Prometheus's Child

out. Over.”

The helo continued almost to the perimeter before slowing. Then Keegan executed a pedal turn and pivoted right, heading easterly. “Acknowledged, out.”

Steve Lee’s mind raced, sorting priorities and options. Likely Marsh and his Chadian troops were dead. In any case, they could not be helped just now. He keyed his mike. “Grunt Four from Grunt One, over.”

Several heartbeats later Nissen’s voice was on the air. “Grunt Four. Steve, I see it. I’m going to check for survivors.”

“Ah, negative, Chris. Not yet. We need to keep the back door closed. There’s a truck and trailer headed your way.”

More seconds ticked away before Nissen responded. “Steve, I’m already on the way to the crash, about two klicks away. It’s starting to burn and we might save some guys…” His voice trailed off before the carrier wave went dead. Lee could read Nissen’s mind. He’s a good NCO, looking out for his fellow soldiers but the mission should come first.

“Okay, Chris. Keep me informed.

“Break-break. Beanie One, copy?”

“One is up.” Keegan’s voice rasped over the air-ground freq; eager, alert. Maybe a little tense.

“Terry, I need you to back up Grunt Four. He’s headed for the crash but we have to intercept the truck. Do an end-around to cut him off. Put your team on the road far enough ahead so you’re out of the SAM envelope. I’ll send our reserve force ASAP. Copy?”

“Will do, Steve.” Lee heard the Alouette’s Artouste 3 engine spool up as Keegan flexed his left wrist on the collective. The helo descended to about twenty feet above the ground and skirted the mine perimeter, low and fast.

Lee was back working the radio. “Grunt One to Grunt Five.”

Foyte’s gravelly voice was a welcome sound. “Five here, Boss.”

“Gunny, bring your guys up here right now. I’m sending one of my guys to block the northern exit while Chris is checking the shootdown.”

“On the way, Major. Ah, who’s down? Over.”

Lee shook his head in disgust. All that screaming on the radio. Foyte doesn’t know what’s happened. “Ah, Marsh took a missile, Gunny. That’s all we know right now.”

“Roger.” Foyte, the old pro, would adjust as necessary.

“Grunt One to Two, over.”

“Two here, go.” Wallender came back promptly, crisply.

“Josh, take your truck around to the west and block the road a klick or so north of the far exit. Stop anybody coming out, any way you can.”

“Affirm.” The word was barely out before Wallender’s truck moved off the scraped road onto the hard-packed earth, headed for the left side of the perimeter.

Lee turned back to his immediate problem: two trucks facing a prepared defense. Parked in the open, no more than fifty meters from the fence, they offered tempting targets to the automatic weapons just inside the wire. He turned to Bosco and Breezy in the bed behind him. “The fact they haven’t fired at us tells me the missile shot might be unauthorized. Whatever happens inside the mine is secondary right now so I’m not going to force the issue. But we’re not going head to head against two belt-fed weapons. We’ll move to the southwest corner where the eastern MG can’t engage us.”

Breezy shifted his HK. “Gotcha, Boss.”

Langevin was back in the cab, a querulous look on his face. “Steve, do you want me to see if I can talk to them? Like you said, they haven’t shot at us. Maybe they’ll stand down and let us in.”

“Negative, Bernie. Not now. I need to know their intentions before we stick our necks in there.”

* * *

Chris Nissen’s truck lurched to a stop thirty meters from the wrecked Alouette. He deployed three of his Chadians between the crash site and the northern road, then led the others toward the helo. With a professional eye, he noted that the French designed a damn good machine. The fuel cell had survived the impact, though hydraulic fluid and seeping kerosene were spreading liquid flames across the area.

A Chadian brought a fire extinguisher from the truck. “Get in there,” Nissen directed the man to the largest fire. “Hose that down. We gotta get them out!”

Peering into the smoke and flames, Nissen sought any sign of movement. He could not see through the smoke-stained glass.

It was taking too long.

Nissen dashed back to the truck, seized an ax from the toolbox, and raced to the helo again. Shoulda thought of this before. He ignored the noxious fumes from the smoke and stepped uncomfortably close to the fire. With a gloved hand he grasped the hatch and pulled the handle. The door opened less than two inches. Nissen realized that the airframe had buckled, holding the door closed.

Behind him and on either side, men were shoveling dirt onto the flames or scooping rocky earth with bare hands. Nissen was a large, well-built man, and his powerful, overhand blows took effect. He knocked out the Plexiglas window, then began hacking away aluminum around the door latch. He was making progress when the wind shifted, blowing even more smoke at him. He turned his head, retching in the thick, cloying fumes, and stepped back.

Someone seized the ax from him and resumed cutting. It was Corporal Nassour Yodoyman: smaller and lighter than the American, but equally committed. He has friends in there, Nissen realized. Like me.

Nissen heard shouting behind him. He turned to see the three guards waving and gesturing. Moments later a Mercedes truck hauling a semi trailer raced past, headed north.

* * *

Etienne Stevin earnestly wished for a radio. Things had happened so quickly that he had no time to consult with Hurtubise. Actually, “consult” was an exaggeration. Stevin was a capable soldier but he was no leader. Given a task, he inevitably carried it out. But now, thrown onto his own resources, he dipped into his command psyche and came up empty.

A former Legionnaire ran up to Stevin, clearly upset at the unexpected events. “My God, what happened, Etienne? Who fired that rocket?”

Stevin glared at the inquisitor, who had asked a rational series of questions. “There’s no time for that, you hybride.” He shoved the man with both hands. “Get back to your position!”

Emile Giroud was younger than the Belgian, less experienced but lacking awe for most of his elders. He ignored the order and pointed to the southeast. “The Americans, Etienne! They’re still out there. The men want to know…”

“I said get back! Right now!”

The two mercenaries locked eyes, both men’s faces flushed with anger and tension. Stevin broke the deadlock by invoking Hurtubise’s name. “Marcel said we hold until the trucks are gone. And that’s what we do!”

“Are you blind? Look around you, Etienne! Look around! Deladier left in the first truck and Marcel followed him in the jeep. There’s nobody to drive the second truck, and it isn’t even fully loaded!”

The younger man awaited a response, then realized there would be none. He smelled the liquor on Stevin’s breath, saw the wild determination in his eyes. Legio pro patria. Stevin turned and shouted to anyone within earshot. “Est maintenant l’heure de faire le camerone.” With that, he paced toward the south gate.

A South African member of Groupe FGN approached Giroud. “What in the hell is Stevin ranting about?”

Giroud made a circular motion with one hand beside his head. “He’s drunk or crazy. Or both. He says, ‘Now is the time to make Camerone!’“

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s the Legion’s big holiday. Mexico in 1863. They celebrate it every April thirtieth.”

“What happened?” asked the Boer.

“Sixty-five Legionnaires fought two thousand Mexicans. They killed three hundred before they were