Richmond stamped hard on the accelerator and sped out to wave down the Humvees in front. As the Merc skidded to block Corporal Pinsker, a sudden flash and grinding thud hurled Ashe to the left as the landmine explosion shot the front right wheel spinning into the sky.
A second blast. A Katyusha rocket tore up the earth next to the Merc. Rocket shrapnel smashed through the bulletproof windows, tearing off what to Ashe’s shocked eyes looked like a piece of Richmond’s shoulder. The casing embedded itself in Ashe’s seat, inches from his head; Richmond’s shoulder bled.
Pinsker’s Humvee drew up at a 45-degree angle to the Merc’s left, to provide cover so Ashe and Richmond could get out. Bullets strafed the Merc’s side panels. With no one to protect it, grenades flew towards Sergeant Bolton’s Humvee.
Ashe clambered into the front of the Merc as bullets ricocheted off the bonnet. He dragged Richmond down and opened the driver’s door.
‘The tracker!’ screamed Richmond.
Ashe had a split second to think: three buttons, four times. No! Four buttons three times. Richmond’s shoulder tracker had been smashed in the blast; the other tracker box had been propelled off the dash. Ashe pulled Richmond out, then reached for the underside of the dashboard. Bullets shattered the glass and thudded and whistled into the interior.
Ashe strained for the tracker box with everything he’d got.
‘Don’t!’ screamed Richmond. ‘Leave it! It’s too dangerous!’
Ashe made contact with the box as bullets tore away the back seat. His fingers touched the four buttons; one was stuck.
‘Stuck!’
‘Hit it hard!’
Ashe pushed and pushed.
‘Get out of there!’
A second rocket blast lifted the front of the stricken Merc up four feet, nearly ripping Ashe’s arm out of its socket. Ashe was thrown over Richmond. Richmond screamed from the gash in his neck and shoulder.
At the rear of Pinsker’s Humvee, Dykins, Laski and Zappa were giving the machine guns everything they’d got. There was a problem: the angle. The wrecked Merc was obscuring the main target area. If it pulled away, they would lose cover, and Ashe and Richmond would be exposed on the ground.
Ashe pulled Richmond’s Browning out of the holster on his thigh and placed it in the major’s left hand. He then rolled over and levelled his M4 under the Merc’s chassis in the direction of the firing.
The firing ceased. There was no target: only rocks and stones and sand.
Richmond’s wavering voice broke the sudden silence. ‘Tell Bolton to come up to form a triangle.’
‘Does he need to be told?’
Richmond’s eyes pleaded for immediate action. Ashe nodded. ‘Bolton!’
‘I’m… dead, sir.’
‘What?’
Nothing.
‘Sergeant Bolton! Can you hear me!’
Silence again.
‘Oh Christ!’
Richmond was starting to feel the pain. ‘Get me some morphine, will you… Toby.’
Ibrahim, alone in the cargo carrier, started singing out in Arabic. ‘There is no God but Allah! Muhammad is his Prophet!’
‘Dr Toby! You there?’
‘Zappa!’
‘Pipe down! Hey, Ibrahim! Cut it! They ain’t listenin’!’
‘What’s going on, Vinny?’
‘I guess they’re waiting till nightfall. They know they’ve got the advantage. Did you get a chance to signal Red Force presence?’
‘Sorry.’
‘No tracker?’
‘Chance in a million. Losing both.’
‘There go the reinforcements. You’re closer to the interpreter. Call for him to join you. He’s no good on his own out there with no weapon.’
‘Think he knows that, Vinny.’ Ashe called to Ibrahim; he wouldn’t budge.
‘Ibrahim, try and make a dash for it. They could open up again any second!’
‘I don’t reckon that invitation would get me out of a hole, Toby! Hey, Ibrahim, move your goddamn ass out of that truck! Guy’s frozen, I guess. What I can’t see is, why don’t they use another rocket?’
‘Maybe they only had the two left, Vinny. Look to the left a second. That’s what they must’ve done with the others.’
A hefty slab of RAF Hercules fuselage glistened as the sun kissed the horizon.
‘How’s the major?’
‘Passed out. His neck’s in a mess.’
Vinny said nothing.
‘What’s the tactic, Vinny? What are they going to do?’
‘I guess they’re gonna try and kill us, Toby.’
‘The burning pipeline. That’s going to attract Blue Force.’
‘Three miles away – through the black smoke. You better start praying, Toby.’
‘You pray, son. Pray with all your heart.’
Ashe prayed. He prayed for Simon Richmond. He prayed for Sergeant Bolton. He prayed for everyone but himself.
Vinny broke the awful silence. ‘You know, we got one secret weapon here.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The accelerator. We got speed. I reckon that’s our best hope. First you gotta get yourself and Major Richmond – and Ibrahim, if only the poor bastard will move his ass – into this truck. Without getting yourselves killed. And you better do it soon. Because it’s gonna be awful dark in ten minutes.’
Ashe looked at Richmond, unable to staunch the blood that soaked his ripped shirt.
Not a medic in sight. Ashe called to the second Humvee. ‘Ibrahim! Try and get over to me. We’ve got one chance. Ibrahim, save yourself… I don’t think he’s moving, Vinny.’
‘Can you drag the major over here?’
‘I think so, but if they’re looking closely, they’ll see us.’
‘I’ll cover you boys.’
A voice came from the gloom. ‘Doctor Ashe! Doctor Ashe!’
‘Ibrahim?’
‘I try to come.’
As the Iraqi started to squeak open the Humvee’s rear door, Ashe heard the sound of scurrying feet emerging from the shadows. He strained for a target. He couldn’t see a thing. Smashed glass. Someone had climbed into the rear of the truck.
‘Doctor Ashe! They’re—’
Ibrahim screamed. Ashe, helpless, heard the sickening sounds of a desperate struggle – then the sound of running feet. Something was being dragged away.
Ashe was forced backwards by the power of the blast. The Humvee exploded – a parting grenade tore into the twilight, scattering debris and human limbs around the desert.
Zappa felt a sinking feeling.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ashe, get yer ass over here now!’
Ashe’s eyes were suddenly blinded. Two huge searchlights shot across the site as two Toyota pickups drove up the sides of a depression. The lights scattered disorienting beams over the startled survivors. Now Ashe could see what had happened to the convoy.
The three vehicles had driven into a shallow dried-up riverbed. The late-afternoon light had obscured the true dimensions of the depression: perfect for an ambush.
An Arab voice boomed hysterically through a megaphone. ‘Christians! Christian Crusaders in the land of Islam! You are prisoners of the holy jihad of the army of Ansar al-Sunna! There is no escape. The whole world will see! We have man with camera. Everything we do will be shown on your television screen. On the internet in the homes of your families. We film you even now! Surrender for the camera and for your lives! Allah is merciful to Crusaders who desert the armies of the Devil! No mercy for traitors who serve Jews and Christians!
‘Christians say they love everyone. We have your servant here. Here is traitor Muslim who serves infidel! We cut his head off. No true Muslim will serve Jews and Christians! If you love this man like you say, save him. You show your mercy. Want to see this man with head hacked off? Leave your weapons now. Surrender to mercy of Allah now! Save him and yourself! One minute, Christian devils! One minute!’