Mercenary Black Mamba - Chapter 26
He hadn’t felt good for the past few days because of Colonel Ahmud. Colonel Ahmud was his superior, his rival, and led the Habib army, but the Musta army was an individual unit because of Habib’s strategy of causing rivalry.
He was ordered to do one thing: return the French special forces back into Allah’s arms.
Ahmud killed 50 of Makumbo’s personal guards and managed to corner Makumbo in the Chinka Oasis region. As long as he led a separate army, the two were going to be rivals fighting over their achievements. He had searched the desert for three days like a dog in heat, only to waste his gas.
Even asking the locals didn’t bring any results. There weren’t enough people, and he had to wait another month for his main forces to finish their training. He had requested additional backup, but Ahmud simply ignored him.
Although, if he was in Ahmud’s position, he wouldn’t have given additional soldiers either. Musta pulled on the bike’s throttle harshly.
The BTR-152 could carry 17 people. The morning temperature in the Sahel was around 30 degrees, and the hot winds from the Sahara desert made the temperature much hotter.
The BTR-152 had a cooling system attached, but, at midday, the insides of the tank were bound to turn into a steamer, and when one entered the cabin, it was like being a chicken in an oven. His subordinates attached themselves to the car near the outer notch and cupola like leeches, but Musta pretended as if he didn’t see them.
“Damn, I should have sent out the scouts first.”
By the time he reached the red valley, he felt the chill born out of experience from several battles. The red valley that was 700 meters ahead had several large rocks lying and rocky walls. This also meant there were plenty of spaces for the enemy to hide.
Musta had waged battled around the desert and the Sahel region for the past 20 years. His survival instincts were good, but he had guarded himself too late.
The captain’s order came through their headset:
“Black Mamba, begin. First, incapacitate the leader and the vehicles. The BTR-152 has machine guns. Its side and gears are removable with the Dragunov. If you think it impossible, have Chartres blow it up with his RPG. Supporting fire, remain on standby.”
“Black Mamba, the guerrillas all drink marijuana like tea before engaging. They rush forward like madmen. Don’t hesitate because it’s a child. Go.”
Black Mamba licked a finger to gauge the direction and speed of the wind.
He could do it with his senses, but this was for the sake of confirmation.
“Direction is towards 12 o’clock, speed at 4 meters per second, distance at 570 meters.”
It only took 0.5 seconds to dissect the surroundings. The leader’s head was already filling his scope, just against the cross.
His thumb hooked around the trigger with a constant force and soon the gunpowder that hit the back of the rifle kicked against the bullet. The 7.62-millimeter bullet, which was kicked in its rear, spun around the barrel and threw itself out of the rifle.
The 9.5-gram bullet hit the front of Musta’s skull at 2.7 times the speed of sound. The human skull was too weak to withstand 3600 joules of force.
With the sound of the empty cartridge case dropping to the ground, the bullet came into contact with the target. His scope captured the sight of the wide-eyed guerrilla’s leader exploding.
Musta’s bike abandoned its owner and landed a few meters out on a hill of sand with its rear wheels spinning futilely in the air.
If Colonel Philip had seen Musta’s last moments, he would have kicked up a fuss about how benevolent his death was. Musta had become famous as the Sahel’s Kanma, and he had gone to Allah’s side with a single bullet from Black Mamba who had come from afar. No one could guess fate.
Black Mamba felt déjà-vu. When heavy rain fell in his hometown, he had always picked the water-logged watermelons to throw away. The watermelons that were thrown randomly about the front yard exploded. Red juice seeped out and splattered into the air, just like the blood he saw through his scope. This was his first murder with a clear mind.
He understood the opponent’s death with great clarity. The mental shock depicted in novels was a lie. As expected, the authors exaggerated. People said that newbies who first experienced war had obsessive thoughts about blood and suffered from blackouts. They, regardless of western or Asian origin, exaggerated. He felt fine.
Black Mamba, after a single moment of hesitation, began a series of shots.
It was the soldier on the bike who had been right next to Musta. Before his warning even ended, his face exploded.
