Fact: In 1976 a Rhodesian official was smuggled out of his country just in front of a coup. He credited the SAS with getting him out. The SAS denied involvement.*
Rumor: The SAS unit lost nearly half their force and would have lost the objective if not for the intervention of another unidentified force. No country took credit for the rescue.*
"This is about as exciting as watching your aunt Maggie knit," Bodie commented softly into his R/T.
"You just make sure you don't lose them or Cowley'll show you some knitting and you won't like what he does with the needles."
"Tsk, tsk, 4.5, when was the last time you knew me to lose..." The handsome CI5 agent paused for a moment, judging his targets change of direction. "Either they've twigged to me or they've decided to take the odd route home."
"Directions, Bodie," Doyle demanded over the remote.
"They've taken the alley between High and Riverrun. If you circle ..."
"I'll circle around," Doyle cut in. "We'd better switch places, just in case."
"Do keep in touch, darling, wouldn't want you getting lost," Bodie camped lowly.
The transmission cut off. Bodie kept walking, passing the alley entrance without glancing down it. His R/T beeped.
"Bodie, I've ..."
There was no sound of a struggle or the remote cutting off, just silence. Bodie turned and ran, coming into the long empty alley with Browning in hand. He slid to a stop, flicked the safety off and walked cautiously into the unnatural twilight. Rubbish bins and broken crates created strange shadows that made spotting anything difficult. He slipped around a bin and spotted a familiar body face up on the filthy ground a few yards away. More cautious than before Bodie inched along the wall toward his downed partner.
A boot heel caught his hand, sent his gun flying several feet away as a body slammed him down into the sharp bricks. He shifted to throw the man off, felt the cold edge of a very sharp knife against his throat. Ice zipped along his nerves, he froze, flat on his back, glaring up at his attacker.
The body straddling his hips was Doyle's height but slimmer and hard as granite. Bodie's midnight blue eyes stared up into a cold black pair set in a lean, tanned face. To Bodie's shock the dark eyes were familiar; as he watched recognition lit the other man's face.
"Bodie." The other man acknowledged in a deep, American-accented voice.
"Captain," Bodie said calmly. The knife didn't move. "What brings you here?"
The man didn't answer, his hand snaking into Bodie's coat.
Bodie jerked in protest but the knife pressed down just the tiniest bit. One-handed the American pulled out Bodie's R/T and ID.
"Colonel," another voice carried down the alley, "this one is trying to wake up."
"Colonel?" Bodie questioned. "Come up in the world, have we?"
"I could say the same thing about you. CI5. Impressive." A slight lift of the right side of the man's mouth passed for a smile. "I would be more impressed if you'd given me more of a fight."
"Paul?" The other voice questioned again.
"He's my partner," Bodie supplied.
In one move the man was off him. "Let him up, Doctor."
Bodie climbed to his feet, carefully dusting himself off as he moved toward his partner. A tall man with curly hair was helping a slightly dazed Doyle to his feet. The colonel moved to stand close by. Doyle looked from Bodie to the two men they had been following.
Bodie gestured at the smaller American. "Ray Doyle, meet Colonel.."
"Lt. Colonel Ironhorse," the man corrected, not offering his hand or volunteering to introduce the other man. The knife had disappeared under his long black coat. "Why were you following us?"
Doyle shrugged, leaving it up to Bodie. No matter what was decided they were in trouble with Cowley.
Before they could decide the other man answered the colonel's question. "A little departmental rivalry, I would think, Colonel," he speculated. "A mysterious call from Ms. Thatcher saying that two Americans would be meeting with Hickson of MI6 one day and George Cowley of CI5 the next."
"Cowley set you to check us out," Ironhorse surmised.
"No comment," Bodie said.
"Tell Mr. Cowley to check on the Blackwood Project," the taller man volunteered. "Anything the computer doesn't tell him we'll happily explain in the morning."
Ironhorse handed Bodie his ID and R/T; they turned without a word and started toward the lighted street.
"Colonel," Bodie called, the man turned. "Now that I know you're around, I'll give you a better fight."
The slightest touch of amusement appeared in the dark eyes, one eyebrow going up. It was Ironhorse's only response before he and his companion moved toward the street.
"Why," Doyle wondered aloud, "do I have the feeling that our computers aren't going to tell us a lot? And that no one is going to offer a happy explanation."
"You'd better call the Cow," Bodie told him as they started toward the car.
Green eyes widened. "Me? Why me, mate? You're the one knows the bloke."
Bodie didn't answer, suddenly far away in never-forgotten jungles. He shook himself. "We can at least call from the car. It's getting cold out here."
By the time they had walked the several blocks back to their car, Bodie had figured out that blunt honesty, in this case, would be the best track when reporting to his commander.
"3.7 to Alpha." There was a slight pause.
"Report, 3.7."
"There's been a little problem, sir," Bodie said with a look of pain.
"What kind of problem?" Cowley asked smoothly.
"Uh, actually sir, we were jumped."
"There were only two of them, Bodie," Cowley reminded him very softly.
"Yes, sir. Well, I mean, one of them jumped us, sir."
Doyle snickered and Bodie shot him a dirty look before plunging ahead. "We did gain some information. The two men are associated with something called the Blackwood Project." He paused. "Also run a check on Lt. Col. Paul Ironhorse. He was attached to American Special Forces in 1976."
Cowley sighed. "Very well. We'll discuss the incident tomorrow. I want the two of you at the meeting in the morning. Alpha out."
Staring at the R/T in surprise Bodie said, "The Cow's getting mellow in his old age. That wasn't half bad."
"He's just saving it for tomorrow," Doyle responded gloomily.
Bodie pulled into the light traffic, pointing the car toward Doyle's place. He mentally started the countdown. Two blocks from the flat Doyle gave in to his curiosity.
"Where do you know the colonel from?"
At one time Bodie wouldn't have said anything or at best given a vague half answer. That had been before twelve years of winning and bleeding together. Now he would usually answer Doyle's questions if the memories weren't too personal or too painful. But it had also become a game between them, Bodie letting Doyle bribe him, Doyle going along to keep Bodie happy.
"Rhodesia," Bodie answered finally, "currently called Zambia."
"He was a merc?" Doyle's eyes widened in surprise.
Bodie shook his head. "Not that one, sunshine. Strictly career army -West Point, Special Forces, the whole pie."
They pulled to a stop at Doyle's curb. Bodie waited until Doyle was out of the car to add, "He's the one that gave me the shoulder scar. Pick you up in the morning." He pulled the door closed and gunned away. In the mirror, he smiled at the figure of his stunned partner.
"Ten lines, gentlemen," Cowley said hotly, slapping the folder down on the covered desk. "Ten lines on the Blackwood Project."
Bodie took a deep breath, the Cow was just getting warmed up. They were in for a long one. At that moment the intercom buzzed and Betty's voice informed them that their guests had arrived. If Bodie had been religious he would have blessed her.
Ironhorse was the first one in, dressed in a well-cut suit that he wore like a uniform. The man they now knew to be Dr. Harrison Blackwood followed him in, looking distinguished and younger behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Bodie saw his partner give the colonel a cold, hard look. He smiled to himself, pleased to have invoked Doyle's always-present but seldom-seen protective instincts.
Introductions were exchanged and the two Americans took seats opposite Cowley. Bodie and Doyle faded into the background against the wall. The CI5 commander was still smoldering and Bodie was suddenly looking forward to the clash he could sense coming.
"Colonel," Cowley started coolly, "Ms. Thatcher was a little vague on what your organization does. And why it will take both MI6 and CI5 to help with your mission."
"It won't," Blackwood answered instead of Ironhorse. "We talked to Hickson because we wanted a choice of who we worked with."
"What we need," the colonel picked up, "is two reliable agents with high clearance and experience dealing with terrorist groups."
"And MI6 wasn't able to meet your needs?" Cowley questioned.
