Defender(48)

Just then, everything went silent. An eerie lull fell across their tiny corner of the war.

Martinez crawled toward the side entrance of the hotel. He stayed low as he slithered forward. That's what Fredericks always told him, 'Keep a low profile'. His hands were clamped so tightly around the AKM that his fingertips and knuckles showed white. He had to locate the rebel machinegun position that was keeping them pinned down. Inch by painstaking inch, he edged toward the sidewalk. He pressed his face up hard against the edge of the doorframe, nose pushed flat against it, and one eye searched the street for any sign of enemy guns.

Nothing.

Carefully, Martinez eased himself further out until both eyes were able to focus, and most of his head was now clear of the doorframe. He systematically searched the surrounding buildings, the windows and doorways, corridors and corners, every nook and cranny of the endless collection of shadows and openings that peppered his view. Fuck, where were they?

A devastating hail of gunfire fell upon him. The vicious bursts, both fast and furious, punched through the pavement a hair's breadth from his face, every round racing through the air, reaching for him. Asphalt and concrete dust spat back into his eyes. The heavy-calibre ammunition thudded into the ground and walls around his exposed head, every strike resonating with a ponderous boom, only to be instantly superseded by the next, and the next, and the next. Martinez froze. All he could hear were the rounds crashing about him and the sonic boom of his own heart pounding in his ears. Mouth agape, he wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Then he felt pressure, a pressure on his ankle. No, both ankles. They were tight as if wedged by a vice. His calves went numb. Is this what it feels like to be shot?

"No! No!" Martinez cried.

Without warning, he was gone. With one swift pull, Martinez was wrenched from the path of a murderous hail of fire that fell exactly where his head had been. For an instant he couldn't move, face down, cradling his weapon in his arms, mouth wide open. He was alive. But his legs? Was he shot? Martinez spun around to face back into the hotel.

There, kneeling over his feet and grinning broadly, were Morgan and Fredericks. They had returned just in time to see the young rookie making his valiant attempt to locate the enemy.

"Martinez, are you trying to get yourself killed?" Morgan quipped.

"I can see we're going to have to spend a lot more time on you, Junior," Fredericks chastised paternally. He treated Martinez like his apprentice. Fredericks knew that the kid had great potential. He just needed more guidance and from the look of things, a lot more training. But he'd get there. He had the right attitude and at least he was prepared to try something, even if it meant risking his neck in the process. "So, what's going on then, Zeke? Bring us up to speed."

Martinez nervously gathered himself and, not wanting to look like a fool, particularly in front of Fredericks and Morgan, decided it was best to just get on with it.

"There's no way we can move," he said, shakily at first. "We nearly lost two evacuees when we started heading across to the car. The rounds came so close that Lynn Stanley copped some shrapnel in her arm." He pointed over to Lynnie, who was being treated by big John. Stanley was an ex-Guardsman and had served in Cyprus, Northern Ireland and the Falklands before getting into the mining game. Morgan could see the concern on the tough old man's face as he carefully tended her. Morgan remembered the fantastic beef stroganoff that Lynnie, the cook at Pallarup, had made the night before. She looked OK, the injury was superficial, he thought, giving her a reassuring smile. "I had to pull them all back." Martinez couldn't help but feel responsible for allowing them to become pinned down. "There's no way of getting over there."

"What are you saying? We can't get this last group out because we can't cross the street?" Morgan was not happy. He didn't need another setback.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Martinez replied nervously. "Any attempt we make to get to the Land Rovers, all hell comes falling straight down on top of us from up the road there, somewhere. I can't even see where these guys are, man!"

"Right." Morgan had to get things moving. They had ten people left to get out and he wasn't about to fail them. "Zeke, you've done well, mate, really well. You've kept them all alive, and that's what we're here to do. Now, stay here and keep everybody down behind cover. No one is to move until we get back."

Morgan and Fredericks ran back upstairs to the rooftop. Finding a position from which they could observe the street without being seen, they crawled to the edge of the roof, close to the precariously balanced wreckage of the helicopter's tail. The wreckage was still burning and the smoke masked their movement. Sharing a set of binoculars, they searched for the source of the trouble.