Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“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.

In time, only the need for revenge would remain to mark his passing.

And it would be years before that played out.