Armitraj turned and dropped to one knee, firing another grenade. Then, spread-eagled on the sand, he extended the bipod legs of the machine gun and gripped the trigger before the explosive round finished its journey, detonating harmlessly forty meters from the foremost troop carrier.
Kismet, at the front of the litter, stopped abruptly.
“Sir, we should keep moving. Armitraj will buy us some time.”
“So they can hunt us down one at a time?” He lowered his end of the makeshift stretcher to the sand. “I don’t think so. We’ll make our stand here.”
Neither man noticed Mutabe, still meandering forward in the grip of a narcotic fugue, but it would have changed nothing; Kismet and the Gurkhas knew that their lives were now measured in minutes, perhaps only seconds.
Sergeant Armitraj opened fire with the machine gun, sweeping across the approaching headlights. It was impossible to judge the strength of the advancing force, but there were two armored troop carriers, side by side, leading the charge. Higgins suspected they were only the tip of the spear.
The machine gun rounds seemed to have no effect, prompting the two Gurkhas to fire another volley of grenades. Armitraj selected a white phosphorus round, and both men fired together, point blank at the vehicles. This time there was no delay.
Higgins’ round detonated on the hood of the APC on the left, decapitating the vehicle and lighting up the night. The WP grenade from Armitraj’s launcher hit directly behind the other vehicle, erupting in a blaze of solar intensity. The surviving personnel carrier continued to advance, now only fifty meters away, but the wreckage caused by the grenades hampered the rest of the column, forcing the other vehicles to swing wide out into the desert. Higgins now caught a glimpse of the size of the attack force: there were seven vehicles altogether. Two of those were out of commission thanks to the grenades. Higgins had killed one of the armored personnel carriers, but there remained three more, at least a full platoon sized element. The white phosphorus grenade had showered an old military Jeep with flaming metal, forcing the surviving officers to abandon it to the flames, but there were two additional Land Cruisers, each stuffed full of combatants in black berets, charging nimbly around the wreckage toward their flanks.
Higgins quickly loaded another grenade, but the leading vehicle was already too close. Kismet meanwhile, opened fire with his CAR15, showering the driver of the APC with armor piercing rounds. The hardened tungsten and steel bullets ripped through the armor, and began ricocheting crazily inside the metal interior. The vehicle swerved and stalled.
Armitraj once more unleashed a stream of lead from the machine gun. Every tenth round was a tracer, zipping through the night like a red laser beam to mark the path of destruction as he homed in on one of the flanking APC’s. A second line of tracer fire appeared from the opposite direction however, as the gunner in turret of the armored vehicle targeted his DShK 12.7-millimeter machine gun on the Gurkha sergeant’s location. Armitraj knew what was coming but his only reaction as the incoming tracers walked across the sand toward him, was to close his eyes.
A bullet struck the Minimi gun, shattering its mechanism and exploding the unfired rounds in the feed tray. An instant later, Sergeant Taranjeet Armitraj erupted in a spray of red, his body shredded by an unrelenting torrent of enemy fire and fragments of his own weapon.
Higgins knew without looking that Armitraj had fallen; he had marked the cessation of heavy automatic fire from his fellow soldier’s location. He did not mourn for his brother, not even to the extent he had felt grief at the earlier loss of Corporal Singh. The immediacy of the current battle, and the certainty that at any moment, he too would feel the icy hand of death on his shoulder, made such grief irrelevant. He emptied his magazine at a Land Cruiser, shattering its windshield, and then rapidly loaded another HE grenade into the launcher.
Not far away, Kismet was reloading his weapon, burning through magazines rapidly, but making every shot count. The enemy convoy had ceased advancing, their vehicles now a liability. The troops inside hastened from the impossible-to-miss targets, spreading out and seeking cover. More than a dozen had fallen, picked off by Kismet as they filed through the narrow doorways of the APCs; God alone knew how many more would never leave those vehicles, yet their numbers seemed undiminished.
Higgins dropped a grenade close enough to blast the nearest Land Cruiser over on its side. The fuel tank ignited in a secondary explosion that jetted sideways away from the exposed undercarriage. The shock wave momentarily stunned the Gurkha. His vision doubled, leading him to wonder if he had taken some shrapnel to the skull, but he ignored the side-effect of the concussion and slammed another magazine into his rifle. It was his last.
Kismet was attempting to fix enemy positions by the angle of incoming fire and rising from cover only long enough to snap off one round at a time before ducking down again. Higgins switched the selector on his own weapon to single shot as well, but knew it would merely delay the inevitable—that moment when he squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. He raised the M16 above a dune crest, firing at what he thought might be a sniper position, then ducked down again.
It would be over soon, he realized, and for some reason decided that he didn’t want to die alone. He had always known death in combat was a possibility—for a Gurkha it was almost inevitable—but he had never imagined that he would be the last man standing. Kismet was only twenty meters away, but reaching his position would mean running a gauntlet of enemy fire.
Kismet wasn’t a Gurkha. He was by his own admission barely a soldier; he was a reserve officer, engaging in military drills in order to pay for a college education, with no combat experience. Higgins would have willingly died for any man in his regiment, even the much-loathed officers, but for this American?
You’re going to die anyway, mate.
He almost laughed aloud at the admonishment of his inner voice. “So I am.”
