sf_actionMichaelsrecon: Combat ops
книга по игре "Ghost Recon".
Clancy’s
®OPSTEN BYA V I D M I C H A E L S
BESTSELLING NOVELS OFCLANCYTEETH OF THE TIGERnew generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.
“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.”
—Daily Mail(London)RABBITClancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—an engrossing novel of global political drama...
“A WILD, SATISFYING RIDE.” —New York Daily NewsBEAR AND THE DRAGONclash of world powers. President Jack Ryan’s trial by fire.
“HEART-STOPPING ACTION... CLANCY STILL.”
—The Washington PostSIXClark is used to doing the CIA’s dirty work.he’s taking on the world...
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—The New York Times Book ReviewORDERSdevastating terrorist act leaves Jack RyanPresident of the United States...
“UNDOUBTEDLY CLANCY’S BEST YET.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution...
OF HONORbegins with the murder of an American womanthe backstreets of Tokyo. It ends in war...
“A SHOCKER.”
—Entertainment WeeklyHUNT FOR RED OCTOBERsmash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—incredible search for a Soviet defectorthe nuclear submarine he commands...
“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING.”
—The Washington PostSTORM RISINGultimate scenario for World War III—final battle for global control...
“ THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME... BRILLIANT.”
—NewsweekGAMESanalyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists...
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—The Wal Street Journal
CARDINAL OF THE KREMLINsuperpowers race for the ultimate Star Warsdefense system...
“ CARDINALEXCITES, ILLUMINATES... A REALTURNER.”
—Los Angeles Daily NewsAND PRESENT DANGERkilling of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites thegovernment’s explosive, and top secret, response...
“A CR ACKLING GOOD YARN.” —The Washington PostSUM OF ALL FEARSdisappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens theof power in the Middle East—and around the world...
“CLANCY AT HIS BEST... NOT TO BE MISSED.”
—The Dallas Morning NewsREMORSEcode name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIAbrilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient... but who is he really?
“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING.” —The Wall Street Journal
by Tom ClancyHUNT FOR R ED OCTOBERED STOR M R ISINGIOT GAMESCAR DINAL OF THE K R EMLINAND PR ESENT DANGERSUM OF ALL FEARSR EMORSEOF HONOROR DERSAINBOW SIXBEAR AND THE DR AGONED R ABBITTEETH OF THE TIGEROR ALIVE
(written with Grant Blackwood): STR ATEGIES OF SUBMAR INE WAR FAR EINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIPMOR ED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AR MOR ED CAVALRY R EGIMENTWING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WINGINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MAR INE EXPEDITIONARY UNITBOR NE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR BOR NE TASK FORCER IER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCR AFT CAR R IERFORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. AR MY SPECIAL FORCESTHE STOR M: A STUDY IN COMMAND
(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret., and Tony Koltz)MAN A TIGER
(written with General Chuck Horner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)WAR R IORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES
(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)R EADY
(written with General Tony Zinni, Ret., and Tony Koltz)
CLANCY’S HAWXCLANCY’S GHOST R ECONR ECONOPSCLANCY’S ENDWARHUNTEDCLANCY’S SPLINTER CELLCELLATION BAR R ACUDAMATEby Tom Clancy and Steve PieczenikCLANCY’S OP-CENTERCLANCY’S NET FORCECENTERFORCEROR IMAGEAGENDASOF STATEMOVESOF WAREAK ING POINTOF POWEROF IMPACTOF SIEGENATIONAND CONQUEROF WAROF CONTROLOF THE GUAR DOF HONORINGBOAR DOF FIR EARCHIMEDES EFFECTTO TR EASONOF EAGLESby Tom Clancy and Martin GreenbergCLANCY’S POWER PLAYSAWAR.COMEDGEWATCHHOURSTRIKECARD
Clancy’s
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,AfricaBooks Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, Englandis a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.CLANCY’S GHOST RECON®: COMBAT OPSBerkley Book / published by arrangement with Ubisoft Entertainment S.A.© 2011 by Ubisoft Entertainment S.A. All rights reserved. Tom Clancy, Ghost Recon, theIcon, Ubisoft, and the Ubisoft logo are trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the U.S.in other countries.text design by Kristin del Rosario.rights reserved.part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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’d like to thank my editor, Mr. Tom Colgan, for this great.. Tom Clancy and all of the folks at Ubisoft who cre-the Ghost Recon game certainly deserve my gratitude,well as the following individuals:. Sam Strachman of Longtail Studios helped methis story from the ground up. His contributionsgreat, and his willingness to take risks with the storycharacters was deeply appreciated.. James Ide served as my military researcher and story. He reviewed every page, relying on his extensivebackground to provide criticism, advice, and sug-that greatly improved the manuscript., Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall Telep offered theirpatience and support. Every manuscript is a battle,I’m fortunate to have these ladies in my platoon.
