Out of the corner of his eye, Ford saw Walding almost jump into the air.
Focusing on the enemy, he continued to fire rounds from his M4, before turning his attention to Walding, who had almost rolled off the side of the mountain. The tree near Rhyner was the only thing that kept him from rolling off the ledge.
Ford could see that Walding was hurt badly. His leg was mangled. A bullet nearly severed his lower leg—and blood was spurting like water from a garden hose. It didn’t look good. Ford fired a few more bursts, but it was hard to turn away. He wanted to help Walding, but he was the only one left who could shoot and provide cover.
All the while Ford kept shooting.
Standing up and leaning out away from the wall, he took a bead on a new window when a round struck him in the chest. The blow knocked the wind out of him, forcing him to one knee. Since he had left his heavier body armor at Jalalabad, his plate carrier lacked any of the padding that absorbed the shot of the bullet.
Sliding his hand behind the shattered plate that stopped the bullet from tearing into his chest, he looked for blood. His hand came out clean. No blood. He had to shake off the jolt. Taking a few deep breaths, he slid his almost spent magazine out of his rifle and replaced it with a fresh one. He had been hit. So had his teammates and CK. At first, Ford figured that the insurgents were getting lucky by filling the air with bullets.
Then it dawned on him.
All of the wounded were wearing tan desert uniforms. The commandos wore older green camouflage uniforms. The HIG sniper was zeroing in on the Americans. He had mistaken CK, who also was wearing the tan uniform, for a Special Forces soldier.
“Stay down. Stay back,” he barked at his men.
He was mad. Sliding out to shoot another burst, he was focused on buying enough time for his men to escape.