“Froggy! Get over here!” Hawke cried aloud. He pressed his balaclava into the sultan’s wound. “Here, Your Highness, press this into the wound as hard as you can. I’ll get help!”
First he needed a weapon. He saw a boot a foot away and grabbed it, pulling the man wearing it down. The Kalashnikov in his hands clattered to the floor and Hawke grabbed it. He used the butt end of the gun to put the former owner out of his misery, and then came up on his knees. He saw Ahmed, crabbing across the stone on hands and knees. He seemed to be headed for the mouth of the cave. A hundred-foot drop? He wasn’t going anywhere. The firefight was intense now.
Where was Stoke? Was he down?
Hawke got to his feet. He had to find Froggy somewhere in this interior cloudbank. The little French sharpshooter and medic was the only one with a prayer of stanching the sultan’s bleeding artery. Hawke had only one thought now: getting the leader of Oman on tape telling the truth. The swirling smoke made identification of anyone in this fight damn near impossible. If he couldn’t get to Froggy, Froggy would have to get to him.
He aimed the AK-47 straight up, flipped the lever to full auto, and fired a sustained burst at the ceiling.
“Froggy, I’m going to fire a second burst into the overhead. Make your way to me!” He pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine into the vault of stone.
Someone was tapping on his knee. Hawke looked down and saw the smiling face looking up at him. “Mon ami,” Froggy said, “how may I be of service?”
Ten minutes later, it was almost over. Thunder and Lightning had taken casualties. Stokely was missing. Bandini had been the first to go down, instantly killed with a clean head shot coming through the door. Two of the Gurhkas had suffered gunshot wounds to the neck and chest but Froggy was tending to them. If they had any chance at all, he’d make sure they got it. Major Tony Tang and most of his men were dead. Tang, Hawke was less than shocked to notice, had been nearly beheaded. Harry Brock was standing over the corpse with Ahmed’s bloody scimitar in his hand.
The few mercenaries and French regular troops who weren’t dead were either down with injuries or being cuffed by Fitz’s men. Thunder and Lightning, wounded, had struck back with a vengeance. Hawke was sure the searing memory of the grievously injured Chief Rainwater had been in their hearts and minds when they entered the room.
Fitz had posted four of his commandos outside the door to deal with any curiosity seekers who came to see what all the noise had been about. He and Harry Brock were now helping Hawke with the sultan. They’d gotten the mortally wounded man back into his chair and were tightening the tourniquet Froggy had applied. The Omani sovereign’s breathing was shallow and his pulse was faint.
“Fitz,” Hawke said, putting a canteen of water to the sultan’s trembling lips, “get the camera set up. See if the lights are still working. We haven’t got much time.”
“I am worried about Stokely,” Froggy said, erecting the camera in its old position. “We cannot find him.”
“We don’t have time to worry about anybody but the sultan right now. We need to get this man on record. Damn it, he’s got blood in his eyes. Bring me some water and a cloth, will you?”
“I’ve no idea who you are,” the sultan croaked, his voice barely audible as he gazed up at Hawke, “but what you’ve done here today is save people.”
“Bien sur,” Froggy said, “The camera is recording.”
Hawke saw the flashing red light under the lens and carefully lifted the dying man more upright in the chair. The sultan seemed to sense what was happening. He placed his hands on the desk, squared his shoulders, and stared into the camera. A steely light came into his eyes and Hawke knew it would be all right.
“Your Highness,” Hawke said, “I’d like you to finish your address. It’s very important that your people hear your words. The world needs to hear the truth about what is happening this day in your country.”
“Yes,” Aji Abbas said, “I will do it now.”
With his dying words, the sultan of Oman did just that.
He told his countrymen about the treachery and lies of the new French government. Of President Bonaparte, who had betrayed them. He spoke of the suffering his family had endured at the hands of the many Chinese “advisors” and French soldiers who were in Oman illegally. He asked that world leaders, especially England and America, ensure that Oman’s borders were respected and that no foreign troops were ever again allowed on her soil. Oman was a peaceful, law-abiding nation, he said in closing, and, with the help of Allah, the true and just God, it would ever be so.
The sultan sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Hawke said, smiling at him. The old man’s bravery in the waning moments of his life was undeniable.
“Hey, boss,” Hawke heard Stoke say. “Come take a look at this.” The big man had suddenly appeared and was standing at the edge of the cave mouth. The sky behind him was dusky pink.
“What is it?” Hawke said, not wanting to leave the sultan’s side. The man had only a few more moments to live.
“Fishing boats,” Stoke said, smiling. “All kinds of damn boats. Trawlers, schooners, little baby scows. Hundred or more of them leaving the mainland and headed this way. Looks like everybody in Oman with a boat and a paddle is coming out to show the flag. Must have heard all the explosions, seen the fires burning. Coming to rescue the sultan’s family and kick the damn Frenchies off this island.”
Hawke and Brock crossed and stood beside Stoke, neither man believing his eyes. It was, as Stoke had said, a magnificent sight. Perhaps a hundred vessels of every size and description, all lit by the first red-gold streaks of sun, and every one of them headed due east, bound for Masara Island.
“Where’s Ahmed?” Hawke asked.
“Down there on the rocks where I left him,” Stoke said. “We had a little disagreement about the future of the world. He lost.”
“Fitz,” Hawke said quietly, “Could you and Froggy carry His Highness’s chair over here? I think he ought to see this.”
“Aye, we’re bringing him,” Fitz said. They gently lowered the sultan’s chair to the ground. “What is it?”
“It’s quite something, Your Highness,” Hawke said. “Just have a look.”
“Yes,” Aji Abbas said softly, his cloudy eyes taking in the vast armada come to his family’s rescue. “A miracle. Like Dunkirk, isn’t it?” he whispered.
Then his eyes slowly closed and he slipped away.
The little boats began to arrive an hour later. It seemed every fisherman and fisherman’s son in Oman had steered his boat across the dangerous stretch of water that lay between the mainland and the island of Masara. Two or three of the tiny vessels had been sunk by the patrol boat before Fitz realized what was happening and got on the radio to tell the French captain and crew it was over. The Fort Mahoud garrison, composed of Chinese and French mercenary forces, had surrendered.
The patrol boat captain, delighted at any excuse to leave the god-forsaken place, had surrendered over the radio. Half an hour later he was steaming into the dock, all of his crew’s small arms in a pile on the afterdeck.
Down at the docks, Hawke was standing with Stokely and Harry Brock. They saw Obaidallah’s captain, Ali, and the patrol boat crew helping all the hostages, women and children mostly, into the waiting fishing boats. After a few minutes, they went back aboard their boat to check on Rainwater. They ran into Froggy coming out of the captain’s cabin. He had been in with him for the last hour, doing what he could.
“How’s he doing, Froggy?” Stoke asked, unable to read the little Frenchman’s expression.
“The lord, he is still making up his mind,” Froggy said, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “but I think he’s going to decide in the Chief’s favor.”
Chapter Fifty-five
The White House
