about you, Peterson?’
‘I like to read,’ Peterson said. ‘When I’m not behind the butt of an assault rifle, drawing a bead on anything with a pulse, believe it or not, I like to read. I like to walk in open country. And I like to paint. No country on God’s earth like mine for a watercolour painter.’
‘What kind of stuff do you read?’ the major asked. He sounded genuinely interested.
‘Melville. Conrad. I like stories about the sea.’
‘And the crocheting?’ Hunter said.
‘I lied about the crocheting,’ Peterson said. ‘I’m not the Renaissance man I claim to be.’
Under canvas, in darkness, Rodriguez and Hunter laughed. Peterson laughed with them. When the laughter stopped, the three soldiers embraced one another.
‘This is a stroll in the park, gentlemen,’ Rodriguez said.
But in that, the major was wrong.
Chapter Three
They breached the compound perimeter at two opposing points and fanned out rapidly, making for the building at the centre, eagerly intent on killing anyone they confronted. Momentum was all with strike troops and every man of them knew it. You went forward. You did not ever take a backward step. Your progress was relentless and murderous and it did not falter until the target was seized and secured. Your very survival depended upon this impetus. The smell of cordite quickly filled the air. Rounds were fired in short, disciplined, staccato bursts by the troops to Hunter’s left and right. The return fire it provoked was wild and uncontrolled, promiscuous as the compound’s defenders spent a magazine with every burst they triggered. Hunter was aware of bullets zipping by him in the darkness, of their deadly weight and wasted velocity. He heard a mag clatter to the ground forty feet beyond where he progressed in a crouch and aimed a burst of fire in that direction, hitting something solid and provoking a grunt of surprise or pain. He was hit himself then, a hundred and forty pounds of attack dog slamming into him, putting him on the ground, winding him and attempting to bite out his throat. He raised his forearm and the dog clamped a jaw of bristling teeth around the limb and began to toss its head and tear. It made no sound. Its eyes were a dull, sightless crimson. The arm it held was Hunter’s left. He took his fighting knife from its scabbard on his right thigh and plunged it to the hilt into the neck of the dog. The animal merely tightened the clench of its jaw
on Hunter’s arm and he felt the skin puncture deeply and heard his own tendons start to strain and rip. There was a volley of automatic rifle fire, incredibly loud, right over him. The dog slumped and Hunter squirmed from underneath it. Gaul had been wrong. The animal stank like death itself. The blast of its breath in Hunter’s face had been the reek of a charnel house.
Peterson was over him, helping him to his feet. ‘None of this is right,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
Peterson was panting, sweaty. Over the cam cream it was smeared with his face was already filthy from the smoke of stun grenades and powder burn. ‘They’re taking rounds,’ he said. ‘But they’re not dying, Captain.’
As if to prove the point, on the ground, the dead Rottweiler twitched and shuddered like a beast stirred and summoned. Its guts lay glistening, spread where Peterson’s heavy calibre shot had spilled them. Hunter stared, incredulous and revolted. The twitching animal began to pull itself free of its own gore. Its eyes opened with a ruby glimmer.
‘Come on,’ Peterson said.
They approached the marquee. It was canvas, black and oily and taut. And it was the vaunting size, Hunter saw, of a cathedral. Guidelines as thick as tow ropes tethered it to metal stanchions pulverised deep into the ground but still proud above the earth to about the height of a man. They could discover no entrance. The firefight all around them was chaotic now. The resistance was impossibly stubborn. Momentum had been lost and, with
‘I like to read,’ Peterson said. ‘When I’m not behind the butt of an assault rifle, drawing a bead on anything with a pulse, believe it or not, I like to read. I like to walk in open country. And I like to paint. No country on God’s earth like mine for a watercolour painter.’
‘What kind of stuff do you read?’ the major asked. He sounded genuinely interested.
‘Melville. Conrad. I like stories about the sea.’
‘And the crocheting?’ Hunter said.
‘I lied about the crocheting,’ Peterson said. ‘I’m not the Renaissance man I claim to be.’
Under canvas, in darkness, Rodriguez and Hunter laughed. Peterson laughed with them. When the laughter stopped, the three soldiers embraced one another.
‘This is a stroll in the park, gentlemen,’ Rodriguez said.
But in that, the major was wrong.
Chapter Three
They breached the compound perimeter at two opposing points and fanned out rapidly, making for the building at the centre, eagerly intent on killing anyone they confronted. Momentum was all with strike troops and every man of them knew it. You went forward. You did not ever take a backward step. Your progress was relentless and murderous and it did not falter until the target was seized and secured. Your very survival depended upon this impetus. The smell of cordite quickly filled the air. Rounds were fired in short, disciplined, staccato bursts by the troops to Hunter’s left and right. The return fire it provoked was wild and uncontrolled, promiscuous as the compound’s defenders spent a magazine with every burst they triggered. Hunter was aware of bullets zipping by him in the darkness, of their deadly weight and wasted velocity. He heard a mag clatter to the ground forty feet beyond where he progressed in a crouch and aimed a burst of fire in that direction, hitting something solid and provoking a grunt of surprise or pain. He was hit himself then, a hundred and forty pounds of attack dog slamming into him, putting him on the ground, winding him and attempting to bite out his throat. He raised his forearm and the dog clamped a jaw of bristling teeth around the limb and began to toss its head and tear. It made no sound. Its eyes were a dull, sightless crimson. The arm it held was Hunter’s left. He took his fighting knife from its scabbard on his right thigh and plunged it to the hilt into the neck of the dog. The animal merely tightened the clench of its jaw
on Hunter’s arm and he felt the skin puncture deeply and heard his own tendons start to strain and rip. There was a volley of automatic rifle fire, incredibly loud, right over him. The dog slumped and Hunter squirmed from underneath it. Gaul had been wrong. The animal stank like death itself. The blast of its breath in Hunter’s face had been the reek of a charnel house.
Peterson was over him, helping him to his feet. ‘None of this is right,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
Peterson was panting, sweaty. Over the cam cream it was smeared with his face was already filthy from the smoke of stun grenades and powder burn. ‘They’re taking rounds,’ he said. ‘But they’re not dying, Captain.’
As if to prove the point, on the ground, the dead Rottweiler twitched and shuddered like a beast stirred and summoned. Its guts lay glistening, spread where Peterson’s heavy calibre shot had spilled them. Hunter stared, incredulous and revolted. The twitching animal began to pull itself free of its own gore. Its eyes opened with a ruby glimmer.
‘Come on,’ Peterson said.
They approached the marquee. It was canvas, black and oily and taut. And it was the vaunting size, Hunter saw, of a cathedral. Guidelines as thick as tow ropes tethered it to metal stanchions pulverised deep into the ground but still proud above the earth to about the height of a man. They could discover no entrance. The firefight all around them was chaotic now. The resistance was impossibly stubborn. Momentum had been lost and, with
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