only to see his worst fears had come true. The guards had not been knocked out; he could plainly see two of them walking around the sentry post. What was worse, they were carrying rifles with them.
Something had gone wrong and now Hunter knew there would have to be gunplay.
He crept up to the side of the house and peered inside. For some reason the guards hadn't gone for the girls' ruse. Chloe and Claudia were tied up back to back on two chairs, while the soldiers paced around them anxiously. It could only mean orfe thing: they had reported the girls' presence to their superiors in the town. Hunter was sure someone was coming to investigate.
Two more Aussies joined Hunter and the others around the house and, on the count of three, they burst in. Hunter himself came through the open window, his M-16 blazing. Two more Ausssies kicked in the door and sprayed the interior of the shack with bullets, while two other troopers dove towards the girls, knocking them down and covering them with their bodies.
It was over in a matter of seconds. All of the guards were dead. But it had been noisy. Too noisy.
"What happened?" Hunter asked Chloe.
"The soldiers knew that their comrades didn't send us," she answered in a slightly frightened voice. "They told us they had no use for women."
"No use for women?" Hunter said. "You mean they were - "
"Eunuchs," Claudia said. "Apparently most of the lowly guards here are."
"Well I'll be damned," Hunter said. "Just like in the old days ..."
Suddenly a shot rang out, followed by the sound
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of an explosion. Hunter, the Aussies, and the girls were out of the guardhouse in a second, making their way down the road to the main group. Sir Neal and Dundee were there to meet them.
"We're gong to have company very soon," Sir Neal said, pointing back toward the town. Hunter could see he was right. A convoy of trucks was making its way up the pass towards the weapons facility. An American-built Bradley Fighting Vehicle -a kind of half-tank, half-personnel carrier-was leading the way.
As they watched, its weapons officer was pumping out mortar rounds in their direction.
"Let's go!" Hunter yelled as the shells started to crash down around them. The strike force troopers needed no further prodding. The small band took off through the brush and out into the open fields.
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They ran into more trouble right away. Another enemy force, this one containing foot soldiers plus some trucks, was making its way toward them from the north. If Hunter didn't act quickly, the strike force would be cut off from both sides and squeezed by the advancing Sardinians.
Hunter had no choice-he had to call for the choppers. The strike force made its way down into a gulley and found an abandoned farmhouse and barn. The enemy approaching from the town had momentarily lost sight of them, but began lobbing mortar rounds into the gulley nevertheless. The foot soldiers looked like they were heading to link up with the column. Then they all would search the small valley together. Hunter figured the strike force had about twenty minutes tops to be evacuated by the frigate copters.
The Aussie troopers formed a defense perimeter around the farmhouse, while the Spanish rocket teams readjusted their warheads for use against the ground troops. Chloe and Claudia took refuge inside the farmhouse while Hunter and Sir Neil helped with the defense preparations outside.
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Hunter sent a one-word message to the chopper pilots which he knew would bring them into the general area. Then he would be forced to send up two flares-the predetermined signal for trouble-and hope the chopper pilots would think quickly and come in for the rescue.
Five tense minutes passed. Mortar shells were landing nearby, but the strike force held its fire so as not to give away its position.
Using one of the Aussie troops' nightscopes, Hunter could see the two Sardinian forces had linked up about three-quarters of a mile away and now were slowly starting to descend into the small valley, a Bradley Fighting Vehicle in the lead.
That's when he heard the choppers approaching ...
He quickly informed Sir Neil.
"Let's get the ladies out first, Hunter," the Englishman said. "I hope we'll be able to hold them off for long enough."
Hunter knew it was going to be close. Already the sound of the six rescue choppers was beginning to fill the air. Trouble was, the Sardinians heard them too. Within seconds, the night sky was filled with tracer bullets, all directed toward the approaching helicopters.
It was now or never. Hunter took out his flare gun and let two rockets fly.
This marked their hiding place for both the choppers and the enemy troops, now a half-mile away.
