With half their number down, the Al Islamiyyah men abandoned the fight and darted for the cover of the jungle. Many must have been uncertain of Lake and Michaelson’s location, because they ran straight across their field of fire. Michaelson never stopped firing, expending one magazine after the other into the backs of the fleeing terrorists. When all his magazines were finally shot, he grabbed up the spare Kalashnikov and continued firing, cheering as he knocked one enemy down, then two, then three. Lake noticed a wild expression on the chief’s face as he sat up, then eventually stood to get a better angle on his prey, completely ignoring the pain in his purplish, swollen leg.
Then Lake heard the chief’s bolt slide back.
“I’m out!” he shouted, picking up his AK-47 again. “I can still see two of those bastards through the trees! Here, Lieutenant, toss me your spare magazine!”
Lake obeyed, hurling his extra clip in Michaelson’s direction. The chief caught the clip in mid air and with one motion slammed the fresh cartridge in place. Then he moved away from the cover of the brush and limped to a new spot beside a grove of palm trees where he could get a better shot. Lake watched as Michaelson drew a bead on the fleeing men. Lake could not see them from his position, but apparently Michael-son could. Michaelson then squeezed off a couple of rounds and gave a whooping yell that made Lake wonder if the chief’s swollen knee had gone to his head.
“War! Glorious war!” Michaelson shouted, almost laughing, then glanced back at Lake. “I got one, Lieutenant! But, damn it all, that other bastard got away!”
Not knowing quite what to say, Lake gave a smiling thumbs-up then, looked out to sea to check on the dinghy’s status. It had reached the rocks. Good. A few more minutes of rowing would put it alongside the Mendar. It was well out of range now and only a very lucky shot from the shore could hit it. At least Teresa was safe.
“Let’s restock our ammo,” Michaelson said as he limped over to one prostrate terrorist stretched out on the sand. Making certain the man was dead before he searched through his ammo pouch, Michaelson sprayed the terrorist with a short burst from his rifle and sent the limp body into convulsions.
“We better stay under cover, Chief,” Lake yelled from the concealed position. “There might be more of them out there.”
Michaelson ignored him and continued rifling through the dead body.
Then Lake heard it. A thumping, thunderous noise. It shook the ground and seemed to come from all directions at once, growing louder at an alarming rate. He knew it could mean only one thing.
The charging Huey helicopter suddenly appeared above the tall trees, its whirring rotors almost low enough to touch the jungle canopy. The sole surviving terrorist more than likely had access to a radio and more than likely had vectored Musa’s chopper directly on top of them. Before Lake could think straight, the helo had moved above the beach. The two men in the cockpit were clearly visible from his concealed position, both wearing headsets and one eagerly pointing to the exposed Michaelson down on the open beach. Which one was Musa? Lake wondered. If only he hadn’t given his last magazine to Michaelson, if only Ahmad hadn’t used the last of his forty-five caliber rounds to execute those terrorists last night, he could end this terrorist’s reign right here and now. Even he could make the shot at this range.
As the menacing helo rotated around, Lake saw the door gunner swing his mounted machine gun toward Michaelson’s position. The chief was caught in the open, in the sand, with a bum leg, and a look of horror fell over his face as he realized that he could not get away. But, true to form, fierce aggression soon replaced the horror and the muscle-bound chief brought his rifle up to challenge the hovering helo. But the challenge was short-lived. Before Michaelson could get off two rounds, the door machine gun opened up with a long burst, the heavy caliber weapon ringing out over the thundering rotors. The ensuing fusillade of large-diameter shells tore into Michaelson’s body at the waist, splitting him into two distinct pieces in the blink of an eye. Lake had to turn away as Michaelson’s torso fell on one side of the dead terrorist he’d been rifling only a few moments before, his legs on the other, a large patch of blood-spattered sand all around.
Expecting the helo to fire at him next, Lake was surprised when it turned and headed out to sea. The men inside must not have seen him hiding in the tall bushes. The helo was now headed for its primary target, the Mendar, helplessly riding the waves just beyond the rocks. Of course, the terrorist Musa would have concluded by now that this fishing boat was Ahmad’s means of escape, and that simple fact marked the Men-dar and everyone aboard her for certain death, including Teresa.
The Huey pointed toward the vulnerable fishing boat, then dipped its nose and accelerated. Lake knew that he had to do something. The fishing boat didn’t stand a chance against the Huey, no matter how good Ahmad was with a gun. Providence had nothing in her small-arms arsenal that could easily bring down a helicopter. Most likely, the men on board the Mendar were armed with nothing more than a few M-16s.
He had to do something, or Teresa was dead!
Then Lake saw it. The unfired RPG launcher still lay in the sand only a few yards from the bloody spot where Michael-son’s bullet had brained its owner. It was his only chance. Every passing second the helo drew farther and farther away. He had to hurry!
Lake dashed from his hiding place and bounded across the sloping beach, covering the distance in seconds, leaping the final yards to the weapon, where he unintentionally fell face-first into the bloody sand. Assuming a kneeling position, he plucked up the weapon and hefted it onto his shoulder. He’d never fired an RPG before, never even held one. It seemed very cumbersome, a lot heavier than he’d imagined, and this one reeked of grease and grimy hands.
How hard could it be to shoot? he thought.
The range to the helo was rapidly increasing as it picked up speed. A few moments more and the RPG would be useless. Lake knew it was now or never. Leveling the weapon on the helo’s tail rotor, he aimed a little higher at the last second, then squeezed the trigger. The launch tube shook violently on his shoulder as the rocket roared away, its white smoky trail completely obliterating his view.
As the smoke cleared, he saw the rocket-propelled grenade speeding toward the Huey in a corkscrew-like fashion. For the first forty or fifty yards it flew relatively straight, but shortly thereafter it seemed to lose all control. It veered right, then left, then dove at a steep angle straight for the water’s surface, exploding harmlessly with a large geyser to clearly mark the spot.
“Shit!” Lake shouted, hurling the launcher into the sea.
The Mendar had no hope now. Teresa had no hope. The Huey would certainly destroy her. Lake’s frustration brought him to the point of throwing sand in the helo’s direction. But after he tossed two handfuls, the helo made a large banking turn to the left and headed back toward the beach. Though the Huey was still a couple hundred yards away, he could clearly see that the nose had steadied on his position. Someone on the helo must have seen the RPG hit the water, and now the helo was coming back to take care of him as it had Michaelson.
Lake stood alone and in the open. He knew there was nowhere to run. He was near the water’s edge and would have to clamber up the steep sloping beach to find adequate cover. The helo would be on him by the time he reached it. Lake suddenly had visions of Chief Michaelson as he faced the charging helo, and hoped he could meet his death with the same display of courage. The rotors pounded the air and made the sand vibrate under his shoes, and now he could see the muzzle of the heavy machine gun protruding out of the helo’s side door.