“But, Sarge, I’m—” Geer starts to complain.

“Private Geer, when I tell you to fall back, fall back.” No yelling, no threat, just that calm authority Cole always seems to convey.

And suddenly Rio is walking point.

Behind her stretch two American platoons and one British platoon. Ahead of her, presumably the enemy. Or maybe just more desert.

Possibly lions.

We’re out front because we’re expendable, she realizes. It’s the British commandos who matter; they’re the experienced soldiers and thus more valuable.

The platoon’s been briefed on the basics of the mission: a crossroads, then a detachment of Nachrichtentruppe, the communications arm of the German army. They were believed not to be defended and were expected to be easy prey.

“Shoot ’em up, blow up their radios, and run like hell,” that was the short version of the mission.

Run like hell back to boats that may or may not be there.

She freezes. Something ahead. On the road.

It takes several frazzled seconds, several tentative steps, before she recalls the han

d signal for “freeze.” She cocks her left elbow, raises her left hand, and makes a fist. Nevertheless Tilo Suarez, who has been sleep-marching, plows into her.

“Hey,” he protests.

“Shut up, Suarez! Sarge!” This in urgent whispers.

Sergeant Cole holds his palm out to the soldiers behind him, then motions for them to drop and take cover. The squad, and then the rest of the platoon, takes a knee and waits. Sticklin trots off the road, drops, and readies his BAR.

“What do you see, Richlin?” Cole is at her side, hunched low.

It’s still just early morning. The hope of a colorful sunrise fades, and now the light is the gray of raw oysters as cloud covers the horizon.

Rio peers down the road through the gloom, squints, and lowers her head slightly, trying for a different perspective.

“I think it’s a man, Sarge. I think he’s got a light.”

Cole draws a deep breath. “I think you may be right. I make it a man and some kind of lantern. You’ve got good eyes, Richlin. Okay. Advance slowly.”

Advance?

“Sarge?”

“Go on, Richlin. Keep your eyes open, issue the challenge, anything happens hit the deck and we’ll open up. Stick? Heads up with that BAR.”

The man—if that’s indeed what it is—stands about two hundred yards up the road. There is a hut off to the man’s right, a low adobe structure no bigger than a garden toolshed. But there could easily be a couple of German infantrymen in there. There could be a machine gun.

It can happen so fast. Instantly. Without warning. Like it had to Kerwin.

To him. But not to me.

“Mustard!” Rio yells, louder and shakier than she intends.

No answer. She raises her rifle to her shoulder. She sights on the figure. She flicks off the safety.

Elevation? Windage?

“Mustard! Answer or I shoot!”

Tags: Michael Grant Front Lines Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net