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The roar of gunfire was constant.
His rifle was down to its last magazine.
"Status!" he barked into the radio.
Renaud's voice came back, half-buried in static. "Foxtrot is twenty minutes out. Paris acknowledged the distress. Two light armor columns en route. ETA forty-five minutes. Air support denied too dark."
"Of course," Moreau muttered. "We'll be bones by then."
The enemy didn't let up.
Mortar shells rained sporadically, shredding trees a ...
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