Don Pendleton - Rolling Thunder

“I don’t know, Cal. They’re a hell of a lot closer to the hut than we are. Getting there ahead of them’s gonna be tough.”

“We need to try.” James turned to Encizo. “Give them a grenade or two but stay clear of that crate they’re hauling.”

“Sure thing.”

Encizo leaned back as a spray of gunfire chipped the boulders he was crouched behind, then countered with a round from his M-14 before turning his attention to the carbine’s submounted grenade launcher. James, meanwhile, huddled close to the boy, whose gaze was still fixed on the sheepdog, which now lay still in the grass.

“I’m sorry,” he told the boy, “but there’s nothing we can do for him now. You need to get down in the gully with my friend, okay? Crawl all the way and keep your head down. I’m going to check on your father.”

The boy sobbed faintly and wiped back a tear, then grabbed his rifle and followed James’s instructions. As small as he was, he still presented a target for the enemy, and bullets began to slant down toward him from the foothills.

“Hurry!” Hawkins called out to the boy as he rose and fired back at the enemy. One of his rounds found its mark and a would-be sniper sprawled forward, dropping his rifle. His beret snagged on the lower branches of a nearby shrub and came off as the man hit the ground and rolled a few yards before coming to a rest. Hawkins didn’t waste any time admiring his handiwork. He reached out and grabbed the boy’s right arm, helping him into the ditch.

“Stay low, amigo,” Hawkins told him.

The youth was still crying, but his expression had turned from fear to anger. He crawled lower into the ditch, but stayed put only for a moment. Once Hawkins had turned his attention back to the gunmen in the hills, the boy rose to crouch and raised his rifle into firing position. He quickly took aim and fired off a single shot.

“Hey!” Hawkins cried out. “I told you to stay down!”

The boy ignored Hawkins and fired off another shot. Hawkins look toward the foothills and saw, to his amazement, that the boy had connected with both shots, dropping two men who’d been making their way toward the stone hut.

“I’ll be damned,” Hawkins murmured under his breath.

He turned to grudgingly compliment the boy’s shooting, but the youth had broken into a run, bent over as he followed the ditch’s meandering course toward the distant hut. Enemy gunfire slammed into the earth around him, but he refused to stop, much less turn back.

“That kid’s trying to get himself killed!” Hawkins called out to James. But James didn’t hear him; he was already on the move himself, zigzagging through the grass, sidestepping several of the startled sheep.

Behind him, as promised, Encizo covered James’s advance by firing the first of his 40 mm grenades. He’d followed James’s warning and aimed away from the ATV, targeting instead a group of gunmen firing from positions among the heaviest concentration of boulders in the foothills. The strategy paid off. The grenade’s initial blast quickly took out one gunman, and two others were brought down soon after by a combination of shrapnel and flying rock.

“Way to go, Rafe,” Hawkins called out to him.

“We’ve still got our work cut out for us,” James shouted back. As he readied another grenade, he glanced back at the trailhead by which the terrorists had entered the meadow. The driver of the ATV shut off the engine and joined the men who’d been escorting the wooden crate. All five of them huddled on the far side of the vehicle, using it for cover. A stand of chestnut trees blocked their view of James and the young shepherd, so they directed their fire at Hawkins and Encizo.

James put on a burst of speed and was about to catch up with the boy when spotted two guerrillas scaling the retaining wall behind the stone hut. They boy saw them, too, and he cried out in horror as they circled the hut and disappeared behind the structure.

“Papa!”

“Get down!” James yelled as he caught up with the boy. “Let us handle this!”

The boy, however, shook his head determinedly without breaking his stride. “Papa!” he screamed again. “Wake up!”

They were rushing together through the open gateway of the pen surrounding the hut when gunfire erupted inside the enclosure.

“Papa!” the boy wailed yet again.

James lengthened his stride and outraced the boy to the hut. The building was less half the size of a one-car garage, and it looked to James as if the front doorway was the only way in. Figuring the gunfire had likely been directed through a rear window, he bypassed the doorway and approached the far side of the hut, carbine at the ready. As he turned the corner, James froze. Less than ten yards away, one of the Basques stood facing him with a 9 mm Uzi subgun held out before him, finger on the trigger.

Both men fired simultaneously.

James winced as three rounds slammed into his side like jabs from a red-hot poker. He staggered to his right, crashing into the side of the hut. The other man had taken a volley to the chest. Dropping his gun, he pitched forward, landing face-first in the dirt.

Grimacing, James stepped over the body and inched toward the rear of the hut. His side felt as if it were on fire, and he could feel blood seeping from his wounds, but he tried to put the pain out of his mind. He’d taken a few steps when he heard scuffling out near the retaining wall. Whirling, he spotted yet another gunman crawling over the barrier. He emptied the rest of his magazine, bringing the man down, then tossed his carbine aside and backtracked to the man he’d killed moments before, snatching up his Uzi. He was beginning to feel light-headed from the loss of blood, but he forced himself to move on. Rounding the back of the hut, he was about to let loose with the Uzi when he saw another Basque lying in a pool of blood just below a small rear window. James approached cautiously. Once he was sure the man was dead, he peered in through the window.

The shepherd boy had entered the hut and was embracing his father, who held in his right hand the old Smith & Wesson revolver with which he’d apparently shot the man lying at James’s feet. The old shepherd was clearly weak on his feet, but it didn’t look as if he’d been shot. He spoke to his son reassuringly, but James couldn’t make out what the man was saying. There was a odd thundering in his ears, and soon a field of stars began to cloud his vision. When he felt his knees buckling beneath him, James grabbed at the windowsill for support, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. As he began to fall, his world faded to black.

Encizo was concerned by all the gunfire that had taken place after James had disappeared behind the stone hut, but he was in no position to investigate. The gunmen stationed behind the parked ATV had him pinned down in the middle of the pasture. He fed another grenade into his M-14’s launcher as bullets caromed off the boulders he crouched behind. Encizo figured a well-placed shot could take out the gunmen, but he couldn’t run the risk of blowing up the crate still tethered to the vehicle. He had to try another way.

He waited for a lull in the shooting, then took aim at the stand of chestnut trees to the left of the ATV.

“Get ready to wrap this up!” he shouted out to Hawkins, who was still lying prone at the edge of the nearby ditch.

“Go for it!” Hawkins shouted back, rising to a crouch.

Encizo triggered the launcher. The M-14’s stock bucked sharply against his shoulder as it sent a 40 mm grenade hurtling toward the trees. Encizo’s aim couldn’t have been better. The grenade detonated as it struck the base of one of the trees, obliterating most of the trunk.