"I don't want to work with them," Blackwood said with a smile. "We've been over their files and I don't approve of Hickson or his predecessor's methods."
The colonel was silent, obviously use to the doctor giving explanations. Bodie was very curious what kind of organization could have brought a Special Forces officer under the command of a civilian.
"What group are you pursuing?" Cowley asked pleasantly.
"That's need to know, sir," Ironhorse informed him. "And for the moment you don't need to know."
From across the room Bodie watched the ice flash into Cowley's blue eyes; the temperature dropped several degrees. Ironhorse's expression remained completely neutral. Bodie didn't know whether to be outraged or delighted over the American's casual remark. As much as he respected George Cowley it was not very often anyone saw him caught speechless. Beside him, Doyle developed a sudden cough. Bodie gave him a slight sideways smile. Looking back toward the Americans, he was surprised to see amused familiarity lighting Blackwood's gray-blue eyes.
"Am I allowed to know, Colonel, what sort of operation my men will be involved with?" Cowley's tone was clipped, cold.
"We picked up transmissions, centered in London, from the terrorist group we've been hunting. It's the first time we've picked up activity outside of North America," Blackwood explained.
"Possible objectives?" Cowley was interested despite himself.
"Two possible," Ironhorse continued, "based on information supplied by your government; a chemical dump that would give them the ability to produce a very deadly nerve gas or a lost cache of W. weapons buried by a German commando team."
"That's a bit farfetched," Bodie commented softly.
"Agreed," Ironhorse said. "That's why our plan is to continue monitoring and wait."
"And my men?"
"Backup, when we need them."
"And guides," Blackwood said with a boyish smile. "To keep us from getting lost."
"There will be just the four of you?" Cowley asked.
"For now," Ironhorse informed him.
"We expect something to break within twelve hours," Blackwood added.
Cowley didn't like any of it; Bodie could tell by the way he slipped his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Bodie also knew that not even George Cowley could ignore a direct order from the Prime Minister.
"Very well, gentlemen." Cowley gestured toward the two men against the wall. "Since you've already met, take these two."
Standing and joining them the colonel said, "Gentlemen, briefing tomorrow morning, our hotel, 0900." Amusement lightened his deep voice. "I'm sure you know the address. If something breaks sooner we'll contact you."
Blackwood shook hands with Cowley. "Mr. Cowley, I hope we won't be invading your territory for long."
The man's natural cheerfulness seemed to be contagious and Cowley smiled ruefully back. "Good luck, gentlemen." He nodded at Ironhorse. "Keep an eye on them, Colonel."
Ironhorse gave a quick nod and followed Blackwood out.
"All right, Bodie," Doyle said firmly. "Enough is enough. You've been fed, you're drinking my best malt and the chocolate ice cream is in the box."
"What's your point, Ray?" Bodie asked innocently.
Doyle took a deep breath. "How did Ironhorse give you that scar?"
Bodie smiled. "Chocolate, is it?"
"Bodie," Doyle threatened.
With a crooked smile, Bodie relented, leaning back in the chair and taking another sip of the drink.
"That bad?" Doyle questioned, worry at stirring up old pains clear in his voice.
"No," Bodie shook his head. "No worse than any other time you think you've snuffed it." He helped himself to more of the amber liquor. "How much do you know about the Rhodesian crisis around 1976-77?"
"Not a lot," Doyle admitted.
"Neither did I," Bodie started, "until our SAS squad leader informed us that we were going in on a hush-hush to sneak an official out."
"It looked like an easy setup - airstrip was three miles from the compound along a paved road. The rebels were closing in but intelligence put them 10 - 12 clicks away. We would jump in, round up the dignitaries, and meet the drop plane at the runway."
His voice dropped. "Things went to hell from the start. The rebels that were supposed to be ten miles away had the place surrounded. A para's worst nightmare is coming down through fire. By the time we hit the ground, we had..."
"...five dead, four wounded, three still on their feet, sir," Bodie reported briskly.
Lt. Bradley had his hand pressed against a slow-bleeding leg wound, looking very grim at Bodie's report.
The drop had been perfect, all the men coming down directly into the middle of the large, walled secured compound. But they had been cut to pieces long before they made the ground. The guards in the compound had carried the wounded into the huge colonial house. A tall white man with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes approached, followed by a distinguished-looking, older black man. Both men seemed unaffected at having a squad of bleeding SAS paratroopers in the sitting room.
"Commander," the black man spoke in beautifully fluid English. "I am Tacaci Xuite."
"Lt. Bradley, sir. You'll forgive me for not standing." Bradley's voice was hoarse under the pain.
"You want to tell us what the fuck happened out.."
"Bodie!" Bradley ordered. "My sergeant is a little upset right now. He's trying to figure out why rebels that were supposed to be ten miles away are on your front lawn."
"Believe me, sergeant, that is a question we have been asking ourselves for the past two days. We tried to get word out but our radio was destroyed." Xiute motioned toward the other man. "This is Dr. Sythme, he'll see to your wounded."
"Thank you. I have two that are bad off." The blonde commander pointed to the other side of the room. As the two men moved off he collapsed back with a sigh, gripping his leg.
"Damn black bastards," Bodie mumbled harshly. "Should just leave them to kill each other off."
Bradley ignored his remarks. "Get the radio."
"Yes, sir." Bodie went across to one of the bodies that had been dragged in along with the wounded. By the time he came back, he had the unit unsheathed and ready. He also had a first aid kit in his hand.
"Looks okay, sir."
Bradley checked his watch. "Call the plane. Cancel the pickup. Arrange another contact for further instructions. Keep it short."
"Yes, sir."
Bodie did as instructed then moved to bandage his commander's leg. Xiute joined them and began to discuss the situation with the lieutenant. Bodie wasn't listening. The situation was obvious; there were three men and a dozen hired guards with a rebel force just outside the gates. They had known when they jumped in that they were on their own. The guards would cut out once the rebels gained enough strength; in a worse case, they might even join them. For now, they would fool themselves into thinking that someone would come to their rescue.
By the next morning, three of the guards had deserted but the rebels hadn't moved any closer. At 0600 a reply to their first call came through; Bradley took the radio and limped into another room to take the message. When he came out minutes later, his expression was carefully controlled.
"We'll have to spread the guards further apart to cover the spots left open by the deserters."
"Already done, sir," Bodie told him. He studied his commander. "They're not going to send help, are they?"
Ice blue met Bodie's midnight gaze. "There's a frigate in the Madagascar Sea but the earliest they can get a team together and get here is four days. We're on our own until then."
There wasn't anything to say; Bodie went to his post. It was going to be a long, long night.
Hunting calls and death cries echoed out of the night. Bodie was sitting a few yards from a section where the stone wall had been replaced by a hastily erected wooden barricade; the walls seemed close and oppressive. He wiped the sweat off his face. As a merc and even as a 'peacekeeper' in Dublin he had never been in a situation where he was virtually trapped. He had a sudden, quickly stifled touch of claustrophobia. On his own, he would have been able to get out. As a merc there had been units that he would have felt no qualms about leaving, even in a spot like this. With a rueful smile, he admitted the disadvantage of being honor-bound to a unit.
Something tapped against a tree. Bodie's weapon came up. A shadow flickered then was gone. His hold on the machine gun tightened; he crouched lower, knowing the dim light from the house made him a target.
"I won't shoot if you won't," a deep rough voice carried out of the dark.
Bodie went belly down against the ground, gun lining up on the voice. He commanded, "Identify yourself!"
The American-accented voice drifted out of a different place in the darkness. "Lt. Bradley will have gotten a call by now. Ask him the password."
"Step out where I can see you." There was no reply. "I said..."
"I heard you." The man had moved again. "Call Bradley."
The tone in the voice left no doubt in Bodie's mind that he was dealing with a soldier. It was possible that the British government, rather than risk losing Xiute, had been forced to contact some local mercenaries.