is in my heart, death in my hand,and revenge are hammering in my head.
— Titus Andronicus, Act II, sc. 3, l. 38sword is ever suspended.
—Voltaire
“You think I’m guilty?” I ask her.smirks. “My opinion doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“How do you expect me to formulate an opinionI don’t know your story?”sigh through a curse.name is Captain Scott Mitchell, United States. I’m a member of a Special Forces group called the. When I’m on the job, out on a mission, I don’t. I’d thought we operated with impunity.when I was ordered back home and confined to, I realized everything had changed. The samethat helped conceal my operations andall evidence of the people I’d killed had been forced
OS T RE C O Nmake an example of me. They had changed. I had. And we could never go back.don’t have to talk. They can invite you to kiss... or even kill them with their eyes. Talk is cheap,I’ve crawled through enough rat holes to learn thatsome, life is even cheaper.had permission. I did what I had to do. They say Ia choice, but I didn’t. I have never done anythingdifficult in my life.now they want me to pay for my sins.haven’t slept in two days. The growing humidityat Fort Bragg makes it harder to breathe, and whengo to the window and run a finger across the glass, itup sweaty. The humidity is all I have to keep me.father taught me that it’s easier to cut wood withgrain rather than against it, and I carried that simpleinto the Army. I promised myself to remain, do the missions, go with the grain, not becausewas trying to cop out but because I just wanted to be asoldier. I’d already seen what torn loyalties and jeal-could do to the warrior spirit, and I wanted to pro-myself against that.for what? My life is now a blade caught in a heavy, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared out of my. I’m fourteen again, and Dad’s telling me thatjust died, and I’m worried about how we’ll getwhen she did so much—when she was the personheld our family together. When I think about going
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prison, I lose my breath. It’s a panic attack, and all Ido is hide behind sarcasm and belligerence., who’s shaking her head at me now, showedthree hours late with some bullshit excuse about arunning long, and I told her to have a seat atlittle kitchen table so we can talk about saving my. She gave me a look. She’s a major with the JAG, probably about my age, thirty-six or so, with rect-glasses that suggest bitch rather than scholar. Iher.she lifts her chin and grimaces. “Is that you?”
“What do you mean?”
“That smell...”scratch at my beard, rake fingers through my crew. All right, I hadn’t bathed in a couple of days, either,I’d been growing the beard for the past month.
“You want to wait while I take a shower?”
“Look, Captain, I’m doing this as a favor to Brown’s, but you can hire your own attorney.”shake my head. “Before I shipped back home,told me about some of the other cases you did,a little similar to mine.”sighs deeply. “Not similar. Not as many witnesses.reasonable doubt—the chance that maybe it wasan accident. Everything I’ve read in your case sayswas hardly an accident.”
“No, it certainly wasn’t.”
“And you understand that you could lose everythingspend the rest of your life in Leavenworth?”
OS T RE C O Nstare back at her, unflinching. “You want a drink? Ias in alcohol...”
“No. And you shouldn’t have one, either. Because ifwant me to help you, I need to know everything.narrative they gave me is their point of view. I need.”
“You don’t even know what unit I work for. They’t tell you. They just say D Company, First Battalion,Special Forces Group. You ever hear of the Ghosts?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. They want plausible deniability., they got it, all right, and now I’m the fall guy.”
