The men in the field dropped to the ground in terror. They fired their weapons blindly into the low hills and trees all around them. Thousands of rounds smashed into the forest, splitting tree limbs and shattering stones. Ricochets whined and whistled through the air. None of the dangerous projectiles were even close to Marcus. At this rate, they’ll use up all their ammo before they get much farther, he thought.
He repositioned himself fifty yards to the right, crossing the stream at a thickly wooded bend. He pulled the pin out of one of the hand grenades taken from the first scout earlier in the afternoon and placed it carefully under a broken branch that would topple easily as the men passed by. Once in his new hide, he waited until the group started moving again.
The men of Sergei’s ragtag army were moving much more cautiously now, their eyes wide in fear, brows furrowed as they stared into the jungle in search of their assailant. One of them brushed against the branch that held the grenade, and seconds later a deafening explosion tore three of them to shreds and sent more to the ground, screaming from shrapnel wounds.
It took fifteen minutes to regroup. He listened to the radio chatter as their commander barked orders and the men tried to help the wounded. Once they got their senses back, they changed direction. Sergei sent two squads uphill above the stream, trying to avoid more booby traps that could be in the vale on either side of the water. This exposed the soldiers to Marcus. He let loose a short burst, killing three more.
Marcus adjusted his position again while they tried to figure out from where he was shooting. A squad of rebels ran into the jungle, trying to outflank his last position, but by the time they reached the area, he was already another hundred yards upstream and waiting for their next move.
Half an hour later, they moved forward again. This time, the trail led them into a narrow bottleneck between two high and steep hills. He listened to them over the radio as they discussed the best route.
“We could skirt the hills on the outside,” said one voice.
“That will take us nearly a mile out of the way on either side of the stream,” another replied.
“Should we send men over the tops of the hills on both sides?” The first voice said.
“Don’t be stupid, we don’t know how many shooters are over there,” Sergei said. “Besides, that will add too much time. They are getting away.”
“He may be dead.” A voice said.
“Yes, it’s been more than thirty minutes since the last shot. He’s probably dead or run away.” Sergei said. “Stay on the trail, watch for traps and move quickly.”
The men rose and moved through the narrow gulley two or three at a time. He watched through the sights of his AK-47 from more than a hundred yards away. Marcus let two dozen men pass safely through, then Sergei came into view. Cautiously, moving up to and through the narrow opening between the hills, he stepped into the clear space on the northern side of the hills. The man called the Soviet, eyes darting warily back and forth, walked right into Marcus’s rifle sights.
At this distance, without a scope and, only using open iron sights, Marcus could not see the details of the man’s face. He could not see the cold iciness in the warlord’s eyes, or hear the curses on his breath as his frightened men drove on before him. At a hundred yards, through the metal post on the end of his rifle, all Marcus could see was a tall, tanned white man who had ordered the killing of an orphanage full of innocent children and their caretakers, who had slaughtered thirty-two Royal Marines sent in to the rescue, and who was now bent on killing the people who had helped Marcus survive.
Marcus exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger with his curled finger. The bullet slammed into the Russian’s chest. A fountain of blood splashed skyward. The Soviet staggered on his feet. Marcus squeezed again. The second round smashed into Sergei’s forehead, blowing his brains across the men behind him.
Men again began firing wildly into the woods in Marcus’s direction, but as before, their gunfire was poorly managed and missed him entirely. One man stood up and started to shout orders. He looked like the second-in-command, so Marcus planted two shots in his chest, sending him to the ground. At this, the rest of the men panicked and shouted in fear for their lives as Marcus continued to fire randomly at them, taking out four more with only one shot apiece.
Their leader gone, his second-in-command killed, and their comrades dropping like flies, the whole gang of thugs dissolved into a mass of frightened men, running back the way they had come.
Marcus slinked quietly into the jungle and followed the stream north. In a couple of hours, he would reach the border and safety.
Chapter 39
Thursday, July 30th, 1998
US Embassy
Conakry, Guinea, Africa
Ambassador Malcom Lime was shocked when the Marine staff sergeant at the security station called his office and told him that there was an American who claimed to be Marcus Johnson at the front desk.
“Marcus Johnson, the Marine gunnery sergeant?” he asked, bewildered. “Can you verify his identity?”
“Yes, sir. I trained under this man at Quantico just three years ago. This is Gunny Johnson, sir—two other Marines down here concur.”
“Oh, this is unbelievable, Sergeant. This is great! Send him up without delay, then.”
The ambassador opened his door and waited for Marcus to be led to his office. A moment later, Marcus
