by Tom Kratman
“I agree. It’ll be hard on them, and on the families, but we have to do it.”
“What about the enemy?”
“We heard three of them, but there may have been more. We got at least one with the first grenade, and I think we hit a second with our rifle fire. The third hit the second grenade. I don’t know how badly they were hurt, so we’d better check very carefully.”
“All right. You’re our leader, and we need you alive, so let me go first. Cover me.”
Before Francisco could object, his partner moved out from the rocks, crouched low, rifle ready, scanning the rocks and scrub as he moved slowly forward from cover to cover. Francisco followed him, moving cautiously. Both men kept their eyes open for anything that might provide cover or concealment from incoming fire if necessary.
The first victim they reached lay in the draw. The grenade had blown off most of his left leg, and his blood had soaked into the ground around it. He’d tried to tie it off using his belt, but clearly hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding, which had eventually killed him. They secured his weapons, then moved towards the clump of thorn bushes.
The second man was still alive; they could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed. They took cover, and Francisco called out in Arabic, “Don’t move! You can’t escape. Raise your hands and surrender!”
The man slowly, painfully, turned his head towards the rocks from which the priest was speaking. “Who says this? Show yourself!”
“I’m not that stupid. Come on, show me your hands—and there’d better not be a weapon in them!”
The man half-smiled, half-gasped, “We thought you were all fishermen down there. We didn’t know you had soldiers among you. I—”
He suddenly hurled a grenade, but he’d lost so much blood that his throw was weak. It bounced off the rocks and rolled back as Esteban fired three rapid shots into his torso. The man cried out, then the grenade went off with a deafening bang. Pieces of shrapnel whined in all directions. Francisco and Esteban ducked, then peered over and around the rocks.
“Did you get him?” the priest asked.
“I think so. Let me make sure.”
Esteban lined his rifle again, this time more deliberately, and put a round through the man’s head. Francisco nodded grimly. He could only approve of the precaution, given the extremist’s last act. You couldn’t afford to give such an enemy an even break.
They checked the man’s body, then tried to find the third fanatic, the one at whose position they had fired. There was no body, but a rock had traces of blood on it.
“Looks like he wasn’t hurt too badly,” Esteban said unnecessarily. “He got away.”
“Yes. If he isn’t already back at Alsamak, he soon will be, and he’ll tell them we’re armed and alert. They’ll be more careful next time, and better prepared.” Francisco stretched wearily.
“Funerals this afternoon?”
“Yes, before the boats go out. I want the whole village to see this, and understand what just happened. If any of them doubted what those fanatics were up to, they’d better think again!”
Over the next two weeks, the four veterans trained their remaining young assistants, and strengthened the defenses of the village as best they could. The rugged terrain provided only limited approaches from landward for attackers. The draw leading down from the ridge, being the most likely attack route, received special attention. Zacharias supervised as a mixture of marine fuel, fish oil and vegetable oil was poured into the open-topped barrels that had been dug into the dirt at its sides and base, concealed by rocks and thorn bushes. When each had received its ration, boxes of laundry detergent were stirred into them, creating a sticky, sludgy mixture. Meanwhile, Esteban dismantled several satchel charges, separating the blocks of explosive each contained. He fused each block, waterproofed it, dropped it into a drum, and led a firing cable to a switch in a central fighting position at the base of the draw. When all was ready, the loose-fitting wood covers were replaced over the drums, to protect the fuel inside from rain and dust. The edges were sealed with grease to prevent leaking.
There was no shortage of rocks for ammunition, so the slingers were able to practice every day. Before long they could drop a grenade-sized projectile within a couple of yards of their aiming point, inside a radius of up to eighty yards, depending on the individual’s strength. When each had demonstrated proficiency, Francisco allowed them to throw one live grenade as a reward. Their feral grins as the blast rang out, and the training targets were riddled with shrapnel, boded ill for would-be attackers.
They were ready only just in time. Early one morning, Francisco was roused from his sleep by an urgent shout. “Padre! The sentries report a crowd of people advancing along the ridgeline! They’re still a couple of miles away, but coming towards us.”