Black Mamba’s wired muscles, detailed and strong, stopped the rebound. The Dragunov’s barrel didn’t even move from its place.
Bang— Bang— Bang—
The lag time between each shot was less than a second. Before a dead body hit the ground, another was sacrificed with blood flowing from his head and chest. Musta’s forces, which had been approaching without a barrier or guard, fell like dominoes.
Started by Black Mamba, the snipers’ gunfire began. Emil and Miguel’s Minimis poured bullets like hail.
But the FRONLINAT resisted strongly. The heavy machine gun on top of the vehicle gunned bullets over their heads like crazy. The guerrillas who had been sitting on top of the armored vehicle scattered like ants in search of cover. After finding a suitable hiding place, they retaliated. Unlike what the captain had said, no one fueled by drugs charged ahead.
They had responded with a quick reaction, but Musta’s death had affected them. This organization didn’t fight back in a unified manner. Some charged ahead, and some were firing in the wrong direction.
The power of the SGM 7.62-millimeter heavy machine gun mounted on top of the BTR was daunting. Rocks that had been used for concealment shattered and pieces scattered around the ground. Team Ratel’s offensive was pushed back momentarily.
The guerrillas now had cover from the machine gun and began an organized attack.
“Black Mamba, grab a machine gun.”
Black Mamba, who received the communication from Burimer, berated himself. He had forgotten the captain’s orders to first shoot down the armored vehicle. He replaced the 20-bullet magazine with a 10-bullet magazine.
The 7.62-millimeter round casings used in the Dragunov were 51 millimeters long and had a kinetic energy of 3600 joules. The 10 replacement bullets were heated uranium ironclads. The casing length was increased by 4 millimeters and the bullet’s weight increased by 30 percent.
This special bullet had been modified by the DGSE Technology Department for Black Mamba. The 55-millimeter casing length was the marginal standard that could be accepted by the Dragunov. The kinetic energy of the bullet was proportional to the weight and squared to the speed. The converted armor shells had the power of 12,000 joules.
How much power is 12,000 joules of kinetic energy? The effective range of an assault rifle was measured by the distance that penetrated the US Army’s M1 helmet. The thickness of an M1 helmet was 1.2 millimeters. The effective range of the Famas, which has a kinetic energy of 1700 joules, was 300 meters. Experiments have shown that the bullet force for drilling through 1.2-millimeter helmets was 450 joules.
Calculations had shown that for something to go through a 500-meter BTR-152’s 6-millimeter combined glove it required energy two-and-a-half times the distance and two times the thickness of the shell, totaling 21,250 joules.
The heavy machine gunner on the top of the cupola of the BTR-152 was protected by a 6-millimeter iron plate. They concluded that it could not be penetrated by heated uranium iron shells.
The target was a 115-millimeter, square-shaped surface protected by bulletproof glass. That was enough. Black Mamba positioned the machine gun, which was 520 meters away from its target, and pulled on the trigger without hesitation.
A powerful shot rang out. The power of 12000 joules penetrated the BTR gunner’s bulletproof glass. The bullet, which had tilted around 15 degrees from the impact, drilled into the gunner’s forehead. Half of the gunner’s forehead disappeared. The cupola’s heavy machine gun, which had been spewing out bullets valiantly, halted.
A BTR gunner right behind him searched for the sniper’s position rapidly. Black Mamba aimed carefully at his moving target at around 500 meters. Because the gunner kept turning his head, marking him became more difficult. This time he tried to use his spatial reception ability.
It was a double-tap shot. The first hit the iron plate. The sound of the bullet coming into contact with the glass was heard across the field, and the surprised machine gunner raised his head. That was the moment when the second bullet shattered the bulletproof glass, entering with a tilted degree, to haphazardly land itself on the gunner’s neck.
He was going to die, that wasn’t going to change, but this machine gunner died more violently. The bullet had slowed enough to the point that the gunner’s neck had been blown off halfway as if done by a beginner executioner. Blood exploded from his veins like a fountain, filled the cupola, and dripped onto the floor.
Jang Shin, who had been observing the battlefield through an extended scope, turned pale. Without realizing it, he had bent to the ground and began vomiting.