Bodie unstrapped his walkie/talkie and spoke softly into it. After a minute he asked quietly, "Password?"
"Bureaucracy."
Bodie stood, weapon ready. "Come a head slowly."
A slender shadow detached itself from the rest of the jungle. The man was no fool, keeping his hands out and away from the compact machine pistol which rested under his shoulder. He was dressed completely in black.
"So," Bodie commented drily, "you're the seventh cavalry come to rescue us, are you?"
"Hardly." He stepped into the light, black eyes glowing with amusement. "I'm Captain Ironhorse."
While Bodie was relieved at having reinforcements, his ego and national pride had taken a swift kick at being rescued by an American unit. It didn't help that he was unimpressed with the unit. He felt reasonably sure that he could take the captain without working up a sweat. The man barely topped 5'10" and couldn't have weighed more than 170. To add to his irritation Ironhorse's second in command, Sergeant Farmer, was black. To make it worse, Bodie wasn't so sure he could take him.
But survival overrode pride. Bodie leaned forward over the table and watched Ironhorse outline their escape plan. Around the table Bradley, Xiute, several of the guards, and five members of the rescue team also sat in close attention.
"It's very straightforward, gentlemen." Ironhorse stated in clipped, military tones. "I have six men currently inside this compound, twelve outside securing a route from here through to the airstrip. At 1000 tomorrow there will be a transport plane waiting there."
"Oh, and we're just going to waltz over to it?" Bodie demanded, conscious of Bradley's sharp look.
Ironhorse ignored him. "Four of my men along with any volunteers from your unit will act as decoys to any remaining rebels in the area. We'll go out first, the others will wait an hour then head for the plane. There will be a separate pickup by chopper for the decoy unit." He pointed to the map laid out on the table. "Here."
"You can't land a chopper in there..."
"Sargent Bodie," Ironhorse said sharply through clenched teeth. "I tolerated one interruption from you because you're not in my unit. I will not tolerate another. One more remark and I will send you out of here with the civilians - unarmed. Is that understood?"
Bodie's jaw snapped shut. He glanced toward Bradley but it was clear from the lieutenant's expression that he was not going to interfere. Ironhorse continued to stare at Bodie.
In a low icy voice, Bodie said, "Yes, sir."
There was a moment of tense silence before one of the guards spoke softly to Xiute. The official looked worriedly at the man, then hesitantly asked Ironhorse. "My men would like to know what will happen to them and their families? Will there be room for all of them?"
For the merest second Ironhorse's face seemed touched with memory before filling with determination. "Tell your men, sir, that everyone goes. But remind them that it will be dangerous."
"Much less dangerous than staying here," Xiute explained.
"The first unit will leave at 0600; the civilians at 0700. That gives them two hours to get to the landing strip, even with the wounded that should be enough time. Pickup for the decoys will be at 1000. That means playing with them for four hours." There was a feral look in the dark eyes. "Are there any questions?"
"Yes, sir," Bodie spoke up. "If the civilians are going through the jungle to the airstrip, where are the decoys going?"
"Along the road," Ironhorse said evenly.
"That's suicide."
"No," the American corrected. "That's being a good decoy."
Bradley stood, leaning on a teak cane that Xuite had given him. "Bodie, explain to Miles and Downer the mission. It's up to them which unit they go with. If they go with Captain Ironhorse, make sure they understand that they are under his command."
"Yes, sir," Bodie met the other man's gaze across the table. "I'll be going with the decoy unit, sir." With a cool smile, he added, "I've always wanted to see how the Yanks do it."
Bodie caught a quick glint of challenge in Ironhorse's ebony eyes. "Accepted."
They were suddenly back to the part of any mission that Bodie hated -waiting.
Shots ripped out of the darkness, yanking Bodie out of the doze he'd managed on the floor of the sitting room. Grabbing his weapon, he rolled toward the window, peered out, trying to find the breach. Ironhorse was running across the lawn, Uzi throwing red tracers into the night. Two rebels went down near the wall. Two more stood up, aiming for the American. Bodie shot through the window just as the colonel hit the ground. Both remaining rebels went down. Ironhorse rolled up, shouting orders to secure the perimeter. Silence fell over the grounds. Bodie sat back, wondering how many men they had lost.
"Down!"
Bodie hit the floor, spinning away from the window. The front of the room exploded, showering him with shrapnel and glass. He kept his head down for a long time after the echoes stopped. A hand touched his shoulder.
"Hey, you okay?"
He looked up at Sergeant Farmer. Shrugging off the help, he growled, "Get your hands off me, spade."
Surprise, followed closely by anger hit the dark face. The man smiled, very slowly and the slightest bit of fear touched Bodie. Farmer grabbed his coat, yanked him to his feet then walked away, laughing softly.
"I wouldn't do that again, if I were you," Ironhorse said from outside what was left of the window.
Bodie's mouth narrowed. "I don't care what you think..."
"I think," Ironhorse interrupted smoothly, "the last man to call him nigger accidentally fell out of a chopper." He casually climbed in through the ruined wall. "Fortunately, we were only fifteen feet up."
Bradley limped to them, followed by Miles. "McNicols is dead. Probably had been and no one noticed yet."
Bodie clasp his hands behind his back, silently making another mark against getting too close to teammates.
"We'll bury him out back," Bradley said softly. "See to it, Miles."
The para moved away quietly. Ironhorse glanced at Bradley, said intently, "I'm sorry about your man, Lieutenant. Be assured that we'll do all we can to prevent it from happening again."
"Thank you, Captain."
The dark eyes touched Bodie with an offer of sympathy but Bodie only hardened his look, expression closed. Ironhorse regarded him briefly then moved to check the perimeter. Rubbing tired eyes Bodie glanced at his watch, just after 0200. Five hours until he followed the decoy unit out. He scouted around for another place to lie, a little further from the windows.
The paint felt hot and sticky as Bodie smeared it in parallel lines across his cheekbones. He hated grease paint, it got up his nose and he would smell the stuff for days afterward. With a frown, he wondered if he would have a day after.
The wounded were tied to makeshift stretchers, including Bradley, who knew better than to slow the group down by trying to walk. Downer had chosen to go with the civilians, leaving Bodie and Miles to accompany the decoys. Bodie glanced at the Americans; Ironhorse was carefully painting diagonal lines down his dark face. For a brief moment, Bodie had a vision of facing such painted warriors and felt a touch of sympathy toward the cavalry. The black strips added menace to an already hard face.
Bradley regarded his men, saluted. "Try to make a good showing, lads." As they moved away he added softly, "Good luck."
Ironhorse and his sergeant stood near the door; Farmer's large presence making the captain seem even slimmer.
"Gentlemen, you're more familiar with this part of the world than we are." Ironhorse asked, "What can we expect in the way of arms and traps?"
"Pistols, rifles, a rare machine gun or two. Maybe some grenades. But they'll be careful with their ammo." Bodie paused, thinking about the past two days. "This is probably a small, fast-moving group sent to hold us until reinforcements arrive."
Ironhorse nodded. "Agreed."
"So, they won't have had time to lay down too much in the way of boobies. Trip wires with grenades, snares, maybe a few stakes."
Farmer smiled. "Could go through that blindfolded, Captain."
Ironhorse clasp his hands behind his back. He looked toward the gathered group. Along with Smythe and Xiute's families, there were eight guards and their families -a group of twenty-nine civilians and two wounded SAS all guarded by Ironhorse's fourteen men.
"Sergeant Farmer, you're in command. It's your responsibility to get all these people to that plane, is that understood?"
Farmer snapped to attention, saluted. "Yes, sir!" Two pair of black eyes met. The big man added quietly, "No Saigons this time, Captain."
Bodie's eyebrow shot up. His opinion of the American unit took a reluctant step up as he realized that Ironhorse and his men were not unblooded.
