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“I’m glad you picked me up, aren’t I?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the agent responded, stone-faced. He’d still been in the door, looking over his shoulder for the threat, when the guy made the shot and all he could think was “we have got to get that guy on the Detail.”

* * *

“Vanner, what’s the pool on Bukara’s replacement?” Mike asked.

“Sadim,” Vanner said. He was green but functional. “He’s the senior Chechen in the sector and most of the survivors are his men. He’s not going to be as easy as Bukara, either.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Mike said as his earphone beeped indicating that Nielson was on the other freq. “Go, Tiger Two.”

“Kildar, do you think that was wise?” Nielson asked. “Pierson is fucking fuming. The President, along with several million other people around the world, is reported to be puking in the bathroom.”

“No,” Mike said, coldly. “But it sure was what I call quality television.”

Chapter Fourty-Three

“Lasko,” Adams said over his throat mike. “You there?”

“Go, Tiger Three.”

“You are now officially the most famous sniper in the world,” Adams said, chuckling. He’d figured out how to get the feed just in time. “You know that was on satellite TV, right?”

“I was unaware,” Lasko replied. There was, however, the slightest note of satisfaction in his normally toneless voice.

* * *

Lasko had no orders to engage the other targets and wasn’t about to throw away a rep that high; another shot like that was not guaranteed. He would need a new screen name, though. 2782Robar sounded about right.

He picked up his meat-roll and took a bite, chewing slowly and methodically. His beer was untouched. He wasn’t about to have alcohol interfere with his fine motor control.

He continued to peer through the scope, watching the gathering Chechen force.

Come to the slaughter, pigs of Allah.

* * *

Serris hated fucking mortars. He hated being fired on them because the bastards were worse in a way than regular artillery. He’d heard it was because their bursting charge was heavier than similar sized artillery or something. He’d caught some regular artillery during Iraq and even one time in Afghanistan but mortars were worse. And all the fucking muj had the damned things; Iraq was seemed to have more mortars than it had stray dogs. And Iraq had a lot of stray dogs.

But he hated humping the things even more than he hated being under fire from them. He’d cross trained with the 60 guys and come away with the definite desire to never have to be fucking 11Charlie. I mean, most of the time you couldn’t see what you were firing at, you humped the shit around day after day and then most of the time everybody forgot to use you. It just fucking sucked.

But compared to these motherfuckers, 60mm mortars were like carrying around some spared sand in your boot. These fucking 120s… the guy who invented these motherfuckers should be shot.

He currently was holding one of the rope handles of the baseplate and not enjoying the experience one fucking bit.

“Jesus, Lane, lift up a bit,” Serris snarled. “I’m taking all the weight!”

“It’s not my fault I’m short,” Lane puffed. “Try bending over or something.”

“If I bend over I’m gonna get a hernia,” Private Thomson said, his foot slipping out from under him. “Fuck!” the Ranger snarled, trying to hold up his end of the tube.

“Oh, son-of-a-bitch,” Sivula said as more of the weight came down on him. “Don’t hold yourself up with it, newbie!”

“Would you please quit fucking bitching?” Sergeant Simmons said, shaking his head. He had the bipod over his shoulder but still helped Thomson struggle back to his feet. “Jesus Christ! You’re fucking Rangers. You’re supposed to eat pain for breakfast. Those fucking girls following us have been carrying those damned ammo boxes for the last fifteen klicks and you’re bitching cause you gotta carry a fucking baseplate maybe two? We can’t even pass the bunker line! They’re going up into the fucking pass. You know, where the motherfucking enemy is? So Would You Please Quit Fucking BITCHING?”

“Well, now that you put it that way,” Serris said. “Can I just say one thing?”

“What?!”

“I hate fucking mortars… ”

* * *

“I hate fucking mortars,” Adams said, ducking involuntarily as another salvo dropped across the Keldara position.

The Chechen mortar teams had finally gotten into position and they had apparently limitless ammo. Most of it was courtesy of the Russian Army, which had a terrible problem with securing its resupply convoys. How they’d humped all the ammo into position Adams wasn’t sure, but they’d probably used mules. However they’d done it, they’d been hitting them for the last fifteen minutes and the Keldara had taken more casualties in that time than in the whole damned pursuit. Oh, most of them were light, just minor shrapnel, but a couple of guys in Padrek’s team had had a round land right in their position. Two more body bags to add to the next load Valkyrie load.

“They are quite unpleasant,” Oleg said. He was pulled up against the side of the position, his head tucked down, but otherwise trying for the “totally imperturbable” Look. He said it in English, Scottish accented English no less, and Adams had to shake his head.

“Now you’re sounding like a fucking Brit,” Adams growled. “I never should have let McKenzie teach you guys. You’re going to start talking about ‘a spot of bother’ and ‘a dog’s breakfast’ next.”

“Actually I was thinking more along the lines of ‘a bit of a tiff.’ As in ‘well, this is a bit of a tiff, what?’ ”

“Oh Christ.” Adams keyed the video feed on his C2 pad and shook his head again. “They’re getting in position for another assault.” He keyed his throat mike. “Yo, Ass-Boy… ”

* * *

Kacey didn’t have to look up, turn her head or otherwise move to fix D’Allaird with a stare when he opened the door. She’d been sitting in the hard wooden chair, the only seat in the “ready room” for the last two hours and a half hours with her arms crossed looking at the door.

“Your bird is repaired, ma’am.”

The chief was just about covered in grease and hydraulic fluid. Forget being in his coveralls, being on his face, arms and hands; it was matted into his hair.

Kacey picked up her helmet off the floor and walked to the door, her face cold.

“I figure you’ve got the loft for a couple of gunner positions,” D’Allaird said as they walked to the hangar. His face and tone were just as hard and cold. The two Czech contract mechanics were just walking out, clearly discussing in Czech just how soon they could get out of this fucking place. They, too, were covered in oil and hydraulic fluids. “So I mounted the last two gatlings. The bird is armed and fueled. There are some yellow lights but nothing is critical. I won’t certify it once you’re in combat, though.”