Echo Platoon by Richard Marcinko, John Weisman Page B
Authors: Richard Marcinko, John Weisman
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and—motherfucker—two threats hunkered at twelve o’clock, back to back in the six-foot-long, three-foot-wide corridor.
The closest had a machine pistol with a tactical flashlight on its forearm. He screamed, jumped up, and turned the light on me.
The cockbreath would have blinded me if I hadn’t been wearing my night vision. But this generation of NV irises down fifty times faster than the human eye can. 15 He was obviously surprised that I didn’t freezelike a jacklighted deer—and so, he was the one who fucking froze.
April fool, motherfucker. Before he could do it to me, I did it to him. I caught him with a two-round burst and he fell back, toward his partner in crime. I charged over the sonofabitch, leaving Boomerang to head-shoot him, and rough-and-tumbled the second tango, whose attention had been turned toward the commotion in the back hallway (that’s where Duck Foot and Nod had breached the door and started tossing flashbangs down the hall).
I got some good purchase on the rugged floor and tackled tango two as he spun around, catching him with my shoulder and knocking the muzzle of his AK-74 away from me. That didn’t stop the asshole from pulling the trigger, however—letting loose a full mag (or so it seemed) of damn loud and damn lethal 5.45-×-39mm steel-core bullets about three inches from my right ear. They punched through the ceiling like the proverbial HKTB. 16
T2 decided I was much too close for his safety and comfort. He slipped out of my grasp while trying to rake my face with the front sight of his AK. I blocked the stroke with my left hand, slapped the muzzle down, reversed, caught him with a forearm to the side of the head, and rocked him sideways.
I’ve got to say he was a persistent little motherfucker. He lost his grip on the AK, but with both hands free, he launched himself at me and managed to knock my night vision off. That’s all right, asshole—I can fight in Braille if I have to. I caught hishands in mine, wrapped him up, bear-hugged him, took his feet off the ground, and using him like a battering ram, I took us both through the fucking lightweight wall.
We crashed—him on the bottom—into one of the heads. The impact knocked a fucking sink off the wall and it went smashing onto the floor, severing the pipe and showering both me and Mr. T2 with water. Even sans lights, I was able to catch a faint glimpse of the room in the ambient light of the flashbangs my guys were throwing—pissers and shitters to my left, showers to the right. Damn—the disinfectant reeked even more than the cordite. But frankly, there was no time at all to admire either the decor, or the smell.
Why? Because T2 broke contact, coiled back, and caught me upside the head with a roundhouse kick. The blow broke the lanyard on my NVGs and sent ’em flying—we’d see how shockproof they really were later. I staggered back, hit the wall, and bounced off, back toward the motherfucker. He tried the kick routine again, but I caught his foot, twisted it until he screamed, then shifted north and popped him twice in the knee, hyperextending it. He must have realized he was in trouble, because he tried to get away. But he couldn’t. Because by now I had the little sik 17 by the straps on his bulletproof vest, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
He was a wiry little asshole and he’d been eating garlic and fül beans and who knows what else, because when I kneed him in the balls just to show how much I cared, he let go a fart so potent that it hadto have been on the UNSCOM 18 CW warning list. We’re talking maggot-gagging lethal green cloud here, folks. It was bad enough that even moi, the puke-snorting, snot-eating Rogue geek, got knocked ass over teakettle from the stench.
But here’s the difference between Warriors and wannabes: Warriors keep going no matter how bad it gets. And so, I took a big deep gulp o’ stink, choked the cloud down, and body-dropped T2 onto the floor.
The scream he emitted told me
The closest had a machine pistol with a tactical flashlight on its forearm. He screamed, jumped up, and turned the light on me.
The cockbreath would have blinded me if I hadn’t been wearing my night vision. But this generation of NV irises down fifty times faster than the human eye can. 15 He was obviously surprised that I didn’t freezelike a jacklighted deer—and so, he was the one who fucking froze.
April fool, motherfucker. Before he could do it to me, I did it to him. I caught him with a two-round burst and he fell back, toward his partner in crime. I charged over the sonofabitch, leaving Boomerang to head-shoot him, and rough-and-tumbled the second tango, whose attention had been turned toward the commotion in the back hallway (that’s where Duck Foot and Nod had breached the door and started tossing flashbangs down the hall).
I got some good purchase on the rugged floor and tackled tango two as he spun around, catching him with my shoulder and knocking the muzzle of his AK-74 away from me. That didn’t stop the asshole from pulling the trigger, however—letting loose a full mag (or so it seemed) of damn loud and damn lethal 5.45-×-39mm steel-core bullets about three inches from my right ear. They punched through the ceiling like the proverbial HKTB. 16
T2 decided I was much too close for his safety and comfort. He slipped out of my grasp while trying to rake my face with the front sight of his AK. I blocked the stroke with my left hand, slapped the muzzle down, reversed, caught him with a forearm to the side of the head, and rocked him sideways.
I’ve got to say he was a persistent little motherfucker. He lost his grip on the AK, but with both hands free, he launched himself at me and managed to knock my night vision off. That’s all right, asshole—I can fight in Braille if I have to. I caught hishands in mine, wrapped him up, bear-hugged him, took his feet off the ground, and using him like a battering ram, I took us both through the fucking lightweight wall.
We crashed—him on the bottom—into one of the heads. The impact knocked a fucking sink off the wall and it went smashing onto the floor, severing the pipe and showering both me and Mr. T2 with water. Even sans lights, I was able to catch a faint glimpse of the room in the ambient light of the flashbangs my guys were throwing—pissers and shitters to my left, showers to the right. Damn—the disinfectant reeked even more than the cordite. But frankly, there was no time at all to admire either the decor, or the smell.
Why? Because T2 broke contact, coiled back, and caught me upside the head with a roundhouse kick. The blow broke the lanyard on my NVGs and sent ’em flying—we’d see how shockproof they really were later. I staggered back, hit the wall, and bounced off, back toward the motherfucker. He tried the kick routine again, but I caught his foot, twisted it until he screamed, then shifted north and popped him twice in the knee, hyperextending it. He must have realized he was in trouble, because he tried to get away. But he couldn’t. Because by now I had the little sik 17 by the straps on his bulletproof vest, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
He was a wiry little asshole and he’d been eating garlic and fül beans and who knows what else, because when I kneed him in the balls just to show how much I cared, he let go a fart so potent that it hadto have been on the UNSCOM 18 CW warning list. We’re talking maggot-gagging lethal green cloud here, folks. It was bad enough that even moi, the puke-snorting, snot-eating Rogue geek, got knocked ass over teakettle from the stench.
But here’s the difference between Warriors and wannabes: Warriors keep going no matter how bad it gets. And so, I took a big deep gulp o’ stink, choked the cloud down, and body-dropped T2 onto the floor.
The scream he emitted told me
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