by Leigh Barker
He shrugged. “Maybe not. Well, maybe a little bit.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She almost tapped his arm to make him turn around, but thought better of it.
“Let’s ask them,” Ethan said, and rapped his knuckles on the door.
There were no lights and no sounds, and the thudding on the door had no effect.
“Nobody home,” he said, and kicked the door in.
Andie flinched as the heavy door splintered around the lock and slammed into an ornate bureau before shuddering to a stop.
“You go upstairs,” Ethan said. “Set up overwatch on the second floor. Shoot anything that moves.”
“Anything?”
“Not the goats.”
“Can I help you?” The soft-spoken man stepped out of the shadows inside the hall and stood in the suddenly open doorway.
Ethan scanned him for anything he didn’t like, and except for the man’s kurta shirt with a huge gaudy flower print and his mismatched shalwar pants, he saw nothing.
“No, thanks,” Ethan said, stepping into the house past the man. “We’re good.”
“American?” the man said.
Ethan resisted the obvious response. “Yes.” He stopped now and looked again at the man. “And you’re not Indian.”
“Nor Pakistani, this being their country,” the man said.
“Good to hear.” Ethan waved Andie into the house. “Upstairs, second floor front. Keep your eyes wide open.”
“Are we expecting guests?” the man said, still with the same calm soft voice.
“We are. But that’s no surprise to you,” Ethan said. “I think you’ve already met them.”
The man smiled and threw him completely.
“Yes, more Americans. It seems to be our day for it. What is it you say? Ah yes. You wait for years and a bunch turn up all together. Buses.”
He leaned a little closer to the man to see him better in the gloom. “You’re a long way from home. And where will home be? Sweden, Finland? One of them.”
“Norway,” the man said, and smiled. “But as you say, one of them.”
Ethan looked past the man to the dark interior. “You’re showing no lights.”
The man nodded. “That would be silly, wouldn’t it? The Americans who came here yesterday weren’t as friendly as you.”
“How many?”
The man looked at him for several seconds, as if counting them. “A lot more than we saw.”
Ethan knew how that worked. Send in a small recon team first, in this case to frighten the natives and keep them docile, then pull out and wait for somebody stupid enough to walk into the killing zone. Give the master sergeant a prize for doing just that.
“We need to use your house, Mr. Norway.”
“Marius.”
Ethan frowned and looked around, then got it. “Your name, it’s Marius.”
The man nodded. “What did you think, that I was proposing?”
Ethan laughed, he couldn’t help it. He’d thought exactly that for a moment before his common sense intervened. “Ethan Gill.”
Marius glanced at his shoulder and saw that it was free of any insignia. “Special forces?”
Ethan almost lied, but lies without good cause grow teeth and bite you on the ass. “Master sergeant, US Marine Corps.”
“Good people,” Marius said. “I served alongside them in Afghanistan.”
That stopped Ethan as he was about to move along the corridor. “That right?” He thought for a moment. “Only Norwegians I ever met over there were navy special forces working with our SEALs.”
He nodded but said nothing.
Ethan put out his hand and Marius shook it. “Good to meet you, Marius.”
“I think you might think differently soon. When the visitors arrive.”
Ethan watched him for a few seconds before asking, “You ex-special forces?”
Marius smiled. “Like you say. I am MJK. Special marine forces.”
“And?” Ethan said.
“You and the young girl intend taking on the mercenaries?”
“What mercenaries?” Ethan knew well enough.
“The ones looking for you yesterday. The Americans.”
“Okay, you’ve got my interest.” Ethan gave up trying to recon the rest of the house and turned to face the man.
Marius was not as old as Ethan had assumed from the white beard and the belly pushing against his flowery shirt. Sixty maybe, could be less. Grey hair and a lined face, but a tough life and too much sun will do that. His eyes were ice blue and full of life. The true indicator of his age.
“When they come to kill you, they will expect only one man and a girl.”
