the journalists with their bodies, a second missile struck the rear of the Puma's cargo compartment. The buckled and burning remains of the helicopter canted sideways and Don Hammond pitched face forwards from the doorway his clothes, his head and his remaining arm aflame.
Powerless to help from two hundred yards distance, his mind a stunned blank, Alex watched as Hammond tried unsuccessfully to get to his feet. The two members of the rescue team who had not been carrying hostages rose from the ground, raced forward and between them attempted to stifle the flames on the burning sergeant and drag him into cover.
But the RUF were beginning to rally. And while the hostages and the rescuers were covered from fire by the bulk of Hut One, Hammond and the men who had run out to help him were far enough forward to be exposed. Shots snapped around them and Alex heard a lethal-sounding double smack. One of the SAS men staggered and fell. Somehow, supporting his wounded mate with one arm and half-dragging the sergeant's blackened remains with? the other, the third man made it to the cover of Hut One, where the hostages were being scrambled through the doorway over the sprawled corpses of dead RUF soldiers.
The SAS team had barely vanished inside the hut when the Puma's fuel tanks went up in a third roaring explosion, and oily black smoke began to twist into the grey dawn sky.
"Zulu Three Six, this is Hotel Bravo, what is the situation?"
It was the pilot of the support Puma.
"Hotel Alpha is down, Hotel Bravo. Repeat, Hotel Alpha is down. Stay back until my signal."
"Will do, Zulu Three Six." The pilot's voice was expressionless. There was a brief hiatus and, forcing himself to postpone all thoughts concerning Don Hammond, Alex undertook a swift assessment.
At least twenty rebels lay out in the open, dead, while a dozen more twitched and gaped and bled amongst them. A further dozen RUF casualties were almost certainly concealed amongst the outbuildings to the east of the camp. Even allowing for a few runners and swimmers that still left a hundred-odd rebels in good combat order.
"Dog," Alex murmured into his UHF mouthpiece.
"I
want you and Stan to cut through the jungle to the point where we got into the river and work your way back towards the camp from the east. We've got to take out that grenade-launcher before the support helicopter arrives.
"Heard."
"On our way."
Still on his UHF set, Alex then called up the assault and rescue team, requested the sergeant in charge and explained that he had sent in two men from the eastern end of the camp to try and force the RUF soldiers to keep their heads down.
"Understood," came the reply.
"I'll put another four in from this end. If you keep laying down fire from the bush we should be able to keep 'em busy enough to get the chopper in and out.
A moment later, however, a long volley of 7.62 SLR and Kalashnikov rounds smacked into Alex's position. Heady with the destruction of Puma Alpha, the defending RUF troops had decided to take the battle back to their tormentors in the jungle.
As the firestorm swept their position, spattering himself and Sutton with bark and falling leaf fragments, Alex pressed his face and body into the damp coffee-ground soil. Beside him he heard the unmistakeable whip crack of physical impact and a shocked gasp.
"Ricky?" he said, fearing the worst.
"I'm hit," muttered Sutton through clenched teeth, 'in the fuckin' arse.
Alex's heart sank. How many bloody more, he thought. If I run into Sally Roberts, the bitch'll wish she'd never been born.
Another volley raked the tree line. Somewhere behind him, the bound woman keened with fear.
Reaching for the shell-dressing pack in Sutton's smock pocket and the clasp-knife in his own, Alex cut through the young signaller's blood-sodden DPM trousers, slapped on the dressing, and ordered him to sit tight. To his right Stan and Dog returned fire, pouring a steady stream of armour-piercing rounds on to the RUF
Powerless to help from two hundred yards distance, his mind a stunned blank, Alex watched as Hammond tried unsuccessfully to get to his feet. The two members of the rescue team who had not been carrying hostages rose from the ground, raced forward and between them attempted to stifle the flames on the burning sergeant and drag him into cover.
But the RUF were beginning to rally. And while the hostages and the rescuers were covered from fire by the bulk of Hut One, Hammond and the men who had run out to help him were far enough forward to be exposed. Shots snapped around them and Alex heard a lethal-sounding double smack. One of the SAS men staggered and fell. Somehow, supporting his wounded mate with one arm and half-dragging the sergeant's blackened remains with? the other, the third man made it to the cover of Hut One, where the hostages were being scrambled through the doorway over the sprawled corpses of dead RUF soldiers.
The SAS team had barely vanished inside the hut when the Puma's fuel tanks went up in a third roaring explosion, and oily black smoke began to twist into the grey dawn sky.
"Zulu Three Six, this is Hotel Bravo, what is the situation?"
It was the pilot of the support Puma.
"Hotel Alpha is down, Hotel Bravo. Repeat, Hotel Alpha is down. Stay back until my signal."
"Will do, Zulu Three Six." The pilot's voice was expressionless. There was a brief hiatus and, forcing himself to postpone all thoughts concerning Don Hammond, Alex undertook a swift assessment.
At least twenty rebels lay out in the open, dead, while a dozen more twitched and gaped and bled amongst them. A further dozen RUF casualties were almost certainly concealed amongst the outbuildings to the east of the camp. Even allowing for a few runners and swimmers that still left a hundred-odd rebels in good combat order.
"Dog," Alex murmured into his UHF mouthpiece.
"I
want you and Stan to cut through the jungle to the point where we got into the river and work your way back towards the camp from the east. We've got to take out that grenade-launcher before the support helicopter arrives.
"Heard."
"On our way."
Still on his UHF set, Alex then called up the assault and rescue team, requested the sergeant in charge and explained that he had sent in two men from the eastern end of the camp to try and force the RUF soldiers to keep their heads down.
"Understood," came the reply.
"I'll put another four in from this end. If you keep laying down fire from the bush we should be able to keep 'em busy enough to get the chopper in and out.
A moment later, however, a long volley of 7.62 SLR and Kalashnikov rounds smacked into Alex's position. Heady with the destruction of Puma Alpha, the defending RUF troops had decided to take the battle back to their tormentors in the jungle.
As the firestorm swept their position, spattering himself and Sutton with bark and falling leaf fragments, Alex pressed his face and body into the damp coffee-ground soil. Beside him he heard the unmistakeable whip crack of physical impact and a shocked gasp.
"Ricky?" he said, fearing the worst.
"I'm hit," muttered Sutton through clenched teeth, 'in the fuckin' arse.
Alex's heart sank. How many bloody more, he thought. If I run into Sally Roberts, the bitch'll wish she'd never been born.
Another volley raked the tree line. Somewhere behind him, the bound woman keened with fear.
Reaching for the shell-dressing pack in Sutton's smock pocket and the clasp-knife in his own, Alex cut through the young signaller's blood-sodden DPM trousers, slapped on the dressing, and ordered him to sit tight. To his right Stan and Dog returned fire, pouring a steady stream of armour-piercing rounds on to the RUF
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