“You’re not the fall guy. From what I read, no oneyou to do anything.”lower my voice. “I went to a briefing. They showeda PowerPoint slide of the situation over there. It wasto illustrate the complexity of our mission.said the graph looked like a bowl of spaghetti,guys were laughing. But you know what I was? Nothing. I didn’t care.”
“Why’s that?”
“They gave me a mission, and I tried to put on the. I went in, and I got the job done. Usually Igive a crap about the politics. I don’t feed the. I am the machine. But this... this wasn’t a. This isn’t a war. It’s an illusion of understand-and control. They think they can color-code it, buthave no idea what’s going on out there. You need toin the dirt, look around, and realize that it’s... I don’t even know what the hell it is...”
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purses her lips. And now she’s looking at me like’m a stereotypical burned-out warrior with a new drink-problem and personal hygiene challenges. Screw her.
“You don’t care what I think, do you?” I ask.
“I’m here to defend you.”take a deep breath. “That sounds like an inconve-.”
“Captain, I know where this is coming from, and I’veit before. You’re angry and upset, but you’d bestforget that I’m all you’ve got right now.”
“I’ll ask you again, do you think I’m guilty?”dismisses my question with a wave. “Start at the, and I need to record you.” She reaches intofancy leather tote bag and produces a small tabletwith attached camera that she places on the. The camera automatically pivots toward me.make a face at the lens, then rise and head towardkitchen counter, where my bottle of cheap scotch. I pour myself a glass and return to the table.’s scowling at me and checks her smartphone.
“Oh, I’m sorry if you don’t have the time for this,” I, then sip my drink.
“Captain...”
“You got any kids?”rolls her eyes. “We’re not here to talk about me.”
“I’m just asking you a question.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”grin slightly. “How many?”
“I have two daughters.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
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“Can we get on with this now? I assume you knowattorney-client privilege? Anything you sharethe mission will remain classified, compartmen-, and confidential, of course.”finish my scotch, exhale through the burn, thenmy gaze. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I am notmurderer.”
target’s name was Mullah Mohammed Zahed, thecommander in the Zhari district just outsidecity of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan. His home-, Sangsar, was located in a rural area along theRiver. The Russians call that place “the heartdarkness.”and its small towns were and still are a crucialregion to Kandahar and also a staging area foractivity. Commanders often told us that if wetake Zhari, we’d control Kandahar. I’ve been inmilitary long enough to understand the disparitywishful thinking and the will of a dedicatedruthless insurgency.again, we didn’t care about the politics or the
OS T RE C O Nor even superstitious Russians. I took my eight-manto “the ’Stan,” as we call it, and invested in twoof recon using our airborne drones complementeda local guy feeding us intel from a handful of histhousand neighbors. We picked up enough to jus-a raid on a mud-brick compound we believed was’s command post.
“Ghost Lead, this is Ramirez. Jenkins and I are in, over.”
“Roger that, buddy,” I responded. “Just hold till thecheck in.”had positioned myself in the foothills, shielded by anso I could survey the maze of dust-cakedthrough my Cross-Com. The combinationearpiece fed me data from my teammates asas from the drone and the satellite uplinks. The tar-computer could identify friend or foe on the bat-, and at that moment, red outlines were appearingover the grid like taillights in a traffic jam.to our operation, General Keating, commanderUnited States Special Operations Command (USSO-) in Tampa, Florida—the big kahuna for grunts like—had been talking a lot about COIN, or counterin-operations. Keating had expressed his concernSpecial Forces in the area might’ve alreadytheir usefulness because the Army’s new phi-was to protect the people and provide themsecurity and government services rather than ven-out to hunt down and eradicate the enemy. Weto win over the hearts and minds of the locals by
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their living conditions. Once we made themallies, we could enlist their help in gathering humanon our targets. In many cases, intel fromlocals made all the difference., I remember Lieutenant Colonel Gor-, our Ghost Commander, having several four-letterto describe how effective that campaign would. As a Special Forces combatant, he believed, like Idid, that you needed to spend most of your timethe people how to fight so that after we leftcould defend themselves. However, if their enemiestoo great or too overwhelming, then we should gothere like surgeons and cut out the cancer., our commanders believed, was the cancer.they hadn’t realized was how far the disease had.
