The mercenary doubled over, gasping from the agony of his wounds. The dark African sky growled a response as lightning danced in the distance. He glanced up at it through a pink veil of pain. Damn Africa! He should have never agreed to this transfer.
He gripped his knife again and resumed his task. Moving with the exaggerated precision of a drunk, he cut another square of sod from the ground and set it neatly next to the others.
Stupid. Okay, so he had gotten lost. It happens. But damn it, it wasn't his kind of terrain. He sank the knife viciously into the ground and paused as a wave of pain washed over him from the sudden effort.
But walking into an enemy patrol. That was unforgivably careless, but he had been so relieved to hear voices.
He glanced at the sky again. He was running out of time. He picked up his rifle and started scraping up handfuls of dirt from the cleared area. Well, at least he got 'em. He was still one of the best in the world at close-in, fast pistol work, but there had been so many.
He sagged forward again as pain flooded his mind. He was wounded in at least four places in his chest cavity alone. Badly wounded. He hadn't looked to see how badly for fear he would simply give up and stop moving.
He eased himself forward until he was sitting in the shallow depression, legs straight in front of him. Laying his rifle beside him, he began lifting the pieces of sod and placing them on his feet and legs, forming a solid carpet again.
His head swam with pain. When he had gotten lost, his chances of survival had been low. Now they were zero.
But he had gotten them all. He clung to that as he worked, lying down now and covering his bloody chest.
And by God, they weren't going to have the satisfaction of finding his body. The coming rain would wash away his trail of blood and weld the sod together again. If they ever claimed a mercenary kill, it was going to be because they earned it and not because he had been stupid enough to get lost.
The rain was starting to fall as he lifted the last piece of sod in place over his face and shoulders.
21
Tidwell trudged through the darkness trying to ignore the feeling of nakedness he had without a rifle. He grinned to himself. This was a wacky idea, but if it worked it would be beautiful.
"Okay, Steve, you're there!" Clancy's voice came to him through his earplug. "If you take another fifteen steps, you'll kick one."
He halted his forward progress, and covertly studied the underbrush as he fished out a cigarette. He stalled a few more seconds fumbling for a match, then grudgingly lit up. These guys are good. He slowly exhaled a long plume of smoke.
"You can come out, gentlemen. All I want to do is talk."
His voice seemed incredibly loud in the darkness, even to him. He waited a few moments. The night was still.
"Look, I don't have a white flag with me, so I'm pinpointing my position with a cigarette instead. I'd like to talk to your ranking officer or noncom."
There was still no response. If he didn't have absolute faith in his back-up, he would feel silly standing there talking to himself.
"I'd love to stand here all night, but the bugs are getting bad. Look, we know you're here. We've been tracking you through our scopes for over an hour now. If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead. If it will convince you, there are twenty of you and we know your positions. Now does that convince you or do I have to bounce a rock off a couple of you?"
He paused again. Suddenly, there was a soldier standing ten feet from him. He hadn't seen him stand up or step out of the bushes; it was as if he had sprung from the earth itself.
"It's about time. Want a smoke?"
"You wanted to talk, so talk."
The man sounded annoyed. Tidwell grinned to himself-probably upset that his crack team had been discovered.
"I've got a message for you. We're asking you once politely to withdraw your men."
"Give me one good reason why we should pull out, wise guy?"
"I can give you a list. First off, we found you. Right off the bat that should tell you your hotshots aren't as good as you'd like to think they are. Now, don't get me wrong, they're good-some of the best I've seen in a government force. But you're outclassed, friend. Our troops have been at this game since the time they could walk. Stack that up against your five years' service and you've got some idea where you stand in this war. A poor third in a two-sided fight!"
"That's your story."
"Let me spell it out for you. You're the advance scout of a company of light infantry that's bivouacked about fifteen miles back. They've been out here blundering around for over two weeks and I'm the first person you've seen to put your sights on. During that time, we've penetrated your defense at will, putting BANG signs on your ammo dump, green dye in your drinking water, Mickey Mouse Club badges on your tents while you're sleeping at night. The fact that you and your force aren't dead isn't because we've never had the chance."
"You're the guys who have been doing all that?"
"You want to know how many of us there are? Five, and two of us are women. A five-member team is all that it takes to keep a company of you bozos running in circles for half a month."
"So how come you haven't attacked?"
"Why? We don't want to fight you clowns. None of the corporation mercenaries do. We just want you to clear the hell out and leave us alone. Why are you out here anyway?"
"Well...supposedly we're trying to keep you from destroying the world economy."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't know a world economy if it bit you on the leg. Hell, man, the corporations have been the world economy for over half a century now."
"So you want us to pull back to camp?"
"No, we want you to pull out completely. The whole damn company-tell your CO we said so."
"And that's supposed to convince him?"
"No, but this might." Tidwell pulled a bulky envelope from inside his shirt and pitched it to the soldier who caught it deftly.
"What is it?"
"Well, you can't see them in this light, but it's a batch of pictures of your CO."
"And that's supposed to convince him?"
"They might. They were taken through a rifle scope. The cross hairs show up just swell."
"We'll show them to him. We were about to pull back anyway."
"Oh, just one more thing. If you could tell your men to leave their rifles behind when they go."
"What!"
"You can come back tomorrow and pick them up, but we want to be sure you pass the message to your CO, and showing up without your rifles will make sure you don't forget to talk to him."
"Tell you what, fella. Why don't you come along and tell him personally. We're supposed to be looking for prisoners to interrogate and I guess you'll do just fine!"
"You know, I get the distinct impression you think I'm bluffing. Very well; which impresses you more-distance work or close quarters?"
"What?"
"Never mind, we'll give you a quick demo of each. Um, tell your men to ease off their triggers. There's going to be some noise, quite harmless of course, but I wouldn't want to see you all get wiped out because someone flinched off a shot."
"What are you talking..."
The night was rent by two ear-splitting explosions, one to their left, one to their right. Two full heart beats behind the blast came the unmistakable twin flat cracks of the rifle reports.
"In case you're wondering, those shots were squeezed off by my partner-the one I was telling you about who is two miles back. He's firing the mercury-tipped bullets you've heard about. Nasty things. Blow a man open like a ripe melon."