Charles Taylor - First Salvo

He was determining the best course down when a little puff of snow to one side caught his eye. With the steady blowing, it was a strange sight, a little geyser of white crystals leaping skyward for a moment, then being carried away. Everything else was so smoothly sculptured by the constant wind.

Then a second puff — this time beside his right leg. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ryng dove face first into the snow to his left, burrowing into the coldness.

A goddamn bullet! That’s what it was — a bullet. Christ, there was no warning sound, nothing to tell him what that first puff of snow was, what with the goddamned howling wind. He was lucky, just plain, half-assed lucky, that whoever had the gun was a lousy shot.

Ryng didn’t move until he knew where the other man was firing from. He waited thirty seconds, counting softly to himself to counter the thudding of his heart. Then with his head covered with snow, icy water trickling down his neck, he slowly raised his head, careful not to make a sudden move. His gaze began directly below, moving slowly up, stopping at each shadow or rocky outthrust to see if there was any movement. As his eyes reached near the top, he saw the source. Even prone in the snow, the black uniform stood out like a sore thumb.

Christ! Ryng cursed. There was no way that person could have gotten where he was — just about in line with me on the ridge — unless he’d gotten out of that helo. Always cover your tracks , Ryng thought. Always look over your shoulder. Never take anything for granted. This joker now doing target practice on you had to come from that copter — wrecked or not. Somehow he got out of that mess and kept right on at what he was supposed to do in the first place — make sure Bernie Ryng never screws with the Black Berets again!

Those guys are good, Bernie , the voice in the back of his head continued, good enough to almost blow someone like you right off a godforsaken, snow-covered mountain peak in the worst goddamned place you’ve ever seen. No one would ever know, during that split second before it was lights out, that the reason they finally got you was because you were stupid!

There was another puff of snow a couple of feet to his left. Christ, it was eerie — no damn sound at all, just little puffs of snow from a bullet that could blow his skull apart. The guy was shooting where he expected his quarry to be. Ryng knew there was no way he could be seen buried in the snow like this. For the first time since he’d covered himself with it, he realized how cold he was. Snow melted around his ears and down his neck, the wind adding to the chill. There was no way he was going to spend much time lying here. Before he knew it, he’d be too damn cold to move properly. He had no desire to lie there and feel the numbness overtake him. And knowing Ryng wasn’t armed, the other man wouldn’t waste much time waiting for him to surface.

Ryng began to roll through the snow in the direction of the ocean. Very cautiously, his arms and legs straight out, head down, he rolled. As he came to the edge on the reverse slope, he peered quickly back at his pursuer and saw a black-uniformed individual slogging through the heavier snow, an AK-74 slung from his right shoulder, one hand on the trigger guard. The left arm appeared to hang uselessly at his side.

As Ryng began to roll downhill faster, his arms and legs flailing helplessly, the Russian spotted him. Through clots of snow, Ryng saw the flame from the gun muzzle and knew the weapon must be in automatic. Only a lucky shot would get him now, he knew, as he increased speed.

Bang — pain in his shoulder. Was he hit? Ryng felt his body spin around, his feet heading downhill, and he realized that he’d hit one of those jagged rocks. No bullet, but he felt the warmth of blood from a tear in his shoulder. Then his feet hit another object and he felt his body surge forward in a somersault. Head over heels, he pitched downhill, out of control.

The raw snow ripped at his bare skin like sandpaper. He grazed off other rocks, unable to see or avoid anything in his path. Then, for a moment, he was airborne, shooting off a little precipice and dropping down onto a steep slope where the snow was shaded and hard. Here he slid even faster, this time on his back, head down, too fast to roll or see where he was headed.

Abruptly, he was out of the snow. Gravel and loose rock now ripped at his body, and he felt the shirt tearing off his back. A new sensation of pain rolled over him. Ryng knew he could not afford the luxury of allowing the pain to overwhelm him. As he skidded to a stop, his arms and legs flailed for any kind of grip that might give him the chance to roll onto his belly.

With a groan of pain, he flopped onto his stomach, searching the slope above for his pursuer, then spotted the man in much the same state as himself. The black uniform stood out through the shower of snow where the Russian had also fallen down the steep pitch. In front of the man, bouncing end over end, was the AK-74. There was no way the man and the gun would get together faster than Ryng could get to them.

Groggy from the fall, Ryng drew himself onto his hands and knees. His shirt and pants were shredded, blood seeped from a myriad cuts and scratches, and the pain from deep bruises made every movement agonizing. Forget the pain, Bernie , the voice reminded him. Better you get to that rifle before the other guy, or you won’t have a prayer in this world . Somehow he was on his feet and lunging toward the spot where the Russian and his gun were headed.

But there wasn’t going to be a gun for either of them. As he neared the intersection of dirt and snow where the other man would land, the weapon hurtled on past. It would just be the two of them, and Ryng had no doubts whatsoever that it would quickly be just one.

When Ryng was within fifty yards, the Russian finally halted himself. Lying there just as battered as his adversary, Colonel Bulgan forced himself to suck in deep breaths. The pain, especially in the injured wrist, was agonizing. His head and face were torn by snow and gravel and throbbed intensely. The gun, he knew, was out of reach. He just hoped the American had no better chance at it than himself. Rolling onto his one good arm, Bulgan looked around, reorienting himself. Then his eyes fell on Ryng.

The American was stumbling toward him. In Ryng’s mind, it was a charge; he was driving like a fullback. To Bulgan, it seemed almost comic until he remembered who this man was. Then he rolled onto his knees, balancing precariously as his head swam with pain. At twenty-five yards, the Russian stumbled to his feet, his good arm cocked, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He lowered his head and reeled toward the American.

To Ryng, the situation was bizarre. The Russian intended to butt him as they came together. But try as he would, it seemed impossible to avoid the Russian’s crazed charge.

They came together with a thud, Bulgan’s head hitting Ryng’s chest at the same time a fist caught the Russian in the side of the head. They both went down, each rolling away from the other, then back to their feet.

With a roar, seeing the other man’s left hand was useless, Ryng charged again. He swung wildly, catching the other with a grazing blow to the shoulder. Bulgan hissed like a snake, catching Ryng with a wild swing to the forehead.

But it was not really a contest. One man crazed with pain had the advantage over the other with only one good arm. Twice, Ryng caught Bulgan in the jaw, snapping his head back each time.

Bulgan staggered, blood now flowing from his nose and ears as Ryng hit him twice more in the face. Ryng then lunged for the kill. He spun the other around, catching him first in a head lock, then applying the pressure backward to snap the man’s neck. He could feel elbows flailing back at his ribs, but that was a useless effort. The Russian was already too weak, and now his air was cut off. Ryng applied the pressure, but the Black Beret’s torso was thick and tough and he was straining for his life.