The convoy set off again, meeting no more drones along the way, but friendly forces had been savaged: two trucks and a T-72 tank blown apart, their turrets hurled five meters into the air and ten meters away—a terrifying sight.
Chen Ge still sat in the middle of the truck bed, and everyone kept their voices down when they talked so as not to disturb his drone watch.
“Rock, let's swap pistols. I'll pay you an extra twenty thousand rubles. How about it?”
Chen Ge stared at the tan FN FNX-45 tactical pistol in Rock's Safariland 578 quick-draw holster at his waist, his eyes full of longing.
His Glock 17 had been plenty for fighting terrorists in Syria, but on the Russo-Ukrainian battlefield it was inadequate: the Ukrainian military had armor plates, and 9mm Parabellum rounds could hardly punch through them.
The FNX45 chambered in .45 ACP was much better: a fifteen-round double-stack magazine, plus one in the chamber, resistant to dirt and freezing, with strong stopping power.
The drawback was weight: nearly a kilogram unloaded, close to 1.5 kilograms with ammunition and a weapon light—tiring to carry slung for long periods, with a thick grip that people with small hands couldn't hold.
But Chen Ge could overlook all those flaws; he didn't even mind the weight of an MK23.
“Brother, you've got some nerve—actually trying to trade your junk Glock for my FNX45. You know what my gun costs?”
Rock rolled his eyes, drew his pistol, pulled out the accessories, and began showing them off.
“The gun itself is fifteen hundred dollars; the red dot is a Trijicon RMR Type 2 at five hundred fifty; the suppressor is a SilencerCo Osprey 45 2.0 at eight hundred twenty; the tactical light is a Streamlight TLR1 HL at one hundred seventy; five magazines at two hundred. You add it up.”
“What do you shoot? A Glock 17! Heh, keep that plastic toy for yourself.”
Rock's words did little real damage but were intensely humiliating—not just to Chen Ge, but to more than half the men in the truck.
Because 9mm pistols were the mainstream choice, only a few went with .45s.
Chen Ge glared at Rock. “Rock, you ungrateful bastard—when your Assault Team One was surrounded by terrorists during Operation H1041 last month, who came to rescue you?”
“Tell me! Who was it?”
Rock's sneer froze, and the Assault Team One men were all embarrassed.
On the fourteenth of last month, their fourteen-man squad had recklessly pressed the attack and been surrounded by dozens of ISIS terrorists, nearly annihilated; at the critical moment Rock had called Chen Ge for support four times.
Chen Ge, six kilometers away, came racing with his fire team and fired thirteen shells that inflicted heavy casualties on the terrorists—not only saving the whole squad but helping them complete the mission with zero casualties and earn a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar bonus.
That was a huge debt of gratitude.
And today Chen Ge had spotted drones twice more, saving them twice.
Rock's face cycled through expressions, and with pained eyes he handed Chen Ge the pistol, along with five magazines from his pouch and backpack and two boxes of .45 ACP cartridges.
“Fifty thousand rubles. No haggling.”
Chen Ge accepted the gun with a smile, drew his Glock 17 and two magazines and tossed them to Rock, then pulled a wad of rubles from his waist pouch, counted out ten 5,000-ruble notes, thought for a moment, and added two more.
“I won't take advantage of you—I'm adding ten thousand. From now on, if Assault Team One needs fire support, I'll take care of you first. No need to stand on ceremony; we're brothers.”
Rock cast several reluctant glances at the FNX45, took the money and stuffed it into his pocket, then hefted the well-maintained, ninety-percent-new Glock 17 in his right hand. He withdrew the magazine, racked the slide to check the action, and split his face in a wide, happy grin.
It was just a pistol; he didn't care. What made him happy was Chen Ge's promise.
With Artillery King Chen Ge looking out for them, they felt very secure.
Especially in positional and trench warfare, Chen Ge's mortars could put a shell right on a Ukrainian's helmet, with more effect than heavy artillery bombardment.
Precision could compensate for power, but power could not compensate for precision.
The problem with heavy artillery wasn't insufficient power but inaccuracy. Russian and Wagner 152mm shells had a kill radius of fifty meters, but errors could reach fifty to a hundred meters unless drones corrected their fire.
