After consulting with his commanding general, the Ethiopian air force lieutenant was ordered to ground the American cargo aircraft until further notice. The Americans had not asked for permission to land, and therefore would have to wait until the proper protocol was worked out.
“And what proper protocol would you like us to follow?” asked Captain Fredrick when the lieutenant explained, with much apology, what his orders were.
“I just need permission,” he said. “These things are decided far over my head.”
Frederick didn’t like the order, but at the moment he had no intention of taking off without Breanna and the Whiplash people. Rather than arguing, he told the lieutenant that he would consult with his superiors.
“Yes, yes, an excellent idea.” The lieutenant turned and waved at the fuel crew, telling them to stop fueling the plane.
“Why are you stopping them?” said Frederick.
“Just until I have permission.”
The C-17 already had plenty of fuel, but Frederick protested for a while longer, somewhat in the manner of a basketball coach working the refs from courtside, figuring to gain an advantage in the future.
And in the meantime, the trucks continued to pour fuel into the jet. By the time Frederick gave in, the tanks were about three pounds from capacity.
“Where did the first aircraft go?” the Ethiopian lieutenant asked.
“The Osprey?”
“Yes.”
“Just testing the systems. It’ll be back in a little while.”
“I don’t know if I can allow that.”
“Maybe you should check with your commander,” said Frederick.
“Yes, yes, good idea.”
As soon as he was gone, Frederick trotted to Osprey Two.
“Better get in the air ASAP,” he told Greasy Hands. “Before Mickey Mouse comes back and tells you that you can’t take off.”
59
Sugar tracked the pickup trucks as they crossed off the road and headed toward the bus. She could see Boston running well off to her right, camouflaged by the smoke. With luck, she thought, he would escape to the hills without her having to fire.
No such luck. Someone in the rear of the lead truck noticed him just as he reached the road. They banged on the roof of the cab, and within seconds the truck and then the motorcycle veered in Boston’s direction.
Sugar started firing as soon as it turned. Her first shots missed low, the slugs burying themselves in the sand about thirty yards in front of the truck. She pushed down on the handle of the gun, bringing the machine-gun barrel up slowly until the stream of bullets sliced into the Toyota’s radiator. The men in the back of the vehicle threw themselves off as the.50 caliber slugs smashed the engine compartment and windshield to pieces, chewing through the vehicle like a pack of crocodiles going after an antelope at the edge of the river.
Sugar swung the gun left, taking out the motorcycle. Then she turned to aim at a second truck that had started to follow the first. But the driver had seen what was happening and jammed on the brakes. As he nose- dived to a stop, he jumped from the cab and got behind the truck for cover. The men in the back did as well — except for the machine-gun operator and his assistant, who began firing in earnest at Sugar.
The ground shook with the thick stutter of their Russian-made heavy machine gun. It was ancient but dependable; its ancestors had backed swarms of troops in suicide attacks against the Germans north of Moscow in the dead of winter. Sugar put a dozen rounds into the truck’s side and the sandbags protecting the gunners, then had to duck as the enemy weapon found its range, splintering the rocks she was hiding behind. Before she could get back up, one of the mercenaries manned the machine gun in the back of the first truck and began firing as well. All Sugar could do was hunker down and wait for the firestorm to let up.
Boston managed to reach an outcropping of rocks at the base of the hill before anyone remembered him. He ducked behind them to catch his breath and plot his next move. Daily PT may have kept him in decent shape, but it was no substitute for the decade or so that had passed since he’d last done something like this.
His rifle was with Sugar and Abul up in the rocks; the only gun he had with him was his Beretta sidearm. He’d never been a particularly good shot with a pistol, and at this range the weapon was practically useless. His only option was to circle back to Sugar and Abul around the sheltered side of the hill. The only way to get there, however, was to leave the outcropping and run across an exposed rise for about thirty yards.
The distance didn’t seem like all that much until one of the machine gunners spotted him and bullets began cascading around the rocks. By that time Boston was about halfway to cover and committed to moving forward. He pushed up like a sprinter, head low, legs pumping. As he reached the rocks again, he threw his arms out, diving head first into the small depression, curling his body into a ball as the fusillade intensified.
He didn’t just taste dirt in his mouth. He tasted the metal scent of the air, roiled by the passing bullets, the fury of the battle permeating everything.
On the other side of the fence, the Ethiopians crouched in a holding pattern, baffled and confused by what was going on. From their point of view, it seemed as if the bus and the trucks were part of the same unit, probably a rebel group trying to crash the border as they fled Sudanese army regulars. They concluded that the force in the hills was an advance group of regulars, assigned to ambush the rebels and hold them back until the main unit arrived.
While they were under orders not to let anyone cross, they were more than happy to let the Sudanese battle among themselves; they liked neither side. The Ethiopian commander formed a defensive cordon in front of the bus, then moved the bulk of his army behind it. The equivalent of a platoon was left to watch the refugees back near the gate; they could be dealt with later.
The mercenaries had been reinforced by another troop trained by Hienckel, which had come down from Port Sudan. Shortchanged by their employer — a trucking company hired and protected by the Sudanese — they saw their brothers’ cause of revenge as holy, and had vowed to assist them before the entire group moved on to Khartoum and a job waiting there. Their courage — as well as their anger — had been enhanced by a homemade alcoholic berry drink that was nearly 180 proof. Though terrible tasting, the liquid was said to convey nearly magical powers on anyone who drank it, making them impervious to bullets. Most of the mercenaries didn’t believe this, but after a few drinks it didn’t really matter.
With her machine-gun position caught in two fields of interlocking fire, Sugar slid down the hill a few feet to her rifle and grenade launcher. Picking it up, she packed a grenade in the launcher, then rolled onto her back and lobbed the fat pellet toward the second truck. Unaimed, the grenade flew too far right, exploding harmlessly thirty yards away from it. But the explosion drew the mercenaries’ attention; the ones who had been firing at Boston changed their aim, thinking the grenade had come from the fence area. While Boston scrambled up the hill, they concentrated their anger on the smoldering bus. Their bullets whizzed toward the Ethiopians, several of whom began returning fire, despite orders not to.
Boston scrambled up the rocky side of the hill. Abul crouched behind their gear, cradling a rifle against his chest and mumbling a prayer nonstop. His exhaustion paralyzed him; he looked wide-eyed at Boston as the American took the rifle from him.
“You all right?” Boston asked.
Abul didn’t answer.
“We’ll get outta here,” Boston told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
An explosion against the side of the hill seemed to put the lie to Boston’s promise, shaking the ground so severely he lost his balance. The mortar shell didn’t hurt anyone, but it put a good dent in the rocks, pummeling them all with dirt and rock splinters.
Sugar loaded the grenade launcher again. This time she rose over the crest of the hill just far enough to get
