Defender (18 page)

"Alex! Alex!" Fredericks yelled at him, slapping Morgan's face to revive him. "Alex!"

"Jesus!" Morgan gasped, opening his eyes. "Is anything broken?" The two men laughed, causing Morgan to recoil as the pain returned.

"Just the truck, bud," Fredericks said, relieved that Morgan was somehow still alive.

Fredericks hooked his arms under Morgan and hoisted him up. Morgan was dizzy, in pain and barely able to stand, let alone walk. It took him moments to recover, moments Fredericks knew they didn't have. They watched as the truck disappeared around the corner, skirting the edges of the fire, bur as they started to make their way back across the street, something told Fredericks to look up. The burning remains of the Super Puma's tail section had finally reached the edge of the rooftop and was teetering precariously over the brink. The rotors had started to slow now and were spinning in a lazy sweep high above the street.

"Come on!" Fredericks ordered. "Let's get the hell out of here before that drops on us."

The noise of battle was everywhere. Fredericks could clearly hear the distinctive crack-thump of high-velocity ammunition slicing through the air overhead.
If
it's that close, we're too close, he thought. Morgan, dazed and confused, seemed unaware.

"Alex, snap out of it! We've still got people left to get to the evacuation point. They're relying on us. Now, get your head together and let's get moving."

"Ari! What about Ari?" Morgan mumbled, half to himself.

"It's OK. She went out to the
Kearsarge
with Sewa, and Adam radioed in that she made it. She's safely aboard."

Morgan finally appeared to be coming around. His eyes were set with purpose, remembering why he was there and, on top of that, that there were a lot of people relying on him.

"Steve?" Morgan, oriented now, looked back up the street to the burning mass of bodies and wreckage. "Christ!"

"He's dead, bud. Nothing we can do for him now. Nothing we could do for any of them."

They both stood silently for a second or two, then Morgan leaned down awkwardly, retrieved his weapon from where it had landed nearby, and said, "OK, mate. Let's go, while I've still got some puff in me."

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Where are they?" Martinez hissed through gritted teeth.

Sweat soaked his face and stung at his eyes. His wet hands were shaking, slipping along the wooden stock of his rifle, his breathing was shallow and rapid. He grew more agitated by the second. The top guys were all out in the thick of it, caught up God-knows-where. Adam Garrett was down at the beach coordinating the evacuation with the Marines. Mike Fredericks was off investigating the explosion that had ripped off the front half of the hotel, and as far as he knew, Alex Morgan was still up on the roof somewhere. In short: when Martinez needed them most, they were nowhere to be found.

Ezequiel 'Zeke' Martinez and the last ten evacuees were now well and truly pinned down, with it seemed, no hope of escape. The rebels were close, their cordon around the hotel was tightening like a noose on the Government troops, countering attempts at movement onto the street with heavy machinegun fire, making it nigh impossible for Martinez to get the evacuees to the Land Rovers parked on the far side of the road.

For the first time in his life, Martinez doubted himself. He was happy doing what they'd brought him out to Africa to do; set up Comms, plain and simple. That was his area of expertise, and he was good at it. He'd learnt the ropes with the International Security Assistance Force Signals Detachment in Afghanistan, the reason Chiltonford had poached him. And Afghanistan was no picnic, he reminded himself. But all this was way, way out of his league.

Martinez reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the road where he'd been maintaining a visual on the Land Rovers 20 feet away, and looked back into the scarred remains of the hotel. The few remaining evacuees were staring at him expectantly. They were scared too, really scared. He hadn't heard a peep from them in the last few minutes, and Martinez thought he saw one of the men crying quietly into his sleeve. Martinez had no idea what he should do. What could he do? Run out into the street and get shot! He was the Comms guy. Remember? Had everybody forgotten that?

But to the evacuees huddled together in the ruins of the hotel, tired, scared and engulfed by carnage, Martinez wasn't the Comms guy at all. He wasn't the tech-geek who looked after the radios and IT. He wasn't the youngest, least experienced member of the crew. Right here, in the dead centre of hell, he was one of the security team, and they were supposed to have all the answers. That's why Chiltonford had come out in the first place. To train the local Army, protect the British expats, and get them all home safely. And they wanted to get home, more than that, they were expecting to. Martinez had to do something.

Just then, everything went silent. An eerie lull fell across their tiny corner of the war.

Martinez crawled toward the side entrance of the hotel. He stayed low as he slithered forward. That's what Fredericks always told him, 'Keep a low profile'. His hands were clamped so tightly around the AKM that his fingertips and knuckles showed white. He had to locate the rebel machinegun position that was keeping them pinned down. Inch by painstaking inch, he edged toward the sidewalk. He pressed his face up hard against the edge of the doorframe, nose pushed flat against it, and one eye searched the street for any sign of enemy guns.

Nothing.

Carefully, Martinez eased himself further out until both eyes were able to focus, and most of his head was now clear of the doorframe. He systematically searched the surrounding buildings, the windows and doorways, corridors and corners, every nook and cranny of the endless collection of shadows and openings that peppered his view. Fuck, where were they?

A devastating hail of gunfire fell upon him. The vicious bursts, both fast and furious, punched through the pavement a hair's breadth from his face, every round racing through the air, reaching for him. Asphalt and concrete dust spat back into his eyes. The heavy-calibre ammunition thudded into the ground and walls around his exposed head, every strike resonating with a ponderous boom, only
to
be instantly superseded by the next, and the next, and the next. Martinez froze. All he could hear were the rounds crashing about him and the sonic boom of his own heart pounding in his ears. Mouth agape, he wanted
to
scream, but nothing came out. Then he felt pressure, a pressure on his ankle. No, both ankles. They were tight as if wedged by a vice. His calves went numb. Is this what it feels like
to
be shot?