Ironhorse saluted. "Very good, Sergeant."
As the sergeant moved away Ironhorse turned to the British paras. "I want complete silence when we move out. I don't want the rebels knowing we're there until I'm ready. When I give the signal we make as much noise as we can; enough to make them think that we're all out of here. The second unit will leave after the rebels have followed us."
Bodie stood in an at-ease position. "Will we be working solo, sir?"
"Pairs. Miles with Raimerez, Jones and Hillyard, Bodie with me. Six feet between partners, ten yards between teams." He glanced at his watch. "We move in five."
Bodie nodded, understanding the teaming of a para with an American; they would not know the signals the unit would be using otherwise. Ironhorse strapped the radio over his shoulder as the others checked their equipment. Farmer stood near the door, stopping him as he started out.
"1000 hours, Captain. Don't be brain-cramping on me now."
A flash of a smile, gone before Bodie was sure he saw it, appeared on the lean face. "Don't worry, Sergeant, we'll be there."
With a glare toward Bodie, Farmer said, "Ain't 'we,' I'm worried about."
Ironhorse motioned to the completely American team. They moved into the night and the jungle swallowed them up. The others followed. Their object now to get away from the compound before being spotted or heard.
Bodie moved effortlessly through the sparse undergrowth, just behind and to the side of the shadow that was Ironhorse. Being close to the house some of the vegetation had been cleared but in the thick trees, it was black as pitch. The unit was spread out in a rough semi-circle, not a sound giving them away. Bodie couldn't see his watch but Ironhorse suddenly raised his hand and emitted a low, broken whistle. Bodie joined the captain as they crouched in the brush.
"Ready?" Ironhorse whispered.
"I was born ready," Bodie said in a surprisingly good John Wayne impression. His effort was rewarded with a hard, military glare. "Ready, sir," he replied almost meekly.
With a barking sound Ironhorse signaled them to move out again, the road a half mile ahead of them. The difference was startling, the jungle silence shattered with men deliberately trying to be quiet. Boots cracked against downed branches, canteens banged against trees, guns scraped brushes. Ironhorse rose and Bodie followed, feeling his nerves tightening. They were easy, tempting targets now and the only thing he could hope was that the first bullet would miss.
They had moved barely fifty yards when the first shot split the evening, sending birds screeching into the star-filled sky. The night came alive with fire. Ironhorse whistled shrilly twice and without returning fire the unit began to race parallel along the road. The shooting around them grew heavier. Bodie stuck close to the captain, knowing if he lost him in the dark it would be impossible to find him again. More whistles.
"Down!" Ironhorse barked.
They hit the ground, still not shooting back. Bodie looked questioningly at the dark face near his. His finger tightened on the trigger.
"Is it all right to shoot back now, sir?" Sarcasm was thick in his voice.
"No."
The captain moved, springing up, sprinting away. Bodie cursed silently and followed. Then he recognized the pattern. The teams were taking turns, one pair laying down fire while the others gained more ground. It made it seem that the unit was much larger than it was. Ironhorse knew his stuff but there were two things wrong with the plan. It put them into a running battle for as long as they could hold out and it had them running in the opposite direction from the helicopter landing site.
Ironhorse went down on his knees, said calmly, "Now, Bodie."
With a sigh of relief, Bodie opened fire toward where the last volley of shots had come from. None of them would ever know if they had hit anything or not but the recoil of the rifle in his hands made him feel better. There was the sound of running behind them, more firing, more movement.
"Go!" Ironhorse urged.
The moves blended into a long, tortuous journey of running and firing, of heat from too-close bullets, of new clips and diamond flashes in the blackness. Bodie kept a close watch on his temporary commander, beginning to wonder about the man's sanity. He held his comments and an eternity later there was another series of shrill whistles.
Crouching next to Bodie, Ironhorse smiled like a wolf. "Now, we go home."
Once again he led the way in complete silence. Shots and shouts carried from behind them as the rebels continued in the direction the fight had been taking. Ahead of him Ironhorse picked up the pace, using the fire to cover any noise made by their faster movements. Bodie began to jog.
Something snagged his boot and he knew a split second before the arrow hit him what had happened. An involuntary cry escaped him as fire buried into his left shoulder. He hit the damp ground face down, the wind knocked out of him. He struggled to rise but a strong pair of hands on his shoulders held him down.
"Stay!" The command was laced with surprise and worry. "Deep breaths." Bodie did as told, trying to get his panic under control. "It's an arrow, hooked to a tether," Ironhorse said in puzzlement.
"Bloody hell," Bodie looked sideways, up into the black eyes. "Animal snare."
The fear in Bodie's eyes reached Ironhorse. "Is it poisoned?"
Bodie blinked, not hearing the question, shock dragging him down into darkness. The hands on his shoulders shook him, hard.
"Bodie! I need to know. Is the arrow tipped?"
"Yeh, snake venom," Bodie managed. "And barbed."
A hissing breath from the man crouched next to him then the whisper of metal against leather. Bodie's eyes widened as a large, burnished knife came out of Ironhorse's boot. He turned away. He had seen men die of this poison; Ironhorse was doing him a favor. A hand touched his throat and the darkness claimed him.
The crawl back to consciousness was slow and it took Bodie a long time to decide if it was worth it. He hovered at the edge, letting memories and sensations come back gradually. Pain was the first thing that hit him, centered in his shoulder and radiating out. He was face down, stripped to the waist and wrapped in several thick quilts. Curiosity brought him the final steps into the light. He groaned and a hand covered his mouth.
"Don't move and be quiet."
The rough American voice brought the last memories. Bodie forced his eyes open and squinted up at Captain Ironhorse. Seeing that he was fully aware the hand slipped away.
"Where?" Bodie questioned hoarsely.
"The compound," Ironhorse told him in a soft voice. "We circled back. The rebels have already been and gone."
That seemed like a good idea. If the rebels had already stripped the place there wasn't any reason for them to come back. Moving slowly and carefully Bodie raised his head and looked around. It was a small brick-lined room, splintered boards and shattered bottles covering the floor. They were behind a row of broken wood shelving. There was a strong smell in the air but Bodie was too dazed at the moment to recognize it. Ironhorse sensed his confusion.
"Wine cellar."
"How did we..." Pain ripped through Bodie's shoulder and he let his head fall forward.
"I carried you," Ironhorse explained quietly.
Deep blue eyes reflected Bodie's surprise. Ironhorse's mouth curved up on the right, black eyes catching the sunlight. "Don't look so surprised, soldier."
"Sorry, sir," Bodie said respectfully, reminding himself that Ironhorse had saved his life.
Sunlight? Bodie raised his head again, staring up at a small window set high in the wall. There was bright light coming in. He groaned again.
"Missed the... meet?"
"How do you feel?" Ironhorse asked instead of answering.
A flip answer died on Bodie's lips. The man needed an honest answer if he were going to get them out of this. And Bodie had no doubt from the way he felt that most of the work would be up to Ironhorse.
"Thirsty, dizzy and in pain." His voice was stronger. "And why aren't I dead?"
"Anti-venom. It's standard issue in a jungle kit. I got the barb out as fast as I could so I don't think you got much of the shit." With a look of sympathy, Ironhorse added, "I did have to cut into your shoulder."
Anger and fear over the possible damage made Bodie take a short breath but the fact that he was alive overrode both emotions. "You didn't answer my question. Sir. Where are the others?"
"I sent the others to the pickup, which we missed. You've been out almost ten hours." Without elaborating on their problem he asked, "Can you sit up? It'll be easier to drink that way. And I need to strap your shoulder down so we can move when we have to."
"Move where?" Bodie demanded, struggling to throw off the quilts, trying to rise, the room swam around him.
A strong hand went under his good shoulder. "Try again."
With a determined effort Bodie pushed himself up, light wavered around the edges of his sight. He blinked rapidly, letting Ironhorse turn him so that his back was against the solid wall.
