Chương 108: Chapter 107: The Mogadishu Mile (10/03/1993 | 05:30 PM EAT)

DATE: Sunday, October 3, 1993 LOCATION: Mogadishu, Somalia LOCAL TIME: 05: 30 PM EAT I stood on the running board of the lead Humvee, the engine's idle a rhythmic vibration against the soles of my boots. The city was a shifting geometry of kill zones. I traced the Main Supply Route and didn't see a road; I saw the trap.

"Stop," I shouted. I jumped down, the dust blooming around my landing.

"This path is a funnel. I'm going vertical. I'll clear the high angles." I didn't wait for a protest. I sprinted toward a bombed-out textile shop, scaling the rebar lattice like a spider. I hit the roof—the "Skyway." From here, the world was a jagged skyline of flat-topped silhouettes and sniper perches. I was the ghost in the machine. I surged, a kinetic variable deleting threats before they could be calculated.

I cleared three nests and two RPG teams with surgical, suppressed efficiency—two shots, one movement, zero hesitation. My lungs burned like I was breathing ground glass, but the "Architect" was in total control, overlaying the tactical layout onto the reality of the crumbling city. I reached the Rangers at the first crash site. They looked like ghosts—hollow-eyed, soot-stained, and clinging to life in the wreckage's shadow. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

"Tillman!" Eversmann gasped.

"Where the hell did you come from?"

"The roof," I rasped.

"The convoy is here. We aren't waiting for extraction. We're pushing to the stadium."

"Wolcott's body is trapped," Eversmann said, his jaw tight.

"We have to cut him out."

"Then we hold," I said, shifting my grip on my rifle.

"But we hold fast." DATE: Monday, October 4, 1993 LOCAL TIME: 05: 45 AM EAT We held for twelve hours—a siege defined by the staccato rhythm of automatic fire and the metallic tang of cordite. When the rescue column finally roared into view, the relief was almost painful.

"Load up!" McKnight shouted.

"Vehicles take the casualties," I announced, my voice cutting through the panic.

"The rest of us move on foot. Stay in the blind spots." I took the point. We lurched forward, a bloodied metal worm crawling through the intestines of the city. The city erupted—a wall of tracer fire and RPG trails—but we didn't stop. I paced us, firing in controlled, rhythmic bursts that kept the militia's heads down. When Private Yurek collapsed, I hauled him up by his harness.

"Get up!" I roared.

"We're almost there!" We hit the stadium lights, that beacon of civilization, and I collapsed against the outer wall. Eversmann stumbled in, chest heaving, his face a mask of dried blood. He looked at me, then at the straggling line of Rangers making it into the light.

"Tillman," Eversmann rasped, holding out a shaking canteen.

"You run good for a rich kid. And that stuff on the roofs... you looked like a damn ninja."

"Who's your favorite Robin now?" I said. Eversmann stared at me, his eyes bloodshot and blown wide. He didn't have the bandwidth for the absurdity, but he let out a wet, rattling laugh that turned into a cough.

"Yeah," he wheezed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"Sure, Tillman. You win. You're the damn Boy Wonder."