"No! No!" Martinez cried.

Without warning, he was gone. With one swift pull, Martinez was wrenched from the path of a murderous hail of fire that fell exactly where his head had been. For an instant he couldn't move, face down, cradling his weapon in his arms, mouth wide open. He was alive. But his legs? Was he shot? Martinez spun around to face back into the hotel.

There, kneeling over his feet and grinning broadly, were Morgan and Fredericks. They had returned just in time to see the young rookie making his valiant attempt
to
locate the enemy.

"Martinez, are you trying to get yourself killed?" Morgan quipped.

"I can see we're going to have to spend a lot more time on you, Junior," Fredericks chastised paternally. He treated Martinez like his apprentice. Fredericks knew that the kid had great potential. He just needed more guidance and from the look of things, a lot more training. But he'd get there. He had the right attitude and at least he was prepared
to
try something, even if it meant risking his neck in the process. "So, what's going on then, Zeke? Bring us up to speed."

Martinez nervously gathered himself and, not wanting to look like a fool, particularly in front of Fredericks and Morgan, decided it was best to just get on with it.

"There's no way we can move," he said, shakily at first. "We nearly lost two evacuees when we started heading across to the car. The rounds came so close that Lynn Stanley copped some shrapnel in her arm." He pointed over to Lynnie, who was being treated by big John. Stanley was an ex-Guardsman and had served in Cyprus, Northern Ireland and the Falklands before getting into the mining game. Morgan could see the concern on the tough old man's face as he carefully tended her. Morgan remembered the fantastic beef stroganoff that Lynnie, the cook at Pallarup, had made the night before. She looked OK, the injury was superficial, he thought, giving her a reassuring smile. "I had to pull them all back." Martinez couldn't help but feel responsible for allowing them to become pinned down. "There's no way of getting over there."

"What are you saying? We can't get this last group out because we can't cross the street?" Morgan was not happy. He didn't need another setback.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Martinez replied nervously. "Any attempt we make to get to the Land Rovers, all hell comes falling straight down on top of us from up the road there, somewhere. I can't even see where these guys are, man!"

"Right." Morgan had to get things moving. They had ten people left to get out and he wasn't about to fail them. "Zeke, you've done well, mate, really well. You've kept them all alive, and that's what we're here to do. Now, stay here and keep everybody down behind cover. No one is to move until we get back."

Morgan and Fredericks ran back upstairs to the rooftop. Finding a position from which they could observe the street without being seen, they crawled to the edge of the roof, close to the precariously balanced wreckage of the helicopter's tail. The wreckage was still burning and the smoke masked their movement. Sharing a set of binoculars, they searched for the source of the trouble.

"Got 'em, Alex! Take a look." Fredericks handed over the binos. "200 metres; reference the intersection; left, eleven o'clock; green-painted shop front. They're in there, a machinegun team. Three men."

"Seen." Morgan followed Fredericks' target indication to the precise location of the rebel gun team. "Damn, you've got good eyes, Mike. Bastards!"

A small group of rebels had pushed through the Malfajiri Army's ragged lines and had established a strongpoint up the road from the hotel. They appeared to have set up a Russian-made 7 .62 millimetre PKS general purpose machinegun, covering the main road running along the western side of the hotel. The PKS was mounted on a tripod, giving the machine gunner the ability to fire with precision out to a range of 1000 metres, at 250 rounds per minute.

It was standard operating procedure, establishing a fire support base allowed a force to engage with heavy, accurate and sustained fire, suppressing freedom of movement, and holding an enemy in place. Morgan knew that next, the rebels would surreptitiously manoeuvre into a concealed position of advantage from which to launch a direct strike.

"We don't have much time," Morgan said casually.

"But we'll play 'em at their own game," replied Fredericks.

"Exactly," agreed Morgan.
"If
we can take out that machinegun, we can establish a position of our own, get these people the hell out of here, and buy the Army a bit of time to regroup and reload."

'I'm with you," Fredericks said, "we're going to need the jeep with the HMG. It's down at the evacuation point on the beach."

"Great idea," replied Morgan.

They ran for the stairs. On the move, Morgan unclipped his hand-held radio from his belt.

"Alpha Three, this is Alpha One. Over." Nothing.

"Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Over." Again, there was no reply.

"Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Come in,
Adam. Over."

"Ad, we've got a problem up here at the hotel which is holding us up a bit. Do you need the 12.7 anymore? Over."

"Negative, we're secure here. The marines have everything stitched up pretty tight. You got problems? Over."
Garrett was concerned.

"Sort of," replied Morgan, his understatement not lost on Garrett. "We're going to need it, ASAP. Like, five minutes ago."

"Paparazzi?" Morgan asked, surprised. "What do you mean?''

"There's every variety of media down here,"
Garrett answered,
"from just about every country you can name, and then some. It's hilarious. They've been clambering all over each other to get on the choppers and get the hell out of here. No aspiring Pulitzer Prize winners amongst them."

Great, thought Morgan. That's the last thing he needed. "How about the gun. Can you get it back to us?"

"Even better, Ad. Fantastic." Morgan was relieved. "Head to the intersection on the southwest corner of the hotel, but don't cross to the hotel itself. The rebels have set up a fire-lane and they're blasting anything that gets in the middle of it. Stay on the western side of the main road and I'll talk you in from there. Understood? Over."

"Alpha One, acknowledged. Move now. Out."

Careful to avoid the street targeted by the rebel machinegun, he slipped [n beside the other two Land Rovers Martinez had been using for the vacuation, and shut off the engine. The kid was doing OK, he thought. Parking the escape vehicles across the street from the hotel meant they remained hidden from enemy gunfire. When it was time to move, the evacuees could race across one at a time, minimizing their vulnerability as a group.