The defenders, on the other band, couldn't miss. The Malians stumbled and crawled over the broken masonry into a swarm of bullets. The first rank had been swept away at 100 meters, the second by the time it reached the shadow of the fort. Then the rank behind that. All along the north, wall, the attackers and their officers cried out and fell. Their massed fire, however, no matter how wild, could not help but strike some of the defenders.
There were simply too many for the UN team to stop and their fire began to slacken as one by one they were killed or wounded.
Levant knew disaster was only moments away. "Blast them!" he roared over the helmet radios. "Blast them back off the wall."
It seemed impossible but the hail of bullets from the UN team suddenly increased. The head of the Malian column was shot to a standstill. Pitt was out of ammunition but was, throwing grenades as fast as he could activate them. The explosions caused havoc in the struggling crowd. The Malians began to fall back. They were stunned and disbelieving that anyone could fight with such fury and wrath. Only with determined courage did they rally and surge through the splintered remains of the main gate.
The UN team rose from their dugouts, firing from the hip as they retired across the parade ground and around their smoldering personnel carriers, forming, a new line of defense within the ruins of the former Legion barracks and officers' quarters. Dust, debris, and smoke cut visibility to less than 5 meters. The constant blast of guns had deafened the fighters, to the cries of the wounded.
The horrible casualties inflicted on the Malians were enough to shatter the morale of any attacking force, but they kept coming and poured into the fort in a human flood. Temporarily exposed on the parade ground, the first company of men through the wall were shredded as they milled around in confusion at not finding a pathetic few survivors caught in the open.
Pembroke-Smythe took a head count inside the collapsed barracks and officers' quarters as the few wounded they were able to save were carried down into the arsenal. Only Pitt and twelve of the UN Tactical Team were still capable of fighting. Colonel Levant was missing. He was last seen firing from the parapet when the attacking horde broke through the remains of the north gate.
At recognizing Pitt, Pembroke-Smythe flashed a smile. "You look positively awful, old man," he said, nodding at the red stains in Pitt's combat suit that were spreading on the left arm and shoulder. Blood also trickled down the side of one cheek from a cut caused by a shard of flying stone.
"You're no picture of health yourself," Pitt replied, pointing at the nasty wound in Pembroke-Smythe's hip.
"How's your ammo?"
Pitt held up his remaining submachine gun and let it drop to the ground. "Gone. I'm down to two grenades."
Pembroke-Smythe handed him an enemy machine gun. "You'd better get down in the arsenal. What's left of us will hold them off until you can…" He couldn't bring himself to finish and he stared down at the ground.
"We hurt them badly," Pitt said steadily as he ejected the clip and counted the bullets inside. "They're like mad dogs drooling for revenge. They'll make it hard on whoever of us they find still living."
"The women and children cannot fall into Kazim's hands again."
"They won't suffer," Pitt promised.
Pembroke-Smythe stared up at him, seeing the agony of grief in Pitt's eyes. "Goodbye, Mr. Pitt. It has indeed been an honor to know you."
Pitt shook the Captain's hand as a storm of gunfire burst around them. "Likewise, Captain."
Pitt turned away and scrambled down through the debris choking the stairway into the arsenal. Hopper and Fairweather saw him at the same time and approached.
"Who's winning?" Hopper asked.
Pitt shook his head. "Not our side."
"No sense in waiting for death," said Fairweather. "Better to make a fight of it. You wouldn't happen to have a spare gun on you?"
"I could use one too," added Hopper.
Pitt handed Fairweather the machine gun. "Sorry, except for my automatic, it's all I have. There are plenty of weapons topside, but you'll have to snatch one off a dead Malian."
"Sounds like good sport," boomed Hopper. He gave Pitt a mighty slap on the back. "Good luck, my boy. Take care of Eva."
"That's a promise."
Fairweather nodded. "Nice to have known you, old chap."
As they went up the stairway together into the fight above, a female medic rose from a wounded man and waved for Pitt's attention.
"How does it look?" she asked.
"Prepare for the worst," Pitt answered quietly.
"How long?"
"Captain Pembroke-Smythe and what's left of your team are making a last stand. The end can't be more than ten or fifteen minutes away."
"What about these poor devils?" The medic indicated the wounded strewn on the floor of the arsenal.
"The Malians won't be showing any compassion," Pitt answered her heavily.
Her eyes widened slightly. "They're not taking prisoners?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't look that way."
"And the women and children."
He didn't answer, but the pained look of sorrow written on his face told her the worst.
She made a brave effort to smile. "Then I guess those of us who can still pull a trigger will go out with a bang."
Pitt gripped her by the shoulders for a moment, then released her. She smiled bravely and turned to pass on the dire news to her fellow medic. Before Pitt could step over to where Eva was lying, he was approached by the French engineer, Louis Monteux.
"Mr. Pitt."
"Mr. Monteux."
"Has the time come?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it has."
"Your gun. How many shells does it carry?"
"Ten, but I have another clip with four."
"We only need eleven for the women and children," Monteux whispered as he held out his hand for the weapon.
"You may have it after I've taken care of Dr. Rojas," Pitt said with quiet firmness.
Monteux looked up as the sounds of the fighting above came closer and echoed down the stairway. "Do not take too long."
Pitt moved away and sat on the stone floor beside Eva. She was awake and looked up at him with an unmistakable expression of affection and concern. "You're bleeding, you're wounded."
He shrugged. "I forgot to duck when the grenade went off."
"I'm so glad you're here. I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to see you again."
"I hope you have a dress all picked out for our date," he said as he put his arm around her shoulders and gently moved her until her head rested in his lap. Out of sight behind her view, he eased the automatic from his belt and held the muzzle a centimeter behind her right temple.
"I have a restaurant all picked out…" She hesitated and tilted her head as if listening. "Did you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"I'm not sure. It sounded like a whistle."
Pitt was certain the sedatives had caused her mind to wander. There was no way a strange sound could be heard above the din of the fighting. His finger began to tighten on the trigger.
"I don't hear anything," he said.
"No… no, there it is again."
He hesitated as her eyes came alive and reflected a vague sort of anticipation. But he willed himself to go through with it. He leaned down to kiss her lips and distract her as he began to squeeze the trigger again.
She tried to lift her head. "You must hear it?"
"Goodbye, love."
"A train whistle," she said excitedly. "It's Al, he's come back."
Pitt released the pressure on the trigger and cocked his head toward the upper entrance to the stairway. Then he heard it over the sporadic gunfire. Not a whistle, but the faint blare of a diesel locomotive air horn.