With his back to the west, Garrett looked across the street into the remains of the hotel's ground floor. He could make out Martinez with the final handful of evacuees and a couple of the local security guards, spread eagled on the floor, tucked in behind whatever cover they could find to protect themselves.
Garrett pulled his binoculars from the dashboard and panned northward in a careful arc, searching across the assortment of derelict buildings for the enemy machinegun position that Morgan had described. Crouching low, he moved closer to the edge of the wall for a better look. There it was, the green-painted shopfront, right on the corner of the intersection, a couple of hundred metres away. He could just make out the shadowy figures of three men huddled around their machinegun, deep inside the shop. Panning back, he knew Morgan and Fredericks were moving out, into the thick of it, meaking through the refuse of the devastated city towards the unsuspecting rebels.
The plan was that Garrett would provide fire support, paving the way for Morgan and Fredericks to take out the rebel gun that had brought their evacuation to a standstill. Garrett was itching for action. He was ready to start blasting now, but knew he had to be patient. Nothing would happen until Alex and Mike were in position. It had been agreed. They were relying on him.
Checking his watch, he turned back to the Land Rover.
Sitting ominously on the back of the Rover, mounted directly behind the front seats was the 12.7 millimetre 'Dooshka' heavy machinegun. The 12.7 was a belt-fed HMG that at close range could penetrate most conventional armour, and with sustained and well-aimed fire it would smash through concrete and brickwork in seconds. It was a lethal piece of kit that had been the mainstay of the Chiltonford team's mobile security operations with the Army. Garrett had also brought along an M203 - an M-16 assault rifle with a modified foregrip designed to accommodate a 40 millimetre grenade launcher under-slung beneath the barrel.
It
came down to Clausewitz's foundation of all undertakings - surprise. Again, Garrett checked his watch.
It
was almost 1500. Morgan expected to be in position by now, and with not much daylight left they needed to get a move on or they wouldn't make the last chopper out to the ship. That would be a disaster. Any chance of surviving until sunrise in the shattered hotel while trying to protect the remaining evacuees from the rebels - with rapidly depleting stocks of ammo, water and food - was zero.
Time was against them.
"Billy," Garrett said to his partner - one of the local security guards, who climbed from the back of the Rover, where he'd been manning the HMG, into the driver's seat - "Remember, as soon as I give you the word, I want the Rover right there," he pointed to the exact point, "facing directly up the street at those bastards, OK?"
"OK, boss. No problem," came the reply.
"Don't worry about what I'm doing; you just get the vehicle into position. Then I'll jump on the gun, you take over the M203 and we'll hammer them until I say stop. You got that?"
"OK." A veteran of the Angolan civil war, Billy knew exactly what was expected.
"OK, mate. Stand by."
CHAPTER 32
"They're dead ahead," Fredericks whispered. "You can see 'em straight through the window, there."
Fredericks and Morgan had climbed into the vacant shell of a building that was the local school. Cautiously they had edged around a small open courtyard, most probably used for assemblies and playtime, and past a number of small classrooms containing wooden desks and chalkboards. Inside the final room at the corner of the courtyard, they were just 20 metres southeast of the rebel machinegun position nestled deep within the empty shop across the street.
It
was as close as the two men could get without being seen.
"This'll have to do us," Fredericks said.
Morgan was relieved that the rebels hadn't moved and, with the Chiltonford evacuation halted further down the street, the guns had fallen silent. It was obvious this team had been sent to cut off any fleeing Government troops. Stumbling across a bunch of foreigners trying to get out of the place would have just been a bonus. Sport, nothing more. There was no sign of any other rebel troops close by, but it was only a matter of time before their main force would finally break through the remnants of the Army, and then the streets would be swarming with them. The not too-distant noise of battle was constant.
"Right, mate. Looks like this is it then," Morgan whispered, too close to the rebels to risk speaking at normal volume.
"Let's get on with it," replied Fredericks dryly. "I want to get this thing sorted out quickly. I'm tired, my back's aching, my knees are killing me and I need a Scotch."
"I could do with a beer," said Morgan. "You think the Yanks will have some on-board?"
"I reckon you'll probably have to settle for a Budweiser."
