Black Rain

McCarter thought to wake Susan, only to remember that she was gone. Another loss he hadn’t come to grips with.

“Things could get ugly,” Verhoven said. “If you see them, don’t move. If they realize that we’re prisoners, they might take pity on us. Or they might attack anyway. But if we fight, they’ll slaughter us.”

“And if they set the trees on fire?” McCarter asked, voicing his earlier fear.

“Then hope they kill you first.”

As McCarter tried to block out the possibility, he looked toward the command center. He could make out Devers’ face now; he was pointing into the distance.

A flare shot off directly to the west. It carried a half mile into the sky before deploying a small parachute and begi

“White flare,” Verhoven said. “Trip-wire flare, not from the console. Something’s in the forest out there.”

The burning flare illuminated the camp. “I see eight soldiers,” McCarter said.

“I counted eight as well,” Danielle said.

“There are more,” Verhoven said. “I know it. They just have their heads down, waiting for the attack.

“Any sign of the Chollokwan?” Danielle asked.

Verhoven twisted around for a better view of the forest behind them. “Not yet.”

McCarter’s eyes went from the clearing to the forest and then back again, as another flare shot upward to the north. This time a red one, triggered by the sensors, or manually from the laptop. A rifle cracked, shattering the silence. A second later other weapons joined in, opening up at full tilt.

Things looked bad, and a minute later, when one of the Germans came bounding over to them, McCarter wondered if they were about to get decidedly worse.

The soldier who approached them had been sent at Kaufman’s bidding. With an attack from the natives or the animals likely, the prisoners had suddenly become a problem for him. Kaufman didn’t want to leave them at the tree, but he had nowhere else to secure them, and he didn’t want them causing any problems in the middle of the battle. He’d chosen a compromise: leave them where they were, but send protection. This soldier had drawn the short straw and the unenviable task of guarding them during whatever was about to occur.

He walked up and kicked McCarter’s legs.

“I’m awake,” McCarter said, pulling his legs back.

“Good,” the guard said. “Now be still.” He waved the barrel of his rifle at the others. “All of you.”

McCarter’s eyes tracked the soldier. He was sick of being a prisoner, sick of being afraid. Verhoven had said something earlier about bringing one of them down to the ground, and from that point, a solid kick to the neck or temple would finish him. Maybe now was the time.

In the distance, Kaufman’s men began firing again, staccato bursts here and there, probing, searching. The soldier guarding them glanced back toward the center of camp, and as he did, McCarter lunged at him, hoping to tackle him and pin him down.

The move surprised the guard, and also Danielle and Verhoven, but it came with too little thought. The chain and the weight of the others slowed him, and McCarter could only inflict a glancing blow. The soldier fell backward, but got up quickly, angrily.

He turned and cursed at McCarter, bringing the rifle up.

McCarter lowered his head. A shot rang out, but it was the mercenary who fell, collapsing like a rag doll.

The other rifles hammered away in the distance as McCarter opened his eyes and stared at the fallen man.

Danielle and Verhoven glanced around as well, and a second later a shape ran in from the depths of the forest. Verhoven spoke, “Bloody hell,” he said.

“Seems like it,” Hawker replied, grabbing the dead soldier and dragging him back behind the tree.

“You keep coming back from the dead, mate.”

Danielle smiled. “Thank God. Can you get us out of here?”

“I’ll try,” Hawker said.

McCarter barely heard them. He was silent, virtually catatonic. He stared at the dead soldier: another life taken, in exchange for his own.

As the firing in the distance ceased, Hawker crouched beside the tree and began searching the dead man for keys. “Where are the others?”

“Dead,” Danielle said. “Except Devers. He’s with them.”

“That explains a few things,” Hawker said. He rolled the dead man over and dug into his back pockets.

“And Polaski?” Danielle asked.

Hawker paused and looked at her solemnly. “No, he didn’t make it.”

The radio beside them began to crackle.

“They might have heard the shot,” Verhoven said. “They’ll be coming. Get me out.”

Hawker had finished his search empty-handed. “No keys.”

Verhoven looked at the dead man. “Wrong bloke,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. Get me out.”

Hawker weighed the consequences of Verhoven’s request, while the demands from the radio increased.

“Come on!” Verhoven shouted. “Get me off this damn chain!”

The others could only guess at the subject of their discussion, but Hawker and Verhoven understood each other. Hawker stood up. “Which hand?”

“Left,” Verhoven said, shifting position, resting his left hand sideways against the base of the tree, thumb up and smallest finger against the tree’s roots. He pulled his other hand as far away as the cuffs would allow.

The others watched in confusion before turning away as Hawker lifted up a heavily booted foot and brought it crashing down on Verhoven’s outstretched hand, crushing the bones and tearing the tendons and ligaments in the process.

Despite his obvious agony Verhoven didn’t shout. He clenched his teeth and rolled to the side.

Hawker dropped down on him, pi

Verhoven spun away in agony, writhing in pain, crawling on his knees and cradling the wounded hand. It would be useless now, but it no longer held him captive. Grunting and gritting his teeth, he turned toward Hawker, his eyes the slits of a mad dog.

“You’ll need this,” Hawker said, holding out the forty-five caliber gun.

Verhoven could not hold a rifle, but the black pistol fit in one hand. He snatched it from Hawker then watched as Hawker grabbed the dead German’s rifle. “Two men armed,” Verhoven said. “Better odds than I’d even dared to hope for.”

“I’ve been watching for a little while,” Hawker said, “but you’d better explain the situation.”

“They’ve dug some foxholes in a circular pattern,” Verhoven told him, pausing to fight off a wave of pain. “Six or seven, two soldiers in each, maybe fifty meters apart, sixty degrees of arc between each one. My bet: this bloke came from the closest one,” he pointed. “Which might leave only one man there.”

The radio crackled again and Hawker grabbed it. He caught only part of the call, but it was orders, not questions. The man talking wasn’t looking for a response.

The clearing remained lit by the red flare up above, but it had drifted lower and southward on the wind, floating out beyond the tree line and over the forest. The angle of light left the prisoners in the shadows, but thirty yards out those shadows ended. There was too much light for a sneak attack and not enough time to wait for the flare to go out. “We’ll get only one shot at this,” he said. “Wait here.”

Hawker put on the dead soldier’s coat and the man’s distinctive foreign legion-style cap. He threw the rifle over his shoulder, straightened the coat.

“You must be mad,” Verhoven said.

Hawker didn’t reply. He’d already started into the clearing.

As he moved, a call came over the radio asking him what he was doing. Why was he coming back? Hawker put the radio to his mouth and clicked the switch on and off as he replied in his best German. It was a bad bluff, but he had no choice.