“Ghost Lead, this is Treehorn. In position, over.”Treehorn was the sniper I’d brought along,to the chagrin of Alicia Diaz, my regular operator.had done tours in Afghanistan before, and I’dno qualms about taking her along, despite the chal-of being female in a nation where women were... let’s just say differently. That she had taken aand broken her ankle two weeks before beingout ruined my initial game plan.was good, but he was no Diaz.others reported in. We had the complex cordoned, and with Less Than Lethal (LTL) rubber rounds toguards before we gassed them into unconscious-, the plan was to neutralize Zahed’s force, then slip
OS T RE C O Ninside the compound and capture the man. No blood spilled. Special Forces surgery. I mean,we make it any more politically correct? We werein there to take out a man whose soldiers routinelythemselves up at the local bazaars, but we were try-our best not to hurt anyone., I’d told my guys that if push came to shove, we’dlive. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that, if only tothe challenge. As I’d told the others before ascend-the mountains, “This is not rocket science. And it’t over till the fat man sings.” Zahed was pushing threepounds, according to intelligence photos and, and we planned to make him sing all about Talibanin the region, including the smuggling ofmanufactured in Iraq and rumors about ChineseNorth Korean electronic shipments into the country.know I’m making Zahed sound like a real scumbag,at that time, things seemed pretty clear. But I hadn’tthere long enough, and I never thought for onethat we Ghosts and the rest of our military mightcausing more damage than anyone else. We wereto help.
“All right, Ghosts, let’s move out.”issued a voice command so that my computer wouldme into the Cross-Com cameras of the others, andwatched as the guards fell like puppets. Thump. Down.then my men, who wore masks themselves, hit theguys with quick shots from a new CS gas gun wefielding. The gun issued a silent burst into an ene-’s face.
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crouched before the lock on the front gateI rushed down from my position and joined him.was a cool desert night. A couple of dogs barked indistance. Laundry flapped like sails on long linesspanned several nearby buildings. The faint scent ofthat had been roasted on open fires was gettingin the stench of the CS gas. I checked myup display: two twenty A.M. local time. You alwaysthem in the middle of the night while they’re sleep-. Again, not rocket science., our expert cat burglar, picked the lock withtool kit and lifted his thumb in victory. I shifted intocourtyard as Treehorn whispered in my earpiece: “Two. One to your right, up near that far building, theto your left.”
“See them,” I said, the Cross-Com flashing with morered outlines that zoomed in on each guard.most Taliban, they wore long cotton shirts drapedtheir trousers and held to their waists with wide. The requisite beards and turbans made it harderdistinguish among them, but they all had one thing in: They wanted to kill you.lifted my rifle, about to stun the guy on the right,stood near a doorway, his head hanging as thoughwere drifting off.had the guy on the left, the taller one.filled my earpiece and the images being sent viafrom the monocle into my eye vanished.like that.lack of data felt like a heart attack. I’d grown so
OS T RE C O Nto the Cross-Com that it had become another, one abruptly hacked off.first thought: EMP? Pulse wave? We’d lost com-, targeting, everything. And I never for onethought the Taliban could be responsible for.shifted over to me as he kept tight to a sidebeside the courtyard. “What the hell?” he asked,muffled by his mask.warning, two shots boomed from the dis-: Treehorn. He’d taken out both guards with live. I wanted to scream at him, but it was too late.