He triggered a three-round burst over the dune crest, then launched into motion. He had gone three steps when a 7.62-millimeter slug from an enemy AK-47 ripped across the back of his right thigh. He winced at the unexpected burning sensation, but his leg did not fail and he did not stop running. After a dozen more strides, with blood streaming down his leg and into his boot, he made a desperate dive for Kismet’s position.
“I’m out,” shouted Kismet.
Higgins indicated his own weapon. “My last.”
Kismet nodded gravely and laid his carbine aside. Then he did something that left Higgins stunned. He drew his blade, the kukri Higgins had given him earlier.
The large knife was the signature weapon of all Gurkha fighters, and this one had belonged to the fallen Corporal Singh. Higgins had offered it as a token of his respect for Kismet, in that now barely-remembered moment when he had glimpsed a bit of steel in the young officer, but had never expected to see it used by the American.
You’re one of us now, he had said. And at the time he had meant it, even though so much about what had happened that night remained beyond his comprehension.
How did I forget that? He wondered.
The lull in firing from their position gave a clear signal to the enemy. Higgins could hear the orders, barked in Arabic, for the soldiers to advance cautiously on their position. Not much longer now.
He had no idea how many rounds remained in the magazine of his M16—he figured he could probably count them on one hand. He set his gun beside Kismet’s and drew his own kukri.
The first man to crest the dune led with his rifle, flagging his approach with the barrel of his AK-47. Kismet heaved the boomerang shaped blade against the gun, smashing it aside in a spray of sparks then reversed the edge, hacking across the soldier’s torso. Higgins sprang at the next man, pivoting on his good leg and putting his full weight behind the cut.
A headless enemy soldier fell back into the arms of his comrades.
As if linked by a common mind, Higgins and Kismet dove into the heart of the approach. The stunned Iraqi riflemen had
no idea how to repulse the crazed attack; they could not shoot for fear of hitting each other. They parried the assault with their rifles, swinging the wooden stocks like cudgels when they saw an opportunity, but several of their number prudently fell back.
As retreating soldiers formed a ring around the knife-wielding pair, Kismet and Higgins repositioned, back to back, to meet whatever attack was to follow. Both men were bruised from numerous blunt traumas and Higgins’ right trouser leg was soaked in his own blood, yet the fire in their eyes was undimmed.
There was fire in the eyes of their enemy as well. The soldiers of the Republican Guard orbited their position warily, their visages twisted with a mixture of rage and trepidation. Some of them drew bayonets which they affixed to their AK-47s while others drew long fixed-blade combat knives.
One strident but nevertheless commanding voice was audible above the rest. Higgins didn’t know enough Arabic to translate, but he had been a soldier long enough to know when an order to attack was given. The ranks began moving in, more cautiously this time, determined not to be taken off guard.
Higgins gripped the haft of his kukri fiercely and waved it back and forth in front of the advance. He assumed Kismet was doing the same. The American officer’s back was pressed reassuringly against his own. At least he wouldn’t die alone. “A pleasure serving with you, sir.”
“The pleasure was all yours.”
Kismet’s voice sounded strange when he said it, and it took Higgins a moment to realize that the American was laughing; a harsh, sarcastic chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.
My God, thought Higgins. He’s actually laughing in the face of death.
“Hey, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?” Higgins was in awe, wondering what the American would say or do next, but Kismet’s voice was now only solemn.
“See you in the next life.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JEREMY ROBINSON is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, THRESHOLD and RAGNAROK, the first four books in his exciting Jack Sigler series, as well as PROJECT NEMESIS and THE ANTARKTOS SAGA. Robinson also known as the #1 Amazon.com horror writer, Jeremy Bishop, author of THE SENTINEL, THE RAVEN and the controversial novel, TORMENT. His novels have been translated into eleven languages. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.
Visit him on the web, here: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com
SEAN ELLIS is the author of several thriller and adventure novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. Sean is also a member of the International Thriller Writers organization. He currently resides in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.
Visit him on the web, here: seanellisthrillers.webs.com
ALSO by JEREMY ROBINSON
New Standalone Novels
SecondWorld
Project Nemesis
Island 731
I am Cowboy
The Jack Sigler Novels
Prime
Pulse
Instinct
Threshold
Ragnarok
Omega
The Chess Team Novellas (Chesspocalypse Series)
Callsign: King - Book 1
Callsign: Queen - Book 1
Callsign: Rook - Book 1
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld
Callsign: Bishop - Book 1
Callsign: Knight - Book 1
Callsign: Deep Blue - Book 1
Callsign: King - Book 3 - Blackout
The Origins Editions (First five novels)
The Didymus Contingency
Raising The Past
Beneath
Antarktos Rising
Kronos
The Last Hunter (Antarktos Saga Series)
The Last Hunter - Descent
The Last Hunter - Pursuit
The Last Hunter - Ascent
The Last Hunter - Lament
The Last Hunter - Onslaught
Horror Novels written as Jeremy Bishop
Torment
The Sentinel
The Raven
ALSO by SEAN ELLIS
Jack Sigler/Chess Team Novellas
Callsign: King – The Brainstorm Trilogy
Prime
The Nick Kismet adventures
The Shroud of Heaven
Into the Black
The Devil You Know
Fortune Favors
The Adventures of Dodge Dalton
In the Shadow of Falcon’s Wings
At the Outpost of Fate
On the High Road to Oblivion
Dark Trinity: Ascendant
Magic Mirror
Wargod—an Ogmios Team thriller (with Steven Savile
Secret Agent X
The Sea Wraiths
The Scar
Masterpiece of Vengeance
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