"As long as it's cold." Morgan smiled briefly and readjusted his gear. "You ready to go?"
"As ready as I've ever been." They were set.
"Alpha Three this is Alpha One. Over," Morgan whispered into his
radio.
"This is Alpha Three,"
Garrett answered. With the volume control on their radio's turned down, his voice was barely audible.
"Go ahead. Over."
"This is Alpha One. Commence firing. I say again, commence firing, now. Out."
An unnerving silence fell upon the scene. Even the chaos from approaching battles seemed to fall into a chilling stillness in the distant background. Morgan and Fredericks sat poised, weapons raised and level, ready to leap through the crumbling window frame, straight at the rebel machinegun position.
Then the unmistakable hollow 'pop' of the M203 being fired broke the short-lived silence. Seconds later, there was another 'pop', then another, and finally a fourth high explosive round was fired. Garrett had manipulated the awkward loading system deftly, suppressing the barrel release mechanism, and reefing the hollow black plastic tube forward and back to reload and fire each round so quickly that the last one was in the air as the first was detonating.
All were direct hits. Landing dead on target, smack-bang in the middle of the rebel machinegun team, the high explosive rounds detonated in a rapid succession of ear-piercing cracks. The rebels didn't know what had hit them. They'd heard the 203 being fired, but failed to locate it in time to return fire or even escape the barrage.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! "Now, Billy!" Garrett cried.
Billy was there in a split second, screeching the Land Rover to a halt m the exact position Garrett had indicated.
In
a flash, Garrett leapt from his position by the wall, threw the smoking 203 into Billy's ready hands, and jumped up behind the HMG. By the time the fourth round had exploded amongst the rebels, Garrett was firing, hammering the tiny shopfront with everything he had. The constant boom of the HMG's thunderous report, coupled with more high explosive rounds from Billy on the 203, shattered the relative seclusion of their microscopic piece of the war.
Morgan and Fredericks were moving fast, sprinting from the cover of the classroom across the empty street, firing on the move, straight for the rebel gun team, the vicious crack of the 'Dooshka' slicing through the air just metres in front. Garrett maintained a relentless storm of fire upon the rebel position, covering his comrades every step of the way.
There was no resistance.
It took no more than ten seconds to cross the intersection to the smoking ruin of the shop. Garrett ceased fire as Morgan and Fredericks breached the shattered frontage and disappeared into the chaos of smoke and dust, firing on the move. Then he kicked the back of the drivers' seat and yelled to Billy, "Let's go! Go, go, go!"
Billy thrust the vehicle into gear and raced along the street to the intersection. There he skidded the Land Rover to a halt in behind cover, and tossing the 203 back to Garrett, jumped up behind the HMG to aim up the street towards the sounds of the rebel advance. Snatching the airborne 203, Garrett was inside with Morgan and Fredericks in an instant.
"Well, you don't get much deader than that," he said, looking down humourlessly upon the mangled remains of the three dead rebels.
"You're right there," said Morgan, panting, rubbing his ribs. "Take at look at that one." Morgan pointed to the body near Fredericks' feet. "There's not much left of the other two to tell, but this one's just a kid. He can't be any more than 15, if that."
Morgan felt drained. Fighting grown men was acceptable in his line of work. It was understood to be the way of things. Killing kids was different. Morgan and Fredericks were glad to be alive, there was no doubt. But it was a very hollow victory.
"I hear what you're saying," said Garrett. "But right now there are about a thousand more of those kids less than a block away. They've got massacre on their minds, and you, me, Mike and all those civilians back down there at the hotel are on the top of their guest list."
Morgan nodded slowly, knowing Garrett was right, when suddenly the sounds of a ferocious gunfight close by ripped through the gloom.
"Fuck me!" exclaimed Garrett. "I recommend we get a move on!"
"I thought you said they were a block away?" chided Fredericks. The fighting was much closer than they had thought.
"Bugger it!" Morgan exclaimed. "Kids or no kids, we're not dying today, boys. Let's get out of here!"
Outside, Billy had opened up with the big gun, launching volley after volley at the swiftly closing rebels, who were slashing through the Army lines with ease less than 150 metres away.