“We’re clear!” I shouted to Ramirez. “Let’s go.”’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth whenof gunfire resounded all over the compound. Ifor the telltale booming of my team’s riflesby the popcorn crackle of the Taliban’s AK-47s.had gone weapons free, live fire.the same time, the whir of the Cypher drone’sresounded behind me, but then the drone bankedand dove toward the courtyard, crashing intodirt with a heavy thud followed by the buzz of short-instruments.enemy was using electronic countermeasures?taken out our Cross-Coms and drone?.were in rural Afghanistan, where electricity andwater were considered high-tech.and I ripped off our masks and switchedto live ammo. We reached the main door of
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building, wrenched it open, and shifted inside, where,flickering candlelight, two robed Taliban turned a cor-and spotted us.hollered.dropped him with a sudden burst and Ramirezthe second one, who was turning back.don’t want to glamorize their deaths or emphasizebravery and/or marksmanship. I emphasize that wemade the concerted effort to minimize casualties andhad the advantage of our information systems.when we lost comm and satellite, all bets were off. I’dmy men permission to make the call, given their. Treehorn was, admittedly, a bit prema-, but I’m still not sure what would’ve happened if’d held back fire. I’d told all of them they could go liveneeded to be sure about it. I’d take the heat for their. The rules of engagement were as thick as a phoneand written by lawyers whose combat experienceno further than fighting with line cutters at theStarbucks.led us down a long, narrow hallway filleddust motes and illuminated by sconces supportingcandles. Our boots scraped along the dirt floor asturned a corner and found a sleeping quarters withbeds and ornate rugs splayed across the floor. Imy hand on one mattress: still warm. On a nearbysat a half dozen bricks of opium. No time to con-them now. We shifted on, out into the hall, andthe next room.gunfire thundered outside, quickening my pulse.
OS T RE C O Nknew if we didn’t clear the compound within the nextor so, Zahed would be long gone. These guyshad their escape routes planned, and it wouldn’tsurprised me if he’d constructed several tunnel exits,our intel did not reveal any.next two rooms were more sleeping quarters,, and then we reached another small courtyardrushed into the next building, where in the entrancewoman with a shawl draped over her head saw us andcrying and waving her hands. I lifted my rifle toher we wouldn’t shoot, but that sent her toward, arms up, fingers tensing as she went for my neck.shoved her hard against the wall and weon by, emerging into another room where at leastdozen more women were huddled in a corner, cryingyelling at us as they clutched their small children.his voice, Ramirez, whose Pashto was a lotthan mine, told them it was okay and we werefor Zahed. Did they know where he was?women frowned and shook their heads., we didn’t expect to find women and children incompound. Our intel indicated Zahed had estab-a command center occupied by his troops.investigation of the next two rooms providedclues. They were both empty, but you could seeequipment had been there and dragged out: tablessome abandoned wires along with a gas generatorhad scorch marks along its sides.
“He got tipped off,” said Ramirez. “He moved the
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and children in here, thinking maybe we’d blowplace and kill them. Bad press for us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said in disgust.rushed outside, where we met up with two moremy guys, Smith and Nolan., the avid hunter from North Carolina, woremask pushed atop his bald head and gasped as he. “Cleared the building back there. Nothing. Whathell happened to our Cross-Coms?”
“I don’t know. Get the others. Get to the rally point.!” I ordered.took off, and Ramirez looked to me: We hadmore building on the west side to clear. I had theof the compound committed to memory, and we’dseveral guesses about this structure: food storagemaybe a weapons cache, based on what we’d seenmoved in and out of there.door was locked. Ramirez opted for his faster. In we went.surprise: two big empty rooms whose dirt floorsoutlines where cases had been. Probably a largecache temporarily stored there and as quicklyout.was reminded of an earlier operation up in ShahPari, a village in the northeastern mountains. We’dtrying to disrupt the rat lines in and out of Paki-. Insurgents were using the tribal lands in Waziristanother places to recruit and train their members, thenthem across the border on missions in Afghanistan.