"Deep breaths?" Bodie questioned.
A flash of humor. "Deep breaths." Ironhorse started unrolling two strong elastic bandages from his field kit.
Bodie frowned, realizing that Ironhorse was almost as good as he was at avoiding a direct question. But whereas he would make some black joke, Ironhorse simply ignored it. "Where are we going, sir?" he asked very politely.
"Sgt. Farmer will be back just after dawn." He regarded Bodie's arm for a second, then said, "We'd better put this over your shirt. Running through the jungle could get awkward without a shirt."
The room was spinning again, and Bodie nodded vaguely, suddenly finding himself drenched with sweat. He closed his eyes against the dizziness. A hand touched the back of his head.
"Come on, Sergeant," a surprisingly gentle voice urged. "Slowly."
Metal touched his lips, followed by tepid water. He took two greedy swallows and it was gone. A tap on his arm made him open his eyes. Ironhorse was sitting directly in front of him, a shirt in his hands.
"Put your good hand on my shoulder and lean forward," he ordered calmly.
Bodie did as told, too sick to argue. As quickly as possible the other man maneuvered him into the shirt. The bandage went around his chest, anchoring the wounded arm to his side. To Bodie's relief the pain lessened once the arm was supported. He sighed, leaning back against the wall.
"More water?" Ironhorse asked.
"Yeh."
A few more swallows then Ironhorse was easing him down toward the quilts, rolling him onto his good side. He pushed several quilts under Bodie's back to keep him still. Bodie started to protest but was cut off by a huge yawn.
"Try to rest," Ironhorse urged. "It's a long time till morning."
"You're sure he'll be here?" Bodie questioned.
"It's a game we've played before." There was no humor this time, just facts. "Farmer will deliver the civilians and report us stranded. He will request a return mission which will be denied. In the meanwhile, someone will let slip that an unassigned helicopter might just need fueling. Sometime later that helicopter will be unaccounted for."
In a slurred voice, Bodie asked, "How will he know where to find us?"
"I radioed him before they were out of range. Don't worry," Ironhorse informed him. "Farmer's never missed a pick-up."
Bodie let his eyes close. Rescued by a spade, the other's in the unit would never let him forget it. He forced his eyes open again to find Ironhorse watching him. The obsidian eyes were cold.
"Is it just blacks that you hate? Or does your prejudice extend to all minorities?" he asked levelly.
Glaring back, Bodie said harshly, "Pardon, sir, but it's none of your damn business."
"I stand corrected. It's not." Ironhorse turned away for a moment, turned back with a small can in his hand. "Feel like some food?" He waved the k-ration under Bodie's nose.
"No, thank you," Bodie drew back from the small can, swallowing against the nausea.
A soft smile was the last thing Bodie saw before he drifted off.
A hand over his mouth and a solid shake at his shoulder brought Bodie around. For a second he was confused; he thought he had his eyes open but it was still dark. Very slowly he became aware of the sparse starlight in the narrow window.
"We have company," Ironhorse said softly.
Before Bodie could respond Ironhorse practically picked him up and propped him against the wall. He put a gun into Bodie's unsteady right hand. Squinting in the dark, Bodie saw it was a modified semi-auto rifle, a silencer extending its length.
The captain took a deep breath. "I'm going out. Try not to shoot me when I come back. I'll give you two whistles."
"Got it." Bodie's eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he watched the other man move toward the door. "Do be back, Captain," he whispered, "I don't fancy spending my sick leave on this floor."
There was no response, only an imperceptible brush of cloth, and the faint flicker of starlight on Ironhorse's knife.
The cellar was silent; the thick, reinforced walls cutting out the constant calliope of jungle sounds. It was unnerving; Bodie wouldn't know what was going on until the door opened. Long minutes went by as he fought to keep his head clear, letting his fingers draw strength from the warm metal.
There was a sound outside the door and Bodie brought the light rifle shakily up one-handed. The door inched open, scraping against broken glass, the muzzle of a rifle edging through. Bodie shifted silently, bending his knee up and resting the barrel of the gun on it. A dark figure, barely visible in mottled fatigues, froze at the door and scanned the room.
The rebel stepped in and Bodie's finger caressed the trigger once, the single round caught the man dead center in the forehead. The body was thrown back but instead of crashing among the debris strong arms caught it from behind. Bodie's finger tightened again, waiting for a clear shot.
"Sergeant," Ironhorse said firmly, "I'd appreciate it if you'd take your finger off that trigger."
Bodie relaxed, letting the weapon drop into his lap. "How many?"
"Only two. I took care of the other one. Nice shooting," Ironhorse observed. He was a little breathless and with a grunt lifted the body and tossed it into the corner, shoving debris over it.
He stepped over the scattered wood and glass, slid slowly down the wall to join Bodie on the floor. He wiped the large knife on his pants leg. "How do you feel?"
Bodie had to think about the question. The dizziness was still there though not as bad but his shoulder was throbbing and it seemed hotter in the small room than it should have. He let his eyes drifted shut. "Not as dizzy."
Ironhorse sheathed his knife and glanced at his watch. "Won't be much longer, half hour, maybe an hour."
The weariness was evident in his voice and Bodie realized that the man probably hadn't had any sleep since the two hours he'd grabbed before the mission had started. He would be running on adrenaline now, holding out for the help he was sure was coming. Bodie thought briefly of volunteering to keep watch but knew it was a foolish thought. He was in no shape for it and would only endanger both of them.
"Thirsty?" Ironhorse questioned.
Bodie nodded, eyes still closed. The canteen touched his lips and his hand came up to steady it, brushed metal on Ironhorse's hand. Bodie focused on the small gold ring.
"College?" he asked, wanting to take his mind off the heat and pain.
"West Point." At Bodie's startled look, Ironhorse's eyebrow went up. "They do let us off the reservation for more than just fighting."
"What tribe are you from?"
"Cherokee," Ironhorse saw the slight flicker of recognition. "Do you know anything about Native Americans?"
"Only what I learned in the movies." Bodie smiled. The smile took some of the pain off his face.
"That was probably very informative," Ironhorse said flatly.
"West Point," Bodie mused quietly. He studied the profile of the man beside him. "You've been in all your life then."
Ironhorse nodded. "The Point, stateside, 'Nam... other places, Saigon."
Since joining the paras Bodie had often used tales of his life of adventure and misadventure to impress the other recruits; while they were frequently his age, none of them had his experience. The tales had been light, glossy, slick, never revealing the pain beneath them. Only with a few of the older officers, men who had been in Dublin, who knew what it was like to fight an unseen enemy, men who had been in other jungles, had he been able to talk.
He had never been to Vietnam, didn't know anyone who had fought there but he knew the look that followed a man out of jungle hells.
"I was in Biafra," he volunteered suddenly.
Ironhorse took a slow breath, dark eyes meeting Bodie's. "I've seen pictures."
"Same here." he said quietly.
There was a long, more comfortable silence.
"I didn't know the British army was in Biafra?" Ironhorse commented.
"Private hire," Bodie explained.
"Merc? Never had much use for mercs," Ironhorse said conversationally.
"Me neither, always fighting in jungles," Bodie quipped.
"All wars are fought in jungles," Ironhorse said softly.
Bodie shook his head. "Not always. I was in Belfast."
"May have looked civilized," Ironhorse explained. "But it was just another jungle."
Bodie's eyes kept trying to close, thoughts drifting away from the too-serious conversation. "Bloody shame they had to smash all the wine."
Ironhorse smiled at him, a quick flash of white against the dark skin. "Just what I need, a wounded drunk."
Before Bodie could think of a suitable comeback the radio near Ironhorse's hand crackled.
"Red Rider to Little Beaver. Red Rider to Little Beaver."
Bodie felt Ironhorse grimace.
