Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

flashing in the shadows.

Forty seconds later, Diaz wheeled the JetRanger in a wide circle and

settled onto the freshly laid asphalt fifty meters from Horn's Leadet.

Burton punched open the Plexiglas door and jumped to the ground. Just

as they had practiced a dozen times on the Casilda's afterdeck, the

Colombians poured out of the chopper one after another, looking, for all

their amateurishness, like a squad of marines securing a hot LZ. A

quick glance across the tarmac told Burton that the men on the other

chopper were doing the same. "See you after the party!" he shouted to

Diaz.

The Cuban shook his head. "English loco, he muttered, twirling his

forefinger beside his temple.

The Colombians crouched at the edge of the rotor blast, waiting for

Burton to take the lead. The mercenary jumped to the ground and

immediately started toward the distant dome at an easy trot. The

Colombians, twenty-two in all, followed closely.

Thirty seconds' running brought them up short at the rim of the Wash.

Burton stared angrily into the ravine. He'd been told to expect a

shallow trench, no more than a thirtysecond delay. But the summer

cloudburst had turned this steep-sided gully into a treacherous river

that would take minutes, not seconds, to cross. Three feet of muddy

runoff churned through the undergrowth near the bottom, and the water

was rising fast, "Move!" Burton shouted, and leaped over the lip of the

ravine. He half-fell, half-slid toward the torrent below.

Looking back, he saw the Colombians skidding down behind him. Two

minutes later they all stood en the opposite rim of the Wash, huddling

against the rain. Burton started slogging westward again without a

word. For a few minutes he saw nothing ahead but rain. Then, like a

mirage, the whole stunning specter of Horn house appeared out of the

downpour.

Burton's blood ran cold. One glance told him that his "inside" informer

didn't know his ass from his elbow. The "soft" objective he had been

briefed to expect stood like a medieval fortress on a hill at the center

of a huge expanse of open ground. Ten men armed with medium machine

guns could defend,that house indefinitely against a force the size he

had brought.

His ragtag outfit had only one hopesurprise.

The Colombians had not yet picked up on the alarming deterioration of

their situation, and Burton didn't intend for them to. "All right,

lads!" he barked. "Change of plan! I'd intended to use the mortar to

soften the target for you"Burton paused while a bilingual Colombian

interpreted"but this open ground changes everything. If I open up

before you go in, the target will be warned. Many of you could die in

the charge." Burton saw several faces nod warily as the interpreter

conveyed his words. "My suggestion is that you all go in at the

double-a quick, silent run. You go in very fast and close to the

ground. The Israelis favor this tactic, and they've surprised a lot of

Arabs with it, I can tell you." He summoned a bluff grin. "Ready,

lads?"

Two or three Colombians nodded, but most looked a shade paler than they

had when they thought Burton's mortar barrage would precede their

attack. The Englishman took a final look at his unit. They were a

ragged lot by any standard, standing there in the rain, weighted down by

bandolero ammo belts, grenades, and LAW rockets. They would have been

comic but for the near certainty of their impending deaths.

Looking past them to the distant house, Burton felt a sudden, almost

irresistible urge to order them back to the choppers, to save'their

miserable lives before they charged the fortress that waited beyond the

gray wall of rain. But then he remembered The Deal.

"Move out!" he shouted angrily. "Goddamn it, charge!"

The Colombians stared dumbly for a moment; then they turned and trotted

down the slope into the shallow bowl.

One hung back-a teenager named Ruiz, whom Burton had tried to instruct

in the finer points of mortar operationwaiting to see if he was needed.

Burton started to nod, then he sensed someone behind him.

He turned to see Alberto, the huge MNR guerilla observer. Burton

pointed to the mortar tube he had dropped onto the grass and eyed the

guerilla questioningly. When Alberto nodded with confidence, Burton

decided he would prefer skill to g6w company today.

He motioned for Ruiz to follow the charge.

Alberto immediately began setting up the mortar, but Burton, impelled by

some morbid instinct, crouched on the rim of the grassy bowl and watched

the Colombians go in. As his eyes followed the camouflaged

figures-running now-he suddenly noticed something odd about the floor of

the bowl. Subdividing the approaches to Horn House into measured

sections were dozens of small, grass-covered mounds. At first glance

they seemed only natural irregularities in the ground-animal spoor,

perhaps-but Burton soon realized that the humps were anything but

natural. His mind faltered for a moment, not wanting to accept it; then

his gut instinct grasped the whole, ghastly scene.

A killing ground.

Those innocent-looking mounds concealed land mines. Burton shouted a

warning, but the Colombians had already passed out of earshot.

Alberto raised his head at Burton's shoutThen it started.

Sixteen Claymore mines exploded simultaneously, sending thousands of

steel balls scything through the air at twice the speed of sound.

Half the Colombians were shredded into bloody pulp before they could

scream. The sound came in waves, deep, shuddering concussions muted by

the rain.

Most survivors of the first blast staggered to the ground, mortally

wounded. Shrapnel detonated some of the Colombian ordnance.

Grenades flashed in the dusk; one of the LAW rockets exploded in a

blinding fireball, consuming the man who carried it.

Burton lay stomach-down, shielding his eyes against the flashes.

Alberto tugged at Burton's pack, groping for mortar rounds so that he

could return fire. Burton'slai)ved the hie guerilla's hand away.

"Bloody hell! All you'd do now is pin-point our position!" He punched

his fist into the soggy veld.

"Poor bastards."

In spite of the Englishman's pessimism, Alberto grinned and pointed down

the slope to where, unbelievably, a halfdozen Colombians still crawled

doggedly toward Horn House. Having gone too far to retreat with any

hope of survival, they went blindly on. Forty meters from the great

tliangular structure, one of them rose to one knee and let off a LAW

rocket. The smoke trail arrowed across the grass, and the exploding

warhead tore a jagged hole in the wall above a shuttered window.

Emboldened by their comrade's success, three wounded Colombians got up

and cheered, then charged the main entranee with their AK-47s on full

automatic.

At that moment-with a sound like a handsaw n'ppi' tin-Smuts's,Vulcan gun

opened up from the observatory.

From the tower, Jijrgen Luhr watched the carnage with morbid

fascination. He could not quite comprehend the fact that he had

obliterated a dozen human beings with the flick of a switch. The land

around Horn House looked as if a hundred plows had passed over it,

sowing blood and fire. The remotely detonated Claymores had churned the

earth into a smoking graveyard. When the Vulcan gun began to fire, Luhr

thought he had gone deaf. White flame spat out of the six spinning

barrels; the unbelievable rate of fire made the scarlet tracers look