he’d wince then go on talking as if nothing had happened.

“Great.”

“Make sure that there’s plenty of rounds for the 60s. Belt them together and when the time comes make sure the gunners know to just go to full scale rock and roll.”

“Mike, that’s going to burn the fucking barrels and we don’t have any spares.”

“It won’t. Trust me. If we’re still fighting after that long, we’re not going to care.”

“Jessia, Mother Lenka is at the gap. Go to white phosphorus now.”

“Two gun! White phosphorus, traversing fire! Continuous!”

“Now they fire smoke?” Kamas asked as the white smoke drifted over the trench. Then he screamed as burning white metal fell on his skin and the white smoke started pouring from his shoulder and head.

White phosphorus is a chemical, mostly the metal phosphorus, that, once ignited, is practically impossible to extinguish. It carries its own oxidizer so it needs no oxygen to burn. Water will not quench it nor fire-fighting foam. Flesh, especially, will not put it out.

When it hits flesh, white phosphorus is drawn downward by gravity inexorably. It stops only when it hits bone and even then for mostly mechanical reasons. And it continues to burn. It is a poor killer for it cauterizes the flesh even as it burns it. Deaths from white phosphorus come from mainly mechanical issues, such as when it hits the throat and damages the trachea, or from shock. For white phosphorus is most intensely painful.

Much more common are blinding when it hits eyes, damage to the lungs from inhaling the freshly released smoke, which is extremely hot, and of course horrific scars. And it is frightening. It breaks the will more than it kills.

But for all its military utility, white phosphorus is considered a poor weapon. Steadfast units will take the horrific casualties and continue fighting. It does not, after all, kill . Not well.

The military value of white phosphorus lies mostly in its smoke. The burning metal releases clouds of the stuff. It’s not inherently harmful; once it is cooled it can be breathed without serious short or long-term damage. And created faster smoke than conventional smoke rounds with the added benefit of being, well, horrific.