The Russian sergeant swayed, dazed but recovering quickly. The stun grenade had detonated too far away from him. His machinegun dipped downward. He fought to steady it.
“Throw down yoor weepons!”
Sam stuck one arm up in surrender. Tossed his guns onto the pavement with the other. Then, he raised both hands and waited. The sergeant’s chest heaved, but his muscle control was returning. He approached Sam in a drunken gait.
Sam’s abdominals tensed. He needed an opening. The sergeant frowned while examining his imposing, dark-skinned opponent. He peered down at Sam’s weapons. The machinegun dropped an inch.
Sam sprung.
The sergeant fell back, unloading machinegun rounds into the asphalt. Sparks ricocheted off the ground. Sam hit the sergeant in the chest with his left forearm and pushed the machinegun down and away with his right. The sergeant toppled over. His weapon clattered across the pavement.
Howling in pain, the Russian threw an elbow into Sam’s jaw and broke free. He scrambled for the gun. Sam pounced. Both men tumbled to the ground and grappled for control.
“Amereecan peeg!”
Sam pinned the sergeant’s arms to the pavement. With a swift snap of his neck, he slammed his head into the Russian’s. The sergeant’s body went limp. Sam ran to Jessica and threw her over his shoulder.
He engaged his communicator.
“Colonel?”
“Sam! What’s going on?”
“I have her, sir.”
“Give me more good news.”
Sam’s head dropped. “I setup an ambush. They think I’m an American. It’s at least Class 4, sir.”
Class 4. The Union avoided extensive physical contact with non-phase travelers, civilian or military. Phase travel was unpredictable. Leaving any kind of imprint on the past could lead to dire consequences years later. A Class 4 breach meant that no recovery was possible without substantial modifications to known history.
“Any chance of a memory swipe?”
“Too many of them. Too hard to control.”
A long pause. Taylor’s voice was grave, “Wipe the area clean.”
