After several minutes, one of the squad was brave enough to aim a burst up the mountain slope. Unfortunately for him, his time exposed from cover was a half-second too long. A .50-caliber slug tore through his chest and kicked him backward ten yards.
All of the fight was gone from the squad. They simply cowered behind the meager cover, waiting for the snipers to go away.
The first burst of gunfire jerked Tom Clark awake. He jumped up from his meager pallet and rushed toward the prison door. Maybe, just maybe, someone had finally come to rescue them.
The shooting and explosions increased in intensity. The blasts nearly deafened him, but he couldn’t see anything outside. Did the rescuers know that they were in here? Would they blast down the doors and come in shooting? Were they even winning, driving away the terrorists? Or would the terrorists come back and kill them all?
Tom’s mind raced. He had to let someone know where they were. He had to protect his little flock. He had to find Nan and protect her.
Tom pounded on the heavy steel door and shouted at the top of his lungs, “We’re in here! Help us! We’re in here.”
After a few seconds, the other missionary men joined in the chorus. Suddenly a deep growling voice penetrated the door. “Get back from the door. Get on the floor with your hands on your head. We are going to blow the door. Anyone standing when we come in will be shot. Do you understand?”
Tom dropped to the floor and waved everyone else to do the same. He called out, “We understand. We’re on the floor. Praise God you’re here.”
The door blasted off its hinges and fell in as two heavily armed men charged through the opening, their rifles dancing around the room like cobras ready to strike. The leader pointed at Tom. “Who are you? Are there any more?”
Tom looked up and smiled. “I’m Tom Clark. This is my missionary group. Are we ever thankful to see you!”
He waved toward the next steel door. “The women are locked up there. Please get them out. Can we get up now?”
25
23 Jun 2000, 0108LT (22 Jun, 1808Z)
Roland had just finished assembling his strike teams when the TLAM attack began. He could see the flames and hear the explosions atop Mount Giushiu. The command post a hundred meters to his right suddenly disappeared in a blinding flash. He could easily see troops running from the burning structure. A scant few attempted to fight the fires.
It was time to start the attack on the factory. Roland pointed a small laser designator at one of the machine cannon emplacements. The tiny red dot appeared on the slide mechanism. One of the SEALs manning a SAW fired a grenade from the integral M-203 grenade launcher into the sandbagged emplacement. The other SAW followed suit, almost instantly. He aimed at the other emplacement. The near simultaneous blasts knocked them both out. The 23mm cannons lay, blackened and silent, in the smoldering ruins on the emplacements.
The two M-60 machine-gunners raked 7.62mm NATO rounds across the few guards who were standing around. The covering fire protected the rest of the SEALs as they worked their way toward the entrance of the factory cave. The murderously accurate crossfire knocked any fight out of the remaining terrorists. They fled into the jungle.
Three guards stationed inside the cave entrance came running. The sounds of the firefight drew them out to help their comrades. They ran, pell-mell, down the trail only to fall in a hail of 9mm rounds from the approaching SEALs’ H&K machine pistols.
Rushing into the cave entrance, the SEALs were confronted with a heavy steel door firmly implanted in a reinforced concrete wall. Roland shouted, "Jankowski, get up here."
The big SEAL breacher ran up, removing three small charges from his pack as he ran. He taped one over the lock and the other two on the hinges. After turning the timers to give him thirty seconds, he took cover with his teammates, yelling “Fire in the hole!”
The small packets of C-4 plastic explosive left the door hanging loosely open.
As the smoke cleared, the SEALs could see a laboratory facility that had been spotlessly clean, but was now covered with a cloud of settling dust and plaster. A half-dozen white smocked workers picked themselves up off the floor, dazed from the explosion. Confronted with very menacing looking blackened faced SEALs brandishing H&K machine pistols, they raised their hands high over their heads and babbled surrender in several different languages.
One of the scientists, obviously the leader from the manner in which the others deferred to him, approached LT Roland. In a heavy Eastern European accent, he said, “You American fools. You’ll kill us all. Don’t you have any idea of what this place is?”
“Suppose you tell us,” Roland retorted. “Looks to me like we’ve found a terrorist lab making biological warfare agents. My guess is that you’re in charge. That makes you a terrorist. How close am I?”
“You arrogant idiot! Of course this is a laboratory!” the enraged scientist shouted, his face burning crimson. He pointed to a large glass and steel enclosure in which several people dressed in containment suits were standing and said, “In that isolation booth is the most virulent form of smallpox ever produced. It will kill you in three days and there is no cure. Have you ever seen anyone die from pox? A most painful way to die. I suggest that you leave now so that you don’t inadvertently expose yourselves.”
Lieutenant Roland replied, “Oh,
