The tourniquet held back most of the blood from the severed leg, but did not cut off the sensation in the nerves. Beckwith’s bellow of pain made the hair stand up on the necks of everyone in the yard.
The techs took the leg and put it in a sealed bag, where it was consumed by the foaming reaction as the bacteria contacted even more of Beckwith’s moist, fresh blood. Within two minutes, the leg was reduced to an unrecognizable black lump of deformed cells and orange slime.
The bio team finished stripping Beckwith down and inspected his body for any more signs of the bacteria. He was clean.
The Marine staff sergeant moaned in a state of delirium as the paramedics loaded him onto a gurney and took him to the hospital. Staff Sergeant Nathan Elijah Beckwith, USMC, was naked, cold, and in shock. He had only one leg left. But he was going to live. He passed out of consciousness as the ambulance door closed.
Chapter 35
It had taken nearly four hours to go five miles. Even with the women and children in the group, that was a much slower pace than Marcus had anticipated. He had hoped to be nearly twice as far by now, but reality settled on him as he realized that it simply was not possible. As much as he and Temebe tried to set a fast pace the group just could not keep up.
The band of villagers sat in a shadowy, wooded area beside a shallow stream. Shafts of sunlight cut randomly through the overlapping branches of thick-leafed trees high above their heads. Bright white spots scattered through the deep green foliage, illuminating the forest. Marcus squatted beside the stream to discuss their route with Temebe and Sambako.
The stream, according to Sambako, was called Shisepi Creek. It was about ten feet across and only a foot or two deep. It ran with clear, cool, fast-moving water that gurgled over rocks and fallen branches. It flowed from the north, originating in the mountains of Guinea. If they followed it, they would easily be able to find the border, and then could turn to the refugee camp.
Marcus glanced up and noticed that most of the people were looking to the south, eyes wide and mouths agape. He and Temebe followed their gaze.
A thick column of smoke rose dark and menacing in the distance behind them. Senga Village was being put to the torch. Several villagers wept as their ancestral homeland was reduced to towers of black smoke.
“Let’s move!” Marcus shouted. “They’ll find our trail soon and be after us! We have a head start, but they can move much faster than we can.”
The motley group suddenly discovered a hidden source of energy. The realization that their enemies could catch up to them invigorated their step, and the pace more than doubled with no more prodding.
Temebe knew the area well. He took them through every safe defilade in the brush, using nature to protect them from searching eyes.
With the renewed energy, in only an hour they had covered nearly three miles. By noon, they were more than halfway to the border. It was still almost eight miles away. If they could maintain this pace for four more hours, they would safely be across, out of reach of the band of murderers chasing them.
As the afternoon sun moved from the center of the sky, Marcus was alone a hundred yards behind the last of the moving group of refugees. He was making sure no stragglers got left behind, and that Sergei’s men did not sneak up behind them. A sudden chill coursed down his spine. He felt eyes gazing at the back his head. Someone was watching him. He took a few more steps. The feeling persisted, behind him, about fifteen yards in the trees. He burst in a run toward to the rear of the group, as if he were in a panic. As he rounded a clump of thick brush, he abruptly dropped to the ground and turned back, facing the direction from which he had just run.
The bait worked. Within moments, a young man dressed in a stained Royal Marines tunic and armed with a folding stock AK-47 emerged at a jog from the brush. Marcus let him pass by, keeping an eye out for followers. Once the man was about three yards past, the Marine leaped from his cover and thrust at the back of the man’s head with the butt of his AK-47. The heavy wooden stock of the weapon cracked against the man’s skull, sending him to the ground without a sound.
Marcus turned him over and removed his web belt. Hanging on the belt were a knife, a pistol, several ammo magazines for the rifle and pistol, two hand grenades, and a canteen. He slung the extra rifle over his shoulder and took the weapons and ammo, but left the canteen. Marcus had no desire to contract a disease from this unknown fellow.
As he fell, the man had dropped something near his feet. Feeling around in the undergrowth, Marcus found a small black walkie-talkie radio. He picked it up, made sure it was on, then made his way back to the main body of the group.
When he came upon the villagers, they were sitting on the bank of the stream, drinking water and trying to catch their breath. Sambako moved up and down the line of weary refugees, tending to their needs. Marcus found Temebe at the head of the line and signaled to him that they needed to talk quietly.
The two men stepped away from the rest of the group and squatted next to the bubbling water. Marcus spoke to him in French. “The bad guys are tracking us hard. I just killed a scout about half a mile back from our group.”
Temebe looked up at him. “I knew it could not be long before they caught up to us..”
“I got this off the scout.” Marcus held up the small radio. “If these hills don’t block the reception, we’ll be able to hear them coming.”
“If their scout was that close behind us, then the main party will be within a mile or less behind him.” Temebe looked back toward the women, children, and elderly huddled in small groups along the banks of the stream. “I am not sure we can make it. Our twenty gunmen are brave, but they are not skilled.”
Marcus was silent for a moment, his eyes hard and serious. “You take them to the border, Temebe,” he finally said. “I will hang back and slow Sergei’s men as they approach. There are some decent laying-up positions back there from which I should be able to hold them off for a good amount of time.”
“Are you sure?” Temebe asked, his voice grave.
“It’s the only way I can think of right now,” Marcus replied. “Unless you have a phone that can reach the Legion or the Royal Marines for an air strike in the next few minutes.”
“Okay,” Temebe answered. “We’d better get moving. There are still another three miles to the border, and they may try to follow us beyond that.”
Marcus stood and tightened on the web gear he had taken from the rebel scout. He had six magazines for the rifles, and two more for the dead man’s 9 mm pistol, which he now carried. He also kept the two hand grenades and the radio, and jogged south toward the approaching enemy.
As he passed the line, Sambako rose and faced him.
“My brother, where are you going?” the minister asked.
“I will be right behind you,” Marcus replied. “Just follow Temebe up the stream. Whatever happens, don’t worry about me. Thanks for everything you have done.”
He started down the trail, then stopped and turned back to his friend. “I have thought about what you said yesterday, and have made my peace with God, as best I can. I hope He smiles on me like He did for David.”
Marcus nodded at Sambako and moved out.
Chapter 36