But he wasn’t counting on it.
It was just about midnight when Sugar went to the northwestern observation post with some water for the guard there. A minute after she arrived, a shell streaked overhead. She and the guard on watch stared at it wide- eyed, not quite comprehending what was going on.
There was a flash, then a rumble.
“Incoming!” yelled Sugar, throwing herself to the ground next to the sandbags.
The guard followed as several more shells streaked through the air.
Sugar reached for her radio. “Boston! We’re being shelled. Mortars!”
Her words were drowned out by machine-gun fire near the road. Sugar grabbed her gun and started returning fire.
“Go get help!” she yelled to the mercenary. “Go!”
The man didn’t speak English. More important, he didn’t think leaving the safety of the sandbags was a particularly good idea.
“We need help,” she told him. “Bring men and ammunition.”
The machine-gun fire from the other side of the perimeter ratcheted up another notch. Bullets flew nearby, smashing into the rocks behind the post. Shards of stone flew against the sandbags at the side of the post.
“That way, that way,” said Sugar, pointing to the north and then making a loop with her finger. “They’re attacking from this side here. If you go down the hill, they won’t be able to hit you.
She grabbed the radio to call Boston again. The other lookout post had started to return fire, but Sugar couldn’t see anything to aim at. Another shell came overhead. It had been launched from a mortar near the road.
Still not sure what to do, the mercenary took a few tentative steps toward the opening in the sandbag wall at the rear of the position. Another shell landed, this one closer than all of the others. The explosion showered him with dirt and pebbles. That was the last straw — he threw himself into motion, running with his all his might to the main area of the base.
“God, I thought he’d never leave,” said Sugar.
“Careful,” said Boston over the radio. “Some of those guys speak a little English.”
“Yeah.” She pulled her rifle up and fired a few rounds toward the road.
Abul was sleeping in his bus when the gunfire started. He woke with the first explosion. As he scrambled to get his shoes on, two of the mercenaries knocked on the door.
“Driver, come. We’re getting out,” shouted one of the men.
“What’s going on?” answered Abul.
“The army has come. This isn’t our fight. Let us in.”
“My bus will be a target.”
“Let us in!” shouted the man. He smashed the door with the butt end of his rifle.
“No, no, no!” yelled Abul. “Not my bus. Wait! Wait!”
He scrambled forward to the driver’s seat and opened the door. The two mercenaries ran up the steps.
“Where is Commander Boston?” Abul asked.
“Go, just go,” said the man who had pounded on the door. He pointed his rifle at Abul.
“What about the others?”
“Go! Go!”
Abul’s hands began to shake as he struggled to get the key into the ignition. He turned the motor over. It caught but then stalled.
“Out of the seat, you worthless scum,” said the mercenary. He grabbed Abul and threw him down. As Abul struggled to get up, the man’s companion pushed him into the aisle, first with his hand and then with his foot. Abul flew to the floor, tripping over his bedroll and tumbling against the body bag.
The soldier got the bus started and put it into gear. The entire compound was under fire now, from both mortars and machine guns. He pulled the bus out into the open area near the building. Three of his companions were crouched at the edge of the flat, firing toward the blinking guns down the hill.
He threw open the door.
“Get in! Get in!”
As the men jumped onto the bus, Abul got up and yelled at them. “We’re easy targets! Don’t go that way!”
“Shut up, bus driver,” said the mercenary who’d taken the wheel. “We don’t need you.”
The bus jerked into motion. Abul interpreted the soldier’s last sentence as a warning that he could easily be killed. Rather than tempting that fate, he made his way to the back of the bus, sidestepping the dead American’s body with a short prayer asking for forgiveness. He leapt to the door, pushed up the lever, and dove out the back, unsure whether the mercenaries would object to his leaving.
A hundred yards away, Boston zeroed the focus on his night glasses and watched Abul hit the dirt. Things were moving faster than he had planned.
He pulled up the remote detonator and pressed a three-number sequence, detonating a charge on the road about thirty yards in front of the bus. The explosion sent a flash of flames shooting upward — gasoline bombs were always spectacular that way. But the bus driver continued straight along the road, passing through the smoke and staying on the road.
“You better stop that bus, Chief,” said Sugar. “Or we’re gonna be walking outta here.”
“Keep your shirt on,” said Boston.
He lit another explosive, this one in the minefield near the road. More dirt, more flash and smoke. The bus drove on.
Boston had one more charge down the road, but it was obvious that the driver wasn’t stopping for anything that didn’t obliterate the bus. He shoved the detonator into his pocket and picked up his rifle, aiming at the front left tire.
Hitting a tire on a moving bus at 150 yards in the dark is not easy, even with an infrared scope. Which explained why it took him two shots for the first tire and three for the second.
The bus was shaking so much that the driver didn’t realize at first that the tires had been blown. The first hint came when he tried to round the curve. The bus wobbled, then refused to turn. He jerked the wheel hard and the vehicle lurched to its left, the rear wheels skidding forward. He jammed the brakes, which in effect pirouetted the back end of the bus toward the front. It flew over on its side, sliding off the road.
Abul, watching from the roadway, covered his eyes.
Dazed, one of the mercenaries punched out a window and raised himself out of the bus. He emptied his magazine box at some imagined enemy soldiers behind them, then began running down the road.
One by one the others joined him. They ran toward the road for all they were worth, disappearing into the darkness.
Sugar yelled at them from the observation post. “Don’t run away, you bastards! Come back! Come on! Don’t give up!”
They couldn’t hear her over the din, and wouldn’t have stopped if they did.
The gunfire kept up for another ten minutes, mortars lobbing shells and machine guns firing. All were radio- controlled remote units, originally part of the Whiplash defense perimeter. The entire battle had been directed by Boston’s blunt index finger smacking against the buttons of the remote control unit.
“I think you can stop,” said Sugar, watching the mercenaries run off over the hill. “They’re out of sight.”
“Look at my bus!” cried Abul as Boston came down from his lookout post. “Destroyed!”
“It ain’t destroyed,” said Boston. “Why the hell did you jump out?”
“They were going to kill me.”
He pronounced “kill” like “kheel,” dragging out the vowel.
“I hope this don’t mean we’re walkin’,” said Sugar.
“We’ll have to pull it over with the motorcycles,” said Boston.
Sugar was doubtful. The bus lay at the side of a ditch; they would have to fight gravity as well as the bus’s weight.