“That’s enough to thin them out a little,” Ethan said.
The man nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” He glanced at the stairs, but didn’t say it.
“She’s better than she looks,” Ethan said, and wished he hadn’t. He’d been on the course about women in the forces and hadn’t slept through all of it.
“Yes. But now they will face you, the better than she looks young woman. And me.”
“No,” Ethan said. “This is my problem. I don’t want you involved.”
“Master Sergeant, I became involved the moment you chose my home to make your stand.”
True.
“This is my fight. You keep out of the way.” Ethan walked away.
Marius watched him open one door after the other and look into each room. “I have a MSG90 an perhaps two hundred rounds.”
Ethan stopped in his tracks and turned slowly. “MSG90?” He walked back slowly, frowning heavily. “You have an HK MSG90 here?” He waved his hand to indicate here.
The man smiled a broad white smile through his lush beard. “There are dangers here. And only some have four legs.”
“How the hell did you get a rifle like that?”
“Strictly speaking, it’s a PSR. The Pakistanis make them under license.”
“And you have one?” Ethan said, still not completely convinced.
Marius crooked his finger for him to follow and opened the first door Ethan had tried. A small office with a big wooden desk, a huge chair and a computer. He turned on the light on the desk. And Ethan took the cotton cover off the back of the seat and dropped it over the light.
“This is an internal room,” Marius said, and pointed at the walls covered with pictures of icy rivers and snowy mountains. “No windows.”
Ethan didn’t speak, and Marius shook his head. “Night vision. I fear I’m getting old.”
“You and me both,” Ethan said.
Marius walked around his desk to an ancient Jezail musket in a glass box on the wall, opened the front and pushed the top of the panel. The musket rolled up and over to bring the sniper rifle into view, hanging on two snap catches as if getting it out in a hurry was a design decision.
He lifted it down, turned it slowly and handed it to Ethan.
Ethan hefted it and caressed the black composite shoulder stock. “Seven point six two mil, five-round mag.” He glanced up with a question. “You bought this here?” His tone showed his doubt.
“You have a good eye. This one is from my home in Bergen.”
Ethan smiled a knowing smile. “Does the MJK know you lifted their weapon?”
Marius raised an eyebrow. “They have many. I had none. It seemed reasonable.”
Ethan smiled and shook his head at the logic he couldn’t fault. He looked through the scope. “Illuminated ret.” He looked up. “You know your weapons.”
“My life depended on it. Many times. As I’m sure yours depended on yours and still does.”
“Every single day,” Ethan said softly, and looked up at the man in his ridiculous shirt. “You were a sniper in the MJK?”
He nodded. “Yes. For a while.”
“You really want to stick your head into this clusterfuck?”
“You’ve seen this place.” Marcus nodded towards the door. “A goat has a heart attack, it’s th
e action for the week. I think I’m going slowly mad.”
Ethan looked at his shirt and smiled.
Marcus pulled his kurta out from his gut and looked at the flowers as if seeing them for the first time. “My wife’s choice.”
Ethan looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see her.
“She passed away last year.”
“I’m real sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “It could’ve been worse.”
Ethan couldn’t imagine how.
“Cancer. The long painful type.” He took a long breath and his cheekbones stood out for a moment. “I also have an HK USP.” He closed his eyes. “She used that to end my suffering.”
“She sounds like a fine woman.”
“She was.”
“You still have the pistol?” Ethan said slowly, almost ashamed to ask.
Marius nodded. “It was not the fault of the weapon.” He opened the desk drawer an took out the handgun and handed it to Ethan.
He turned it over in his hand and checked its condition without looking like he was doing that. “Forty-five.”
Marius nodded. “Twelve-round mag.”
Ethan nodded. “Shorter range than the nine mil, but I’ll take the extra stopping power every time.” He gave it back to Marius. “Okay, you can play too.”
