Crucible by Ryan W. Aslesen

Author:Ryan W. Aslesen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2018-01-18T18:39:58+00:00

Ahlgren ran from the barn after Whitbeck, who stood motionless in the alley over the dead insurgent. I ought to frag this son of a bitch right here!

Shouts went up from the battlements, accompanied by clicks of weapons being readied for action. Closer shouts emanated from just up the alley: Faraj responding to the insurgents in frantic blasts of Arabic. Both parties traded yells for several seconds before Faraj shouted, “We’re compromised!”

“What the fuck did you tell them?” Ahlgren demanded.

“Misfire, they don’t buy it!”

“Nice job, asshole!” Archer shouted, not referring to Faraj.

“Time to party, sir,” Ahlgren informed Whitbeck, who gazed upon him with frightened eyes the size of saucers. He wasn’t about to move without physical prodding, so Ahlgren shoved him forward through the archway as shots erupted from the battlements.

Someone cried out from the rear as Ahlgren ran and Whitbeck stumbled into the spacious inner bailey behind the imposing main gatehouse. Taking quick stock of his surroundings, Ahlgren did not like what he saw. The derelict Russian tank—turret askew, covered in tribal graffiti—dominated the center of the bailey, its bent barrel pointed at the gatehouse. It would have been good cover if not for the fact that high walls formed the perimeter, leaving the team vulnerable from all sides. Wooden crates labeled in Asian characters, likely Chinese, were neatly stacked in one corner of the bailey. Munitions. A section of the wall directly across the bailey had crumbled over the ages into a sizeable pile of broken stone.

Three possible exits from this kill box beckoned. But which to take? He didn’t have time or cover to regroup his men and decide. They were toast if they remained here for more than a few seconds.

The bailey brightened as two automatic rifles opened up, one from each tower flanking the main gate. Ahlgren raised his weapon, fired a quick burst at the left tower, and then ran for the other side of the tank. Whitbeck dove to the front of the tank and low crawled, barely squeezing beneath it. Jackson and Thompson joined Ahlgren behind the tank.

“Cover the rear!” Ahlgren ordered Thompson.

Jackson already knew what to do—he cut loose, machine gun roaring, upon the two towers flanking the main gate. The insurgents fired from arrow slits; Jackson wasn’t likely to take them out. He did, however, blast one sentry up on the wall before the man got off a shot. Ahlgren took aim on another. The insurgent’s final act was a burst of fire that mowed down Gunny George as he sprinted for the tank. An instant too late, Ahlgren put three shots into him. His corpse raised a cloud of dust when he landed in the bailey.

Archer ran for the pile of munitions, squeezing himself between wall and crates. They’d be crazy to shoot at him. Ahlgren wondered why he hadn’t thought of it. Because you’re too damn big to fit in there. Coyle grabbed Gunny George by the drag handle on his plate carrier and pulled him toward the munitions stack.

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