Page 79 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Just 1.17 seconds later, the heavy steel plate shuddered and rang as the armor-piercing bullet plowed through it.
“Hit,” Juan said calmly.
Linc racked the bolt, ejecting the spent shell, and loaded another. He fired again.
The steel rang like a church bell.
“Hit.”
Juan double-checked the wind speed. It had risen and shifted directions. He entered the new data into the ballistic calculator, but Linc hardly needed it.
Three more ringing hits.
Plata whistled. “I think you understated your service record, amigo. Those five hits all fit within the span of my hand. Incredible.”
“You need a new target,” Juan said. Linc had punched a giant hole in the center of the steel silhouette.
“You two will make a good team,” Plata said. “Secure your gear. It’s time for the next phase.”
?
Plata and Dragu? marched the mercenaries to the shoot house. The two commanders showed them an example of the range-standard “enemy” and “hostage” colored cardboard targets the unit would encounter. Each soldier was fitted with a comms headset and a GoPro camera. Plata held a portable video monitor that received live signals from the cameras so he could analyze and comment during the exercise.
It was decided to send the men in four at a time for the simulated hostage rescue.
“And just a reminder, gentlemen,” Plata said. “These are live-fire exercises. You lose points if you shoot each other.”
The men laughed at the gallows humor, but the point was made.
Plata blew a whistle and the first team raced into the building.
Over the next hour, all twelve men had run the course three times, their high skill sets on display. Only one hostage was accidentally shot in the first round and none in the other rounds. Linc was only allowed to use his pistol. At nearly thirty pounds and almost six feet long, the Barrett M107A1 sniper rifle was the antithesis of a close-quarters combat weapon. Despite the handicap of the smaller weapon, Linc achieved the third-highest number of total enemy kills.
“Well done, gentlemen,” Plata announced over a loudspeaker. “You all live up to your reputations. Now it’s time for the real thing.”
Plata and Dragu? marched the team through three miles of jungleuntil they reached the outskirts of the abandoned city-mine in the center of the island. They stood on one of its hard-packed streets. There was no glass in the windows, the cement was eroded and weather-pitted, boards were rotted, and the sheet metal rusted. Some of the buildings were several stories tall. Most were not. The eastern edge of the “city” ended in a long, fragmenting pier that reached out into a small harbor.
A shared uneasiness rattled the hardened mercenaries. The city looked like a postapocalyptic nightmare—an abandoned hive of human misery where even ghosts refused to live.
“Same drill, different location,” Dragu? said. “Only this time, you all work together.”
“Why this place?” the Russian asked.
“Our employer suggested these ruins are not unlike the urban area we will be working in. Besides, it’s more challenging than the shoot house. Yes?”
The Russian nodded. “Da.”
“Just to put you all on notice,” Plata said. “The two-man squad with the highest number of kills and lowest hostage deaths at the end of the training will receive a special reward.”
Dragu? pointed at Linc. “Davis? You and Mendoza find a sniper’s hide and take care of business.”
“Will do.” Linc glanced at Juan and the two men dashed into the tallest building across the crumbling street.
Plata blew a whistle and the ten other men raced away.
40
The first timed city training module went about as Juan expected given the lack of unit cohesion. Four of the six “hostages” were killed and five enemy targets weren’t even located. After the targets were repositioned, Plata ran a second timed run. Both numbers were halved—a good improvement. On the third attempt, no hostages died and all of the enemy targets were found and taken out before the timer alarmed. The team was definitely gelling together.
