You are a member of the British Special Air Service ( SAS ) fighting in Afghanistan .

A knife wound from a hostage situation in Krosh. A bullet to the thigh in a firefight in Korengal valley. A fistful of shrapnel from an IED on the road to Kabul. Steel bolts in the bone that would have probably haunted him in the twilight of his life. All that, and a damned musket ball did him in. 
 
 Cooper lay against the trunk of a tree. He checked where the musket ball had entered, piercing his torso and smashing through sinew. It hurt to breath. It had wrecked rib, bending it out of its way as it carved through him. The hole wept dark blood and it kept coming out. Not a lethal wound. Not necessarily. Not if he went into surgery in the near future and a good medic patched him up in the meantime, stopping the flow of blood. 
 
 The American militia had come from the crest of the ridge, sweeping gunfire down on him. He hadn ’ t seen them up until then. His mind had been reeling for the last twenty four hours, running through the possibilities, trying to calculate the position of the rest of the squad. He found Coleman dead, drowned in a small lake under the weight of his gear, drifted over to the reeds on the shoreline. Somehow a Yankee sympathizer had alerted them to his presence. Cooper was just walking down the road in a daze, lost in his thoughts. He hadn ’ t seen them coming. 
 
 1776 or 2006, it didn ’ t matter. The whistle of bullets sounded the same. He raised his M4 and smoked them. Calm and cool. Utterly efficient. Controlled bursts. Keep moving so they don ’ t flank you, don ’ t pin you down. The yanks made it easy. They stood there like the targets at the firing range. 
 
 Still, a musket ball found him. It didn ’ t hurt as bad as the knife wound, when that jabbering old man had tried to cut him in half with a ceremonial blade, but it hurt worse than the IED shrapnel or the gunshot to the leg. It looked worse than all of them, though. The sheer volume of blood. 
 
 He checked the bullet hole, and then his supplies. Two full magazines and one half full in the m4. Two tactical grenades, one smoke. Three clips for his Beretta side arm. He also had his K-Bar, his brass knuckles, and a claymore. He hauled himself up from the ground and staggered up towards the ridge. He needed to find a survivor. If there were any. He found one kid. Couldn ’ t have been more than fifteen. Dirty looking. Probably poor, from people who worked the land. Blood stained his teeth, spilled from the corner of his mouth, his breathing gone ragged. Three hits. Right shoulder, center chest, left hip. A near perfect line. His eyes filled with terror as he saw Cooper, but Cooper stepped over him. 
 He found his man. This one was older, and cursing. He too was slumped against a tree, muttering to himself. He looked up when Cooper approached. The man wore glasses, which struck Cooper as somehow odd. He didn ’ t realize they had invented eye glasses back then. He had always been more of a math guy. 
 
 “ Who are you? ” the man said. Cooper would have cracked a grin if breathing didn ’ t hurt so bad. He sounded like Granger, the American sergeant from Baltimore. 
 
 “ SAS, ” he said, pulling out the K-bar. “ Okay then, where are you boys from? ” 
 
 “ There was only one of you? ” the man said. He was bleeding heavily from the gut. He was fairly fat. Cooper never envisioned ancient people as fat. He supposed they didn ’ t have enough food to get fat in the first place. “ Then the war ’ s already over. We ’ ve already lost. ” 
 
 “ Only one. Now, where are you from? ” 
 
 “ You ’ ll have to hang me. If I don ’ t bleed to death first. If you don ’ t bleed to death first. ” 
 
 “ There is a camp near here. A militia camp. What is it, the continental army? Or just a bunch of rag tags like you? ” 
 
 “ Where are you from? ” the man said. “ Your weapons? You blended into the landscape. You ’ re no lobster back. Not a normal lobster back. ” 
 
 In the distance an explosion sounded. He knew that sound. The sound of claymore mines. He heard gunfire in the distance, too rapid for muskets. His boys. They were over there, somewhere, and they had run into the same problem as him. 
 
 “ I thought there was only one of you, ” the man said. 
 
 “ So did I. ” 
 
 A second gunshot fired. This one more close. Intimately close. Something slammed into Cooper from behind. He lurched forward, turned around with the M4. The kid stood there, the one who had been leaking blood from the mouth. He had rolled over on his belly, crawled over to the sound of voices. A smoking pistol sat in his hand. Cooper already felt the blood fanning out. The Kevlar was supposed to stop an AK round, but today wasn ’ t his lucky day. It snuck in between the plates. Cooper blew him away and fell to the ground. 