The captain, who had also been observing, nearly shouted in jubilation. That sniping would not have been possible had it not been for the god sniper. When the two machine guns fell silent, Team Ratel’s sniper team began its fierce offensive once more.
The machine gunner had died, but the vehicle didn’t stop moving. The advancing armored vehicle was a perfect obstacle for concealment. The guerrillas, despite falling to the ground as a result of Black Mamba’s spatial ability, kept closing the distance using the vehicle as an obstacle.
“Chartres, get rid of that can.”
“There’s not enough range!”
Chartres shouted in reply to the captain’s order. The RPG had been made by the Soviet Union and was a portable grenade launcher used during World War II. It had the power to pierce through 350 millimeters of plating, but the moving target range was only 300 meters.
“F*cking hell, Black, get rid of it.”
Black Mamba blew up the tire of the vehicle to make it stop. The Soviets were truly idiots. The vehicle with its busted tires continued moving and blew up its engine. Black smoke fumed out of the back like clouds.
“Those brainless idiots!”
Black Mamba’s frown deepened. He took out the 20 rounds and exchanged them for 55-millimeter heated uranium bullets.
A beastly gunshot rang out. The uranium bullet Black Mamba had shot squeezed through the 40-millimeter space in the rear of the armored vehicle. The strong bullet pierced through the 3-millimeter iron plate and shattered the BTR’s weakest points: the fuel carrier and the nozzle of the fuel provider. It was a shot of which only Black Mamba was capable.
The two vehicles that had been moving forward stopped immediately. The best feature of a heated uranium bullet was that it could pierce through nearly everything. At the same time, it also gave off high heat. Black smoke poured out of the right side of the vehicle’s rear.
The fuel tank of the vehicle blew up at the same time.
The captain’s mouth hung open. A fly flew into his mouth, but he didn’t even feel it. Even if the BTR-152 was poorly constructed, it was still an armored vehicle. Black Mamba had stopped it by blowing up the tires and precisely targeting the vehicle’s gas tank revealed through the rear gap. This also meant that he had targeted the 40-millimeter weakest point of the BTR-152. Explosive, continuous rounds with bone-chilling precision were the strengths of the god sniper, call name “Black Mamba.”
Guerrillas who had rushed for cover behind the armored car jumped out like grasshoppers.
The sound was unusual for a Dragunov. This was Black Mamba’s double-tapped firing. The strong muscles prevented the scope from moving side to side or up or down.
The 10 or so guerrillas who had hopped out from behind the vehicle dropped down in an instant. After the lasting ring of Black Mamba’s shots stopped, silence descended on the battlefield. It was a battle that had begun in coincidence and ended in lightning.
The 43 guerrillas who had ridden forth in the vehicle were all dead. It had only been 10 minutes since Black Mamba began firing. Musta’s forces had been attacked and hadn’t even shot a good round. This was the true nature of god sniper Black Mamba.
The gunshots and machine guns that had been rumbling through the earth stopped. The gunsmoke that had been falling like a fog, the sounds of the injured, a strong smell of blood, and the smell of iron and gunpowder combined made the field seem like the aftermath of Armageddon.
The sandstorms of the Sahara cried as if it was a farewell song. The battlefield was covered in the remains of broken vehicles and bikes, chaotic with the addition of dead bodies. Most of the corpses that had received Black Mamba’s attacks had their heads blown off. Others were caught in the machine gun’s dome, and it was hard to recognize their features.
The captain and the team members confirmed their deaths but fell silent rather than celebrating. Humans are at a loss for words when faced with an inexplicable scene.
When the range exceeded 500 meters, even a first-ranked sniper had to take several tens of seconds before firing once more. This did not apply to Black Mamba.
Black Mamba sent someone to Allah every second. Most of the guerrillas had died from being hit by Black Mamba’s continuous rounds. All of his team members were at a loss for words. The sight was quite different from the sound of what they had heard. Sounds passed through several channels, but sight reported directly to the brain. “A picture is worth a hundred words” was a saying that did not come out of nowhere.