"No time for prisoners," he agreed, with an acquired Gallic shrug. A prisoner had to be bound up, gagged and hooded. They had to be carried. There was a part of him that regretted the necessity, but then there was necessity, overwhelmingly saying he made a pragmatic choice. Of course, they got the Vermont State Trooper out, but that was different. Some East German, here to pillage the place and inflict terror on his home? Very different.

Once the building was clear, it was down to Morse and he in the room, and the Sergeant gave the orders, he nodded and set to that work; there was a fuse on that thing, and once it ran down, they needed to be well away; it was enough C-4 for the job, but not overkill. They had an entire war to fight, and no idea what supplies would be like. All the same, they wanted to make the equipment irreparable, since it was US-made, and presumably harder to replace. Hopefully, someone either had or was planning to sabotage the maker of those electronics if it was anywhere on this side of the Appalachians.

Knowing that a place was going to blow, even on a timer, added a zest to life; the adrenaline surged, even as he bolted out of the place. 

He found himself near Joe outside, kneeling in the dirt and grass, keeping his head on a swivel and his carbine's stock nestled near his shoulder, to be easily brought up if needed. He could hear that gunfire not far off; maybe a couple hundred yards at best. Someone was getting the shit end of the stick. East was their rides out; it was easy to get on the Vietnam Veteran's Highway, renamed by the Soviets to reflect their sentiments about that war, since there was no guardrail. Offroad vehicles could just clamber up onto the road from the grass.

There were a lot of big box stores here, and a lot of open parking lots. They were fucked if someone had night vision goggles on. It depended on the quality of the NVG's, but he was betting against the enemy having them unless they had the shit luck to run into bonafide Soviet infantry. Still, it was something to consider; civilian attire was not NIR, it would show up real easily.

He wanted to see if there was a parachute shroud but he didn't think the A-10 pilot made it or that they'd be in any position to extract. In fact, he doubted if they'd do more than harass the enemy, and have to cut it and run. He didn't want to die behind a damned big box store, but apparently someone had a sense of humor.

"Ben, Preston, think you can set up and put eyes on the Russians and put some rounds on them?" That would be in range to engage, 600 feet, which allowed them to put lead on the Russians, but gave the Russians limited options for effective fire. He didn't think they could destroy, but they could suppress with those Mk. 14's.

The Giguere Brothers could shoot. Putting them together in a position to cover meant that they all had a better chance of spotting and getting the drop on enemies. A wolf hunter in Finland was the most famous sniper of all time, and he shot irons. The Giguere's were real Vermont mountain guys, cut from the same cloth. A check at the sky told him what he needed to know about the time, they had twenty or so minutes to get back to vehicles and get out, but there were probably Americans out there dying, somewhere between the Marshall's and the Walmart. They could do something, even if it meant risking daylight.

"Sorry about the doctor, Joe," he told the other man, remembering their agreement; if it was necessary to be left behind, shoot rather than be caught. What he saw in there with the lady doctor was bad enough to justify that even if he hadn't said it already. 

He was about to get off his knees and move forward, looking for good cover, though they were pretty out of range with their carbines, when he spotted the movement and immediately trained his M4 in the direction of the figure crossing the street. He didn't say anything, he just waited for her to make her move, with a casual flick of the selector switch from "SAFE" to "FIRE" that carried surprisingly far in a quiet night.