Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
He left Takirak’s corpse crumpled in the snow and moved back around through the jumble of boulders to rejoin his troops—reclaiming his M4 carbine on the way. The first man he came to was Private First Class Cole Hynes. Hynes was crouched behind a cairn of smaller rocks that formed a natural breastwork about waist-high. His bipod-mounted M249 Para light machine gun was positioned on the pile of rock, aimed straight downhill. “You find the sarge, sir?” he asked quietly.
Flynn nodded. “Yep.”
“Is he coming?”
Flynn shook his head. “Sergeant Takirak’s just fine where he is, Hynes.” Even if he’d felt up to it right now, there wasn’t time for any complicated, morale-busting explanations about Takirak’s real identity as a Russian spy.
“So, those guys?” Hynes nodded at the snow-camouflaged shapes still moving by bounds along the foot of the hill. “Are they who I think they are?”
“They’re definitely Russians,” Flynn confirmed.
“So I can shoot ’em?” Hynes asked hopefully.
Flynn nodded. “But only on my order, PFC.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Hold tight for a few more seconds, okay?”
Hynes nodded enthusiastically. “Copy that, Captain.”
Flynn moved on down the line, quickly making sure that the rest of his troops—Airman Peter Kim, and Army Privates Wade Vucovich, Mike Sims, Floyd Leffert, and Gene Santarelli—were in position and understood the situation. Sims, Leffert, and Santarelli were known in the unit by the collective nickname of the Three Amigos, because they seemed perfectly content to spend most of their waking hours—both on duty and off duty—in one another’s company. Most of that, from what Flynn could tell, was due to a shared passion for video games and the same Swedish heavy metal band. He figured that was as good a basis for camaraderie as any other.
One by one, all five gave him a tight nod or a swift thumbs-up signal. Satisfied, he reversed back down the line and took up a position just to Hynes’s right, prone between two gray boulders. Another quick look down the slope showed that the Spetsnaz commandos were right where he wanted them—directly in front of his men and out in the open. They were a little over two hundred yards away. Carefully, he sighted on one of the Russians, a soldier carrying an AKM equipped with a 40mm grenade launcher. “All Kodiaks,” he said loudly, raising his voice to be heard down the line. “Hit ’em! Now!”
Flynn squeezed off three quick shots. Snow spurted up behind his chosen target as the first two rounds missed, but the third hit the Russian in the side. The enemy soldier went down hard. On his left, Hynes opened up with his M249 light machine gun, firing short bursts down the hill—walking them across the Spetsnaz formation. Two more of them crumpled right away. Blood pooled red on the white snow.
Across the hillside, the other Americans joined in, firing down at the enemy commandos caught in the valley. Flashes lit the night. Another Russian fell. The rest, reacting fast, dove for whatever cover they could find and started shooting back—aiming toward the muzzle flashes.