“Good question,” Allston replied. He made a mental note to talk to Vermullen the moment he got back and work out a way to integrate his legionnaires. “Major Sharp,” he said, “we’re putting a big monkey on your back on this one.” They all knew that it fell to her to warn them of impending danger.
“Toby has a good feel for the situation,” she told them. “I’m talking to him constantly.”
“Where does he get his information?” Malone asked.
“A variety of sources,” Jill answered. “The refugees, his medical teams in the field, local authorities, the jungle telegraph.”
Lovely, Allston thought. “Okay, let’s make this happen and hope we don’t get our…” he almost said ‘tits in a wringer’ but caught himself in time, “sweet young bodies in a wringer.”
Jill laughed. “I know what you meant.”
The distinctive clatter of an AK-47 woke Allston from a sound sleep. He glanced at the bedside clock — 0407 — and rolled out of bed. He listened, only to be greeted with silence. “What is it?” Tara asked.
“Gunfire. Don’t turn the light on. Get dressed and find Jill.” He pulled on his flight suit and boots and ran, holding his web belt with its holstered .45 in his left hand. Jill was running down the hall from the other side of the guesthouse. “You stay here and get everyone to safety,” he ordered. He was out the door and running for Mission House and his operations center.
Jill took a deep breath and calmed her raging emotions. She knocked on the door of his bedroom. “Tara, you there?” A burst of submachine gunfire inside the guesthouse shattered the stillness. Jill fell to the floor and rolled against the wall as Tara burst out of the bedroom in full panic. Jill grabbed the actress and pulled her to the floor beside her. Jill drew her .45 semi-automatic and held it with both hands as she sighted into the dark. The soft sound of footsteps reached the two women. A burst of gunfire deafened them as it split the air above their heads. Jill saw a shadow and fired twice. Both slugs hit their target and the shadow collapsed to the ground. Jill came to a standing crouch and moved slowly towards the body, holding the .45 at the ready in front of her. She sensed movement and fired a single round in that direction. A loud scream and the clatter of a dropped weapon rewarded her. Again, she crouched, her back against the wall and her breath coming fast. She held the .45 with both hands in the raised position in front of her. Tara was behind her, touching her in the dark. “Follow me,” Jill said in a low voice.
“Believe me, I will,” Tara replied. The fear in her voice was palpable.
Jill came to her feet and inched forward. She reached the first body and picked up the AK-47. She handed it to Tara. “Can you use this?”
Tara took the weapon and checked it. It was ready to fire. “I fired one once on a publicity shoot.”
“This isn’t for publicity.” Running feet echoed down the hall. The sound grew louder and Tara came to her feet, firing the AK-47 from the hip Rambo style. The recoil of the assault rifle lifted the muzzle and the shots went wild. Jill methodically aimed and fired. A shriek of pain carried down the corridor. Jill was up and running. She fired as she went, putting another round into the rolling body. Again, the man screamed. Jill paused long enough to fire once more, this time into the man’s head. She grabbed his AK-47 and the two women crept down the hall towards the main room and the veranda. A light flicked on and Jill saw two more figures. She raised her .45 and started to squeeze the trigger. Just as quickly, she relaxed and lowered her weapon. One of the men was wearing a bush hat. “Turn out the light,” she ordered. She threw the AK-47 she was carrying to one of the men. “There’s another one back there in the hall,” she told the men.
“Thanks,” Bard Green said.
The loud bark of submachine guns exploded in the night as Allston ran for the Ops Center in Mission House. Most of it was coming from the outskirts of the mission compound, but it was growing louder. Gunfire drove him to cover beside a school building where he caught his breath. He started to move as a burst of submachine gun fire drove him back to his hiding place. He drew his automatic and waited. It seemed an eternity as the minutes clicked away.
Jill quickly gathered everyone she could find and ordered them to barricade the guesthouse as best they could. She keyed her communicator and called the operations center. Dick Lane answered. “Where’s Bossman?” he asked.
“He’s headed your way,” Jill replied. In the sudden quiet, she heard the beat of galloping horses passing by. “Janajweed,” she warned.
Allston knew movement was life. He had to start moving even though his hiding place seemed secure. He fought the urge to call in on his communicator. Silence is golden, he told himself. Finally, he came to his feet and darted into the night. Now he could hear the sound of pounding hooves. He ran faster. A security cop and an Irregular manning a defensive firing position saw him. “Over here!” the cop shouted. The sound of running horses grew louder. “Run!” Allston put on a burst of speed and ran toward the voice. The horses were bearing down on him. “Drop!” the cop yelled. Allston fell to the ground as the two men unlimbered their M-16s, emptying their magazines. The lead horseman veered off, disappearing into the night.
The second rider and his horse went down in the hail of gunfire and skidded into Allston. The horse kicked in pain and a flailing hoof struck Allston in his left shin. A searing pain shot up his leg. He heard a loud scream and for a moment was confused. Was he screaming? This time the scream was louder. It was the horseman. Allston came to a crouch and fired a single shot into the horse’s head, putting it out of its misery. He grabbed the rider and dragged him out from under the horse. “I got a live one!” he yelled. The rider kicked at Allston, knocking the semi-automatic out of his hand. Allston scrambled for his weapon as the rider kicked him in the side. Allston grabbed the rider’s ankle and rolled, taking the man down. He grunted in pain when he rolled over his .45. He pushed the rider away as he picked up the weapon. Now the man was scrambling away on all fours. Allston squeezed off a single round, hitting him in a leg, just as he came to his feet. The .45 ACP cartridge fires a big, low velocity bullet with tremendous stopping power, and this particular round passed cleanly through the man’s right calf. But it knocked him to the ground and sent him into shock.
The two cops ran up. One rolled the man over and patted him down. “Just a teenager,” the airman said.
“I need to get to the Ops Center,” Allston said.
“We’ll get you there,” the cop replied. He made a radio call, reporting they had found Bossman and were bringing him in. “Let’s go,” he told Allston.
Allston pointed to the Janjaweed lying on the ground. “What about him?”
The security cop thought for a moment. He fumbled with the first aid kit on his web belt and pulled out a tourniquet. He quickly looped it around the teenager’s leg, just above the wound and cinched it down. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be here when we get back.” The two men moved out and Allston followed. They ran through the night, always using a building or wall for cover. Finally, they reached the darkened Mission House where they were challenged. The cop responded with “Dog poop,” the code of the day.
“Thanks,” Allston told the two men. He went inside.
Dick Lane was pacing when he saw Allston. He collapsed into a chair in relief. “Thank God… I… we were worried about you.” He gulped, anxious to say more. “You’re a mess. Are you okay?” More gunfire echoed from the far side of the mission compound.