Clive Cussler: Sacred Stone

“He did,” the man admitted.

“Then don’t.”

“I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Are you going to be down this way soon?” Michelle asked.

“I’ll call you if I am,” the man said. “Now I’d better go—I’m starting to get static on the satellite line. Must be sunspots.”

“Pray our boy is safe,” she said.

“I might do more than that,” the man said as the call ended.

Michelle replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat back. Her ex-beau was not one to show worry or fear. Still, his concern for his son had been palpable and personal. She could only hope his worry was misplaced, and that Chris would come home soon.

Rising from the desk, she walked toward the artist. “Tell me you have something good,” she said easily.

“Outside in the van,” the artist said, “and I think you’ll like it.”

FOUR HOURS AFTER sunrise, one thousand feet higher up the ridge from the camp where they had spent the night, Hunt’s platoon met a determined enemy. The fire came from a series of caves just above and to the east. And it came all at once. Rifle fire, rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, handgun fire rained down. The enemy dynamited the mountain to create rock slides, pelting the ground below, and they had mined the ground where Hunt’s troops sought refuge.

The enemy’s goal was to wipe out Hunt’s team all at once—and they would come close.

Hunt had taken refuge behind a series of boulders. Bullets were ricocheting off the rocks to all sides, sending chips flying through the air and striking his men. There was nowhere to hide, no way to advance, and their retreat had been cut off by a rock slide.

“Radio,” Hunt shouted.

Half his team was twenty yards ahead, another quarter ahead and to the left. Luckily, his radio operator had stayed close to the lieutenant. The man edged toward Hunt on his back to protect the radio. For his effort he received a wound to his kneecap when a bullet grazed his raised knee as the man pushed himself closer. Hunt dragged him the rest of the way.

“Antencio,” Hunt shouted to a man a few feet away, “take care of Lassiter’s wound.”

Antencio scurried over and began cutting away the radio operator’s pants. He found the opening was not deep and began to wrap a bandage around the knee as Hunt flicked on the radio and adjusted the dial.

“You’re going to be okay, Lassiter,” he said to the radio operator. “I’m going to get us some help in here posthaste. Then we’ll have you medevaced.”

The fear in the soldiers’ faces was obvious. For most of them, as for Hunt, this was their first time in battle. As their leader, he needed to take control and form a plan.

“Control, Control, Advance Three,” Hunt yelled into the microphone, “need positive support, grid three zero one eight. Taking heavy fire.”

“Advance Three,” a voice said immediately, “report situation.”

“We’re pinned down,” Hunt said, “and they have the high ground. Situation critical.”

Hunt glanced up as he was talking. A dozen bearded men in flowing robes were starting down the hill. “Get some fire up there, men,” he screamed to the forward half of his team. A second later a volley of shots rang out.

“Advance Three, we have a Spectre two minutes out and inbound. Four whirlies—two carriers and two gunships—will be off the ground in three. It’ll take them another ten minutes to reach your site.”

Hunt could hear the whine of the massive propeller-driven gunship racing up the canyon miles below them. He peeked over the rock to see eight of the enemy still advancing down the hill. Raising himself, he shot off a rocket-propelled grenade. A whoosh then a thump as the charge flew through the air and ignited. He followed up with a volley of automatic weapon fire.

“Advance Three, acknowledge.”

“Advance Three, affirmative,” Hunt yelled into the microphone.

Where there had been eight there were now just four. They were only twenty yards from his forward team. Hunt swiveled his bayonet and locked it in place. The forward team seemed paralyzed. They were young, unseasoned and about to be overrun. A mortar landed close to the boulders and exploded. The area was showered with powdered rock and dust. From higher up the mountain another group of the enemy started down the hill. Hunt stood up and started firing. He sprinted the twenty yards ahead to his men and met the advancing enemy head-on.

Three’s a charm, and that’s how many Hunt shot dead in the gut. The last one he bayoneted, as his clip was empty. Taking his sidearm from his holster, he finished the man off, then slid to the ground, replaced his clip and rose and started firing again.

“Back it up, men,” he shouted, “behind the boulders.”

Two by two his men retreated to the relative safety of the boulders to the rear, while the men remaining kept fire on an advancing enemy. The enemy was high on distilled poppy, misplaced religious zeal and the narcotic khat leaves they were chewing. The slope was red with the blood of their fallen comrades but still they advanced.

“Advance Three,” the radio squawked.

Antencio reached for the radio. “This is Advance Three,” he said. “Our C.O. is away from the radio, this is Specialist 367.”

“We’ve located a B-52 at another target,” the voice said. “We’ve diverted her to assist.”

“Affirm—I’ll tell the lieutenant.”

But Antencio would never have a chance to relay the message.

Only Hunt and a grizzled old sergeant were left at the forward site when the AC-130 arrived on station. A second later a wall of lead began pouring from the 25-, 40- and 105-millimeter guns that poked from her sides.

The sergeant had seen a Spectre live-fire before and he wasted no time. “Let’s back it up, sir,” he shouted to Hunt, “we have a few seconds of cover.”

“Go, go, go,” Hunt said, yanking the sergeant upright and pushing him toward safety. “I’m right behind you.”

The Spectre crabbed sideways from the recoil of her firing guns. A few seconds later the pilot pulled her up and out to turn and make another pass through the narrow canyon. As the gunship ended her turn and lined up for her second run, seven of the enemy still advanced. Hunt covered his sergeant’s retreat.

He killed five of the enemy with a combination of a rocket-propelled grenade and a concentrated field of fire. But two made it close to Hunt’s position. One shot him in the shoulder as he turned to retreat.

The second one slit his throat with a wicked-looking curved knife.

Starting down in the dive for the fire run, the pilot of the AC-130 saw Hunt being killed and radioed it to the other aircraft. Hunt’s troops saw it as well—and the sight removed their fear and replaced it with rage. As the AC-130 lined up for the pass, the troops rose and charged another wave that had just left the cave and was advancing downhill. Pushing forward as a team, they reached their fallen leader and erected a protective circle around his body. They waited for the enemy to advance, but as if by magic, or sensing the fury of the American troops, the enemy began to turn and retreat.

TWENTY THOUSAND FEET above them and less than ten minutes from the target, the pilot of the B-52 flicked off the microphone and replaced it in its cradle.

“Did you all hear that?” he said quietly on the intercom to his crew.

The plane was silent save for the drone from the eight engines. The pilot didn’t need an answer—he knew they’d all heard what he had heard.

“We’re going to turn this mountain into dust,” he said. “When the enemy comes for the bodies, I want them to need to collect them with a sponge.”

FOUR MINUTES LATER the helicopters came for Advance Three. Hunt’s body and the wounded were loaded in the first Blackhawk. The rest of the soldiers, heads hung down, climbed into the second. Then the helicopter gunships and the AC-130 began raking the hillside with a fury of lead and explosives. Soon after that the B-52 came calling. The blood flowed down the hill and the enemy was obliterated. But the show of force came too late for Lieutenant Hunt.