the air on the other side.
Stratton left the firing gun and ran towards the corral.
David was directing a long burst of fire from the far side of the stables. As Stratton ran past he signalled Victor to move.
Stratton reached the second claymore on the other side of the corral as Victor, David, the Indians and the remaining rebels left the cover of the stables. They charged for all they were worth past the corral, over the crest and down onto the wide-open slope that led to the cliffs, spreading out as they ran.
Stratton took the spool of wire connected to the claymore and raced across the open ground with it as far as it would go. He jammed the metal stake attached to the end of the wire into the earth and hurried back to the claymore to arm the trigger mechanism. Only when he had completed the task did he realise that his machine gun had stopped firing.
He checked the slope that led to the cliff to see the others running at full tilt, the incline contributing to their speed.
Another mortar shell landed nearby but Stratton ignored it and sprinted to the stables and the end stall. He grabbed his parachute pack off the nail and ran back towards the crest of the hill, jumping over the tripwire on his way.
Gunfire erupted from the track leading from the cabins. The Neravistas were coming.
As Stratton pulled his parachute onto his back the first government soldiers came into view. Many more followed behind them, encouraged to charge by unforgiving officers waving pistols.
The first soldiers to reach the gun emplacement fired into it.The rest stormed up the hill, shoulder to shoulder, bayonets at the ready and screaming their war cry.
One of the soldiers tripped the wire. The claymore exploded, sending hundreds of steel balls into the advancing Neravistas, servering limbs, shattering heads, pulverising torsos. The projectiles passed through the front rank and into the second and third rows. Those behind were showered with the blood of their colleagues and dropped to the ground, stunned by the carnage.
Stratton looped the AK 47 strap over his neck so that the weapon hung against his chest and jogged down the hill while buckling the leg straps of the parachute.
The Neravistas regrouped to charge again. A soldier in the front rank, whimpering in fear, refused to go any further. An officer quickly shot him through the brain and levelled the pistol at the next man. Then he yelled and charged himself. The others followed.
This time the assault was unchecked. They were joined by the charge that came around the other side of the stables, the soldiers shooting wildly into the stalls as they passed. The two groups met at the crest of the hill, searching around for their enemy, hungry for blood.
They saw Stratton running away, the others far ahead.
They aimed their rifles.
One of the Neravistas tripped the second wire.
The claymore, aimed at the top of the hill, detonated like a thunderclap, sending its hail of steel through the men, shattering them like dolls. Those who were not killed outright or wounded flung themselves to the ground, horrified at the destructive power of the weapon as pieces of flesh and bone fell around them.
At the sound of the explosion Victor looked back and thought he could see a figure heading down the hill below the pall of smoke. He could only pray that it was Stratton.
He looked ahead to the bottom of the field and the edge of the cliff where he could make out a figure that he hoped was Louisa. A glance to his side revealed the riders that Stratton had described. They were closing on the end of the finger of jungle which, if they rode around it, would lead them towards the cliff. At the rate Victor’s group was going he calculated they would intercept them. He held on to his magazine pouch as he ran.
Several shots rang out from a distant line of trees. Rounds zipped between the men. The bullets were aimed shots and at that distance, with moving targets, any hit would be pure luck. And a lot of luck was what Victor knew they needed. ‘Keep going!’ he shouted. ‘Keep going!’
Stratton fastened his chest strap as he ran, feeling the wind in his face, the slope building his momentum. He felt for the rip cord and pulled it. The back of the pack popped open and the pilot chute sprang away, dragging the deployment bag to the ground as the suspension lines played out. The bright green chute slid from the bag and Stratton felt the tug on his shoulders. He grabbed the risers and shook them to help spread the chute.
It began to inflate as the nylon edges snatched at the air.
The leading cells opened as the wind crept along the tubes and the chute started to rise off the ground and take on its rectangular shape. When the slider appeared above Stratton’s head he knew he was in business and the firm grip of the harness around his body told him that the chute was eager to take his weight.
He ran as fast as he could in order to keep the canopy inflated. The harness tightened around his thighs and the chute started to pull at him.
Seconds later Stratton rose up. The ground zoomed by feet below as he glided with majestic ease, the chute’s harness creaking under his weight. The wind ruffled his hair and the exhilaration he felt at his success was immense.
When he looked for the spot where he hoped Louisa might be he realised he was not on track and eased down on one of the toggles to make a gentle turn, angling across the slope.
Stratton gradually gained height and his view of the field became that of a bird’s, his men spread out below him, running as fast as they could. The noise of distant gunfire filtered to him through the sounds of the wind blowing past his ears and the flapping chute. He looked towards the finger of jungle to see the riders coming around it and heading towards the cliffs.
As Victor ran he glanced back once again, hoping to see Stratton, but there was no sign of him. He feared he had been shot and was lying somewhere on the slope.
He ran on, suppressing any thought of stopping to make sure of the Englishman’s fate. Stratton had made his sacrifice to give Victor and the others a chance to get away and for them to get themselves killed or captured would make a mockery of it.
A shadow moved across Victor although the sky was cloudless and he heard a strange flapping sound coming from overhead. He turned to look, his gaze angling skyward. Something big hung just below the sun. He squinted, recognising what it was, and could not believe his eyes.
Stratton gave him an easy wave as he sailed past beneath the green chute with its red dragon emblazoned across it.
Victor was filled with emotion, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He roared. ‘Go, my eagle. Go!’ he shouted as he laughed. ‘I am your slave! I am your slave!’
David looked up and around at Stratton and was stunned.
The Indians did not know what to make of the spectacle, Mohesiwa tripping and falling on his face because he was so distracted.
As Victor watched Stratton sail on he suspected what he meant to do. The Frenchman saw the riders appear around the trees and gauged where they would all intersect. He also knew what he had to do.
The grim reality of their plight came home with a bang, literally, as a burst of machine-gun fire caught one of the young rebels and he fell dead. The group pressed on. A mortar shell landed close by, followed by another, and shrapnel flew among them. Kebowa was struck in his side by a piece. It caused him to stumble but he regained his balance and pressed on, blood pouring from the wound.
Another burst of machine-gun fire found its mark again, one of the rebels dropping and rolling to a stop.
‘Down!’ David shouted and the group dived to the ground to return fire.
Another mortar shell landed nearby and David knew they had to move on or die. He got back to his feet. ‘Fire and move!’ he shouted to the others. ‘Fire and move!’
He ran several metres, dropped to the ground and fired at the enemy. ‘Move!’ he shouted.
Several of the others scrambled to their feet and ran on a few metres before dropping to the ground to open