Mike Fredericks was immediately on the radio.
"Alpha Four, Alpha Two. Over,"
Fredericks barked into his hand-held radio, running for cover beside Morgan and Garrett.
"Alpha Four. Over."
Back at the hotel, 'Zeke' Martinez had had his ear pressed hard up to the radio throughout the attack, anxiously awaiting orders for the next move.
"Zeke, this is Mike. Get those people loaded up right now and head straight for the RV at the beach. Don't wait for us. Just get them to the beach now. We'll be right behind you. Understood? Over."
"Roger that. We'll head straight for the RV now. Over."
The relief in Martinez's voice was obvious.
"Right. Move now. Good luck. Out."
Morgan, Fredericks, Garrett and Billy were firing constantly, covering the movement of the splintered remnants of an Army unit withdrawing back toward them in the hope of finding somewhere new to hide. Hot on their heels, the rampaging rebel forces were firing willfully at the backs of retreating soldiers, cutting many of them down. The Army troops were in a mess and it appeared that they had lost their commander. Scanning the area, Morgan spotted a young Malfajirian officer, pinned down behind an overturned truck that was burning fiercely. The lad was stranded in the open, exposed on three flanks and in serious danger of being overrun. He had no chance of moving without being cut down.
"Mike, cover us!" Morgan yelled. "Ad, let's go!"
Morgan and Garrett sprang to their feet, racing up the street towards the trapped officer.
In
a well-practised drill, the two men leapfrogged to each position, one stopping and firing in furious bursts at the enemy, while the other sprinted on to the next available strip of cover, alternating until they reached the man. Fredericks and Billy maintained an inexorable ceiling of overhead fire, covering not only their own men but the retreating soldiers too.
"Hello, mate," said Morgan cheerfully, if somewhat breathlessly, as he slid to a sudden halt beside the young officer, a Lieutenant, still cowering behind the burning truck. 'I'm Alex and this is Adam, and we're going to get you out of here. Just do exactly what we do, and move exactly when we move. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the young man said, wide-eyed and terrified. "Thank you, thank you."
"Great, you speak English," Morgan replied casually.
"I went to Sandhurst," the young man smiled proudly.
"Well, you can't help bad luck," taunted Morgan, with a smile to Garrett.
"Piss off, Morgan! Anyway, Aussie officer training doesn't count."
Morgan, Garrett and the Lieutenant began firing heavily at the attacking rebels, with Fredericks and Billy still engaging from behind. The ferocity of their defence stopped the rebel assault in its tracks, forcing most of the rebel soldiers to go to ground. A lull in the fighting ensued.
Morgan scanned the battle zone. The dead were everywhere. The fighting had been at such close quarters, and the uniforms and equipment used by both sides so similar, it was difficult to discern who was who amongst the twisted and torn bodies.
Garrett spotted more Government soldiers 100 metres away to the east. They had also been forced to withdraw, but were now organised into a strong defensive position. They were holding the intersection adjacent to the one held by Morgan, Garrett and the Lieutenant, returning such an intense volley of fire that they'd finally halted the rebel advance on the eastern flank. As Garrett looked on, a few of the soldiers from that group, buoyed by their success, waved across at him confidently. He waved back and turned to Morgan.
"Alex," he said, "what do you make of that?" Garrett pointed in the direction of the other Army troops.
"They're in pretty good shape," Morgan replied, taking in the scene. "If we can get this group to reorganise up here with their boss, then together the two groups might actually be able to turn this thing around. At least, hold some ground until reinforcements arrive."
"I agree," Garrett said. "We could get stuck out here all bloody night unless we do something real soon. I don't fancy that."
"We can't let that happen, Ad."
Morgan turned to the Lieutenant and outlined his plan. The young officer nodded earnestly, understanding what had to be done. He didn't want to withdraw any further, and the success of the troops to the east had spurred on his enthusiasm. Seconds later, with a series of hand signals and yelled commands from Morgan, Garrett and the Lieutenant, along with fierce covering fire from Fredericks, the Government troops, who only minutes earlier had been retreating, raced forward to reoccupy their previous positions, ready for a fight.