Defender(49)

"Got 'em, Alex! Take a look." Fredericks handed over the binos. "200 metres; reference the intersection; left, eleven o'clock; green-painted shop front. They're in there, a machinegun team. Three men."

"Seen." Morgan followed Fredericks' target indication to the precise location of the rebel gun team. "Damn, you've got good eyes, Mike. Bastards!"

A small group of rebels had pushed through the Malfajiri Army's ragged lines and had established a strongpoint up the road from the hotel. They appeared to have set up a Russian-made 7 .62 millimetre PKS general purpose machinegun, covering the main road running along the western side of the hotel. The PKS was mounted on a tripod, giving the machine gunner the ability to fire with precision out to a range of 1000 metres, at 250 rounds per minute.

It was standard operating procedure, establishing a fire support base allowed a force to engage with heavy, accurate and sustained fire, suppressing freedom of movement, and holding an enemy in place. Morgan knew that next, the rebels would surreptitiously manoeuvre into a concealed position of advantage from which to launch a direct strike.

"We don't have much time," Morgan said casually.

"But we'll play 'em at their own game," replied Fredericks.

"Exactly," agreed Morgan. "If we can take out that machinegun, we can establish a position of our own, get these people the hell out of here, and buy the Army a bit of time to regroup and reload."

'I'm with you," Fredericks said, "we're going to need the jeep with the HMG. It's down at the evacuation point on the beach."

"Great idea," replied Morgan.

They ran for the stairs. On the move, Morgan unclipped his hand-held radio from his belt.

"Alpha Three, this is Alpha One. Over." Nothing.

"Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Over." Again, there was no reply.

"Alpha Three, Alpha Three, this is Alpha One, Alpha One. Come in, Adam. Over."

"Alpha One, this is Alpha Three. Sorry, couldn't hear you, a couple of choppers just took off Go ahead. Over."

"Ad, we've got a problem up here at the hotel which is holding us up a bit. Do you need the 12.7 anymore? Over."

"Negative, we're secure here. The marines have everything stitched up pretty tight. You got problems? Over." Garrett was concerned.

"Sort of," replied Morgan, his understatement not lost on Garrett. "We're going to need it, ASAP. Like, five minutes ago."

"Alex, the marines have loaded all that's left of our people here onto the CH-53s and they're already headed back to the ship. I'm just sitting here getting my picture taken by the paparazzi, waiting for you guys to get back with the last bunch."

"Paparazzi?" Morgan asked, surprised. "What do you mean?''

"There's every variety of media down here," Garrett answered, "from just about every country you can name, and then some. It's hilarious. They've been clambering all over each other to get on the choppers and get the hell out of here. No aspiring Pulitzer Prize winners amongst them."

Great, thought Morgan. That's the last thing he needed. "How about the gun. Can you get it back to us?"

"I'll bring it myself "

"Even better, Ad. Fantastic." Morgan was relieved. "Head to the intersection on the southwest corner of the hotel, but don't cross to the hotel itself. The rebels have set up a fire-lane and they're blasting anything that gets in the middle of it. Stay on the western side of the main road and I'll talk you in from there. Understood? Over."

"Alpha One, this is Alpha Three. Roger. Over."

"Alpha One, acknowledged. Move now. Out."





Garrett eased the stripped down, Series 3 Land Rover up to the corner Jf the abandoned market square, directly opposite the Francis Hotel.



Careful to avoid the street targeted by the rebel machinegun, he slipped [n beside the other two Land Rovers Martinez had been using for the vacuation, and shut off the engine. The kid was doing OK, he thought. Parking the escape vehicles across the street from the hotel meant they remained hidden from enemy gunfire. When it was time to move, the evacuees could race across one at a time, minimizing their vulnerability as a group.

With his back to the west, Garrett looked across the street into the remains of the hotel's ground floor. He could make out Martinez with the final handful of evacuees and a couple of the local security guards, spread eagled on the floor, tucked in behind whatever cover they could find to protect themselves.

Garrett pulled his binoculars from the dashboard and panned northward in a careful arc, searching across the assortment of derelict buildings for the enemy machinegun position that Morgan had described. Crouching low, he moved closer to the edge of the wall for a better look. There it was, the green-painted shopfront, right on the corner of the intersection, a couple of hundred metres away. He could just make out the shadowy figures of three men huddled around their machinegun, deep inside the shop. Panning back, he knew Morgan and Fredericks were moving out, into the thick of it, meaking through the refuse of the devastated city towards the unsuspecting rebels.