The mortar shells started dropping closer to the farmhouse. The Aussies opened up on the approaching Sardinians, while the Spanish rocketmen fired on the lead Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Their first shot glanced off the front of the vehicle and careened into a group of soldiers unlucky enough to be 180
nearby. The converted Stinger missile exploded, killing many of the soldiers.
Now the firefight was going at full fury. The Sardinians looked like expert terrain fighters. They were crawling through the underbrush, and some were soon only a quarter-mile from the Aussies' defense line. At the same time, other enemy troops were firing at the approaching helicopters. The gunners on the air ships were now also returning the fire.
"Boy," Hunter said to himself as he added his M-16 to the fray. "Did this idea get screwed up!"
The first chopper came down right in the front yard of the farmhouse. Hunter and Sir Neil hustled the two women out and literally threw them on to the chopper. Three of Dundee's men who had been wounded went next along with their stretcher-bearers. Then Dundee sent aboard another six men and gave the pilot the lift-off signal. The big British helicopter belched a large cloud of black smoke and then roared off, amidst a shower of tracer bullets.
Thus the rescue began. The withering fire from the Aussies, the pinpoint accuracy of the Spanish Rocketeers, plus the fire from the chopper gunners held off the enemy long enough for four more choppers to come in and pick up troops.
Soon there were only Hunter, Sir Neil, and a squad of Spanish rocketmen on the ground. The plan was for them to go out on the last chopper.
But this sixth helicopter was going nowhere. Even before it touched down, a mortar round came crashing down right into its main rotor blade, blowing it off. The chopper yawed to its left, then came down hard right onto the abandoned farmhouse. Hunter and Sir Neil just barely ducked away from the scythe-like chopper blade as it spun over ahead,
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clipped a tree right off at its roots, and proceeded to chop up some Sardinian troops who had been crawling down in back of the strike force's position.
Hunter ran into the burning farmhouse and yanked the injured chopper pilot out of the burning machine. The gunner was dead. Sir Neil was beside Hunter to help, and together they managed to carry the pilot to safety before the entire house went up.
Now, with no means of escape by air and a wounded person on their hands, Hunter had to think quick.
"We've got to get the hell out of here," Hunter said to Sir Neil, who had already rigged up a makeshift stretcher for the wounded pilot. Hunter told the Spanish rocketeers to send a barrage right into the enemy positions, then get prepared to fall back. With one great whoosh! the Spaniards let fly six rockets in unison, splattering the road and enemy vehicles with flame and causing the enemy infantry to take cover.
Given the moment of diversion, Hunter, Sir Neil, and the six Spaniards took off into the bush, carrying the wounded pilot. The entire farmhouse, barn, and surrounding area was now a mass of flame and the enemy troops were still lobbing mortar shells and tracers into the conflagration. Despite the delay of having to carry the stretcher, the tiny band successfully melted away into the hedgerows at the end of the valley and into the farm country beyond.
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They hid out on the island for the next day and night, moving only in darkness, hoping for a chance to signal one of the frigate helicopters that they knew would be looking for them. However, the Sardinian army troops kept on their tail the whole time, obviously under orders to capture the raiders dead or alive.
The wounded pilot was now at least conscious, although his legs were pretty banged up. In addition, Hunter and the band had no provisions, no gear, no medicine. Hunter knew that by sunup the second day they would have to find some kind of transport if they were to finally shake their pursuers and get up into the hills of Sardinia in the north.
The next morning, they got lucky, or so Hunter thought. Reconnoitering from a small hill, he spotted an enemy truck parked near the side of the road. The crew was bundled up in sleeping bags and sprawled on the road's shoulder.
Hunter guessed it was either some kind of long-range patrol, or perhaps a construction squad that traveled around the island checking on things such as radio lines. No matter. Whatever the case, the crew looked to be 183
lightly armed and the truck was obviously in working order.
While three of the Spanish rocketmen stayed with the wounded pilot, Hunter and Sir Neil took the three others and slowly worked their way down to the roadside. A number of empty wine bottles lay about their camp, a clue to why the crew was sleeping so soundly.
