think everything from prison breaks to political security.
snippet:
The sky was dark with the promise of approaching rain. Already the first drops of an afternoon shower had fallen upon the heads of the four men as they moved quietly through the rubble of a settlement without a name. Captain Alexei Petrov, the marksman, was moving quickly at the point, stopping behind cover to examine the next area of ruins through his field glasses for any hint of danger. Ten yards behind him and to the right, two men waited for an all clear signal from Petrov. The fourth man in the squad, Lieutenant Nikolai Kulikov, was another twenty feet back, examining the position from which they had just moved for a hint of an envelopment or ambush from the rear.
The other two men in the squad were sergeants, old hands at their jobs, and were all to ready to get out of the area before the rain came down.
They all carried AKS-74 assault rifles, with the exception of Petrov, equipped with a Dragunov SVD precision rifle. Their eyes stood out upon their faces, gleaming white disruptions amidst a sea of tans, blacks, and greens, streaks of camouflage paint upon their visages.
Petrov raised his hand. All was clear. The rain began to fall, picking up in intensity till it concealed the sound of their footsteps upon the bare earth. Here and there a few pockets of grass may poke their way to the surface, but development and construction, not to mention fighting from insurgents, had reduced the village to something akin to a semipermeable hardscrabble pockmarked by the small crater or abandoned, half finished slit trench here and there.
Now, with the noise of their movements concealed by the afternoon shower, was the time to begin moving. Halfway across the village, another team of four men was moving, performing a support role for the other squad, and doing reconnaissance likewise. They were here to scout the area, then the armor and infantry could come and secure any refugees, and help them on their way to a displaced persons camp. They had seen clusters of women and children running from them upon their approach, and old men watching them intuitively from the few buildings that remained standing. The task of scouting an area where every scarred facade of a building, every pile of rubble, could hide a man’s killer, was a process of constant fear.
In combat, fear is a specter over the heads of men. The Angel of Death does not care whether you are sitting in a rear area, caught in a firefight, or mounting point toward a hostile combat zone. Fear is a contagion which every man must control. In combat, very few men will break. Those that do can often be assured of a quick death, if not rout. The professional soldier knows that it is the sheer terror of combat, just as much as bullets or shrapnel, that can be the end of a man’s life in battle.
Alexei raised his hand in a signal to move up. He felt the fear tearing away at his innards and sought subconsciously to control it. So far he had been successful. It was the last thing he needed if the operation turned into a bloodbath. For his error, he and seven other men, friends of his, could lose their lives.
Up ahead of Petrov was a demolished one-story building, with two walls standing, joined at a corner. He made a dash for it, his eyes up and scanning, clutching his Dragunov SVD rifle to his chest.
He reached his position, his stomach giving a lurch as he went into a crouch behind the wall, hoping he hadn’t made too much noise getting here. The rain had picked up and was now pouring steadily, a constant drip-drop on the bare hardscrabble. Some spots were turning to mud, other spots, less permeable, chased off the water to form a dusty solution on the ground. A man swore as he loudly put his foot in a puddle. Petrov swore back in frustration. Must he make noise?
Just as this thought was going through his mind, there was a sharp crack. A puddle exploded into a miniature geyser of water, spraying mud into the air. Petrov shoved his back up against a wall. The men in the back separated and went for cover. Kulikov dodged off to the left of Petrov, keeping him in sight.
Another shot, then another, each one high pitched, splitting the air like a bullwhip.
“Oh dammit, here we go again,” thought Alexei as a series of bullets ricocheted off of his makeshift bunker. He wasn’t safe. He was at the point, and he didn’t know what kind of force the enemy was in. But he did have a radio linkup to his headquarters, with whom the soldiers gave on the ground feedback. He called in a contact, and that he was pinned, and left the message at that.
“Roger, contact confirmed.” was the only response. Alexei cursed the brass when he heard it.
He had a small Skorpion submachine gun slung over his back. He reached for it, throwing aside his SVD, probably throwing the scope out of alignment. No matter. This wasn’t a long range engagement. Petrov estimated from the sound of the incoming bullets reflecting off of his cover that the shots were coming from his right, but he couldn’t be sure, so he stuck his head out just to the side just a bit to see what was happening. A flurry of automatic rifle fire, probably an AK, pushed him back before he could see anything.
Kulikov couldn’t see what was going on either. He had taken cover behind a pile of tin. Not good hard cover, but it was the closest thing available to him. He stayed there for several long seconds, the fear taking over him, then his adrenaline took control and his fear was a thing of the past. His heart was pounding; he could feel it through the tight stretched uniform stuck to his chest by sweat. He looked to his right; his two squadmates in front of him had scattered; they were nowhere to be found. He assumed they were in the same predicament as he. Petrov was still at point, pinned behind his wall, unable to defend himself from the rebels.
