The plan was that Garrett would provide fire support, paving the way for Morgan and Fredericks to take out the rebel gun that had brought their evacuation to a standstill. Garrett was itching for action. He was ready to start blasting now, but knew he had to be patient. Nothing would happen until Alex and Mike were in position. It had been agreed. They were relying on him.
Checking his watch, he turned back to the Land Rover.
Sitting ominously on the back of the Rover, mounted directly behind the front seats was the 12.7 millimetre 'Dooshka' heavy machinegun. The 12.7 was a belt-fed HMG that at close range could penetrate most conventional armour, and with sustained and well-aimed fire it would smash through concrete and brickwork in seconds. It was a lethal piece of kit that had been the mainstay of the Chiltonford team's mobile security operations with the Army. Garrett had also brought along an M203 - an M-16 assault rifle with a modified foregrip designed to accommodate a 40 millimetre grenade launcher under-slung beneath the barrel.
It came down to Clausewitz's foundation of all undertakings - surprise. Again, Garrett checked his watch. It was almost 1500. Morgan expected to be in position by now, and with not much daylight left they needed to get a move on or they wouldn't make the last chopper out to the ship. That would be a disaster. Any chance of surviving until sunrise in the shattered hotel while trying to protect the remaining evacuees from the rebels - with rapidly depleting stocks of ammo, water and food - was zero.
Time was against them.
"Billy," Garrett said to his partner - one of the local security guards, who climbed from the back of the Rover, where he'd been manning the HMG, into the driver's seat - "Remember, as soon as I give you the word, I want the Rover right there," he pointed to the exact point, "facing directly up the street at those bastards, OK?"
"OK, boss. No problem," came the reply.
"Don't worry about what I'm doing; you just get the vehicle into position. Then I'll jump on the gun, you take over the M203 and we'll hammer them until I say stop. You got that?"
"OK." A veteran of the Angolan civil war, Billy knew exactly what was expected.
"OK, mate. Stand by."
CHAPTER 32
"They're dead ahead," Fredericks whispered. "You can see 'em straight through the window, there."
Fredericks and Morgan had climbed into the vacant shell of a building that was the local school. Cautiously they had edged around a small open courtyard, most probably used for assemblies and playtime, and past a number of small classrooms containing wooden desks and chalkboards. Inside the final room at the corner of the courtyard, they were just 20 metres southeast of the rebel machinegun position nestled deep within the empty shop across the street. It was as close as the two men could get without being seen.
"This'll have to do us," Fredericks said.
Morgan was relieved that the rebels hadn't moved and, with the Chiltonford evacuation halted further down the street, the guns had fallen silent. It was obvious this team had been sent to cut off any fleeing Government troops. Stumbling across a bunch of foreigners trying to get out of the place would have just been a bonus. Sport, nothing more. There was no sign of any other rebel troops close by, but it was only a matter of time before their main force would finally break through the remnants of the Army, and then the streets would be swarming with them. The not too-distant noise of battle was constant.
"Right, mate. Looks like this is it then," Morgan whispered, too close to the rebels to risk speaking at normal volume.
"Let's get on with it," replied Fredericks dryly. "I want to get this thing sorted out quickly. I'm tired, my back's aching, my knees are killing me and I need a Scotch."
"I could do with a beer," said Morgan. "You think the Yanks will have some on-board?"
"I reckon you'll probably have to settle for a Budweiser."
"As long as it's cold." Morgan smiled briefly and readjusted his gear. "You ready to go?"
"As ready as I've ever been." They were set.
"Alpha Three this is Alpha One. Over," Morgan whispered into his radio.
"This is Alpha Three," Garrett answered. With the volume control on their radio's turned down, his voice was barely audible. "Go ahead. Over."
"This is Alpha One. Commence firing. I say again, commence firing, now. Out."
An unnerving silence fell upon the scene. Even the chaos from approaching battles seemed to fall into a chilling stillness in the distant background. Morgan and Fredericks sat poised, weapons raised and level, ready to leap through the crumbling window frame, straight at the rebel machinegun position.