Against a machine-gun nest, heavy artillery might land dozens of meters off, and the men inside would dust themselves off and keep fighting.
Besides, the heavy-artillery call procedure was long: report coordinates, higher-command approval, artillery-position calculations, test shots, corrections, fire for effect.
The whole process took ten to twenty minutes, by which time the Ukrainian machine-gunners had already moved.
Chen Ge, though? One call on the radio, and the shells came down right away.
Rock holstered his Glock 17 and said seriously, “Hammer Brother, you're my real brother! I beg you to give our team plenty of fire support. If we run short of shells, I'll send people to help you carry them. Blast those Ukrainian sons of bitches hard.”
The rest of Assault Team One also heaped praise on Chen Ge.
“Hammer Brother, I completely trust your strength and your gunnery—you're number one in the world! Strong as a freak.”
“The Artillery King's name will resound across Ukraine and shock the world; it's our honor to fight alongside Hammer Brother.”
“Hammer Brother, I don't believe in God—I believe in you! You're my god!”
Chen Ge modestly waved his hand. “Keep a low profile, definitely a low profile. Ukraine isn't Syria—being too famous isn't a good thing. You understand!”
The men blinked, then instantly understood.
Indeed, being well known on the Ukrainian battlefield carried serious consequences.
Rock looked serious, swept his gaze around everyone, and instructed, “From today on, don't reveal Sledgehammer to outsiders—especially you, Piano. From now on you are strictly forbidden from boasting to other teams that we have Sledgehammer, this Artillery King. Understood?”
Piano scratched his head, embarrassed, and hastily thumped his chest. “I swear to God—”
Chen Ge's eyes widened and he roared, “Suka blyat!”
The rear window of the cab was open. The driver, hearing this familiar curse, stomped on the brakes. Everyone jumped up, nimbly leapt from the truck, and after landing switched off the safeties on their rifles and machine guns, eyes wide, waiting for Chen Ge to point out a direction.
Chen Ge slung his AK-12 behind his back and shouted, “Needle-S to me!”
A short, stocky mercenary ran over carrying an olive-drab 9K338 Igla-S man-portable air-defense missile and handed it to Chen Ge.
Chen Ge took it, skillfully clicked the grip into the rear of the launch tube, tightened the battery-cooling unit, and the front protective cover flipped open.
He flipped the red master switch; the instrument immediately began cooling, and neat green crosshairs lit up inside the sight.
He rested the launch tube on his shoulder, supported the tube with his left hand and gripped the control handle with his right, slowing his breathing as he tracked a Bayraktar TB2 drone through the crosshairs—about two kilometers to the southwest, some 2,500 meters up, flying low along the terrain to evade air-defense radar.
At that moment the TB2 was gradually lowering its altitude to get a better downward view of ground targets.
Chen Ge avoided the sun's glare, quickly centered the crosshairs on the drone's exhaust heat source; an urgent beeping alarm sounded, and the reticle in the sight turned red, indicating a lock.
Without hesitation, he thumbed off the safety catch and decisively pulled the trigger.
A dull, short gas explosion burst forth; high-pressure gas silently ejected the missile from the tube, and after it flew ten-plus meters to a safe distance, the main engine ignited, trailing a long white streak as it shot straight into the sky.
The Needle-S was infrared-guided, passively tracking heat sources without emitting radar waves, so the TB2 had no infrared warning.
The missile streaked toward the TB2 at Mach 1.8, the sonic boom echoing through the clouds, and struck the fuselage squarely at midsection.
Boom—fire blossomed; the fuselage shattered instantly, the wings and tail structure broke off on the spot, and the wreckage, trailing thick black smoke, spun and plummeted heavily into the wilderness.
A large drone: 6.5 meters long, with a 12-meter wingspan, standing 2.2 meters tall, maximum takeoff weight of 700 kilograms, mission payload of 150 kilograms!
Boom—the ammunition and fuel cooked off, erupting into a huge fireball.
Everyone looked at Chen Ge, their eyes full of shock and admiration, and without consulting one another they raised their thumbs, giving the highest praise between men.
“Cool!!!”
Chapter 7