Kinsly followed the sapper teams. He counted the aircraft marked with X's, making sure that none had been bypassed and looking to see if any of them carried new equipment or antennas he had not seen before. He also recorded in a little green notebook any numbers or tactical markings painted on the aircraft. All this data would be turned over to the military intelligence people later for their review and consideration.
In a gully behind the billets, Neboatov found the Cuban captain organizing the Ethiopian soldiers who had made it out of their billets. The captain was talking, or, more correctly, yelling, at an Ethiopian officer. Coming up from behind, Neboatov put his hand on the shoulder of Captain Angel Torres. "Captain Torres, how many men do you have?"
Torres turned his head toward Neboatov while holding his right hand up to the Ethiopian officer, indicating that he was not yet finished with him. "Major, I was in the process of trying to get a firm grasp on that now. I believe we have about thirty armed men and a dozen or so without weapons."
Turning to his right, Neboatov looked at the soldiers lining the sides of the ditch. They were in varying stages of dress and, despite what Torres had just reported, only about one in three was armed. But Neboatov's growing despair turned to delight when he spied one of the soldiers grasping an ancient American-made 60mm mortar. A smile on his face, he turned back to Torres. "Take that man over there with the mortar and as many rounds as you can into a position where they can take the flight line under fire. I'll organize this rabble here into a counterattack force."
Torres interrupted. "But we don't know for sure where they are. We should recon first while we consolidate our available forces."
Neboatov wasn't used to debates with subordinates, especially in combat. "You idiot, why do you think the enemy is here? They are after the aircraft. If we wait and dress up our lines and prepare a proper, well-staffed plan, the enemy will destroy every aircraft and be gone before we act. Now get that mortar into position. Give me five minutes, then start lobbing shells into the center of where the aircraft are parked. Watch for me and the enemy, adjusting your fire as necessary. Clear?"
Torres was about to say something, then thought better. He knew it was pointless to discuss tactical matters with a Russian once he had made up his mind. He looked at Neboatov one more time, shook his head, then went about gathering up an ad-hoc mortar team.
From several hundred meters to his rear, Kinsly heard the familiar thud of a mortar round being spit out of a mortar tube. As his people did not have mortars, that could only mean that the Ethiopian army counterattack was about to get under way. Instinctively, Kinsly hunched down, waiting for the impact of the first mortar round. That round landed among the helicopters that had not yet been rigged for detonation. Standing upright and turning back to look, he couldn't make sense of that. Either the mortar crew was firing wild, not knowing or caring where the rounds went, or they knew where the sappers were and were attempting to keep them from destroying the aircraft still untouched. Either way, it was time to leave.
The thumping sound of three more mortar rounds being fired and the report of a pair of heavy machine guns firing from the same general vicinity brought Kinsly back to the immediate situation. Turning and running down the line, Kinsly continued to count aircraft rigged for demolition. He had counted sixteen when someone on the perimeter of the airfield gave three loud blasts on a whistle, the signal to leave. Though they were not finished, his commander had determined, as Kinsly had already, that it was time to cut and run while they could. The mortar and machine-gun fire would soon become effective. Once that happened, the Sudanese would be pinned, unable to move and easy prey for a counterattack.
As if to underscore that point, a mortar round impacted not more than fifty meters from where Kinsly stood. The blast caught him off guard and knocked him down. For a moment he lay on the tarmac, collecting his senses and checking for wounds. Finding none, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked in the direction of where the round had impacted. A MIG-23 fighter had been hit and was now burning. In the light thrown off by the burning aircraft, three lifeless forms in ragged brown uniforms could be seen sprawled about the aircraft. One of the sapper teams had been taken out.
Getting up on his hands and knees, Kinsly crawled over to and behind a revetment. From there he watched as the remaining sapper teams moved away from the aircraft and headed back into the darkness in the direction from which they had come. Close behind them came the assault team that had been providing protection for the sappers. As the assault team came up even with Kinsly, he left the cover of the revetment and joined them. At a trot, he moved across the airfield, flanked by the soldiers he had helped train. Every twenty or thirty meters he would turn, running backwards, to see how closely they were being followed. On one of these looks back, he saw three figures dart out from between two buildings and set up a machine gun near the revetment he had just left. They were about to fire when the fuse in the C-4 planted in a helicopter nearby went off. The blast, followed by secondary explosions caused by the detonation of fuel and rockets on the helicopter, showered the machine-gun crew with shrapnel, killing or wounding all three. By incredible luck, the demolitions began to go off just as the counterattack force was moving into position to engage the withdrawing Sudanese, thus discouraging the Ethiopian soldiers from pressing their attack and allowing the Sudanese to withdraw.
Once outside the barbed-wire fence that had been set up to keep intruders out, the guerrillas quickly reformed and took a head count. In the darkness Kinsly called out to his NCOs. Each in turn answered Kinsly with a simple "Yo."
From down the line Sergeant Veldez called out to Kinsly. "Looks like we got everybody, sir."
Looking back onto the airfield, Kinsly could see several lifeless forms sprawled about on the runway — the Sudanese that had been cut down in the initial assault and withdrawal. He looked at them for a second, then turned back to the direction from which his commander's voice had come. "Yeah, I guess everybody that's going is here. Let's move it."
Without further comment, the attack force formed up into a loose column and began to move back into the shadows.
The exploding aircraft, spewing scraps of aluminum and burning fuel in every direction, had been more than enough to destroy the fragile organization of Neboatov's counterattack force. The rough skirmish line that he had formed and led forward disappeared. All hope of catching the attackers was abandoned as he and anyone else still alive scurried for cover. Flattening himself onto the concrete, Neboatov looked about for cover. Spinning himself about on his stomach like a great top, he turned around and crawled back to the safety of a revetment. Once he reached it, he propped himself up and caught his breath.
As the explosions began to subside, Neboatov dropped back into the prone position. The mortar fire had ceased. So had the small arms. Carefully, very carefully, he stuck his head around the revetment toward the runway. In the flickering light of burning aircraft and fuel, Neboatov could see a trail of bodies spread out on the runway. The trail disappeared into the darkness. Looking to his right, he could see that several aircraft were still intact. Pulling his head back, he sat upright again and pondered his next move. Though they hadn't saved all the aircraft, they had saved some, and, in the process, killed some of the attackers. And best of all, he thought, he was alive. That in itself, he thought, was a victory.