Any Port in a Storm
by Mark A. Rayner
It’s easy to pinpoint the exact moment that it all started to go wildly wrong — the emotional stuff I can’t put a finger on.
Linda and I were sitting in a little pub called The Small Bridge, aptly named for a nearby bridge that spans a cheerful stream as it runs into the Irish village of Tennyra. It is one of those atmospheric pubs you’ll find all over Ireland – ancient dark wooden panels, low ceilings with exposed beams seemingly cut out of the primal Irish forests, and sometimes, sawdust thrown on the floor to soak up spilled Guinness and mud – the kind of place that makes it hard to remember we live in the 21st century. The kind of place you’d never expect to see an American counter-insurgency team.
You sometimes hear about them on the newsvids; they are specialized troops, culled from the other elite American forces units and trained in the use of biomechanical war.
I don’t know what surprised me more: when they burst through the frosted glass of The Small Bridge or when they started decapitating anyone who looked vaguely like they might be tourists. ….read the rest of this story…>
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