Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

"Taking into account our small number and the enemy's firepower," said Levant, "I'd have to say our odds of surviving are no better and probably worse."

A silence fell so abruptly that it seemed a great blanket was thrown over the underground arsenal. Everyone froze and looked up at the ceiling as if they could see through 3 meters of rock and sand.

Holed up and pounded for six hours, the members of the tactical team who could stilt stand and fight threw aside the rubble that sealed the entrance, poured into the heat and scorching sun, and spread out through the ruins. They found the fort almost unrecognizable. It looked like a warehouse after a demolition crew had finished with it. Black smoke spewed up from the burning personnel carriers and all buildings had been almost completely flattened. Bullets were whining and ricocheting through the heaps of jumbled stone like crazed hornets. . .

The UN team was sweating from the Saharan heat, dirty, hungry, and dead tired, but they were totally devoid of fear and madder than hell at having taken everything the Malians had thrown at them without responding. Short on everything, but not fighting guts, they took up their defensive positions, coldly swearing to make their attackers pay a heavy price before the last of them fell.

"On my command maintain a clear, steady fire," ordered Levant over his helmet radio.

Kazim's battle plan was ridiculously simple, calling for the tanks to break through the battered main gate on the north wall while the assault troops charged from all sides. Every man at his command was to be thrown into battle, all 1470 of them. None would be kept in reserve.

"I expect all-out victory with no quarter," Kazim told his officers. "Shoot down any of the UN commandos who attempt to escape."

"No prisoners?" Colonel Cheik asked in surprise. "Do you think that wise, my General?"

"You see a problem, old friend?"

"When the international community finds out we executed an entire United Nations force, there could be serious countermeasures taken against us."

Kazim drew himself up. "I have no intention of allowing hostile incursion across our borders to go unpunished. The world will soon learn that the people of Mali are not to be treated like desert vermin."

"I agree with the General," said Yerli on cue. "The enemy of your people must be destroyed."

The excitement within Kazim was more than he could contain. He had never led troops into battle before. His rapid advancement and power had come from devious manipulations. He did little more than order others to kill those who presented opposition. Now he pictured himself as a great warrior about to charge foreign infidels.

"Order the advance," he ordered. "This is a historic moment. We engage the enemy."

The assault troops ran across the desert in the classic infantry textbook attack, dropping to provide covering fire for other advancing members of the force, then rising and corning on again. The first wave of elite troops began showing, boldly after they reached within 200 meters of the fort without receiving enemy fire. Ahead of them, the tanks had failed to fan out properly and came on in a staggered formation:

Pitt decided to try for the one bringing up the rear. With: the help of five commandos, he pulled the debris off the spring bow and dragged it to an open area. On the ancient siege engines the tension would have been taken up by a windlass and tackle. But on Pitt's model the forklift was tipped over so that its twin lifting prongs could pull the springs of the bow back on a horizontal line. As one perforated drum of diesel fuel was loaded on the spring bow, five more, consisting of Pitt's entire supply of missiles, were lined up alongside.

"Come on baby," he muttered as the starter kicked over the forklift's balky engine. "Now is not the time to get finicky." Then came a coughing through the carburetor and the exhaust popped and settled in a steady roar.

Earlier, during the predawn darkness, Levant had left the fort and set stakes in the sand around its perimeter for a firing mark. To have waited until the defenders saw the whites of the attackers' eyes would have meant certain death. The odds were simply too overwhelming, to allow closed-in fighting. Levant set the stakes at 75 meters.

Now, as the tactical team waited to open up, every eye was on Pitt. If the tanks could not be stopped, the Malian, assault troops would have little to do but mop up.

Pitt took a knife and cut an elevation mark on the spot where the ends of the bent springs met the launch plank as an indicator to judge tension for distance. Then he climbed on one of the support beams and stared at the tanks again:

"Which one are you aiming for?" asked Levant.

Pitt pointed to the lagging tank on the left end of the line. "My idea is to start at the rear and work forward."

"So the tanks in front don't know what's happening behind," mused Levant. "Let's hope it works. . ."

The blazing heat from the sun radiated on the armored contours of the tanks. Supremely confident they would find nothing but already dead bodies, the tank commanders and their drivers rolled forward with open hatches, their guns throwing shells against the few remaining ramparts of the fort.

When Pitt could almost make out the individual features of the lead tank's driver, he lit a torch and pressed the flaming end against the leaking oil on top of the punctured drum. Flame burst immediately. Then Pitt jammed the torch in the sand and yanked on the line that released the trigger catch he had built from a, door latch. The taut nylon line and cable holding the springs whipped free and the truck springs snapped straight.

The flaming drum of diesel oil flew over the ravaged wall like a fiery meteor and sailed high over the rear tank, striking the ground a considerable distance to its rear before exploding.

Pitt stood amazed. "This thing does the job better than I ever imagined," he muttered.

"Down 50 meters and 10 to the right," observed Pembroke-Smythe as nonchalantly as if he was relating a soccer score.

As Levant's men helped hoist another barrel in place, Pitt cut a new mark on the launch plank to adjust for the distance. Next, he engaged the forklift's hydraulics, bending back the spring bow again. The torch was applied, the trigger mechanism was unleashed, and the second oil drum was on its way.

This one struck a few meters in front of the rear tank, bounced, and then rolled underneath and between the treads before exploding. The tank was instantly enveloped in flames. The crew, in their desperation to abandon the vehicle, fought each other to be first to escape through the hatches. Only two out of four made it out alive.