slope, keeping in cover behind rocks, but they had the tactical advantages both of moving forward and having the higher ground, while the rescue team had to back up as they fired uphill.
‘Should we hold ’em off here?’ Chase shouted to Mac as they crouched behind adjacent boulders.
Mac expertly assessed the area. ‘Further back, nearer the entrance to the pass. If we can hold them from there, it’ll give the hostages time to reach the choppers.’ He pointed at a large rock. ‘Behind that. We can—’
‘RPG!’ screamed Starkman. Chase immediately scrunched down, covering his face and ears as a rocket-propelled grenade streaked down the slope and exploded less than thirty feet away. The rock protected him from the direct effects of the blast, but the detonation was still painfully loud at such close range. Stones and dirt rained over him. The warhead had been high explosive, not a shrapnel-filled anti-personnel charge, but this near it was no less dangerous.
Bluey, though further away, had been without cover and unable to do more than throw himself flat on Starkman’s warning. Chase saw the Australian clutch at his head. ‘Bluey! You okay?’
‘Those dirty little bastards!’ Bluey yelled back. ‘Copped a stone to my fucking noggin!’ Still on his stomach, he slithered round and fired his machine gun up the hill, then scrambled behind a jagged rock.
Bluey wasn’t the only person affected by the explosion. The hostages were still a hundred yards short of the pass – and panic consumed one of them. He broke from the group and ran for the closed canyon. ‘Green!’ shouted Stikes. ‘Get that idiot back here!’
Green followed – but the Taliban had already spotted the running figure. AKs barked, gritty dust spitting up from the ground around him. The Welshman rushed to tackle him—
Too late. The man was hit, spinning before dropping like a discarded doll. Green, only a couple of feet behind, was caught too, a round ripping into the side of his chest. He fell with a choked scream, trying to crawl behind the hostage’s body for what little protection it provided.
‘Man down!’ Mac cried. Chase swore. Green was exposed, over twenty yards from any usable cover. The Taliban kept firing. If they had another rocket, it would soon follow their bullets.
He knew what Mac’s plan would be before he said it. ‘Alexander, get the civvies to the choppers!’ the Scot yelled. ‘Kev, Jason, get Green. Everyone else – give them cover!’
Chase sprang up from behind his rock and opened fire, his C8 now on full auto. Conserving ammo was no longer a consideration; all that mattered was for himself, Mac, Castille and Bluey to force the Taliban to keep their heads down until Starkman and Baine recovered their wounded comrade.
He picked one AK flash and sprayed it with bullets until it stopped, then moved on to another. His magazine ran dry; he ducked and thumbed the release to eject the empty mag, pulling a replacement from his webbing and slotting it into place with a precise, intensely practised move before tugging back the rifle’s charging handle to chamber the first new round. The entire process took barely three seconds, and he rose to fire again.
Mac and Castille were just as efficient, the rattle of their guns getting louder as sustained fire burned out the suppressors. A shriek came from the hillside. Another Taliban down. But he couldn’t tell how many remained. Too many.
The onslaught had achieved its purpose, though – the AK fire had all but stopped. Chase glanced towards Green, seeing Starkman haul him upright, Baine running to assist. It would take both men to carry the wounded trooper to the landing zone, and while they were doing that the amount of fire they could provide would be extremely limited. The team was effectively down to five fighting men.
And it would soon be just four. Bluey’s withering storm of lead was now reduced to intermittent bursts as the Minimi’s ammunition supply ran low. The Australian only had one ammo load: two hundred rounds was normally more than enough.
Baine and Starkman supported Green, moving at a jog towards the pass. ‘Keep firing!’ Mac ordered as the thud of Kalashnikovs resumed. Chase sprayed one of the muzzle flashes with fire. He scored a hit. The AK flailed madly, blazing skywards before falling silent. Another magazine change, and now conservation was an issue – he only had one spare mag remaining.
Stikes and the hostages were out of sight, Baine, Starkman and Green nearing the pass. In the