"Farmer's going to pay for that one," he promised. Picking up the radio he pushed down the switch, biting off each word of his reply. "Little Beaver to Red Rider, reading you. Go ahead. Roger."
"Good morning, Captain." Farmer's deep voice said cheerfully. "ETA eight minutes. Copy? Over."
"Copy. Location? Over." Ironhorse replied crisply.
"Where else, sir, the front lawn. Warning, Little Beaver, homeboys in the area. This will be a dust-off. Over."
"Roger, Red Rider. We are moving. Over." Ironhorse clicked off the radio; slinging it over his shoulder. He took a quick glance at the field kit before kicking it away. Flipping the special rifle over the same shoulder, he picked up Bodie's regular issue weapon.
"Time to get the hell out of Dodge, Sergeant." Ironhorse leaned down, slid an arm around Bodie's waist.
Not understanding the reference, Bodie nevertheless agree with the attitude. Thinking each move through carefully he struggled to his feet. Pain lanced down from his shoulder, knocking his legs out from under him. Ironhorse took his weight, kept him up until the worst subsided and he regained his balance.
"Okay?" Ironhorse questioned. "Can you handle a gun?"
Bodie nodded, saving his breath. Ironhorse put his pistol in his good hand. They inched up the stairs, stopping just inside the door. Bodie leaned against the wall while Ironhorse stepped up and scanned the first floor. He grabbed Bodie, sprinted them across the now devastated room and eased them both down in almost the same position behind the destroyed window that they had held thirty-six hours before. Bodie blinked at the streaks of dawn barely visible through the green canopy. The heavy staccato of chopper blades filled the night.
"Never had to do this," the Britisher admitted reluctantly. "In the mercs when a fight went bad, you got out the best way you could." He was breathless after the short run, spots dancing in front of his vision.
"Piece of cake, Mr. Bodie. We stay together; you spray in one direction, I'll take the other. Don't try to hit anything, just keep 'em ducking."
The chopper came in at tree level, paused then started down. As it did Ironhorse put his arm around Bodie's waist, trapping the injured arm and tugging him toward the open area. Shots rattled out of the morning the minute they moved off the wide porch. Each stride jarred Bodie's shoulder, sent fire through his body. He clung to the edges of consciousness, instinctively raising the rifle and letting loose a round into the partially destroyed wall. Ironhorse's gun echoed his. The chopper loomed fifteen yards ahead of them, twenty feet up. Shots bounced off its plate metal, throwing sparks into the air.
The distance narrowed agonizingly slowly. The chopper was only feet off the ground now, drawing fire. The side door slid open and Farmer waved frantically, shouting at them; the blades whipped his words away. Shots chewed up the ground around them. Five yards separated them from safety.
There was a grunt of pained surprise and Bodie's support disappeared as Ironhorse folded up. They hit the ground hard, the impact blanking out Bodie's sight for a second. Boots appeared in front of him and he again looked up at Sergeant Farmer. Bodie watched helplessly, unable to gain his feet, as Farmer pulled Ironhorse up, carried him the last few feet to the hovering chopper and laid him in. Cursing silently, Bodie let his forehead drop to the damp ground. Someone grabbed him by the belt and hauled him roughly into the chopper, dropping him on the hot metal floor. It took everything Bodie had to fight the darkness that threatened him, to control the pain screaming along his nerves.
"Go! Go! Go!" Farmer screamed as he slammed the door shut, bullets clanging hollowly against the outside. The chopper climbed skyward.
Fighting the wave of nausea the shaky ride started in the pit of his stomach Bodie crawled to where Farmer was searching for a pulse at Ironhorse's throat. Blood colored one side of the lean face, the skin beneath pale.
"How is he?" Bodie screamed over the roar of the engine.
Farmer cast him an icy glare, softening it a little when he saw the real concern on Bodie's face. Before he could answer Ironhorse groaned, black eyes opening, squinting against the pain.
"Report, Sergeant," he whispered.
Farmer laughed heartily. "We done blown that taco stand, Captain."
Ironhorse looked at Bodie. Bodie smiled. "Piece of cake, sir."
Sighing, eyes drifting closed, Ironhorse said, "Speak for yourself, paleface."
Doyle chuckled. "He called you that?"
Bodie very solemnly raised his hand. "Scout's honor. Every word is true."
"You're a bastard, Bodie." Doyle's tone was serious but there was a soft twinkle in the green eyes. "Here I was ready to beat the hell out of Ironhorse, thinking he gave you that scar on purpose and what he did was save your sodden life."
Bodie reached for the last of his malt and said seriously, "Should thank him for more than that, mate."
At Doyle's confused look, Bodie smiled ruefully. "I was prejudiced against more than just blacks then," he admitted. "I also figured that being bigger made it easier to push people around. Ironhorse proved to me that smaller could be just as nasty as I was."
Understanding what he was being told, Doyle smiled. "You mean you would have been an even bigger bastard when we first met than you were? I find that hard to believe."
Bodie stood and ruffled Doyle's curls. "See you in the morning, sunshine."
The phone rang a little after 0400. "Bodie," he answered groggily.
"Ironhorse. The terrorists are on the move. We'll be at your location in one hour. Briefing will be on the road. Your partner is on his way." The phone clicked off.
Cursing American terrorists, British winters and gung-ho colonels the world over, Bodie dragged himself out of bed. Twenty-seven minutes later, he answered the buzzer and let Doyle in.
"Good morning," he mumbled around a mouth full of toast and jam.
Doyle only groaned, helped himself to the last piece of toast. "Why do villains always fancy early morning work?" he complained.
Conveniently forgetting his own earlier displeasure, Bodie patted the curls. "Poor golli. Starting to feel your age?"
"Sod off, Bodie."
The buzzer cut off Bodie's reply. He hauled Doyle up and shoved him toward the door. "Balloons gone up, 4.5. Let's go see what Geronimo has for us."
"Bet you won't call him that," Doyle remarked lowly.
Bodie slid into his heavy coat and they opened the door to find Ironhorse standing impatiently in front of them. His long black coat was speckled with snowflakes and white decorated his raven hair. There was an adrenaline-fueled glitter in the black eyes. Beside him Bodie heard Doyle take a short breath and had to admit that in the harsh street light the colonel looked ready - and heaven help anyone in his way.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said quickly. Handing the keys to the Land Rover double parked in front of the flat to Doyle he continued crisply. "Our target is twenty klics north-west of Summertown. We have a tracker in the truck."
He spun away without another word. The two British partners exchanged quick looks. Bodie shrugged; Doyle smiled and they followed.
Doyle slid into the front next to Dr. Blackwood, who was asleep in the seat. Bodie and Ironhorse took the back. Doyle gunned the motor and they were off.
"How long will it take?" Ironhorse questioned.
"We're before any traffic." Bodie guessed, "Forty minutes."
"How about some details on this, Colonel?" Doyle requested. The impatient energy the colonel was giving off was making him anxious to know what they were in for.
"We'll wait for Blackwood," Ironhorse said levelly. He glanced at his watch. "He'll be awake in about eight minutes."
Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks in the mirror; both wondering what kind of operation they were involved with. Eight minutes later Blackwood sat up, instantly awake.
"How are we doing, Colonel?" he questioned.
"About half an hour."
Blackwood slid a briefcase out from under the seat and flipped it open. There as a laptop computer inside and after a few minutes of typing a map with two small blue dots, one moving, appeared on the screen.
"Pull over," Blackwood ordered. "We need to figure out what we're up against."
Doyle slowed, pulled up against a snow-covered hedge row. Everyone leaned over to look at the small screen.
"What map are you using?" Ironhorse questioned.
"Standard road map," Blackwood pushed a few buttons and the two lights were overlaid with a different schematic, only one red dot showed on it, no where near the other dots. Blackwood met Ironhorse's questioning gaze. "Dumpsites, Colonel."
"Doesn't match," Bodie observed, not really knowing what he was looking at.
