overpowered.”
“Well, I don’t believe in last stands. I believe in living to fight another day.”
Giroud motioned over his shoulder. “Go tell him that,
The fire was contained. Nissen and Corporal Yodoyman pulled the remains of the cabin door off its mangled hinges and tossed it aside. They heard a low, soft moan from inside the ruined cabin — the first welcome sign since the crash some fifteen minutes before.
Yodoyman leaned into the cabin, reaching to grasp the nearest soldier. “Be careful!” Nissen warned. “We can’t move them right away.”
He forced himself past the Chadian NCO and leaned as far inside as possible. “Marsh! Mr. Marsh! Can you hear me?” He realized that he did not know Marsh’s given name.
No reply came from the front of the helo. The Alouette had pitched violently downward, crashing nose first.
Someone moved in the rear of the compartment. Another pain-wracked sound came from the interior.
Nissen weighed the options: survival of some troops versus accomplishment of the mission. He was glad it was not his responsibility. He decided to make the call.
Stevin cast a glance at the north gate, which had been closed following Hurtubise’s departure. He counted it good.
He stalked to the southwesterly perimeter wire and rested his rifle atop the sandbag parapet. He was feeling buoyant, almost giddy. This is the day!
Stevin turned to the hired guns around him. “Listen, you wretches. Catteau, Constantin, and Leonhart. They were the last of thirteen Belgians at Camerone. Their blood runs in my veins!” He pounded the top sandbag, exclaiming, “From this place I retreat not one step.”
He propped both elbows on the sandbags and aimed his rifle toward the nearest truck. Taking up the slack, he fired one round fifteen meters in front of the vehicle.
Giroud caught up with Stevin and grabbed for his FA-MAS. “You idiot! You want to get us all killed?”
Stevin shoved the interloper back with a powerful forearm blow. “I command here! Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m keeping them out while Marcel escapes with the convoy.”
“Convoy? What convoy? What are you talking about?”
Etienne Stevin had no time to explain the situation. This fool had no idea of Groupe FGN’s similarity to Captain Danjou’s company, protecting an arms shipment in Mexico nearly 150 years before. It was all part of the Legion’s tradition: the same then as now.
The Belgian turned back toward the truck and fired another warning round, closer this time.
Giroud grasped the rifle with both hands. The struggle lasted four seconds before Stevin connected with a crushing right to the Frenchman’s cheek. Giroud reeled, dazed and hurt.
Stevin shot him twice in the chest. Then he returned to his harassing fire.
Resting his HK-21 atop the cab of Lee’s truck, Breezy bit down the urge to open fire. He was not a machine gunner by profession, but he knew the tools of his trade and was confident that he could solve the problem from where he sat. Eyeballing the distance to the perimeter fence, he made it seventy to eighty meters.
Bernard Langevin was crouched behind the front tire, wielding a handheld loudspeaker. He was a bit more exposed than Breezy would have liked, but with a bumper, engine block, and thick tire providing cover, it seemed a decent place to be, considering the circumstances. He raised the bullhorn and called again.
A few more rounds snapped through the still morning air, impacting the hard ground around the truck. “That’s still harassing fire,” Lee shouted. He wanted to ensure that nobody got excited — especially the Chadians, who were exhibiting marked restlessness.
Lee turned to Bosco, who had taken over the radio in the cab. “This can go on indefinitely. All the time, the yellow cake is getting farther away.”
“We could go after ‘em, Major. It doesn’t matter what these guys do here, does it? I mean, like, the mine’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“I know, I know. It’s really Mr. Langevin’s call. If he…”
“Grunt Four to Grunt One. Over!”
Bosco picked up the microphone. “Grunt One Bravo here.”
Nissen’s voice came sharp and clear. “Give me the actual, over.”
Bosco leaned toward Lee, extending the mike at the end of its cord. The timing could hardly have been worse. Another rifle shot from the perimeter ricocheted off the hard earth and struck Bosco’s forearm. He yelped in surprise and pain, dropped the mike, and shouted, “Geez! I’m hit!” He followed that exclamation with some fervent Ranger blasphemy.
Lee scooped up the mike, pressed the button, and said, “Chris, stand by one. We’re taking fire.” He dropped the mike and turned toward Bosco, who was lying on his side, below the dash, grasping his injured arm with the opposite hand. Lee saw blood seeping between the operator’s fingers.
“Breezy! Bosco’s hit! Take out that guy!”
Breezy leaned into the German gun, focused his gray eyes on the front sight, held low left, and pressed the trigger for one second. In that tick of time, the HK spat out twelve rounds.
Mark Brezyinski was not much on literature. But having read
Brezyinski rode the recoil impulse to its height, then forced the sights back down through the target as he released the trigger.
The first round hit the sandbags supporting Etienne Stevin’s firing position. The next four climbed the improvised parapet, and the next three took him off the top row. The others spattered the wooden platform behind him. Stevin fell to the ground, rolled 270 degrees, and twitched to a stop on his left side. He gasped for air and spat up hot blood, staring at the Saharan sand.
Somewhere far off, beyond a ghostly horizon, he saw a figure in an antique uniform — white kepi, blue jacket, and red trousers — striding toward him to the strains of
The ethereal figure extended a wooden hand toward the fallen Legionnaire as
Keegan was not sure that he heard correctly. “Say again, Steve.”
Twelve miles to the south, Steve Lee did a fast three-count. He wanted to keep his voice as well as his temper under control. “Terry, I say again. Return to the crash site. We need an immediate dustoff.
“Ah, copy… Grunt.” Keegan knew what must be driving Lee’s order. With the Libyan frontier only a few miles ahead, and no effective way of stopping the yellow cake shipment, Lee had finally decided on behalf of the survivors. Eddie Marsh — or at least some of his crew— required air evac to Bardai and the Air Force medics. He could cut an hour or more off the transit time by truck. The golden hour that paramedics talked about.
When Keegan turned the Alouette away from its pursuit, he saw the semi rig speeding north, if anything faster than ever.
Trailing by several kilometers, Marcel Hurtubise watched the helicopter receding in his mirror. He grinned for the first time that day.
