Call to Duty by Richard Herman

at night. Right now it’s a containment action only.” The two Englishmen listened to Mackay’s plan and did not argue. Mackay and John disappeared into the brush as the fishing boat came around the headland and sailed toward the dock.
    John moved fast, leading Mackay to the airstrip. They could hear the circling airplane but couldn’t see it yet. “Twinengine,” John said, his voice low but not a whisper. His head jerked up. The airstrip was deserted. He looked at Mackay.
    “They don’t need it,” Mackay said, reaching for his radio. “Carlin, what’s happening?” he transmitted.
    “Bloody fucking seaplane,” came the answer. “The boat’s at the dock but they haven’t moved the Americans. The plane’s circling to land in the bay.”
    “Can you make them abandon the boats?” Mackay asked.
    Trevor answered, “Can do.” They heard the muffled pop of what sounded like a shotgun followed by an explosion. Mackay and John retraced their steps, taking care to stay in the underbrush, hearing more explosions from the dock.
    Carlin spoke quietly into his radio, directing Trevor’s fire. The first round was far out to sea. He moved the second one in closer to the boats as if he was getting the range. The third one was closer still. The man on the dock got the idea and started shouting. Carlin told Trevor to halt the barrage as he watched the men drag the Americans out of the fishing boat. His lips compressed into a grim line when he saw the three girls and two young men, all naked, being pushed onto the dock. The blond-haired male pushed and shoved back at the small dark man behind him. “You fuckin’ bastard!” the American yelled, his voice reaching across the clearing. The guard jabbed the butt of his shotgun into the American’s back and sent him sprawling on the dock. A swift kick drove him to his feet and hurried him after the others. Carlin focused his binoculars on the girls and could see blood on the inner thighs of one.
    “Are the hostages clear of the boat?” Mackay asked as he rejoined Carlin.
    “There’s only five, not six,” the radio operator answered. “The boats look completely abandoned. I think that’s all of them.”
    Mackay nodded. “Tell Trevor to hit the boats,” he said. Carlin relayed the order and the fantail of the fishing boat disappeared in the bright flash of an explosion. The three men watched in satisfaction as the lone trooper on the south side of the camp poured six more rounds into the boats and dock, setting all on fire. “Cease fire,” Carlin said and the barrage stopped.
    “Tell Trevor to beat feet into the swamp,” Mackay ordered. “They’ll probably go looking for him.”
    A wicked grin split John’s youthful face. “That would be a terrible mistake,” he said. He pulled a telescopic sight out of his pack and fitted it to the 7.62-millimeter Enfield sniper rifle he carried. “Sir,” he said, pointing to the seaplane that had landed but was motionless in the water, not moving shoreward.
    “Discourage him,” Mackay said.
    “And be good about it,” Woodward’s voice said from behind them. Mackay twisted around, glad to see the captain but worried that he had found them so easily. He had thought they were better concealed than that. Woodward sank to the ground, his face haggard from exhaustion. “Homing device on the Magellan,” he explained. “Good to within a few meters.” He motioned for the rest of his team to come in.
    Mackay watched in amazement as the three men staggered in. They were exhausted from the forced march. But he could tell from the looks on their faces that they would be ready to fight after a few minutes’ rest. What kind of men are these? the American thought. He calculated that Woodward had moved around the edge of the swamp twice as fast as he had.
    “You Yanks don’t have a monopoly on marching,” Woodward said, “when the bloody clock is ticking.” The pleasantries over, he turned to business. “John, go.” He