Chapter 22 Chapter Twenty Two

He really remembered the fire.Always remembered, maybe in a way it was the only thing he remembered.Rubber, metal, and human flesh burned together, emitting a unique smell.The smell was burned deep into his DNA, a part of him forever.A part that will not change until death. His right forearm was wounded.He fired with his left hand, the butt of his submachine gun resting against his armpit.Pulling the trigger with the left hand is often awkward for a right-handed person.But Puller trained specifically for this moment.For such a moment, he has paid so much sweat, blood, and will.He had already practiced shooting both left and right, and he was almost as proficient with his left hand as with his right.

Diesel drenched his camouflage combat uniform, the shockwave from the explosion knocked off his assault helmet, and burned his chin from the flaming helmet strap as he climbed out of the military Humvee.He also licked Xianjinjin's blood.His, and others'. The smashed human tissue splashed on his face.His, and others'. The sun was so hot it seemed that the sun alone could ignite the diesel that drenched him and burn him to ashes.He was probably only a little bit away from turning into a big ball of fire walking around. He took stock of the situation before him.Above, below, far and near, observe all relevant directions.The situation is not good.To be precise, it was not good from the beginning.Two huge and heavy Humvees were blown over, like fallen rhinos.The underside of the vehicle had protective armor embedded in it, yet his comrades were either killed or mortally wounded.He is currently the only one of them able to move.There's no real reason why things should be the way they are.luck.Nothing else.A warrior who is dead or dying has done nothing wrong, nor has he done anything particularly right.

Such roadside bombs against Humvees are powerful, and terrorists have become more effective.The Americans strengthened the protective armor, so the road was one foot higher than the devil, and the hooded blasters began to make and use more explosive bombs. He fired at the opposite side with a submachine gun.After firing two shuttles of ammunition, he threw away the submachine gun and raised the pistol to shoot continuously, quickly emptying the extended magazine.He didn't really expect the rain of bullets to hit the enemy, but just wanted to attract the attention of the opponent.Let the enemy know that he is still here, let the enemy know that they cannot rush forward smoothly to capture him and his comrades in arms, let the enemy know that their attempt is difficult to achieve or will bring them disaster.

Another weapon he took out from the wreckage of the Humvee was his favorite bolt-action sniper rifle.From now on his shots will be deliberate, with careful aiming.He mounted the gun on the metal skeleton of the Humvee, intending to let the enemy know that he was going to play for real. He fired a round, just to warm up the barrel first.No matter how good a shooter you are, bullets flying out of cold barrels will often miss their target.Under normal circumstances, a sniper would be assisted by a spotter, but at this moment he could not expect such a luxury.Therefore, he calculated various factors such as milliradians, pitch angle, target distance, ballistic landing distance, temperature, and wind speed through the sight reticle, and made necessary corrections.

He does all this subconsciously without any thought, as if a computer is executing the calculation rules that have been proved to be completely reliable by countless experiments.The longer the shooting distance, the more serious the consequences of small calculation errors. At long ranges, an inch of miscalculation one way or the other and the bullet could miss the actual target by a few yards.What he was going to kill now was the living thing running horizontally in the street.These guys are skinny and can run all day non-stop without an ounce of Western cellulite.They were both ruthless and battle-hardened, and the word "compassion" was not in their lexicon.

But he, too, was ruthless and battle-tested, and since the day he put on his uniform, "mercy" hadn't been in his vocabulary.Life and death is the iron law on the battlefield.Nowhere is this more clearly understood than when one takes up arms and engages an enemy for the first time. He relaxed himself, let out a long breath, and calmly entered the best physiological state of a sniper.In order to reduce the vibration of the gun barrel to a minimum, he firmly, confidently, and unhurriedly pulled the trigger with his fingertips between two heartbeats.If it is not the fingertips but other parts of the fingers, it is inevitable that the force will be uneven and the weapon will be deflected.The bullet hit the target.Suddenly, the running Taliban soldier spun in place like a ballerina.He fell in the middle of the road, in the Gobi desert of Afghanistan.He lay there unable to move any more, his head shattered by the merciless bullets of Corporal John Puller Jr.

Puller pulled the bolt and loaded another 7.62 round into the chamber. A moment later, a taller, thinner Taliban soldier ran out. Puller worked lightning-fast in front of the scope.His mind was spinning faster than the bullet he was about to fire.Another pull of the trigger sent the torso of another Afghan spinning, sending the bulk of his skull flying.His twirling was almost graceful, and it was his last curtain call, on this desolate stage where he would never perform any more.Like the previous Taliban soldier, he didn't even have time to realize his own death, because the human brain is always half a beat behind in comprehension in this situation.His accomplice let out hysterical cries.

Their bolts were drawn.They were enraged. Puller's original purpose was achieved.Soldiers who are out of breath don't fight well. Of course, they had to be wary because they knew they had a tough guy to deal with.Puller looked over at his comrade.The many wounds on his body were continuously gushing blood, but he was conducting injury triage for his comrades from a distance.Three soldiers were dead and burnt beyond recognition because the fuel and ammunition boxes had exploded right next to their knees and they had no chance of escape.Another soldier was thrown far out of the flames in the explosion, but he was dying nonetheless.

A chunk of his chest and his right leg had been blown away, and Puller could see that some part of his body had ruptured, and overoxygenated blood spurted from the blasted artery onto him. , looks like a creepy red fountain.He was about to die.However, there are still four other wounded comrades who he can rescue, or are worth desperately trying. Bullets were fired at him.Instead of running, Taliban soldiers took cover, raised their guns—mostly American-made, dated to the Soviet invasion era—and did everything in their power to end Puller's life. Their killing intent has been decided.So is he.

They fight for their comrades.So is he. There are quite a few of them.Puller had called for reinforcements, but they would take longer to arrive than he could survive.To survive, he will have to kill all enemies in sight. John Puller was trained to do this.In fact, he longed to do this in his heart. All irrelevant thoughts were rejected.His concentration is so intense that he doesn't think about anything.He is merely translating his training.He will fight until his heart stops beating. 100% focus.That's it.All these years of hard sweat, pain, and the scolding and yelling at him by the instructors in order to motivate and push him to do his best.All of this, for the next three minutes.Because, what the red-eyed two sides need to decide the outcome is probably only such a little time.What is called a war is the accumulation of countless bloody battles of individual living beings.

He let the opponent's firepower rage for a while.Bullets clanged against the steel plates of the Humvee.Other bullets flew over his head in what sounded like dozens of tiny jet fighters skimming through the air.A bullet grazed his left arm, which was completely negligible compared to the few wounds he already had.Puller would also find out later that another rifle bullet shattered the metal plates of his body armor, jumped onto the Humvee, changed course, and landed in his neck, having lost most of its kinetic energy. I settled down at home.Doctors will think it looks like a big metal pimple, rooted just under the surface of his skin.But right now, he didn't notice it at all.Even if he was aware of it, he wouldn't care about it at all. John Pooler raises his gun again...