At first there was complete confusion, with much shouting and wild shooting. The Egyptians had no idea of the size of the force that fired on them in the dining hall during the passage of the . They snuffed the lights and shot at the earlymoming shadows until they realized the shadows weren't shooting back.
The dirt roads between the wooden buildings took on an eerie silence.
for several minutes the Egyptian hijackers made no effort to leave the dining hall.
Then, suddenly, a half-dozen men-two from the front and four at the rear of the building-broke from the doors, scrambling, crouching, and diving headlong behind predetermined shelter. Once in position, they laid down a circle of fire to cover the rest of the men, who then followed on their heels.
Their leader, a tall man wearing a black turban, directed the men's movements by blowing sharp biceps on a whistle.
After a rocky start, the Egyptian terrorist team was everything Pitt was afraid of-highly ed, practiced and tough. When it came to house-to-house street fighting, they were the best in the world. They were even well led. The leader in the black turban was competent and methodical.
They searched building by building, working toward the crushing Mill until they half-circled it like a crescent. No haphazard assault by Animar's hand-picked killers. They moved with stealth and purpose.
Their leader caned out in Arabic. When there was no reply, another terrorist shouted from a different location. They were hailing the guard and mechanics inside the crushing mill, Pitt guessed correctly.
They were too close now for Pitt to risk revealing himself at the window. He removed the terrorist's ski mask and clothing and threw it in a pile on the floor, then rummaged through a pocket of his ski jacket and retrieved a small mirror attached to a narrow stretch handle. He eased the mirror above the window sill and extended the handle, twisting it like a periscope.
He found the target he was looking for, 90 percent concealed, but enough showing for a killing shot.
Pitt turned the fire-select lever from FULL AUTO to SINGLE. Then he swiftly raised up, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
The deadly old Thompson spat. Black Turban took two or three steps, his face blank and uncomprehending; then he sagged, fell forward and pitched to the ground.
Pitt dropped down, lowered his gun and peered into the mirror again. The terrorists had disappeared. To a man, they had dodged behind buildings or crawled furiously under abandoned and rusting mining equipment. Pitt knew they weren't about to quit. They were still out there, dangerous as ever, waiting for instructions from their second-m-command.
Gunn took his cue and pumped a ten-round burst through a wooden door on a shed across the road. Very slowly the door swung open, pushed by a body that twisted and dropped.
Still there was no return fire. They were nobody's fools, thought Pitt.
Now that they realized they were not up against a superior force but by a small group, they took their time to regroup and consider options.
They also realized now that their unknown oponents had captured their helicopter and were holed up in the crushing Mill.
Pitt ducked, scurried over and crouched beside Gunn. "How's it look on your side?"
"Quiet. They're playing it nice and easy. They don't want to dent their helicopter."
"I think they're going to create a diversion at the front door and then make a rush through the side office."
Gunn nodded. "Sounds logical. About time we found better cover away from these windows anyway. Where do you want me?"
Pitt looked up at the catwalk above. He pointed at a row of small skylights encircling a small winch tower. "Climb up and keep watch.
Yell when they launch the attack and welcome them with a concentrated burst through the front door. Then get your ass back down here. They won't have any scruples about peppering the walls above the chopper."
"On my way."
Pitt moved around to the side office, paused at the threshold and turned to Giordino and Findley.
"How's it coming?" he asked.
Giordino looked up from shoveling a pile of leftover ore for a barricade. "Fort Giordino will be finished on schedule."
Findley stopped work and stared at him. "F before G, Fort Findley. "
Giordino looked at Findley morosely for a second before returning to his work. "Fort Findley if we lose, Giordino if we win."
Shaking his head in awe, Pitt wondered why he was blessed with such incredible friends. He wanted to say something to them, express his feelings of gratitude for risking their lives to stop a band of scum when they could have bolted for the boondocks and hid out until Hollis and his team arrived. But they knew: men like this needed no words of appreciation or encouragement. There they'd stay, and there they'd fight it out. Pitt hoped to God none would die uselessly.
"Argue about it later," he ordered, "and ready a reception committee if they get past me."
He turned and entered the damp and musty-smelling office He checked his Thompson and set it aside. After quickly building a barrier with two overturned desks, a steel filing cabinet and a heavy iron potbellied stove, he lay down on the floor and waited.
He didn't wait long. One minute later he came to unmoving attention as he thought he heard the faint crunch of gravel outside. The sound stopped and then came again, soft but unmistakable. He raised the Thompson and propped the grips on the filing cabinet.
Too late, Gunn gave a yell of warning, when suddenly an object crashed through the window above the door and fell, rolling across the floor. A second came right behind. Pitt dropped low and tried to burrow into the steel cabinet, cursing his lack of forethought.
Both grenades went off with an ear-bursting blast. The office erupted in a great roar of shattered furniture and flying wood and yellowed paper. The outer wall was blown outward and most of the ceiling caved in.
Pitt was dazed by the concussion and the deafening clap of the twill blast. He'd never experienced an explosion in a close proximity before, and he was stunned right down to his toes.
The potbellied stove had taken the main force of the shrapnel, yet held its shape, the rounded sides perforated with jagged holes. The file cabinet was bent and twisted and the desks badly mutilated, but the only apparent injuries Pitt could find on himself were a thin but deep cut in his left thigh and a five-centimeter gash on his cheek.
The office had vanished and left in its place a pile of smoldering debris, and for one apprehensive moment Pitt had a vision of being trapped in a blazing fire. But only for a moment-the rain-soaked old wood of the building sizzled a bit in several places but refused to ignite.
With a conscious effort of will Pitt switched the Thompson to FULL AUTO, and aimed the barrel at the splintered remains of the front door. Blood was streaming down the side of his face and under his collar. His eyes never flickered as a barrage of automatic fire came pouring over his head from the guns of four men who charged through the shattered openings in the outer wall.
Pitt felt neither remorse nor fear as he fired a long burst that blew away his attackers like trees before a tornado. They threw up their weapons, arms flailing in the manner of ftenzied dancers on a stage, and spun crazily to the debris-piled floor.
Three more terrorist fighters followed the first wave and were as ruthlessly stopped by Pitt-all except one, who reacted with incredible swiftness and flung himself behind a smoking, shredded leather sofa.
Cannonlike blasts went off in Pin's ear as Findley dropped to his knees behind him and pumped loads from his shotgun into the lower base of the sofa. Leather, burlap padding and wood sprayed the air. A moment of quiet, and then one of the terrorist's arms flopped lifelessly beyond the sofa's carved feet.
Giordino appeared through the smoke and gunpowder fumes, grasping Pitt under the arms and dragging him back
"Must you always make a mess?" he said, grinning. Then into the crushing-mill area and behind an old ore car.