"Looks like they had a bit of a party last night," Sir Neil whispered to Hunter as they closed in on the truck. "Perhaps they're eunuchs too and can only get what they are looking for in the old grape, what?"
Hunter had to laugh at the Englishman. Swaggering, swashbuckling -that was Sir Neil. Christ, they'd been lost out in the Sardinian wilderness for a day and a half, and Sir Neil looked as if he had just done nothing more strenuous than giving his polo pony a morning workout. His uniform was still neatly pressed, his beret adjusted on his head at the correct angle. His boots were even spit-shined. The ever-present cigarette and holder completed the scene. Hunter shook his head. He had come to greatly admire Sir Neil. The Brit reminded him very much of both Seth and Dave Jones -the Air Force officers who were Hunter's mentors. Yes, the Jones boys would have liked Sir Neil. Brave, professional, great sense of humor, as well as a great sense of purpose.
Yes, Hunter told himself once again, only an Englishman could have talked him into this adventure.
Hunter turned to the Spanish rocketeers and gave a hand signal which indicated that they would simply knock out the sleeping soldiers. Killing them wouldn't be necessary. Then Hunter gave the signal to move out.
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They crept up on the side of the road and quietly broke into two groups.
Hunter and two Spaniards moved towards the Sardinians' encampment; Sir Neil and the other rocketeer would check out the truck itself.
Hunter and his partners improvised a system for knocking out the sleeping soldiers. One Spaniard would shake the man awake, while Hunter held his hand over the victim's mouth. The third rocketeer would hit the man square on the head with a satchel he'd filled with rocks. Because the soldiers were sleeping off a drunk, none of them woke up unexpectedly as Hunter and his companions moved through the camp. Within a minute, they had put seven soldiers out of action.
Meanwhile, Sir Neil and the other Spaniard had crept up to the truck. While the Britisher was peeking in the cab, his partner checked underneath it.
Finding nothing, Sir Neil and the Spaniard walked around to the rear of the truck.
With a flick of his hand, Sir Neil pulled open the back flap of the truck.
Behind it were two men, wide awake, manning a small-caliber machine gun. Sir Neil just caught a glimpse of the gunner's finger pulling the trigger . . .
Three bullets caught the Englishman square in the shoulder and the chest.
Another sliced through his scalp carrying off the beret in a burst of cloth, hair, and blood. Sir Neil dropped immediately. The stunned Spanish mercenary raised his gun, but too late, as he caught a full burst square in the face.
His head nearly obliterated, the Spaniard stood upright for two long, spooky seconds before falling over onto Sir Neil's crumpled form.
Hunter had seen the whole thing happen. Even now, as he and the two other rocketeers sprayed the
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back of the truck with gunfire, he felt a lump come up in his throat. Sir Neil was down, lifeless, covered in his own blood and that of the headless Spaniard.
He was up and running towards the truck immediately, at the same time yelling for the other rocketeers to bring the wounded pilot down from the hill. The gunfire would bring company. He knew they would have to make good their escape now.
Hunter reached the back of the truck and dragged the Spaniard's body off Sir Neil. He turned the Englishman over and felt for a heartbeat or any signs of breathing. There were none. He stuck his hand down the man's throat and cleared his passageway. Then he began giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation.
He stopped and beat on the man's heart.
"Come on, you Limey bastard," Hunter said as he furiously pumped on the man's chest. "We need you!"
By this time the other rocketeers had reached the truck and were loading on the wounded pilot. One Spaniard got behind the wheel and started the truck.
Another helped Hunter load Sir Neil in the back.
"Go North!" Hunter yelled to the driver, who immediately pulled a five-point U-turn and gunned the truck's accelerator. Within seconds they were roaring down the dusty road.
Somehow, bouncing along the road, Hunter had managed to raise a heartbeat in the seriously wounded Sir Neil. His breathing was irregular and he was losing a lot of blood, yet the Englishman was still alive.
They dressed his wounds as best they could, yet the plucky Brit was losing a lot of blood and getting whiter by the minute.
"The sea . . ." Hunter said suddenly. "We've got to 186
get him to the sea."