While they were under orders not to let anyone cross, they were more than happy to let the Sudanese battle among themselves; they liked neither side. The Ethiopian commander formed a defensive cordon in front of the bus, then moved the bulk of his army behind it. The equivalent of a platoon was left to watch the refugees back near the gate; they could be dealt with later.
The mercenaries had been reinforced by another troop trained by Hienckel, which had come down from Port Sudan. Shortchanged by their employer — a trucking company hired and protected by the Sudanese — they saw their brothers’ cause of revenge as holy, and had vowed to assist them before the entire group moved on to Khartoum and a job waiting there. Their courage — as well as their anger — had been enhanced by a homemade alcoholic berry drink that was nearly 180 proof. Though terrible tasting, the liquid was said to convey nearly magical powers on anyone who drank it, making them impervious to bullets. Most of the mercenaries didn’t believe this, but after a few drinks it didn’t really matter.
With her machine-gun position caught in two fields of interlocking fire, Sugar slid down the hill a few feet to her rifle and grenade launcher. Picking it up, she packed a grenade in the launcher, then rolled onto her back and lobbed the fat pellet toward the second truck. Unaimed, the grenade flew too far right, exploding harmlessly thirty yards away from it. But the explosion drew the mercenaries’ attention; the ones who had been firing at Boston changed their aim, thinking the grenade had come from the fence area. While Boston scrambled up the hill, they concentrated their anger on the smoldering bus. Their bullets whizzed toward the Ethiopians, several of whom began returning fire, despite orders not to.
Boston scrambled up the rocky side of the hill. Abul crouched behind their gear, cradling a rifle against his chest and mumbling a prayer nonstop. His exhaustion paralyzed him; he looked wide-eyed at Boston as the American took the rifle from him.
“You all right?” Boston asked.
Abul didn’t answer.
“We’ll get outta here,” Boston told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
An explosion against the side of the hill seemed to put the lie to Boston’s promise, shaking the ground so severely he lost his balance. The mortar shell didn’t hurt anyone, but it put a good dent in the rocks, pummeling them all with dirt and rock splinters.
Sugar loaded the grenade launcher again. This time she rose over the crest of the hill just far enough to get her bearings and fired point-blank at the nearest machine gun.
It was a hell of a shot: The grenade hit the gunner square in the chest. The explosion diced him into so many parts that only his Maker could have put him back together again.
But the gunfire hardly slowed down.
“Put a grenade into the trucks,” yelled Boston as he scrambled up to her. “Blow them up so they can’t use them for cover.”
“You don’t think I’m trying to do that?” Sugar yelled back.
“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
She fired another round. This one went short, exploding harmlessly in the dirt forty yards from their nearest enemy.
Boston circled back to a cluster of rocks on the left, peeking out from behind them to try and sort the battle out. The mercenaries had concentrated into two groups, one clustered near the four trucks by the road, the other to the right around the battered vehicles, spread out between them and a dried gulley that ran down from the hill.
Meanwhile, the Ethiopians had increased their fire. If they kept it up, the mercenaries would have to retreat pell-mell, or try to take the hill so they had some sort of cover.
The north side of the hill wasn’t the easiest to defend, but Boston believed they could hold the mercs off as long as they had ammunition. The western side gave no cover, but to get there the mercenaries would have to backtrack quite a bit.
Unless the ball of dust appearing on the horizon was being raised by their reinforcements.
Cursing, Boston scrambled back to the gear, grabbing a set of binoculars. He took a few grenades as well and ran back to the outcropping. The dust had grown somewhat. He focused the glasses and saw that there were a half-dozen pickups in front of it.
Boston thought the trucks held more mercenaries. In fact they were a Sudanese militia responding to monitored radio reports. The commander who paid them promised a two dollar bonus per rebel killed, but generally didn’t ask for much proof of allegiance once the dead man’s ear was presented.
Women’s ears were worth only a dollar. Since there was generally no way to tell what their owner’s gender had been, the ears presented were almost always male.
“More company on the way,” Boston told Sugar.
“We’re going to run out of ammo soon.”
“Yeah. We need the Ethiopians to fight harder.”
“We don’t want them too aggressive,” she said. “They may just come for us, too.”
“I’ll take some grenades and hit the reinforcements from the west,” said Boston. “I’ll take them out before they can get close.”
“I don’t think we should split up. When’s that Osprey coming?”
“Soon,” said Boston. Optimistically, he thought it was at least twenty minutes away — and more realistically maybe an hour. “But we can’t afford to wait for it.”
“All right,” said Sugar. They didn’t really have much choice.
“Put the radio on. Stay in touch,” said Boston, grabbing some grenades.
The smoke from the bus lingered on the horizon, a black snake curled around a pulverized victim. Breanna told the computer to head directly for the smoke. Then she dialed Boston’s sat phone.
Boston didn’t answer. The phone had fallen from his pocket when he jumped from the bus. He hadn’t even realized yet that he’d lost it.
HEAVY GROUND FIRE AHEAD, warned the computer.
“Circle east,” said Breanna. “Bring altitude to two thousand feet.”
ALTITUDE NO LOWER THAN 15,000 FEET RECOMMENDED.
At 5,000 feet, the Osprey was an easy target for a shoulder-launched missile. It had several defensive systems — flares and a laser detonator, as well as a design that minimized the heat signature of the engines. Still, like all aircraft, it was vulnerable, a fact the computer had been programmed to dislike.
“I realize that,” Breanna said, though she knew the computer wouldn’t respond. She wanted to grab the yoke and take direct control, but knew the computer could do a much better job than she could, especially at low altitude.
There was a column of trucks on the road to her right as she approached, and two knots of soldiers firing guns in the direction of the border and the hill. Then there were the troops on the Ethiopian side. But where was Boston?
Boston heard the Osprey approaching in the distance as he ran to take his position on the road. He reached for his phone, then realized he didn’t have it.
His only alternative was to use his radio to broadcast a message on the international rescue frequency. The problem was, anyone with a radio could hear him, including both the mercenaries and the Ethiopians.
“Whiplash ground unit to approaching Osprey. Can you hear me?” he asked.
The Osprey didn’t respond.
“Osprey, this is Boston. You there?”
“Roger, Whiplash, we’re reading you,” answered Breanna. “Where’s your sat phone?”
“Lost it. We’re under fire. Can you take out those trucks?”
“Negative. Set a rendezvous point.”
“South of the hill,” said Boston. “Just in its shadow. We can get there in zero-three.”