The sound of distant gunfire reached Ryan’s ears and he paused, turning. Someone was in the shit, and it sounded like it was heading their way. He snapped his rifle to semi, raising it and orienting towards the sound of the gunfire.

“Gunfire to the rear, stand by. It sounds like they’re closing.”

No sooner had he spoken than things went hairy. Two men, clearly friendlies given their height, crashed through the undergrowth and barreled through his formation. Only his recognition of their sheer mass kept him from lighting them up. Ryan’s eyes went wide at the sight of the charging Viet Cong, and he responded with kind of immediacy that comes from 15 years and two theaters worth of experience, reaching out and snagging Hoffman by the radio and dragging him to the ground.

[i] “Contact rear!”[/i] he bellowed, his parade-ground voice carrying over the nearing gunfire. Belly-crawling rapidly to a nearby log, he braced his rifle and let loose a 10-round burst of initial suppressing fire from his 20-round magazine, sweeping across the approaching enemy from left to right. He’d loaded with 18 to save the weak spring, and spent two on the initial attack at the Huey. That left one in the chamber, five in the mag. He switched to semi. 

“Derricks, get that pig up! Suppressing fire on the right side, rapid rate!  Dodgers, put a forty-mike just in front of them on the left flank!”

He saw two VC stagger and fall to his carefully-aimed rounds, then ejected his empty magazine and loaded a fresh one with practiced finesse. He worked methodically, remembering the old adage from grunt school so many years ago. [i]Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fumble and die.[/i]

He slapped out for Hoffman, dragging him bodily by the scruff of his fatigues up beside him at the log.

“I want controlled, aimed rounds on the center. Pick your targets and drop ‘em.”

Then he leaned over the log and grabbed the (slightly) smaller of the two by the sleeve, urging him to crawl over into cover. 

“Get over here and engage!” he bellowed, pressing himself hurriedly back down into the dubious safety of the fallen log.

Ryan sighted back in himself, filled with the cold rage of combat that he was so familiar with. These troops were [i]his[/i] boys, and as far as he knew were the last of the survivors. These VC were trying to kill them. They’d pay. He resumed firing, trusting to his men to follow his orders and do what they’d been trained to do.