"Radiation sites?" Ironhorse wondered.
Another map, another non-match.
"Chemical?" Ironhorse tried again.
Blackwood didn't seem to hear him; he was staring out the front window into the pre-dawn dark countryside. Without a word, he reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small tuning fork. Rapping it sharply against the dashboard, he closed his eyes and moved it slowly passed his ear.
"What the hell..." Bodie started.
"Quiet." Ironhorse's soft voice would have cut plate steel.
Blackwood's eyes popped open and he clutched the fork to silence it. He leaned forward and typed in another code. A new electronic map appeared, a bright red area encircled one dot.
Blue-gray met anxious black. "Battle site, Colonel."
"A war machine?" Ironhorse guessed.
Blackwood nodded. "Or parts of it."
"Oh, Christ."
The tone in Ironhorse's voice chilled Bodie's blood. "Colonel, what is..."
He was ignored as Ironhorse leaned over the front seat. "Overlay the road map, Harrison. Let's go, Mr. Doyle."
Twenty minutes later they pulled to a stop a half mile from where the blue dot was highlighted in red. Ironhorse sprang out, ran around to the back of the Rover, dropped the gate and tugged out a weapons locker. The two Britishers joined him, whistling softly at the impressive array of weapons and explosives. In front Blackwood continued tapping the computer.
"Check these," Ironhorse ordered, handing over three Uzi's, clips and extra hand guns.
"We are already armed, Colonel," Doyle reminded him coolly.
"I know that," Ironhorse answered absently, loading a flare gun.
Blackwood joined them, carrying the small computer. At his approach, Bodie held one of the automatics he had just finished checking toward the scientist. Ironhorse intercepted the weapon, placing it back in the box. Bodie caught the fleeting look of gratitude from Blackwood to Ironhorse.
Ironhorse stepped aside and let the doctor sit the computer on the tailgate. Blackwood gestured toward the color-plasma screen. Waves of lines covered the last map he had used.
"This is a topographical shot of the area we're going in," he pointed out. "What the group is after is probably buried in this section, here in this small gully."
"What are they after?" Bodie questioned. "What is a 'war machine'?"
Before either American could answer, Doyle said, "The 1953 invasion. That's what they called the invaders ships."
Blackwood's head snapped up. "What do you know about it? Do you remember..."
"I don't remember anything," Doyle corrected. "But in art school I ran across some reports and information while researching artwork missing since 1953."
"The 1953 invasion! Bloody hell!" Bodie threw up his hands. "You've all gone round the twist! You're talking about something that never happened!"
Blackwood's face tightened, his eyes taking on a hard, righteous glint, fists clenched at his sides. "You may..."
"Harrison." Ironhorse laid a light hand on Blackwood's arm.
Blackwood glanced at Ironhorse then turned away. Ironhorse eyes were cool, level when he turned to Bodie.
"Mr. Bodie, you are not here to discuss the reality of the 1953 invasion. You are here to fight," he said in a completely military voice. "And that's exactly what I expect you to do."
Bodie had to resist the urge to come to attention. Doyle was looking like he did when Cowley dressed them down. Before either could recover enough to protest or question, Ironhorse turned and pulled out a box of grenades.
"Whatever happens on this mission has the highest classification, as per your Prime Minister. No one, not even your Mr. Cowley, is to know what happens from here on."
"We have been briefed on that," Bodie said in exasperation.
"Then understand this," Ironhorse's voice was commanding, compelling. "In this fight, there are only two rules - do not get close enough for hand to hand and there will be no prisoners."
"You're giving us orders to shoot on sight? Without even an attempt to capture them?" Doyle demanded harshly.
"I'm telling you," Ironhorse said through clenched teeth, "that you have never faced an enemy like this. Once we're engaged you'll see why."
Bodie stared at the Colonel, remembering the logical, no-nonsensical commander that had saved his life. But he wasn't ready to risk Doyle's life on a memory. Black and midnight blue met and gaged each other.
"You'll just have to trust us," Ironhorse said quietly.
Bodie broke the contact with the compelling eyes, met his partner's angry stare. Despite the glare, Doyle was silent, letting Bodie's past experiences lead them, even though what Ironhorse had ordered went against Doyle's training, beliefs and honor. Bodie let the answer show in his eyes. Doyle nodded.
"If there are any vehicles in the area they are to be stopped." Handing out small sets of headphones, Ironhorse continued, "The doctor and I will come in from the north, you two from the south. We'll reconnoiter the area then go on my order."
"Yes, sir," Bodie answered immediately.
Before they could move out Blackwood said softly, "You may not believe us about what this group is but stay out of their reach long enough for us to prove what we're saying." He smiled. "I have a feeling trying to explain your deaths to Mr. Cowley wouldn't be very easy."
"Move out," Ironhorse commanded.
Bodie and Doyle started off, hearing Blackwood quip, "You do Rambo so well, Colonel."
They had only gone a few yards into the cold night when Doyle grabbed Bodie's arm and pulled him to a stop. "What do you think?" he questioned.
"Me?" Bodie started. "I'm not the one that believes in aliens and a bloody invasion."
"I didn't say I believed," Doyle corrected. "Just that I had read about it. What I believe," he said firmly, "is that the good doctor is a complete nutter."
Bodie nodded. "No argument there, mate. But..."
"But?"
"I can't imagine Ironhorse believing in something without some very strong proof."
"Bodie," Doyle argued. "The man is telling us to go in there and shoot people without giving them a chance to surrender."
"I know damnit!" Bodie snapped. A crazed commander was a soldier's worst nightmare; heightening the already existing conflict between obeying orders and following conscience.
The headphones clicked. "Gentlemen?"
"Sir, we think..."
"I don't..."
Blackwood's voice cut off the angry reply, the radio clicked off for a minute. When Ironhorse came back there was a note of exasperation in his voice. "Very well, gentlemen. Watch my target."
Quick glances went between the partners. Doyle was obviously not pleased that Ironhorse was still going to open fire without a warning but nodded reluctantly. "Agreed, sir."
"One favor, guys," Blackwood voice came over the units. "Try to get over your shock as fast as possible. I don't want the colonel out there all by himself."
In silence, they moved to the edge of the ridge and stared down. The group they were after was working in the dry stream bed under several lights that had been hung from the bare trees. A large battered lorry filled most of the small gully; the back was open and light reflected off equipment inside. Something shiny and metallic was partially exposed under what looked like an old mudslide. Four men were visible around the perimeter; three were digging while three more stood by with their backs to each other, heads thrown back.
The lights were dim and Bodie wondered how the men working could see anything. The thing he noted right after the enemy positions and armaments was the strange diversity of the terrorists and the pale sickly quality about them visible from even his distance.
"What do you suppose those three are doing?" Doyle pointed to the trio.
Bodie shrugged, flicked on his headset, despite everything he smiled wickedly and said, "Lone Ranger to Tonto."
"Very funny, Mr. Bodie," Ironhorse answered coolly. Bodie could hear Blackwood chuckling quietly in the background. "That truck is not to go anywhere," Ironhorse ordered. "Once I open up, separate ten yards and hit 'em."
There was the solid pop of a flare gun and the area was showered with white/blue light. Ironhorse appeared on the edge of the gully, Uzi leveled. Shouts started below. The Uzi rattled, raking the area with bullets. The three that had been stationary jerked with impact. The diggers dropped their shovels, diving for cover and weapons. The perimeter guards opened fire but Ironhorse was gone, disappearing into the blinding darkness.
Bodie wasn't watching the colonel -he was staring at the bodies below. After the initial kick of impact the three had emitted a high-pitched, almost animal whine of pain, then they had melted, disappearing in a pile of smoking foam.
"Bloody hell," Bodie whispered in a combination of disbelief and fear. He looked at Doyle and saw a similar reaction etched across his suddenly pale face.
"Good God," Doyle said quietly.
