Giordino rolled across the plank floor and poured a continuous fire from behind a wheelbarrow full of ore. Pitt snatched up the Thompson just in time to stop two terrorists who had somehow managed to climb into the shattered side office.
Ammar's small army charged the building from all sides with guns blazing. There was no stopping the tide of the savage Onslaught-They swarmed in everywhere. The sharp crackle of the terrorists'
small-caliber AK-74S and the deep stutter of Pitts 45-caliber Thompson were punctuated by the boom of Findley's shotgun.
Giordino fell back to the crushing mill, laying down a covering fire for Pitt and Findley until all three had reached the temporary Protection of their Mickey Mouse fort. The terrorists were momentarily stunned to find no enemy throwing up their hands in surrender. Once inside the building they'd expected to inundate their unprotected enemy with sheer numbers. Instead, they found themselves caught naked by a withering fusillade from the mill and were cut down like milling cattle.
Pitt, Giordino and Findley decimated the first wave. But the Arabs were fanatically brave, and they learned fast. An intensified gunfire and the blast from several grenades engulfed the cavernous room ahead of the next assault.
Bedlam! The dead heaped the floor, and the Arabs took cover behind the bodies of their dead comrades. It was a firefight scene-guns blasting, grenades exploding, the shouts and curses in two languages from two culmms as different as night and day The budding shook from the reverberations of gunfire and the concussions of the grenades. Shrapnel and bullets flayed the sides of the gmt mechanical mill like sparks from a bucket of molten steel. The air was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder.
Fire broke out in a dozen places and was completely ignored. Giordino threw a grenade that blew off the tail rotor of the helicopter. Even with the last hope of escape gone now, the Arabs irrationally fought all the harder.
Pitts ancient Thompson slammed deafeningly and then stopped. He ejected the fifty-round rotary dnun and inserted another-his last. There was a cold, calculated determination he'd never felt before. He and Giordino and Findley had no intention of throwing in the towel. They had long passed the point of no return and found no fear of death behind it. They hung on grimly, fighting for their very existence, tenaciously giving better than they received.
Three times the Arab terrorists were driven back and times they charged forward in the face of the murderous fire. Their badly diminished force regrouped again and launched a final suicide assault, closing the ring tighter and tighter.
The Arab Mushm could not understand their enemy's ferocity, how they could fight with such bloody-minded precision, why they were so outrageously defiant. The Americans fought desperately only to live, while they themselves sought a blessed death and martyrdom as salvation.
Pitts eyes stung from the smoke, and tears streamed down his cheeks. The whole cnishing mill was vibrating. Bullets ricocheted off the steel sides like angry hornets, four Of them tearing through Pitts sleeve and slightly grazing the skin.
Recklessly the Arabs threw themselves against the crushing mill and scurried over the makeshift barricade. The shooting match quickly turned into a man-to-man struggle as the two groups met in a savage, brawling mass of bodies.
Findley went down as two bullets struck him in his unprotected side, yet he remained on his knees, feebly swinging his empty shotgun like a baseball bat.
Giordino, wounded in five places, gamely heaved ore rocks with his right hand, his left arm dangling useless from a bullet through the shoulder.
Pitts Thompson fired its last cartridge, and he hurled the big gun in the face of an Arab who suddenly up before him. He yanked the Colt automatic from his belt and fired at any face that lurched through the smoke. He felt a stinging sensation at the base of the neck and knew he'd been hit. The Colt quickly emptied, and Pitt fought on, chopping the heavy gun like a small club. He began to taste the begininggs of sour defeat.
Reality no longer existed. Pitt felt as if he were fighting a war. A grenade went off, a crushing explosion that deafened him by its closeness. A body fell on top of him, and he was caught off balance and thrown backward.
His head struck against a steel pipe and an expanding ball of fire flashed inside his head. And then, like a wave breaking in the surf, the nightmare swept over and smothered him.
The Special Operations Forces landed and regrouped behind the ore tracks that shielded their approach from the mine buildings. They quickly spread out in a loose battle formation and waited for the command to move in. The snipers established their positions around the mine, lying flat and watching for movement through their scopes.
Hollis, with Dillenger at his side, crawled up to the summit of the tracks and cautiously peered over. The scene had the look of a graveyard.
The ghost mine was an eerie stage for a battle, but the cold rain and barren mountainside seemed an appropriate backdrop for a killing ground.
The dull gray sky fell and gave the decaying buildings the look of a place that didn't belong to any world.
The firing had stopped. Two of the outer buildings were blazing fiercely, the smoke rolling into the low overcast. Hollis counted at least seven bodies littering the road on one side of the crushing mill.
"I hate to sound mundane," said Hollis, "but I don't like the look of it."
"No sign of life," agreed Dillenger, peering through a pair of small but powerful binoculars.
Hollis carefully studied the buildings for another five seconds and then spoke into his transmitter. "All right, let's mind our step and move in-"
"One moment, Colonel," a voice broke in.
"Hold the order," snapped Hollis.
"Sergeant Baker, sir, on the right flank. I have a group of five people approaching up the railroad track."
"They armed?"
"No, sir. They have their hands in the air."
"Very good. You and your men round them up. Watch for a trap. Major Dillenger and I are on our way."
Hollis and Dillenger snaked around the mine takings until they found the railroad and began jogging along it toward the fjord. After about seventy meters, several human figures took form through the pouring rain.
Sergeant Baker came forward to report.
"We have the hostages and one terrorist, Colonel."
"You've rescued the hostages?" Hollis exclaimed loudly. "All four of them?"
"Yes, sir," replied Baker. "They're pretty well worn out, but otherwise they're in good shape."
"Nice work, Sergeant," said Hollis, pumping Baker's hand in undisguised exuberance.
Both officers had memorized the faces of the two presidents and the United Nations SecretaryGeneral during the flight from Virginia. They were already familiar with Senator Pitts appearance from the news media.
They hurried forward and were enveloped in a great surge of relief as they recognized all four of the missing VIPS.
Much of their relief turned to surprise when they saw the terrorist prisoner was none other than Rudi Gunn.
Senator Pitt stepped forward and shook Hollis's hand as Gunn made the introductions. "Are we ever glad to see you, Colonel," said the Senator, beaming.
"Sorry we're late," mumbled Hollis, still not sure what to make of it all.