There was a gloomy feeling in the air. The morning sun; just barely rolling off the hills of northern Siberia. The base had come to life, solider, cooks, medics, generals, all running in a bustle.

The sound of running footsteps trickled across the barracks, starting softly and coming alive as they continued. The barracks were large. Incredibly large. 1200 sq. ft. 4 floors. Running across the pathways was torture, dodging obstacles as you spun around corners of equipment and soldiers sleeping.

The running stopped all of a sudden, only to be replaced with blood curling screams and gunshots. The base alarms went off, the reactors alarms next. I woke up in shock; I sprinted to my father's pistol, a colt 1911, the trusty sidearm of America. It was heavy and cumbersome in my hands. This was what I was trained to do; I knew how to handle myself when the home front was under attack.

I ran to the large and open barracks. When I had opened the main hatch to the barracks I was met with an engulfing cold. There were probably 250 bunk beds, stacked uniformly against each other, spaced perfectly. I kept running, swiftly and narrowly avoiding beds and footlockers. Once I reached the wall of the barracks without a door, I hid. Underneath a bed to be specific. The lighting was dull and obviously hadn't been checked in years.

I heard footsteps. Close ones. The lighting prevented me from seeing past about 5 to 6 rows of beds. I realized I had made mistakes, many of them.

The door was left jarred open, the pistol was loaded with eight shots, I managed to corner myself, and I now had nowhere to run. The footsteps came closer. I started to shake. This could be the end. It would sadden me, especially since I had barely lived my life. I hid the large pistol in the rear waste band of my pants. I started to cry, I couldn't conceal it. The fear ran through me as the footsteps sped up towards me, their Maglite's visible from afar. I got out from under the bed, the sounds resounding and echoing off the brick walls of the underground barracks. I spotted the Russian soldiers, about three hundred meters down a stretch of beds. I burst into tears as he raised his gun. He called to his squad

"Hey we have one here" the man spoke in broken and indistinct English. The accent still trailed with Russian.

My tears continued to flow, drawing the man closer.

"You're going to be okay little boy, how old are you?" he asked politely

"im..im..im twelve" i whimpered

"Well you're ok now." the Russian spoke for the last time in his life.

As the last W rolled off his Russian tongue, I lunged, knowing I had little time. I smacked his head against the iron frame of the bed, then twice on the cold concrete floor as he fell.

I dragged the heavy body under the large metal frame of the bunk. I searched him, scrolling through pockets and pouches. The man had very little of use, a grenade, two magazines for his lightweight and trustworthy ak-74, that was also not suppressed, leaving it useless in my books. The man did have a straight razor in his back left pocket though. That and a few sticks of gum were all that I took.

As I stood up I jumped on top of the mattress with his ak-74 and fired two shots, both through the top left part of his skull.(I did it from over the mattress to prevent splatter) leaving two rough holes in the wool mattress.

The shots got the teams attention; I raised the rifle and shot out 6 of the large ceiling lamps, the loud buzzing sound of fried electronics resounding after the sound of shattering glass and falling steel.

The men were frantic now; oblivious that there friend was gone. They were frightened, but I was fine the dark was my friend. I crept under the expanses of bunk beds and rolled through the darkness with ease. My eyes adjusted quickly and I had my bearings almost completely with me when I rolled into the two squad members who were baffled and confused in the darkness.

I stalked into the rows of bunk beds. Closer and closer I crept as their suspicions went unanswered as they walked through the dark halls without their senses. I had to think for a while, make the most advanced and logical decision, based on my surroundings.

I decided to avoid contact and crawl my way around them. As I crawled on the concrete floor, the men heard a sound, thwarting my efforts; I pulled out my father's 1911. I was prepared to rid the men of their corrupt souls. As the footsteps dragged and grew louder and louder, my grip strengthened on the grip of my dad's pistol. I steadied my aim at the ankles of the men. From under the bunk bed I had an excellent view of the floor up, about 12 inches. I saw the men stop about 5 rows away from me, obviously discussing something, in very native Russian. I had my chance, and I took it.

From 5 rows, I shot the two men in their Achilles heels. They had less than a second to react and they collapsed, I scurried out from under my bed, but my shirt was stuck in a jagged edge of metal. Again, fear ran through me. I spun and ripped at the shirt, the men cried, obviously spotting me in my distraught.

"Get the bastard!" he screamed, still in pain

He rolled and gripped his AK-74 and shot wildly, bullets sped past my arms and head. His accuracy was flawed and the deadly pain didn't help that. The spray was consistent for about 30 seconds and then stopped suddenly. He was obviously reloading, or the rifle had jammed, I had no time to worry though. My window had opened and I needed to leave, quickly. I heard him curse in native Russian. I lunged forward, throwing myself to the freezing concrete.

I glanced for a half a second and made eye contact with the downed Russian. The man locked eyes with me for three, maybe four seconds and became even more frantic. His teammate seemed either unconscious or dead, because the only thing coming out of him was silence. I continued sprinting down the cold and unforgiving concrete floor on which three men had lost their lives to a measly 12 year old boy. But this measly boy was going places. His name will be known. Sam fisher WILL be known.