Free Street Soldier by Andy McNab Page A

opened fire.
    The SA80 bucked in Sean’s hands as it spat outthree-round bursts. He held it firm, adjusting his aim every time he pulled the trigger. To his side, Clark did the same, and further on Heaton and Bright joined in, providing covering fire, drawing the attention of the insurgents in the building away from the rest of the section, who would come in from behind.
    The attackers, led by Marshall, were a blur of movement by the garden wall. They chucked a couple of flash-bang grenades through the windows on either side of the entrance, and kicked down the front door. Bright bursts of light flashed inside the building, punctuated by sharp bursts from their own weapons.
    ‘ First floor clear . . . ’ A disembodied commentary came through on the PRR.
    With their own people inside the building, Clark and Sean had to be more selective in their fire. They eased off, scanning windows and doors through the ACOGs for any signs of the enemy emerging, ready to open fire again at a moment’s notice.
    There was still firing from inside as the soldiers went from room to room, clearing each one out as they went. Sean tried to picture it in his mind from the overheard snatches.
    ‘ Take the stairs . . .’
    ‘ Grenades stand by . . .’
    And then –
    ‘ Shit! There’s a hostage in here! ’
    Sean and Clark looked at each other.
    ‘Oh, crap . . .’ she murmured.
    ‘ You should have been prepared for that eventuality! ’ a furious Heaton bellowed over the PRR. ‘ US, I will have your balls if— ’
    ‘ Hold fire! Hold fire— ’
    The PRR went ominously silent.
    ‘ US ,’ Heaton growled, ‘ speak to me now or so help me— ’
    Marshall’s voice, when he came back on, sounded very tired. ‘ Hostage is confirmed dead .’
    ‘ Shit! Right, everyone cease fire! ’
    Sean groaned, and dropped his head to rest on the ground.

Chapter 8
    In the distance, as the ringing of the gunshots died away, Sean heard clapping and ironic cheers. He pushed back his helmet and looked up at the ridge a quarter of a mile away. Two more Warriors were parked up there, with the rest of the platoon silhouetted against the skyline.
    A fresh voice spoke in the PRR – the kind of voice Sean would have immediately labelled ‘posh twat’. . . until he met its owner. Second Lieutenant Mike Franklin might have been public school educated, but he had earned his platoon’s respect by being on the same page, and by sheer bloody hard work.
    ‘Exercise over. Stand down. Corporal Heaton’s section, stay where you are. Penfold, bring the Warrior over. We’re coming down to join you.’
    Through the trees, Sean heard the Warrior’s engine roar into life. He and Clark stood up, flicking the rifles’ fire selector switches to safety. They had all been firing blanks for the exercise, but even a blank discharge couldcause severe injury. Together they headed down to the edge of the training village.
    Imber had once been a real village, Sean understood – houses, shops, church and people. Then the Second World War happened and the locals had been turfed out to make way for the US Army to train. After the war ended the village was still considered a useful training ground, and the residents had never come back.
    At the cottage, Corporal Heaton was busy tearing a strip off West, Mitra and Marshall, the three who had gone in. The hostage, very alive again now that the exercise was over, was leaning against the wall with his back to Sean and Clark, arms folded, nodding and putting in the occasional word. He wore green fatigues and a shabby, shag-order army surplus combat blouse.
    Heaton glanced over the hostage’s shoulder as Sean and Clark approached. He nodded briefly at Sean, without missing a single beat of the bollocking. Clark might as well have been invisible or someplace else for all the attention he paid her. She and Sean glanced at each other, and she made a show of adjusting her helmet. Only Sean could see that her thumb and forefinger were