The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Joseph Nagle
feet, and disappeared into the black ink of the early pre-morning sky at a speed just cresting one hundred and ninety miles per hour. At the precise spot over their drop zone and at the designated time, the Chinook tilted her nose slightly upward and the rear ramp opened. The Green Berets exited through the fully agape back and parachuted expertly to within a few clicks of their current location.
During their stealthy trek to the base of the forested mountain, the sun had risen and quickly stewed the morning air. It no longer amazed York how fast the crisp air of the Afghan night turned into the stifling heat of the day.
York couldn’t see the team spread out in a hasty defensive position behind him, but he knew that they were there. The Green Berets operated in a symbiotic relationship, nearly breathing for one another. There was never a question of ability or the need to waver one’s trust: Alpha teams took only the best.
And York was one of them.
Staggered covertly apart in a modified wedge formation, the other members of the highly trained Special Forces team had taken their appropriate positions and were conducting their own unique series of requirements.
York was prostrate with his weapon laid out in front of him. A small ghillie blanket, which blended in with the hellish environment, camouflaged his body; his face was painted to match the terrain. With the patience only a soldier in special operations can have, York raised his head one painstaking centimeter at a time. The only thing visible behind his painted face was the slight white from his eyes.
Rubbing across the back of his left hand, York felt a rough sensation that would have caused most people to jump from terror.
York wasn’t most people.
York didn’t move.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the yellowish-brown, stout body of a sand viper. York’s hairs stood erect, but not one muscle twitched to give away his presence. About twenty centimeters long, the hemotoxic snake—echis carinatus—bore fangs much larger than would seem necessary, but critical for the delivery of venom that could be fatal. York knew that unlucky recipients of the painful sand viper bite could expect bleeding from their gums to go along with the pain and swelling from the bite. For those that were most unfortunate, their organs and brain could be expected to bleed as well: an oft-fatal side effect.
York’s courtesy to the snake was necessary, and he melted in with the rocks and the dirt as the snake slithered harmlessly over his hand and on its way.
With the viper gone, and without moving any muscles other than those that controlled ocular movements, York diligently scanned the steep slopes of the forest in front of him, looking for anything that didn’t belong. Silently, he mused that it was the forest that abutted suddenly against the harsh and merciless terrain that didn’t seem to belong.
York’s moves were methodical as to not draw unwarranted attention from those he hoped weren’t there. Slowly, he brought his weapon closer and reached out to its barrel with his right hand. Quietly, he flipped the dust cover from the front and rear of the ACOG scope that adorned his 7.62mm SCAR-H combat assault rifle. He squinted heavily and peered through the compact but powerful scope that was mounted on the Picatinny rail of the weapon.
He moved the SCAR-H slowly from side to side, concentrating on the unforgiving terrain of the steep hill that rose up in front of him. The external light-gathering fiber optic rail of the scope gathered the newly available sunlight and illuminated its reticule, improving his field of view. Engineered to perfection by Trijicon out of Wixom, Michigan, the scope easily gave York another thousand meters beyond his own eyesight. York’s hands were as steady as a surgeon’s; he mechanically and efficiently scanned, not just for the faces of the enemy, but for traps, too; he scanned for anything that didn’t belong.
He processed the
During their stealthy trek to the base of the forested mountain, the sun had risen and quickly stewed the morning air. It no longer amazed York how fast the crisp air of the Afghan night turned into the stifling heat of the day.
York couldn’t see the team spread out in a hasty defensive position behind him, but he knew that they were there. The Green Berets operated in a symbiotic relationship, nearly breathing for one another. There was never a question of ability or the need to waver one’s trust: Alpha teams took only the best.
And York was one of them.
Staggered covertly apart in a modified wedge formation, the other members of the highly trained Special Forces team had taken their appropriate positions and were conducting their own unique series of requirements.
York was prostrate with his weapon laid out in front of him. A small ghillie blanket, which blended in with the hellish environment, camouflaged his body; his face was painted to match the terrain. With the patience only a soldier in special operations can have, York raised his head one painstaking centimeter at a time. The only thing visible behind his painted face was the slight white from his eyes.
Rubbing across the back of his left hand, York felt a rough sensation that would have caused most people to jump from terror.
York wasn’t most people.
York didn’t move.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the yellowish-brown, stout body of a sand viper. York’s hairs stood erect, but not one muscle twitched to give away his presence. About twenty centimeters long, the hemotoxic snake—echis carinatus—bore fangs much larger than would seem necessary, but critical for the delivery of venom that could be fatal. York knew that unlucky recipients of the painful sand viper bite could expect bleeding from their gums to go along with the pain and swelling from the bite. For those that were most unfortunate, their organs and brain could be expected to bleed as well: an oft-fatal side effect.
York’s courtesy to the snake was necessary, and he melted in with the rocks and the dirt as the snake slithered harmlessly over his hand and on its way.
With the viper gone, and without moving any muscles other than those that controlled ocular movements, York diligently scanned the steep slopes of the forest in front of him, looking for anything that didn’t belong. Silently, he mused that it was the forest that abutted suddenly against the harsh and merciless terrain that didn’t seem to belong.
York’s moves were methodical as to not draw unwarranted attention from those he hoped weren’t there. Slowly, he brought his weapon closer and reached out to its barrel with his right hand. Quietly, he flipped the dust cover from the front and rear of the ACOG scope that adorned his 7.62mm SCAR-H combat assault rifle. He squinted heavily and peered through the compact but powerful scope that was mounted on the Picatinny rail of the weapon.
He moved the SCAR-H slowly from side to side, concentrating on the unforgiving terrain of the steep hill that rose up in front of him. The external light-gathering fiber optic rail of the scope gathered the newly available sunlight and illuminated its reticule, improving his field of view. Engineered to perfection by Trijicon out of Wixom, Michigan, the scope easily gave York another thousand meters beyond his own eyesight. York’s hands were as steady as a surgeon’s; he mechanically and efficiently scanned, not just for the faces of the enemy, but for traps, too; he scanned for anything that didn’t belong.
He processed the
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