Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

Sigler possessed the ability to think analytically—strategically—even under the worst conditions. His instructors at OCS had quickly recognized his innate talent, and they had sharpened it by running him through increasingly difficult scenarios and simulations. He’d learned how to outwit his opponents, overcome seemingly impossible odds and perhaps the hardest lesson of all, when to gamble with the lives of his men.

Half a world away, observers at Joint Special Operations Command painted a picture of the battlefield from real-time imagery, supplied by the UAV circling overhead. Sigler had divided the survivors into four groups. One group, comprising most of the remaining snipers and the lone surviving crew chief from the downed Black Hawk would fall back to the original objective to disarm the booby-trap and set up an ambush of their own. The rest of them—six men, including Sigler and Aleman acting as spotters—would flank the insurgents and take out the mortar emplacements.

They’d succeeded in accomplishing that task, but one of the forward teams—Jon Foley and Mike Adams—had been cut off during their retreat. The disembodied voice from JSOC had confirmed their deaths.

There were just eight of them left now—four snipers, including Lewis Aleman, whose right hand was broken and useless; one warrant officer from the Night Stalkers; and the three surviving members of Cipher element—Daniel Parker, Casey Bellows and Sigler. They were desperately low on ammunition, and every shot had to count. That was the bad news. The good news was that help was on the way…or so HQ kept telling him.

Sigler sprang to his feet and hurried to the corner of the building to provide covering fire for the rest. Parker appeared beside him, still hauling the M240. A loop of ammunition, about twenty inches long, hung from the feed tray; fifty rounds, maybe less…after that, they might be able to beat someone to death with it.

The snipers had the farthest to run, and before they could reach the relative shelter of the structure, the insurgents seemed to collectively recover their nerve. Sigler heard the low crack of Kalashnikov rifles firing, and then realized that rounds were ricocheting off the cinder block walls behind him. The snipers were zigzagging, trying to stay one step ahead of the incoming fire.

“Move your ass!” Sigler shouted, more out of frustration than anything else, and then he fired in the direction of the muzzle flashes closest to the running men. Beside him, Parker ran out the last of the ammo belt, and then immediately switched to his carbine.

With a howl of divinely inspired ardor, a dozen insurgents broke from cover and started running toward the building, sweeping their AK-47s ahead of them as they ran, firing at random intervals. A round caught one of the snipers in the leg, and he went down in the open. The other man skidded to a halt, trying to reach his fallen comrade, but was driven back by a storm of lead.

Sigler held his ground. Two shots, new target…two shots, new target. Enemy fighters went down, one after another, but not all of them stayed down. Two shots, new target…two shots, new target…

Click.

It wasn’t a surprise. He habitually counted his shots so that he could be ready for a fast reload. The problem was he didn’t have any more magazines.

“I’m out!”

“Well you ain’t getting any of mine,” Parker shouted back, firing with the same rhythm.

Then his weapon fell silent, too.

Six of the original twelve mujahideen were still on their feet, still advancing.

Sigler drew his KA-BAR knife from its sheath. “Danno, let’s teach these assholes that you don’t bring a gun to a knife fight.”

“Foxtrot Alpha,” Parker replied, drawing his own blade—a standard issue M7 bayonet—and standing beside Sigler to meet the charge.

Something popped in the air high above them. For a moment, Sigler thought it must be another flare, but the sound repeated twice more in the space of a second, without any other accompanying fireworks. Just as Sigler started to look up, something big slammed into the ground fifty meters north of their position.

Suddenly, the head of the nearest insurgent exploded like a watermelon at a Gallagher show. A loud report echoed from above like thunder, and then there was another, and another, and one by one the charging fighters went down, their bodies erupting in geysers of blood.

A dark figure dropped out of the sky, landing less than twenty meters from the corner where Sigler and Parker were preparing to make their stand. He wore a black jumpsuit and helmet, but Sigler could distinctly make out a wisp of blond hair sprouting from the man’s chin. The paratrooper wielded a pair of enormous pistols, one in each hand, and as he fired them out, the last of the charging insurgents went down.

The newcomer shrugged out of his parachute harness before the canopy could settle around him, then hastened to join Sigler. He kept his pistols aimed in the direction from which the attack had come, but the balance of the enemy forces were well beyond pistol range, even a pistol as massive as the Desert Eagle. When he reached Sigler’s side, they all hastened into the relative safety of the concrete building.