As I stooped to pull the StG from underneath my recent victim's body, my worst fear became cold reality. The other SLA terrorists were coming in from all sides, rushing us so fast I didn't have time to bother with the German assault rifle nor to pick up the Russian machine gun the terrorist had dropped. My hands dove to my holster; I jerked out the Stechkin and Wilhelmina and started firing. Elovitz and Risenberg, their faces grim and determined, started firing their machine guns, the three of us dodging and weaving back and forth.
But Fate was against us. There were too many of them, and quickly we were encircled. I used my last Stechkin round to kill an SLA sadist who was about to stab Elovitz in the back.
My eyes raking the area, I saw at once that we were confronting the remnants of the enemy force. Mohammed Karameh was with them! I spotted him to the southeast of me, a Soviet PPS-43 submachine gun in his hands. To his right was the fox-faced Ahmed Kamel, the back of his kaffiyeh flowing in the wind. To the left of Karameh — Miriam Kamel! She carried what looked like an AK-47. All three were running toward us. However, they couldn't fire at me or the Israelis because of the intervening Syrian SLAs.
I still had five cartridges left in Wilhelmina and put one of them into a Syrian's face at pointblank range. I then tossed the Luger to my left hand, after dropping the Stechkin, and gave a half-twist to my right arm. Hugo jumped from his case and his handle slid into my hand. I jumped to one side to avoid a string of 7.62mm bullets at about the same time that Risenberg slammed a Syrian across the face with the side of a Stechkin machine pistol. Risenberg didn't slow down. With a short burst he sprayed the two men who rushed him, then spun and fired the AKM at two more SLAs, one of whom was a woman, the flat-nosed projectiles punching the two in the stomach. The man fell back and died without a murmur, but the woman let out a high-pitched scream.
I dove to the side of a slab of granite resembling a tombstone that had sunk to one side, aware that Mohammed Karameh and the two Kamels were only twenty-five feet ahead of me. I reasoned that if I knew they were there, they had to know that I was here. Quickly I shoved Hugo into my belt, reloaded Wilhelmina and forced myself to wait. To be on the safe side, I glanced around me and made another dive a few seconds before the chain of UZI projectiles cut into the side of the tombstone-rock. Slugs zinged off and chips flew. The man who had fired had reared up from behind a chunk of sandstone to my right, almost parallel to my own position. I had seen the man's face only very briefly and now felt pure hatred flooding up within me. That jet black beard! Those deep-set eyes! That long, crooked nose. The gunman was Khalil Marras, one of Karameh's top aides.
Hurriedly, I crawled for my life, inching between two long slabs of granite just as Marras reared up again to fire. No doubt he thought he had me cold. It was a fatal mistake on his part.
Marras' slugs hit only bare rock. From my new position, I pulled Wilhelmina's trigger in unison with Elovitz who, having somehow gotten hold of an enemy's Soviet-made PPS43, cut loose with a long burst. My two 9mm bullets hit Marras high in the chest and knocked him back while Elovitz's stream of slugs stitched Marras in the left side.
I'll never know whether it was Mohammed Karameh or one of the Kamels who killed Elovitz. All I know is that there was a roaring to the front of me, and to my right, a long burst of slugs that ripped into the Israeli from neck to navel and knocked him backward. He must have died with twenty tunnels bored through his body.
There was a second burst of firing, this blast at Risenberg, who ducked down and let out a yell, a howl of pain. Was he dead or only wounded? I didn't know. I didn't dare call out to him.
I was certain that Karameh and Miriam and Ahmed Kamel were ahead of me, hidden down somewhere in the rocks. I strained my eyes in the bright moonlight. Could there by any SLAs hiding behind me? If there were, I didn't see them. If there were, they didn't see me, or else they would have fired. Could it be that there were only four of us left alive — just me and Karameh and the two Kamels?
With only Wilhelmina and Hugo left, I began to crawl, following the route along the slab of granite which gradually curved in the general direction of my prey.
Slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb loose gravel, I continued forward another twenty feet, wondering if the other three were moving in the opposite direction. I stopped and listened. I couldn't be sure, but thought I heard loose rock falling to my right. I glanced behind me. Nothing.
I reared up slightly and looked to the right. Fifteen feet away were Mohammed Karameh, Ahmed Kamel and Miriam Kamel… their backs toward me, all three crawling forward on their hands and knees.
I could have fired from behind the tiny wall of granite. But I didn't want to take the chance that, during those few seconds, one of them might crawl behind a rock and away from my line of fire. Wilhelmina was very efficient, but she wasn't a match for the automatic weapons they had.
I jumped up and around the end of the ridge and raised Wilhelmina. Hearing me, the three swung around, alarm flashing all over their faces. I snapped off two shots, aiming at Karameh, who reacted with amazing speed, as did Ahmed Kamel. I knew how their minds were working because, under similar conditions, I would have used the same stay-alive logic. Knowing that they didn't have time to fire within that slight shave of a second, they jerked to one side. Only Miriam tried to swing around.
Stupidly, she jumped to her feet and tried to level the AK-47 assault rifle at me. I didn't take time to move Wilhelmina's muzzle toward her. Instead, I used Hugo in a snap-throw, tossing him by his handle. Miriam screamed, dropped the AK-47, stared at me for a moment, and her two hands fluttered to Hugo's handle protruding just above her belt buckle. She sank to her knees, then fell backward, her body jerking slightly.
I knew that I couldn't risk shooting it out with Mohammed Karameh and Ahmed Kamel; not with their having submachine guns. Reacting from pure instinct, I made a long dive for the two men as they jumped up and tried to zero in on me.
Having a slight edge, I used a roundhouse kick against a snarling Ahmed Kamel. My foot connected with the underneath side of his PPS-46 sub-gun and sent it flying backward over his head. With the same quick motion, I pulled Wilhelmina's trigger, put a 9mm hollow point into Kamel's chest, and grabbed the long barrel of Karameh's Soviet PPS-44 submachine gun. Knowing I couldn't do the job with one hand, I let Wilhelmina fall to the ground and attempted to knee him in the groin.
Very fast for a big man, he arched himself back, evading my knee, and tried to trip me and jerk the barrel of the machine gun from my hand. I put my left hand on the weapon, my fingers closing over the top rib of the steel-frame stock, and kicked him hard.
He let out a half-cry of rage and pain, and for a brief moment we stared at each other. Karameh was no longer the well-groomed leader of the Syrian Liberation Army. His mustache and long sideburns were grimy; his oily black hair looked like a bird's nest and his cheeks were caked with dried blood from where rock chips had hit. His eyes, very much alive, glowed with the hatred of hell itself.
I was damned worried. He was stronger than I and didn't seem to be weakening. If anything, his desperation and his hatred of me were giving him extra strength. I didn't even dream of having the power to literally twist the submachine gun from his hands. My only chance was to use superior know-how — or die.
Karameh gave me the opportunity when he moved his left foot forward slightly.
I had him! Still hanging onto the PPS-44 with both hands, I pivoted slightly until my left side was facing Karameh's front. I released my hold on the PPS-44, grabbed his right arm and jerked it forward and out, causing him to lean to the right of his line of gravity. Caught unaware, he didn't have time to jerk his arm back, to try to swing the machine gun toward me.