A spray of sniper fire hit the center of the truck bed, killing a woman and wounding the two children under her. Cries and screams rose from every truck to join the chaos of combat. Two men in the back of Paul’s truck tried to jump down.
“Stay!” Paul yelled. “You get out now and you’re dead! Your only chance is to stay put.”
They looked at Paul and each other. The older man sat back onto the floor of the truck while the other jumped down, dodged around the side of the vehicle, and ran several steps before bullets riddled him. The body hit the side of the truck and rolled into the street.
The Marine ran to the opened driver’s door. A bullet hit him in the arm as he hoisted himself into the seat. The impact knocked the Marine into the cab.
“You okay?” Paul shouted.
The other Marine fired a burst at the window where the sniper hid. A cry came from inside.
“Sure, I’m okay!” the Marine driver shouted through gritted teeth.
“It’s only a fucking arm wound. I’ve got two arms. Who the hell needs two!” The truck was idling, the motor left running by the fleeing driver.
At every truck, Marines fought their way to the driver’s seats. Out of sight of the convoy, Paul heard the sounds of Cobra gunships and Algerian forces exchanging fire. He wasn’t a soldier or a Marine, but he knew if they stayed there they’d die, or worse. He had seen enough atrocities by Algerian rebels to know what waited for those who survived. The choice for Paul was easy — the harbor or death.
“We can’t move until they move in front of us!” the Marine shouted from the cab as he wrapped a tourniquet around his arm.
Paul jumped up and ran forward toward the steel-sided car where the ambassador and several of her staff rode.
The front two wheels were gone, probably shot away by the armored car when it blocked the street. Two vehicles blocked the convoy’s path — the ambassador’s car and the burning hulk of the Algerian armored vehicle. At the first truck, directly behind the ambassador’s car, Paul leaned into the bed.
“Marines!” he shouted. “I need one of you to help me with the ambassador. You!” He pointed at the one nearest the cab. “Keep us covered!”
The Marine near the rear jumped out. It was Captain Edgar Banks, the Marine security force officer in charge. “Let’s go, Paul.”
As they ran by the door of the cab, Paul leaned in. “Driver, when I give the signal, you gun the engine and push the car out of the road and keep going as fast as you can toward the harbor. Don’t stop for anyone until you get there.”
The driver looked at Captain Banks, who nodded. “Do it, Private.”
“Yes, sir!” the Marine shouted.
Captain Banks ran ahead of Paul. He was helping the disheveled ambassador out by the time Paul ran up.
“Come on, ma’am. We’ve got to get you to the truck,” Captain Banks said.
She nodded, said thank you, and passed out.
Paul, breathing heavily, asked, “How is she?”
“No wounds. I think she’s just stunned.” Captain Banks picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Paul helped the other three members of her staff out of the car. They seemed slightly dazed, but alive.
Paul hurried them to the truck, where those in back pulled them on board. Someone lightly slapped the ambassador, trying to bring her around.
The Marine guard in the car pulled himself out. Dazed, he walked shakily back to the truck as bullets tore up the road around him, miraculously missing. He shook his head to clear it.
“Sergeant!” Captain Banks shouted to the Marine as he jerked him out of the road and behind the truck. “Get in back with the ambassador.
Keep your head down and stay with her.”
The career Marine nodded and crawled silently into the truck.
Captain Banks gave a thumbs-up to Paul, who waved the truck forward. A bullet whizzed by Paul’s ear, so close he felt the breeze and the heat as it passed. He threw himself to the street, rolled to the right, and fired. A fresh pain in his shoulder told him the impact had been harder than he expected. He had no target, but firing made him feel better.
Thinking Paul was shot, Captain Banks rushed to the prone CIA agent. He touched Paul on the shoulder, saw he was unharmed, and commenced scanning the windows overhead.
Captain Banks said, “Won’t ever kill anyone that way, Paul. Don’t waste your bullets if you don’t know what you’re shooting at.” He gripped the CIA agent by the sport coat and pulled, more than helped, him up.
The two rushed to a nearby doorway as the truck eased forward, gears grinding to push the disabled car. The car slid off to one side as the truck eased forward. The metal ground against the surface of the road as the truck pushed it into a nearby alleyway. Twenty feet ahead, the armored car blocked the road.
The truck moved forward; its bumper made contact with the burning Algerian armored car, and stopped. The Marine driver raised his hand to shield his face from the flames. He gave the truck gas, the engine revved, and the burning hulk began to move ever so slowly. The people in the back shifted to the right side to put as much room as possible between them and the flames of the burning vehicle. Then, suddenly, the armored car was out of the way and the truck was past. Clear of the obstructions, the engine revved up as the truck sped off at nearly seven miles an hour down the road toward the harbor.
“Come on, Paul,” Captain Banks said. “Let’s practice our running and grab a lift. I don’t relish the idea of spending another night in Algeria, and definitely not out here.” “Run?” Paul asked with short, breathless pants. “I’m State Department. We don’t run.”
“Yeah, and I’m FBI and we do. Let’s go!” He grabbed Paul by the pants and with a quick tug, the muscular Marine jerked him up.
The two ran the twenty feet to the nearest truck, rolling slowly past, where two Marines hoisted them aboard. Several wounded and dead evacuees lay about the bed. Captain Banks and Paul fell into the back of the truck as the Marines returned the gunfire from the buildings.
“There, Paul, we made—” Captain Banks said. A bullet hit him in the chest, sending the Marine flying across the truck to land on top of several cowering civilians.
A Marine near the front let loose a tattoo of automatic fire at the window where the shot originated. A body crashed through the remaining glass to fall ignominiously on the street and roll under the front wheel of the truck behind them.
Paul bent down and touched the neck of the Marine captain. His heart was still beating, but Edgar was unconscious.
Paul turned his attention to the surrounding buildings. What would America do now? Korea in flames and now Algeria. He knew what would happen. It happened in World War II. It happened in Korea years ago.
So many times in history countries had underestimated America. We’d respond. Hell, yes, we’d respond, but Paul knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. F/A-18s roared by overhead, followed by four Harriers that hovered over the convoy firing their cannons at unseen targets to the left. America would come armed for vengeance. But with the size of the military today, it would take time.
An explosion ahead knocked Paul to the bed of the truck. The lead truck burned. Those still alive jumped from the back, their clothes aflame. Their screams carried the length of the convoy. The convoy stopped once again.
Overhead two CH-46s roared in. Ropes cascaded out of the helicopters.
United States Marines followed as they hot-roped into the battle and onto tops of the surrounding buildings. Paul saw a couple of the Marines, during their quick journey down the ropes, toss hand grenades through nearby windows. Within minutes another thirty-six Marines were on the street. The two Ch-46s disappeared, to be replaced by a CH-53.
Along the sides of the streets leading toward the convoy, Paul saw shadowy figures coming around the edge of the burning convoy truck.