Marius pulled a pack of bullets from the drawer and put it in the pocket of his kurta, the weight pulling the cotton to the point of tearing. “Your young woman—”
“Petty Officer Andie Shae,” Ethan said.
“Your petty officer would be happier on the first floor,” Marius said, and picked up four boxes of rounds for the sniper rifle from the drawer and dropped them into the filing tray Ethan held out for him, to save his shirt. He nodded thanks. “I shall take the top floor.” He took his rifle off the desk and held it up a little. “She prefers the altitude.”
“Okay, I’ll tell Andie to relocate.” He saw the look. “She’s young, sure, we all were once, but she’ll stand if it gets hairy.”
“There is no if, it will get…hairy,” Marius said, and led the way back into the dark corridor.
Gunny heard them coming, whispering loudly enough a deaf man in a box could’ve heard them. He crouched down a little so only his shoulders showed above the edge of the cliff he was pressed against on his narrow shelf. His very narrow shelf. And this had seemed like a good idea an hour ago. But no time for strolling about looking for a more comfy hidey-hole.
What they needed was some illumination, a Nightsun or two would do the trick. Except the spook who’d provided the guns hadn’t included any. Okay, they weighed near seventy pounds and needed a sixty-amp helicopter power supply, but that aside, it would’ve been nice to have been asked. Instead of bugging the vehicle to get them fried.
He checked his rifle was ready to go.
Odd thing about the spook…
He shifted his position again so he could use the rockface as a paler backdrop to silhouette the insurgents when they came around the corner.
Why did he provide them with the weapons in prime working order? Answer seemed logical enough.
The first insurgent came around the sharp bend, moving slowly with his AK47 pointing straight ahead. Chuck had him fixed in his sights without any problem. It wasn’t light, but the man stood out clear enough.
The spook hadn’t wanted to tip his hand and that was just what he’d have done when the boys checked their weapons. Had they been substandard, they’d have known it in a heartbeat. And smelled a rat. So…
The other insurgents appeared around the corner, close together and jostling those in front to get a move on. Not great field drill, but they were just fanatics with guns.
So the spook had brought along the best weapons he could lay his hands on. Didn’t cost him anything, the CIA had picked up the tab, so why not do it right?
Another ten, fifteen feet and Smokey and Loco would be able to see them; then he’d light them up. Until then he’d wait, nothing gained from being hasty. Except maybe getting his head shot off. No, he’d wait.
Smokey saw them through his spotting scope. This time they were set against the darker backdrop of the sheer mountain pass, their white dishdashas giving them a ghostly appearance. One he was eager to make more permanent.
“See them?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Loco said, tracking them through his sniper scope. “And why are you whispering? They know we’re perched up here.”
“Dunno, seems like the thing to do. Maybe they’ll think we’re asleep.”
“Your daddy used to hit you a lot in the head, didn’t he?”
“Not that I remember,” Smokey said, still watching the insurgents through the scope, but bringing his submachine gun around a little. “I have memory…err, things. I forget what they’re called.”
Loco ignored his friend, a skill he’d mastered over the three years he’d been part of the sniper team. He moved the scope from man to man, looking for his target. And he saw him. Not right at the front of the huddle nor the back, about in the middle, probably hoping there’d be enough bodies around him. He was pushing and shoving the men in front, and they weren’t complaining or pushing back. Which made him the boss man. Target acquired.
“You see Gunny?” he asked without taking his eyes off the leader.
“Yes,” Smokey said, “he jumped off the cliff.”
Loco was silent for a while. “Is he standing on something?”
“A ledge, I guess.”
“Okay, so he’s low down on the trail. He’ll only be able to see the guys up front. So you work the back of the band, and I’ll cherry-pick.”
“Copy that.” Smokey shifted his aim up a little. “When do we go?”
“Wait on Gunny.”
“How many you think there are?” Smokey said.
“More than we need. Too many for this to work. They’ll take off as soon as we fire, then come around injun style.”