Shouts filled the night. Bodie's head set clicked. "Move your asses!" Ironhorse shouted.
Jolted out of their shock and revulsion by the steely tone in Ironhorse's voice, both agents surged to their feet, separating and opening fire on the group below. The aliens that had been firing on Ironhorse were caught unaware as the Uzi's opened up behind them. They went down, foaming. Four more scrambled out of the lorry, flanking out and firing on all three men's positions.
There was the echo of another flare launched and in the new light, Bodie saw three aliens closing on Ironhorse from behind.
"Down, Colonel!"
Ironhorse hit the ground, tried to roll but the loose shale betrayed him. The side of the bank gave way, rocks and brushes dropping into the gully, taking Ironhorse with it. Bodie fired, taking down the aliens in one sweep.
"Paul!" Blackwood shot over the edge, sliding down the loose slope, obvious to the bullets around him.
Someone gunned the lorry's engine. Below him, Bodie watched Blackwood drag Ironhorse into the rocks. The lorry started to move, slowly creeping forward over the uneven ground.
"Blow that truck!" Blackwood commanded crisply over the headsets.
Bodie grabbed for a grenade, realizing as he did that the Americans were too close. Blowing the truck in the confining walls of the gully would probably kill both of them. No, Bodie corrected, Blackwood would cover Ironhorse. The lorry was creeping steadily forward, several of the aliens grabbing onto the sides. Once out of the gully, they would be on the road and harder to stop.
"Doyle..."
Doyle's high-powered rifle sounded over the engine's roar and Bodie's voice. The tires along one side disintegrated; the lorry sagged. The aliens were out immediately, firing on the CI5 agents. Bodie hit the ground, watching two of the aliens zig-zag toward the rocks hiding Ironhorse and Blackwood. He pushed up, only to be forced back down by a hail of bullets from below. Doyle took out the ones firing at Bodie but the other aliens reached the rocks.
"Cover me," Bodie shouted.
"I'm on it," Doyle assured him.
Bodie scrambled down the steep slope. Doyle's Uzi threw sparks against the lorry, holding back the last alien as Bodie sprinted across the few open yards and came into the boulders with weapon leveled. The scene in front of him froze the shout of horror in his throat.
One of the aliens, a grotesque third hand extending from its chest was holding Blackwood by the throat off the ground. Ironhorse lay nearby, stirring slowly, something dark and wet glistening on one leg. A pool of slime lay near his feet.
Training cut through Bodie's shock. He flipped the Uzi to single shot, fired once. The bullet knocked the alien sideways, breaking its grip on the doctor. Blackwood sank to his knees, hands going to his throat. The alien roared, still on its feet. Bodie flipped the switch again, holding the trigger down until the weapon clicked empty. In grim fascination, he watched the creature dissolve into foam.
"Bodie?!" Doyle's voice reached him over the set.
"It's okay. Stay there," Bodie said a little hoarsely.
Coming over Bodie pulled Blackwood to his feet, moving him back toward the colonel. Ironhorse had struggled to a sitting position, back against the cold granite, hands pressed over the slow bleeding gash in his leg. Bodie allowed Blackwood to slip out of his grasp to sit next to his teammate. All three men's breath colored the air in hard gasps.
"Harrison?" Ironhorse questioned.
"Okay," Blackwood said breathlessly. Taking a handkerchief out of Ironhorse pocket the doctor laid it over the wound and pressed his hand against it.
Bodie knelt next to the two men, casting a knowledgeable eye on Ironhorse's wound. "Got one anyway."
"No," Ironhorse winced. "Harrison got him."
Bodie glanced across at the tall doctor, two pair of blue eyes meeting. He wanted to ask how Blackwood had taken down the alien without a gun but Ironhorse spoke first.
"Report, Mr. Bodie," he requested.
Snapping a salute, Bodie said, "Situation under control, sir. All enemy accounted for and target secured."
"Doyle?" Ironhorse told him. "I've lost my set."
"Doyle, you there, mate?" Bodie spoke into the set.
"Where else would I be?"
"Situation?"
"I'm by the truck. Twelve... aliens dead. The truck is full of all kinds of mcguffies."
Bodie repeated the information as Blackwood finished his makeshift bandage.
"Well, Paul," Blackwood leaned back against the boulder next to Ironhorse. "In this doctor's opinion, you'll live."
He said it lightly but Bodie saw the fear and affection in the blue-gray eyes. Ironhorse's mouth curled slightly up in his rare smile.
"You're an astrophysicist, Harrison, not an MD."
"I know," Blackwood agreed. "That's why we need to get you to a hospital."
"Neatly done, Doctor," Bodie commented, smiling at the out-maneuvered colonel.
"I'm going to get the Rover," Blackwood told them. "Once you're patched up I want to arrange transport for whatever is in that truck and anything else buried in the area." He patted Ironhorse's leg. "Be a good boy and don't move."
He went to stand, only to be held back by a firm hand on his arm. "You're not going anywhere alone, Harrison." Ironhorse insisted. "We may have missed some of them."
"Doyle," Bodie took over. "Blackwood is coming out, escort him back to the Rover."
"Everything okay?" Doyle questioned.
"Ironhorse's been hurt, not bad but he'll need transport."
Blackwood slapped Ironhorse's shoulder smiling. "Looks like we won one this time, Paul."
He moved away, leaving Bodie to sit down next to Ironhorse. The man sighed and let his eyes close. Bodie watched him, sensing the sigh was more relief than pain, relief for Blackwood.
"You and I have got to stop meeting like this, Colonel, people are starting to get suspicious," Bodie joked. He caught sight of the pool of slime, the full implications just now hitting him. "Bloody hell... aliens..." He took a deep breath. "A long way from Biafra and Vietnam."
Weary ebony eyes looked over at him. "No. It's just another jungle."
Bodie and Doyle arrived just as the last crate was being lifted aboard the small transport plane. Blackwood was nearby shouting to the men inside the cargo bay. Ironhorse was leaning against the side of the plane, wearing an exasperated, affectionate look. Bodie smiled; Doyle used that look with him a lot.
"Harrison," Ironhorse complained, obviously not for the first time. "Leave them alone. They know what they're doing. Let them load the damn plane so we can go home."
Bodie came up quietly behind them. Before he could speak Ironhorse said, without turning, "Come to see us off, gentlemen." When he turned, the smile he'd worn for Blackwood was visible only in the obsidian eyes.
"Came to thank you," Bodie said lightly.
"What for?" Ironhorse asked suspiciously.
"For helping us have one on the Cow... er, Mr. Cowley," Doyle grinned. "He's about to do his nut not knowing what this was all about."
"And he can't even ask because of the clearance that's been put on," Bodie finished gleefully.
Blackwood came bouncing over, smiling like a child at Christmas. He gestured at the plane. "There's enough in there to keep us busy for months."
"And then what?" Doyle questioned pessimistically. "How do you win a war that no one even knows exists?"
Blackwood straightened. "We're not the only unit in the world fighting this, Mr. Doyle. There are units in at least twenty-four other countries; and I would think Britain will be establishing one soon." He peered over his glasses at the last, somehow making it a question.
"Not us, mate," Bodie told him firmly. "We have enough trouble when we can tell the villains from the heroes."
Ironhorse said in an intense voice. "We will win, Mr. Doyle. I can't say when but I can say how; the same way victories are always gained - by perseverance, bravery, and by knowing about jungles."
He stepped back, saluted the two agents sharply, extended his hand and said, "Gentlemen, it's been good working with you."
Blackwood shook their hands as well and the two started for the plane; Ironhorse limping slightly and Blackwood's voice drifting back to them. "Paul, where the hell's your cane?"
Bodie watched as they climbed aboard.
"Bodie?" Doyle questioned, concerned by his partner's serious look.
"Just thinking about jungles," Bodie said vaguely as the plane taxied away.
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* Elite Fighting Forces of the World, Outlet Books