[b]Abandoned Mosque, Batumi[/b]

The doors to the abandoned mosque came away under Captain Bakradze's boot. No doubt the local Muslim units would have a fit - but luckily, Bakradze was a Christian.

"Come on" he murmured to his subordinates, who took up positions on either side of the door. Bakradze picked his way through the long splinters of rotten wood that poked out of the sides of the doorway like stalactites. The privates followed, their eyes darting wildly across the street. "Where to, sir?" whispered one. "The Minarets. We can take a position up there and take out a few Turks behind their barricade" replied the Captain, clutching his rifle tightly. It was slick with sweat from where he had been holding it so hard. The other half of the unit were going up the shopfronts to draw fire away from the Main Street and into the shop windows. 

The mosque had been abandoned years ago by its Shiite inhabitants, who had found their position between a Sunni and Orthodox plurality uncomfortable and had left for Persia. The building had been impressive in its day and had served the dwindling Shia sect well - the exquisite yet compact architecture spoke wonders for their ancient culture. But Bakradze was no fan of Muslims, especially ones who prayed in such glamorous buildings. He would of kicked a piece of furniture over, if there had been one. He instead contented himself with spitting on the soft, marble floors. 

"Dirty bastards" he spat, rubbing his boot in it. Bakradze hated Muslims and Muslims hated Bakradze. At least, in his head, they did.

It didn't take long to find the steps that led to the bell tower, where the Imam had once called Shiites to prayer five times a day. The stairs were rickety and wooden. Dust puffed out of each step as the snipers stamped their way to the top, all silent in their resolution. Bakradze was rather proud of his military career and his heart had swollen with pride upon hearing his unit had been chosen for this job. He'd been fighting Turks with guerilla tactics for years.  

"Stop" murmured Bakradze, turning to his companions. "One of you stay downstairs, make sure no fucking Turks get up here". The man at the back of the queue nodded and stamped down the steps back into the mosque. 

Bakradze gave himself a private pat on the back. He'd almost fucked up.

The belltower, if it could even be called a belltower, was a tiny room, open to the warm, summer air. It was pitch black and it took the men a few minutes to gain their bearings. The occasional flash of gunfire came on the street and square below, as the Guards and the Turks fired pot-shots into the dark, hoping to make a lucky shot hit.

"Right" murmured Bakradze. "We can't do much in the dark, so we're only going to get a few shots in before they notice where we are and set that machine gun going. Make your shots count, lad". The private, a pale young Georgian, nodded. He'd been trained well. He wasn't even shaking as he lifted his rifle over the side of the small wooden guard and took aim. His superior copied him and they both stared down their iron sights, fingers twitching at the trigger.

"Soon, lad" murmured the Captain. "Be patient. Wait for the flank".