Frontal Assault

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Linda Walsh jolted upward and took a quick look through the shot-out, barred, second-floor window of the United States Embassy in Damascus, then moved to the left against the solid rock wall. The gunfire came again, a deadly drumming of rifles and machine guns. She winced each time one of the bullets slammed into the wall outside. The smell of cordite and smoke drifted through the window, stinging her nose and throat with an acrid bite.

“The idiots,” she said out loud. It would take three hundred of them to overrun the embassy compound, and then it could happen only if they would accept enough casualties. No problem there. The Syrian extremists would love to die for Islam. A martyr’s death for Allah was the highest honor any Muslim could pray for.

Linda held her Walther PP automatic in her right hand. She had drawn it instinctively when she first heard the attack. There was no immediate need for it, but she kept it at the ready. Ingrained company training.

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