The Templar Heresy

11

When Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov designed the assault rifle that bears his name just after the end of the Second World War, he was in part prompted to do so by the poor quality of Russian military weapons at that time, and in particular by their notorious unreliability. From the start, he was determined that his assault rifle would work. At all times and under all conditions.

And the reality is that the AK-47 will function even if the mechanism is choked with mud or sand, or is full of water, and it simply will not jam, overheat or break, and that’s why it’s the weapon of choice for the armed forces of over thirty countries worldwide, and the favoured arm of virtually every existing terrorist group. Roughly one hundred million of these rifles have been produced both legally and illegally as counterfeit versions since the design was finalized in 1948.

What Kalashnikov was much less concerned about was accuracy. The purpose of an assault rifle is to produce a high rate of fire — a theoretical 600 rounds a minute in the case of the AK-47, though the normal maximum is 100 rounds a minute — and to spray the enemy with bullets. A modern sniper rifle like the American Barrett M82 can reach out and consistently hit targets at well over a mile, but even an expert with the Kalashnikov would have to fire around five shots from a bench-rest or lying prone to hit a static mansized target at less than half that distance. And if either the target or the shooter is moving, the effective range of the weapon drops dramatically.

And that, Bronson knew immediately as he heard the staccato clamour of an assault rifle being fired on full auto, was the only reason they were still alive. He grabbed Angela by the arm and pulled her down to the ground.

‘What—’ Stephen spluttered when Bronson reached up and pulled him down as well.

‘They’ve come back,’ Bronson muttered urgently, looking out to the north from the illusory shelter of the tent behind them.

He could see two figures perhaps four or five hundred yards back, both wearing camouflage clothing. What disturbed him in particular was that only one of them was moving, running towards the camp but keeping well out of the line of fire of the second man, who was pointing his Kalashnikov directly at the tents. These men clearly knew what they were doing: one getting close enough to guarantee killing shots, while the other covered the targets, keeping them pinned down.

‘We’ve got to run for it, right now,’ Bronson said, ‘before they get any closer. Jink from side to side to throw off their aim, and run like hell. Back to the Toyota.’

Even before he’d finished speaking, Angela was on her feet, ducking and weaving as she sprinted away from the camp, still clutching the satellite phone. Bronson and Stephen jumped up and followed her, their feet pounding on the hard-packed sand and rock.