“Better don’t miss, then.”
“I’ll try not to,” Loco said. “Remind me what this trigger thing is f—”
Gunny opened fire. Smokey opened fire. Loco squeezed the trigger and saw his target drop to his knee. The M40 round passed over his head and slammed into the shoulder of the man standing next to him. Probably not a kill shot, but a 7.62 mil round at twenty-five hundred feet per second zipping into his scapula meant he wasn’t doing banjo duels any time soon.
Loco swore and lowered his aim, but the brave leader was using the bodies of his men as cover while he scrambled back towards safety.
As predicted, as soon as the insurgents realized they were being shot to hell, they turned and ran. To come back later, stealthily.
They ran for the rocky corner and safety, and ran straight into Winter’s M16 on full auto. They were caught in the crossfire from three fire points with deadly accurate rounds slicing into them from all sides. The sheer horror of it froze them to the spot while they tried to work out what to do.
Their leader reacted as a true terrorist would and pushed one of his men towards Winter’s position while he made a dash for the bend and escape. Loco put a round in the back of his head and blew most of it off. The bullet must have missed something vital because the hero’s legs kept on working for another couple of steps before they received the being-dead message and folded.
Winter snapped another mag into his M16, put it on semi-auto, and looked up in time to see the Taliban commander flop face down on the rocks. His ragtag band was now in total disarray, with no idea what to do or where to run. Winter decided it was time to execute his plan. He drew his Sig with his left hand, held the M16 pistol grip in his right, and ran at them firing both weapons and screaming, with his huge dishdasha billowing like a floored parachute.
The three nearest insurgents stopped dead, stared at him for a beat, and turned and ran, pushing and charging the others ahead of them back under the guns.
There were bodies everywhere across the trail, and more falling every sec
ond as the unit’s withering fire ripped through them, sending them spinning and sprawling as if somebody had rolled a gigantic bowling ball through them.
Smokey’s SMG worked back and forth with a calm, steady rhythm, and Gunny knocked them down like ducks at a carnival. Loco picked off anybody who looked like he might be recovering his wits. Winter brought up the rear, his rifle and pistol working in harmony and him still screaming.
Five, ten seconds was all it took, and there was nobody left to kill. But the unit stayed where they were, their weapons ready. Except Winter, who could see no reason to stand on his own in the middle of the trail like Billy No Mates and stepped over the bodies, his SIG sweeping left and right like a blind man’s white stick. It wasn’t needed.
Gunny climbed up from his narrow perch above the hundred-foot sheer drop and joined Winter on the trail.
“That was fun,” Winter said as he reloaded his weapons and put the Sig away.
“If you like that kinda thing,” Gunny said, also reloading.
“What’s not to like?”
“Yeah, I saw you getting into the spirit of it.”
Winter would’ve smile if he’d had that reflex. “Seemed like the thing to do.”
“Worked, that’s all that counts.”
“And not being dead.”
Gunny looked around at the bodies. “Makes you proud, doesn’t it?”
“What? Shooting the shit outa all these idiots?”
“No, well, yes, but mostly helping them fulfil their life’s ambition.”
“Martyrdom?”
“Exactly. Gives you a warm feeling inside, doesn’t it?”
“What?” Loco said, coming up behind them through the rocks. “Killing bad guys on a lovely evening makes you warm?”
They turned slowly and watched him without speaking, until he began shifting uneasily and turned and walked off.
“You’ll give him a complex,” Smokey said, smiling.
“You got any more rounds for the SMG?” Gunny said. “Or did you blow them all knocking chunks out of the rocks?”
“Hey, Sarge,” Smokey said, a little hurt. “I bet you check the holes in those ragheads, you’ll find most of them are nine millimeter. Mine.”
Gunny shook his head slowly. “Doubt that.” He stepped aside. “Go ahead and take a look. You’ll see for yourself.”