The Eternal Mercenary

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The Eternal Mercenary Page 19

by Barry Sadler


  The only soldier not exuberant or laughing was the squad leader, but the young Israelis did not hold this against him. They considered themselves lucky to have such a leader. Perhaps he was a little too dour and sober at times, but they all agreed that he had an uncanny instinct for doing the right thing at the right time. That instinct had saved their asses more than once in this last bout with the Egyptians in their Russian-made armor. Yet, they really knew nothing about the squad leader. He was one of those who had come from nowhere to aid the Israelis in their struggle against the Arabs; Israel in turn had asked no questions.

  The Israeli troopers quickly dismounted and fanned out to take a careful look at the area and the surrounding terrain features. The radioman had already set up his equipment and was prepared to send or receive. The squad's assignment was important; twenty miles to the west, on their right flank, the Egyptian forces were reeling back in confusion and panic after an initial success; the half- track's crew was to keep the Egyptians in sight and radio back the Egyptian position. Along with other units similar to theirs they were to keep the Egyptians canalized into as narrow an area as possible. This would make it easier for the Israeli Air Force to pick the Egyptians off. The secondary mission of the half-track squads was to take care of stragglers once the main body of the Egyptians had passed. They would either kill them or herd them back into the cauldron of sunburned sand and rock that was Sinai.

  Evening was coming when the squad satisfied themselves that the area was secure. The driver of the half-track, a smiling, curly-haired young man of twenty, unslung his 9mm UZI submachine gun and squatted in the sand. Grabbing a handful between his fingers, he let it fall in separate streams to the earth. He looked up at his squad leader and said – in a voice that had Brooklyn all over it: "Shit, man, ain't there nothing out here but this?" He threw the last of the sand down. "This ain't no fun, man. I wish to hell I hadn't let my old man hype me on that return to Israel jazz. I wouldn't be out here now trying to blow up a bunch of ragheads." Pausing, he licked his dry lips. "I wish we had more water. It might get thin if we're out here too long."

  The squad leader turned to him. The man's face was as rugged as these ancient hills. He oriented his square-set body to the north, waited a moment as though considering something the young driver could not know, then pointed. "There used to be a spring at the base of two hills about two clicks from here," he said. "It never ran dry. It's probably worth checking out later."

  When he took his helmet off the scar by his hairline showed white in contrast to the deep tan of his face. The thin scar running down from his right eye to the corner of his mouth was almost invisible as it molded itself into his crooked grin.

  The cocky young driver looked at him. "Is that right? You been out here before?"

  Before Casey could answer, Isaac, the rabbi's son, called the squad to evening prayer. After all, it was the Sabbath.

  Casey watched the young warriors pray to their God in the evening light, the sun letting red streaks break over the Sinai. He heard again the sound of the ancient Hebrew litany coming from the throats of these young men: "It is written in the Law: for the Lord your God, he is God of the gods, and Lord of the Lords, the great God, the mighty and the terrible... and it is written afterwards: He doth execute the judgment..."

  Casey stood still, letting the terrible isolation of this, land envelop him. He answered the Brooklyn Jew's question in a voice that was just a whisper that only he heard:

  "Yes. I soldiered out here a long time ago. A very long time ago..."

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 2 God of Death

  He was galley slave and gladiator, warrior and vagabond, living by his wits and his skills as a fighting man. For he was Casca – the eternal mercenary, the soldier condemned to fight forever.

  Now his travels have taken him west, to the savage land of the Teotec. And atop a storm-shrouded pyramid of Mexico the priests prepare to sacrifice Casca. The knife plunges – and the man who cannot die rises from the altar stone to reclaim his beating heart and to proclaim himself Casca, God of Death.

  For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net

  The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com

  THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS

  By Barry Sadler

  Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary

  Casca 2: God of Death

  Casca 3: The Warlord

  Casca 4: Panzer Soldier

  Casca 5: The Barbarian

  Casca 6: The Persian

  Casca 7: The Damned

  Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune

  Casca 9: The Sentinel

  Casca 10: The Conquistador

  Casca 11: The Legionnaire

  Casca 12: The African Mercenary

  Casca 13: The Assassin

  Casca 14: The Phoenix

  Casca 15: The Pirate

  Casca 16: Desert Mercenary

  Casca 17: The Warrior

  Casca 18: The Cursed

  Casca 19: The Samurai

  Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon

  Casca 21: The Trench Soldier

  Casca 22: The Mongol

  By Tony Roberts

  Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma

  Casca 26: Johnny Reb

  Casca 27: The Confederate

  Casca 28: The Avenger

  Casca 30: Napoleon’s Soldier

  Casca 31: The Conqueror

  Casca 32: The Anzac

  Casca 34: Devil’s Horseman

  Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

  Casca 36: The Minuteman

  Casca 37: Roman Mercenary

  Casca 38: The Continental

  Casca 39: The Crusader

  Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

  Casca 41: The Longbowman

 

 

 


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