Closer to the ground now, with trees rushing by underneath him he could truly feel the effect of the Hornet’s speed. Individual trees whipped by, barely visible long enough for him to take note of them before they flashed out of view. Three small buildings spaced perhaps a mile apart, a herd of something — goats, perhaps? — between them. An older burnt-out house, all details he recognized from the satellite photos.
There, just ahead and to the left. An odd patch in the undergrowth, natural enough from a distance but with hard glinty highlights in it as they approached. Could have been quartz formations or rocks if they’d been in a different part of the world, but not here. He’d seen the blowups of the area, taken note of the carefully outlined trucks and encampments the photo intelligence technicians had picked out. It would have been clear enough even without the infrared shots that showed warm engines, campfires, and people moving about underneath what was trying to appear as a simple forest. Smoke from the Tomahawk attack was blowing across the area now, further obscuring the picture.
The camp. Human intelligence sources had confirmed with the locals what the intelligence specialists already knew. And what the people on the ground, in a few short seconds, would know beyond all hope of redemption.
Xerxes shoved Pamela to the ground then rolled her under the cot. “Take cover!” He followed her in under the scant shelter of the flimsy wooden frame. It bent then flexed upward. Although her vision was partly blocked by Xerxes body, she caught a glimpse of a darkly tanned foot flashing toward the door.
“No!” She tried to shove him out of the way so that she could escape the illusion of the safety of the cot. Better to take her chances in the open away from the structures.
Xerxes shoved her back against the wall of the hut as though determined to hold her in the death trap that she knew this building surely was. She started to fight back by reflex, her hands clawing at his face, then realized that there was only one way out. Instead of reaching toward him, she flattened her hands and jammed them straight up.
The cot bucked up. It started to settle back down on them, one aluminum leg headed straight for her face, but she got her feet up and kicked. It rose again, rolling now, and clattered over on its side. The noise was lost in the all encompassing thunder of aircraft directly overhead.
Pamela bolted to her feet, narrowly eluding Xerxes’s frantic grab for her ankle. Let him die here if he wished, but she wasn’t going to. Not now. Not this time. She ran for the door, snagging her camera bag strap with one hand as she went. As soon as she hit the door, she cut hard to the right and started running.
God, no strafing. Not this time. She remembered how close the deadly rounds from the Hornets had come when they were clearing the area around Murphy. It was her fault that the Macedonians had gotten him, her fault alone. If she hadn’t dragged Xerxes down from the observation point, they’d never have been within range to take him prisoner.
The feet — Murphy’d left without his boots. For a split second, she almost thought about running back in to the shelter to look for them, but dismissed it almost instantly. There was no time, none at all. She’d be lucky if she made it out of range before the first—
Her world exploded. The ground under her feet heaved up as though trying to rid itself of a flea, bucking and jolting harder than the worst earthquake she’d ever imagined.
The first blow catapulted her forward, and the ground that rose up to meet her seemed far closer than it had any right to be. She hit hard, landing on her right shoulder and rolling immediately over to smash her face into the hard-beaten ground.
Then the second explosion, harder and more violent than the first, but almost inaudible. She shook her head as it tossed her into the air, gravity slamming her back down a second later into the still-reeling earth. It was oddly disorienting, the earth reeling underneath her, dust and flames and debris rising up from the remains of the camp, complete chaos in utter silence.
She lay facedown on the ground, her arms crossed over the back of her head. She waited.
More explosions, or perhaps aftershocks — she couldn’t tell exactly which with no sound involved. It seemed as though she were alone in the midst of devastation, cupped in a giant hand that repeatedly picked her up and then threw her at the ground.
She felt something give in her shoulder, and the pain started then. At first it was indistinguishable from the noise and the violence that seemed to have taken root in the earth.
The shaking stopped. She lay on the ground, scarcely able to breathe with the fear pounding through her veins. Finally she tried, drawing in a deep shuddering breath as though her lungs had forgotten how to breathe. She coughed, started hacking hard. The air was almost solid with dust, debris and smoke.
Get away… got to get away. The refrain beat steadily in her head. She couldn’t understand exactly why — something about a camp was dangerous. All she knew was that she had to move, had to try, regardless of whether she could breathe or not.
She rolled over, still hacking and coughing, then rolled again as she realized she was now on her back, staring up into black smoke and bits of burning wood. She made it to her hands and knees, then tried to push herself upright.
The pain now, hard and demanding, threatening to consume her just as the early fury in the earth had. She felt herself scream but heard no sound — and kept moving. If she couldn’t stand, at least she could crawl.
She quickly discovered that her right shoulder would take no weight at all. Even trying to use it to push herself forward brought on waves of agony that threatened to rip her consciousness from her. She still couldn’t breathe well, but traces of oxygen were somehow seeping into her lungs. She held on hard to her consciousness and crawled.
The soldier watched as the compound below him exploded. He was far enough away to be well clear of the devastation, positioned just to the east of the path the attacking aircraft would use to clear the area. It was a good position, a fine position, one he’d carefully scouted at General Arkady’s request. He’d been particularly careful to select a vantage point that would almost guarantee him a direct hit.
More secondary explosions now, the muffled whump-whump of stores of POL — petroleum, oil, and lubricants — catching up fire. The fire below took on the billowing black form characteristic of the ignitable agents involved. The sound reached him as mild overpressures, each one popping his ears and gently buffeting his body as they reached him.
Soon, very soon now. He had seen the aircraft inbound then lost them briefly behind another rise. The increasing smoke and fire was a problem as well, but he’d taken that into account in selecting his position and the prevailing winds were carrying most of it away from him. He’d have five seconds, maybe six. More than enough time to sight the Stinger in on the aircraft, follow it for a moment to make sure he had a lock, then toggle off the missile. A second Stinger canister lay at his feet, just a precaution. He doubted he’d have time to use it, but it was necessary insurance in case something had been damaged in the climb to the hilltop on the first missile.
He could still hear the aircraft engines, even over the explosions, the roar of the fire and the faint screams coming from the camp. The aircraft sounded higher in pitch now, indicating that they’d changed course and were heading back toward him. He shifted the missile slightly on his shoulder and peered through the sighting mechanism, ready for his target.