I dropped to the asphalt and rolled toward the APC. Another bullet slammed near my head as I slid behind a tire. A civilian leaped over me. I could smell his sweat. Or maybe it was my own.
Movement. Across the street, behind a blown out second-floor window. I sighted in. A rifle barrel emerged, swinging toward me. I flipped the fire select switch on my G3A4 to full-auto and squeezed.
The rifle slammed into my shoulder, staccato blasts ricocheting off the metal APC and pounding into my ears. The frame around the sniper's window exploded. His gun flew out. I eased off as the gunmen toppled through the window and thudded onto the sidewalk.
I glanced at Colin, who had taken cover behind one of the burned-out cars littering Kabul's streets. He signaled me to advance while he covered.
I sprang up and dashed across the deserted street. Moments later Colin was panting beside me. Methodically, we checked each building on the block. Only then did I walk over to the dead sniper, my first combat kill. I slipped a toe under him and kicked him over.
A kid, maybe fourteen, stared through me with glass eyes. At his age, I collected trading cards and pretended my bike was a jet fighter--wondered what I would be when I grew up. Well, now I knew.
We continued our patrol. Peacekeeping is hell.