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Authors: A.G. Claymore
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in a high-level enemy
prisoner and Liam had been absurdly pleased at the man’s friendly
greeting on the tarmac. Rai’s reputation was such that many young
officers actively sought his approval, knowing it would carry
weight with the tough, gritty men of the regiment. Such pandering
had always struck Liam as false, and those officers usually ended
up washing out. Liam preferred to simply treat him with the same
respect that he showed to all of his men. He wanted their respect,
but he wanted it to be genuine.
The tough
Nepalese had been a member of the famed Royal Gurkha Rifles until
Her Majesty’s Government announced in 2007 that all members who
signed up after July of that year would qualify for automatic
citizenship. Danraj, who had already served for five years, would
be overlooked by the new legislation and transferred out of his
beloved unit in protest. The Special Air Service had found a
natural recruit in Danraj, and he quickly earned the respect of his
fellow troopers. Even during the week-long endurance evolution at
the Brecon Beacons, he had remained impervious to the
hardships.
Liam knew the
stories about the Gurkha Rifles but he had never thought to see a
demonstration. The SAS trooper still carried his deadly kukri knife
and now he came to his feet behind the hindmost of the three men,
bringing it in from the right, slicing the heavy, curved blade
clear through the man’s neck. He reversed the blade, stepping
forward and backhanding it against the second man, taking the
second head before the first had hit the ground. Liam froze in
shock for a moment. That’s just the sort of diversion I was
looking for. Liam sawed at the sling with all his strength.
Feeling the strap part, he cocked the weapon and brought it into
his shoulder with a smooth, practiced motion. The burst of heavy
7.62 mm projectiles stitched across the third man’s torso just as
he was bringing his own weapon to bear on Danraj.
The sergeant
grinned and nodded at his officer as he knelt to take an assault
rifle from one of the dead men. Liam grinned back, struggling to
hold in a racking cough. The man’s a bloody psychological
weapon . As the sergeant was cocking the AK-47, a burst of
rounds hit him in the back, punching out the front of his body and
cutting the strap on the right side of his load-bearing web gear.
With a grunt of surprise, Danraj pitched forward onto his face. His
right hand grasped for the hilt of his knife as Liam ran to
him.
Dropping to a
firing crouch, he shouldered his weapon to fire short bursts at the
four men approaching from the same direction as the first three,
but they scattered behind boulders as soon as they saw him appear.
The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and he spun
around, throwing himself to the left, a rifle butt narrowly missing
his head. His surprise assailant had been thrown off balance when
his strike missed and Liam wasted no time in putting a three round
burst into his torso as the man staggered to find his footing. He
spun back to the boulders but pulled the trigger on an empty
weapon. He took a magazine from the belt of a dead warrior. He was
just ejecting the empty magazine from his weapon when another man
came over the slope behind him.
Liam dropped
his empty rifle and drew his sidearm, squeezing the trigger of the
Sig Sauer P226 only to find that the round was a dud. Cursing
whatever coalition country had provided the ammunition, he threw
himself at the man, planning to smash the absurd look of relief
from his face. The man was too stunned from his glimpse of
certain mortality to bring his rifle to bear. Liam heard a
satisfying crunch of bone as he impacted the man. Was that his
ribs or my own collarbone? In the rush of adrenaline he
couldn’t tell.
And didn’t
care.
The two men
slid down the slope bringing them into the midst of eight more men.
Seeing he was unarmed, they pulled him to his feet only to find
that he had managed to get the pins out of one of his
prisoner and Liam had been absurdly pleased at the man’s friendly
greeting on the tarmac. Rai’s reputation was such that many young
officers actively sought his approval, knowing it would carry
weight with the tough, gritty men of the regiment. Such pandering
had always struck Liam as false, and those officers usually ended
up washing out. Liam preferred to simply treat him with the same
respect that he showed to all of his men. He wanted their respect,
but he wanted it to be genuine.
The tough
Nepalese had been a member of the famed Royal Gurkha Rifles until
Her Majesty’s Government announced in 2007 that all members who
signed up after July of that year would qualify for automatic
citizenship. Danraj, who had already served for five years, would
be overlooked by the new legislation and transferred out of his
beloved unit in protest. The Special Air Service had found a
natural recruit in Danraj, and he quickly earned the respect of his
fellow troopers. Even during the week-long endurance evolution at
the Brecon Beacons, he had remained impervious to the
hardships.
Liam knew the
stories about the Gurkha Rifles but he had never thought to see a
demonstration. The SAS trooper still carried his deadly kukri knife
and now he came to his feet behind the hindmost of the three men,
bringing it in from the right, slicing the heavy, curved blade
clear through the man’s neck. He reversed the blade, stepping
forward and backhanding it against the second man, taking the
second head before the first had hit the ground. Liam froze in
shock for a moment. That’s just the sort of diversion I was
looking for. Liam sawed at the sling with all his strength.
Feeling the strap part, he cocked the weapon and brought it into
his shoulder with a smooth, practiced motion. The burst of heavy
7.62 mm projectiles stitched across the third man’s torso just as
he was bringing his own weapon to bear on Danraj.
The sergeant
grinned and nodded at his officer as he knelt to take an assault
rifle from one of the dead men. Liam grinned back, struggling to
hold in a racking cough. The man’s a bloody psychological
weapon . As the sergeant was cocking the AK-47, a burst of
rounds hit him in the back, punching out the front of his body and
cutting the strap on the right side of his load-bearing web gear.
With a grunt of surprise, Danraj pitched forward onto his face. His
right hand grasped for the hilt of his knife as Liam ran to
him.
Dropping to a
firing crouch, he shouldered his weapon to fire short bursts at the
four men approaching from the same direction as the first three,
but they scattered behind boulders as soon as they saw him appear.
The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and he spun
around, throwing himself to the left, a rifle butt narrowly missing
his head. His surprise assailant had been thrown off balance when
his strike missed and Liam wasted no time in putting a three round
burst into his torso as the man staggered to find his footing. He
spun back to the boulders but pulled the trigger on an empty
weapon. He took a magazine from the belt of a dead warrior. He was
just ejecting the empty magazine from his weapon when another man
came over the slope behind him.
Liam dropped
his empty rifle and drew his sidearm, squeezing the trigger of the
Sig Sauer P226 only to find that the round was a dud. Cursing
whatever coalition country had provided the ammunition, he threw
himself at the man, planning to smash the absurd look of relief
from his face. The man was too stunned from his glimpse of
certain mortality to bring his rifle to bear. Liam heard a
satisfying crunch of bone as he impacted the man. Was that his
ribs or my own collarbone? In the rush of adrenaline he
couldn’t tell.
And didn’t
care.
The two men
slid down the slope bringing them into the midst of eight more men.
Seeing he was unarmed, they pulled him to his feet only to find
that he had managed to get the pins out of one of his
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