or pieces of flesh. By slipping your pinky or ring finger through the ring attached
to the bottom of the knife’s hilt, you could switch between forward and reverse grips
in a lightning-fast 180-degree stroke. Fisher owned two karambits, one with a silver
uncoated blade, the other featuring a DLC, or diamond-like carbon, coating that gave
the blade a matte black appearance for better camouflage and protection against reflections
that could betray his position.
Knowing most of this op would be run at night, he’d taken the black blade—which now
jutted from the bottom of his fist.
At the next tree he paused and marked the positions of each troop, their weapons trained
on the valley to his left. He zoomed in once more with his trifocals. The nearest
troop peered out from behind a more narrow pine, his rifle at the ready, a pair of
night-vision goggles clipped to his helmet and slid down over his eyes.
After plotting his path, Fisher stepped as gingerly as he could, coming in from behind
the man, who turned back as he approached, but all he saw was the next spruce behind
him. He didn’t realize Fisher was so close, placing a gloved hand over his mouth to
try to stifle his warm breath. Once more Fisher examined the ground between his position
and the soldier’s. No, not good. Broken patches of ice, pine needles, and a few brown
leaves scattered on top of it all. A soundless approach would involve antigravity
boots. He’d have to get Charlie on that. For now, though, it was all about reaching
the troop before the man could fire and alert his comrades.
Reaching the troop . . . that was one way to do it. The other involved bringing the
troop to him . . .
Taking in a long breath, the air stinging his lungs, Fisher stood and began to walk
in place, the snow and leaves crunching loudly under his boots.
Then he froze, got back down on his haunches, and doused the green lights on his trifocals.
As expected, the troop clambered to his feet and left his position to investigate
the noise. His movements were tense; in fact, Fisher had never seen a young man more
puckered up.
As he came toward Fisher’s tree, Fisher cautiously maneuvered to the side so he could
still attack from the rear. Again, the most important part of the assault was getting
the troop’s finger away from his trigger. After that, the karambit would communicate
Fisher’s will in a way words could not.
Fisher rose and came up on the troop like a camouflaged extraterrestrial, once part
of the mountainside but now morphing into a lethal, three-eyed combatant.
In that half second when Fisher sensed the troop would whirl around, he reached out
and seized the man’s right wrist, yanking it away from the assault rifle.
The blade was already tearing across the man’s throat before he could yell, and as
he fell back toward the snow, Fisher eased him silently to the ground. While grisly,
it was necessary to stab him twice more in the heart before he was sprawled out on
his back and flinching involuntarily.
Men did not die instantly from knife wounds the way Hollywood producers wanted you
to believe. It took a while to bleed out, but flooding an enemy’s throat with blood
ensured he wouldn’t be screaming for his brothers as, in the minutes to come, he finally,
inevitably, drowned.
Fisher took the man’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He was about to open the
man’s belt pouch to draw some spare magazines when he spotted movement farther up
the mountain. He dashed off, the thumping of the Black Hawk much closer and certainly
welcome. With that racket concealing his footfalls, he wasted no time rushing up on
the next troop and working the knife the way a symphony conductor instinctively works
his baton. The troop saw nothing, felt only a hand, the edge of the blade, the warmth
of his own blood spilling down his chest.
As Fisher silently finished the job with two more
to the bottom of the knife’s hilt, you could switch between forward and reverse grips
in a lightning-fast 180-degree stroke. Fisher owned two karambits, one with a silver
uncoated blade, the other featuring a DLC, or diamond-like carbon, coating that gave
the blade a matte black appearance for better camouflage and protection against reflections
that could betray his position.
Knowing most of this op would be run at night, he’d taken the black blade—which now
jutted from the bottom of his fist.
At the next tree he paused and marked the positions of each troop, their weapons trained
on the valley to his left. He zoomed in once more with his trifocals. The nearest
troop peered out from behind a more narrow pine, his rifle at the ready, a pair of
night-vision goggles clipped to his helmet and slid down over his eyes.
After plotting his path, Fisher stepped as gingerly as he could, coming in from behind
the man, who turned back as he approached, but all he saw was the next spruce behind
him. He didn’t realize Fisher was so close, placing a gloved hand over his mouth to
try to stifle his warm breath. Once more Fisher examined the ground between his position
and the soldier’s. No, not good. Broken patches of ice, pine needles, and a few brown
leaves scattered on top of it all. A soundless approach would involve antigravity
boots. He’d have to get Charlie on that. For now, though, it was all about reaching
the troop before the man could fire and alert his comrades.
Reaching the troop . . . that was one way to do it. The other involved bringing the
troop to him . . .
Taking in a long breath, the air stinging his lungs, Fisher stood and began to walk
in place, the snow and leaves crunching loudly under his boots.
Then he froze, got back down on his haunches, and doused the green lights on his trifocals.
As expected, the troop clambered to his feet and left his position to investigate
the noise. His movements were tense; in fact, Fisher had never seen a young man more
puckered up.
As he came toward Fisher’s tree, Fisher cautiously maneuvered to the side so he could
still attack from the rear. Again, the most important part of the assault was getting
the troop’s finger away from his trigger. After that, the karambit would communicate
Fisher’s will in a way words could not.
Fisher rose and came up on the troop like a camouflaged extraterrestrial, once part
of the mountainside but now morphing into a lethal, three-eyed combatant.
In that half second when Fisher sensed the troop would whirl around, he reached out
and seized the man’s right wrist, yanking it away from the assault rifle.
The blade was already tearing across the man’s throat before he could yell, and as
he fell back toward the snow, Fisher eased him silently to the ground. While grisly,
it was necessary to stab him twice more in the heart before he was sprawled out on
his back and flinching involuntarily.
Men did not die instantly from knife wounds the way Hollywood producers wanted you
to believe. It took a while to bleed out, but flooding an enemy’s throat with blood
ensured he wouldn’t be screaming for his brothers as, in the minutes to come, he finally,
inevitably, drowned.
Fisher took the man’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He was about to open the
man’s belt pouch to draw some spare magazines when he spotted movement farther up
the mountain. He dashed off, the thumping of the Black Hawk much closer and certainly
welcome. With that racket concealing his footfalls, he wasted no time rushing up on
the next troop and working the knife the way a symphony conductor instinctively works
his baton. The troop saw nothing, felt only a hand, the edge of the blade, the warmth
of his own blood spilling down his chest.
As Fisher silently finished the job with two more
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