numerous shots. Bullets split the air with wicked cracking noises as they whipped by. The SEALs on that side of the diamond immediately returned fire. Then a flare was shot upward from the mujahideen lines a short distance away. The illumination, hanging on the bottom of a small parachute, gave the scene an eerie daylight quality.
'Double time!' Brannigan commanded through the LASH.
The intensity of incoming rounds increased as the platoon rushed through what appeared to be a single-sided line-formation ambush. But this misconception was recognized when fresh salvos of incoming rounds came in from the opposite side, on the right. In less than a heartbeat, the Brigands began receiving more fire from the front and rear. Additional flares came up to add to the unwanted artificial glare over the scene. The platoon was surrounded, with nothing left to do but tough it out by continuing to charge straight ahead in a desperate attempt to break through the well-concealed enemy positions.
Dave Leibowitz's voice came over the LASH, broken by heavy panting from running. 'There's a . . . depression in the . . . ground at one o'clock . . . not much cover . . . but better than open ground!'
'Take us there!' came back Brannigan's gruff voice.
The direction of movement took a slight turn to the right front, and they reached the terrain feature some ten seconds later, frantically throwing themselves into it. In spite of the calamitous confusion of the moment, they maintained fire team integrity as they manned all sides of the earthen indentation. The sunken area was only fifteen meters across, but that made it easier to defend.
Suddenly all firing stopped and the flares burned out one by one until darkness settled over the scene. Brannigan spat as he shoved a fresh magazine into his CAR-15. The mujahideen now knew they had the upper hand. The SEALs were pinned down, surrounded and trapped. If they fought, they would all die; if they surrendered, they would all die; and if they tried making a desperate breakthrough, they would all die. Bruno Puglisi on the perimeter spoke out in a hoarse whisper, summing up the mood.
'Shit happens.'
.
DAWN
THE two old Soviet Mi-24 helicopters flew a circuitous route around the battle site. Warlord Hassan Khamami was in the lead aircraft, staring down through the gap of the open fuselage door. He could easily discern the enemy's defensive position, looking pitifully small in the midst of his surrounding forces. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. This victory would confirm his rule over an enlarged fiefdom. The next visit he received from the government in Kabul would be for negotiating a peace treaty with him. He would be able to realistically demand numerous concessions.
The choppers made a slight turn then went into a hover, slowly settling down in the vicinity of Major Karim Malari's CP. When the wheels touched the ground, Khamami leaped out, closely followed by his radio operator and a. small entourage of bodyguards. Major Malari was waiting, and snapped a salute as the warlord walked up.
'Amir!' Malari said happily. 'We have the infidels surrounded. A reconnaissance patrol discovered them trying to skulk away in the darkness. But they quickly fired on them and shot flares into the air. My men were in position to immediately surround them. They cannot escape.'
'I spotted the dogs of the West in their little crater as I flew over,' Khamami said. 'What are your tactical plans, Major?'
'I have ordered Captain Tanizai to rush his company here,' Malari said. 'As soon as he arrives and is in position, we will launch a final attack.'
Khamami looked around. 'What about Durtami and his men?'
'They are all martyred, Amir,' Malari replied. 'They did not last long when they attacked the infidels. They accomplished their mission by forcing the nonbelievers to expend much ammunition:'
'I had only a brief glance at the enemy,' Khamami remarked, 'but it appeared from the air that there are no more than a dozen or so of them.'
'That is true, Amir. And when Tanizai arrives, we will be more than four hundred to go against them. The final attack will be quick and decisive.'
'I am pleased with your decision to wait for Tanizai,' Khamami said. 'I want to keep our casualties down. We cannot replace our losses by recruitment or conscription as can regular armies?'
'Tanizai has a mortar section with him:' Malari said. 'We could use that to blast the infidels to bits without spilling a single drop of Muslim blood.'
Khamami shook his head. 'I want the men to attack and destroy the enemy by fire and maneuver. Thus, they will see that these overfed Westerners are not supermen.'
'As you command, I obey, Amir!'
'And another thing,' Khamami added. 'Take no prisoners.'
.
THE DEPRESSION
THE sun was now bright in the cloudless sky, sending down waves of radiating heat on the SEALs. Everyone had eaten an energy bar and popped one of James Bradley's pep pills. There was no shortage of water and they continued to drink unlimited quantities from the mujahideen canteens. The pills were also a sort of mood elevator that took at least a little of the edge off the gloomy mind-set of the platoon. They stayed at their positions, not conversing among themselves, as a constant vigil was maintained on the bleak horizon surrounding the position. Now and then a sporadic shot could be heard that either whined overhead or sent up spurts of dirt when the bullet struck the ground. The mujahideen were letting them know there was danger all around.
Bruno Puglisi, brooding with a dark anger, finally left his position to crawl to a small stand of thorn brush a few meters out in the open. Although he had no scope on his M-16 rifle, he was determined to nail one of the ragheads who were firing at the depression. Fifteen minutes passed before a couple of mujahideen heads bobbed up into view from what seemed to be an OP. Bruno aimed carefully at the one on the right, then gently squeezed the trigger. The man was jolted out of sight by the bullet's strike. The SEAL quickly shifted the barrel and fired again. The second man's skull exploded and he too was knocked out from view.
'Ha! Whacked the rat bastards!' Bruno said, grinning in grim satisfaction as he scooted back to his place in the depression.
.
0630 HOURS LOCAL
THE platoon had sunk into emotional doldrums. There were no exchanges of words or gestures as they sat in the heavy silence of the hopeless situation they faced.
When chanting abruptly sounded in the distance, the Brigands raised their heads slightly to gaze out toward the enemy who surrounded them. They could not make out the words of the foreign language except for the repetitious call to Allah. The mujahideen were psyching themselves up for a massacre, using their religion to build up all the hate and mercilessness in their souls. The SEALs instinctively gripped their weapons, making silent vows to sell their lives dearly and kill as many of the enemy as possible before they drew their last breaths.
Frank Gomez, with his commo gear beside him, felt the awful pressure of a heavy, pressing grief. Thoughts of his wife and child had been with him constantly since they climbed out of that valley the day before. There was a chance that Linda was pregnant again, and he wondered if he would leave two orphan children behind. He'd always known he might be killed in action and, like most military professionals, had learned to face up squarely to the unhappy potential. But he never thought he would be sitting around in some distant foreign land waiting for death to come to him, at the whim of a half-civilized enemy. He reached in his pocket and retrieved the photo of his family that he had taken from his wallet. The radio operator kissed it lightly, then looked up when his PRC-112 unexpectedly came to life. Frank, puzzled, spoke into the transmitter, answering the call that had come in.
'This is Brigand One, over.'
'Brigand One, this is Ears Three,' came back a voice.
'We've picked up your beacon and are following it to you. What's your problem? Over.'
Frank's mind spun like a kid's top, and he stared stupidly at the small radio in his hand.
The voice spoke once more. 'I say again. What's your problem? Over.'
Frank recovered from the shock. 'Who the hell are you? Over.'
'U. S. Navy aircraft,' came back the answer. 'We're on a routine patrol. Now, what's your problem? Over.'
'Wait!' Frank said. He gestured over to Brannigan. 'Sir! We've been raised by a Navy aircraft. He picked up our