OS T RE C O Nbuddy of mine, Rutang, had been captured up there,we got him out. Anyway, the Taliban terrorizedof small villages like Shah E-Pari. The menbe forced to join them or suffer the consequences.we went up there, armed and trained the guys, andit was all working out. The villagers began win-battles with the Taliban and confiscating and stock-their weapons. Then we got the order to go in andthose weapons, lest they fall back into the enemy’s. Try having that conversation with the village: Sorry, we taught you to protect yourselves, and youhave some guns... but not too many.Ironically, whatconfiscated was mostly ancient crap sold by us to theduring the Russian invasion. The guns weto help fight the Russians were now being usedus. That fact, that irony, barely garnered a reac-anymore. And by the way, that entire village fellinto the hands of the Taliban, who, the villagers said,giving them more living assistance than either theor our military.of which is to say that some if not all of the weap-Zahed was moving around had once belonged toUnited States.second room we entered gave us pause. In fact,looked back at me for permission to enter, asneither of us should go on.took one look, closed my eyes, and gritted my teeth.was a Marine I knew who’d spent a long timein the mountains laser-designating targets for the. He’d described the locals as savages and
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century barbarians who forced their five-year-oldinto human cockfights, who clawed around all daygorillas with AK-47s. He’d taken great exception tomedia referring to the enemy as “smart,” when in histhe enemy was cunning and crafty, but hardly. And when confronted directly they were, plainsimple, cowards who’d step on the necks of their fel-soldiers if that promised escape.I tended to disagree with some of his gen-because I’d spent time in both the cities andareas and had encountered sophisticated and sim-people, I was haunted by his accusations that thehad exploited their children—all the more so because of what lay before us indimly lit room.
WORamirez nor I had any children, so there wasn’tmoment when we projected our own kids into thebefore us.I’m certain that what we felt was equally shock-and painful.
“Oh my God,” Ramirez said with a gasp.we could take another step, footfalls echoedus, and a male voice came in a stage whisper,I couldn’t discern the exact words.turned, crouched, lifted my rifle, and came face towith a Taliban soldier, his AK swinging into the. My rounds drove him back into the opposite wall,he shrank, leaving a blood trail on the wall above. Oddly, he was still alive as he tipped onto one side
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was muttering something, even as a second guythe corner.two rounds missed him and chewed into the. He ducked back round the corner. I blamed myon the shadows and not my dependence on theCom’s targeting system. As I rationalized awayfailure, a grenade thumped across the floor, rolledme, and bounced off the leg of the guy I had just., who’d seen the grenade, too, lifted his, but I was already on it, seizing the metal bomblobbing it back up the hallway, only two secondsit exploded. Ramirez and I were just turning ourto the doorway when the debris cloud showered, pieces of stone stinging our arms and legs andoff the Dragon Skin torso armor beneath our.turned back for the hall.my breath vanished at the sound of a secondthump. This grenade hit the dead guy’s bootrolled once more directly into the room.was on it like a New York Yankees shortstop.scooped up the grenade, whirled toward the open, and fired it back outside. We rolled once morethe explosion resounded and the walls shifted and.’d had enough of that and let my rifle lead me backthe hallway. I charged forward and found theguy withdrawing yet a third grenade from anleather pouch. He looked up, dropped his jaw, and
OS T RE C O Nas my salvo made him appear as though he’da live wire. He fell back onto his side.stood over him, fighting for breath, angry that’d kept coming at us, wondering if he’d been one ofguys who’d perpetrated the acts we imagined hadon in that room. I returned to Ramirez, who’dover to the pool table. That’s right, a pool table.they hadn’t been playing pool.girl no more than thirteen or fourteen lay nude andcrucified across the table, arms and legs boundheavy cord to the table’s legs. Ramirez was checkinga carotid pulse. He glanced back at me and whis-, “She looks drugged, but she’s still alive.”tugged free my bowie knife from its calf sheath and,my teeth, cursed and cut free the cords. Then Iback and ripped the shirt off the dead guy just out-the door. Neither of us said a word until Ramirezher over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and Ithe shirt over her nude body.just shook my head and led the way back out.the courtyard, I swept the corners, remained warythe rooftops, and reached out with all of my senses,us back toward the gate without the help of theCom. Women were wailing somewhere behindof the buildings, and the stench of gunpowder hadeven more on the breeze.sounded from somewhere behind me, andnext thing I knew I was lying flat on my face. Beforecould turn, the girl still draped over his shoul-, an insurgent rushed from the house.
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guy took two, maybe three more steps beforeechoed from the mountain overlooking the. I gaped as part of the man’s head exploded andacross the yard. The rest of him collapsed in a dust.was earning his place on the team.
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