Then the unmistakable hollow 'pop' of the M203 being fired broke the short-lived silence. Seconds later, there was another 'pop', then another, and finally a fourth high explosive round was fired. Garrett had manipulated the awkward loading system deftly, suppressing the barrel release mechanism, and reefing the hollow black plastic tube forward and back to reload and fire each round so quickly that the last one was in the air as the first was detonating.
All were direct hits. Landing dead on target, smack-bang in the middle of the rebel machinegun team, the high explosive rounds detonated in a rapid succession of ear-piercing cracks. The rebels didn't know what had hit them. They'd heard the 203 being fired, but failed to locate it in time to return fire or even escape the barrage.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! "Now, Billy!" Garrett cried.
Billy was there in a split second, screeching the Land Rover to a halt m the exact position Garrett had indicated. In a flash, Garrett leapt from his position by the wall, threw the smoking 203 into Billy's ready hands, and jumped up behind the HMG. By the time the fourth round had exploded amongst the rebels, Garrett was firing, hammering the tiny shopfront with everything he had. The constant boom of the HMG's thunderous report, coupled with more high explosive rounds from Billy on the 203, shattered the relative seclusion of their microscopic piece of the war.
Morgan and Fredericks were moving fast, sprinting from the cover of the classroom across the empty street, firing on the move, straight for the rebel gun team, the vicious crack of the 'Dooshka' slicing through the air just metres in front. Garrett maintained a relentless storm of fire upon the rebel position, covering his comrades every step of the way.
There was no resistance.
It took no more than ten seconds to cross the intersection to the smoking ruin of the shop. Garrett ceased fire as Morgan and Fredericks breached the shattered frontage and disappeared into the chaos of smoke and dust, firing on the move. Then he kicked the back of the drivers' seat and yelled to Billy, "Let's go! Go, go, go!"
Billy thrust the vehicle into gear and raced along the street to the intersection. There he skidded the Land Rover to a halt in behind cover, and tossing the 203 back to Garrett, jumped up behind the HMG to aim up the street towards the sounds of the rebel advance. Snatching the airborne 203, Garrett was inside with Morgan and Fredericks in an instant.
"Well, you don't get much deader than that," he said, looking down humourlessly upon the mangled remains of the three dead rebels.
"You're right there," said Morgan, panting, rubbing his ribs. "Take at look at that one." Morgan pointed to the body near Fredericks' feet. "There's not much left of the other two to tell, but this one's just a kid. He can't be any more than 15, if that."
Morgan felt drained. Fighting grown men was acceptable in his line of work. It was understood to be the way of things. Killing kids was different. Morgan and Fredericks were glad to be alive, there was no doubt. But it was a very hollow victory.
"I hear what you're saying," said Garrett. "But right now there are about a thousand more of those kids less than a block away. They've got massacre on their minds, and you, me, Mike and all those civilians back down there at the hotel are on the top of their guest list."
Morgan nodded slowly, knowing Garrett was right, when suddenly the sounds of a ferocious gunfight close by ripped through the gloom.
"Fuck me!" exclaimed Garrett. "I recommend we get a move on!"
"I thought you said they were a block away?" chided Fredericks. The fighting was much closer than they had thought.
"Bugger it!" Morgan exclaimed. "Kids or no kids, we're not dying today, boys. Let's get out of here!"
Outside, Billy had opened up with the big gun, launching volley after volley at the swiftly closing rebels, who were slashing through the Army lines with ease less than 150 metres away.
Mike Fredericks was immediately on the radio.
"Alpha Four, Alpha Two. Over," Fredericks barked into his hand-held radio, running for cover beside Morgan and Garrett.
"Alpha Four. Over." Back at the hotel, 'Zeke' Martinez had had his ear pressed hard up to the radio throughout the attack, anxiously awaiting orders for the next move.
"Zeke, this is Mike. Get those people loaded up right now and head straight for the RV at the beach. Don't wait for us. Just get them to the beach now. We'll be right behind you. Understood? Over."
"Roger that. We'll head straight for the RV now. Over." The relief in Martinez's voice was obvious.
"Right. Move now. Good luck. Out."
Morgan, Fredericks, Garrett and Billy were firing constantly, covering the movement of the splintered remnants of an Army unit withdrawing back toward them in the hope of finding somewhere new to hide. Hot on their heels, the rampaging rebel forces were firing willfully at the backs of retreating soldiers, cutting many of them down. The Army troops were in a mess and it appeared that they had lost their commander. Scanning the area, Morgan spotted a young Malfajirian officer, pinned down behind an overturned truck that was burning fiercely. The lad was stranded in the open, exposed on three flanks and in serious danger of being overrun. He had no chance of moving without being cut down.