Cursing to himself, splashing cold water on his face to wash the sleep from his eyes, the priest grabbed his rifle and a satchel containing spare magazines and grenades, and set off on the climb up to the ridge. He had to admit, it was much easier now, after several weeks of daily trips up and down. All of them had become a lot fitter and stronger.
He arrived, puffing and panting, to be met by Esteban. “It looks like the villagers and fishermen from Alsamak,” he reported. “I recognized some of them through the binoculars. They’re carrying rifles, so I guess the Brotherhood must have sent replacement weapons. There are several men in uniform moving behind them. I think they’re the Brotherhood people, using the villagers as cover.”
“That’s what they’ve done elsewhere,” Francisco commented as he lifted Esteban’s binoculars to his eyes. “Yes, I see Abdullah in the front rank. He’s carrying a rifle. He’d never be there like that unless he’d been forced.”
“You trust him that much?”
“As much as I trust anyone who isn’t one of us. Don’t forget, he warned us about the arrival of those Ikhwan fanatics. Without that, they’d have taken us completely by surprise. We’d have been defenseless.”
“The fact that we aren’t is to your credit, Padre—hey! What the hell is that?” He pointed over Francisco’s shoulder, out to sea.
Francisco spun around. A small freighter was on the horizon, steering straight for the small harbor. She was moving at a brisk pace, to judge by the white water kicked up around her stem. He focused the binoculars, peered, and frowned. “She’s wearing the Balboan flag!”
“What would she be doing here?”
“I gave Guillermo a message to a friend there, in case he couldn’t get any help for us from the authorities. He owns several ships. This may be one of them.” There was new hope in the priest’s voice.
“Let’s hope so! They’re still an hour out. We’ll have to hold off this lot until they get here.”
“Yes. Take command up here, Esteban. You’ve got the four sentries from last night, plus the two who came up to relieve them. The seven of you should spread out into fighting positions. Don’t shoot until they get inside five hundred yards, and even then, shoot only if they don’t stop. Aim high at first, to give the villagers a chance to take cover. I expect they’ll duck out of the line of fire, and expose the extremists behind them. If they do, nail them.”
“Got it. Two of the boys are slingers, too, and we have a dozen grenades here. I’ll use them if they push closer.”
“All right. I’m going down to the village, to alert everyone and tell them to head for the fishing boats. If these bastards push down the ridge, we may have to hold them off while the rest get away as best they can. Perhaps that freighter can take some of them.”
Esteban sucked in his breath. “If we do that, we may not be able to get away ourselves.”
Francisco looked at him. “Yes, but I don’t see any other way. If you can’t accept that—if any of you can’t—you need to get down to the village at once.”
Esteban’s face stiffened with resolve. “If you can face that risk, I can too. Don’t worry about me, Padre, or any of us. We’ll stand firm.”
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The priest embraced him. “I know you will, brother.” He looked around at the others. “All of you, make an act of contrition.” As they did so, he gave them the general absolution for those in danger of death. “God be with you. Remember, you’re defending your families and loved ones down there. Be strong in your faith, and have courage.”
They were already spreading out as he headed back down the slope. He blinked back the incipient moisture in his eyes. He knew that, if worse came to worst, few of those on the ridge would live long enough to retreat to the village.
He found Pablo and the council waiting for him at the uppermost houses on the steep slope. “What’s going on?” the chairman demanded.
He explained briefly. “Esteban and the others will hold the ridge as long as they can. I’m going to marshal the others to delay them on the slopes, if they come down. You see that ship coming in?”
“Yes. We don’t know who she is or what she’s doing.”
“She’s a Balboan freighter, and she’s headed towards us. Send out a fishing boat to meet her, and ask whether she can take our people on board. Send a radio, too, so the captain can talk to me. Start putting the rest of our people aboard fishing boats, and get them out to sea.”
“But we don’t know if we need to evacuate! You may be able to hold them off!”
Francisco cursed openly, causing the councilors to look at him in bewildered amazement. They weren’t used to their priest using such language. “You’re a damned fool, Pablo! If we wait until they break through our defenses, we won’t have time to get the families out! Get them aboard right now! Tell them to leave everything behind except food, water and medicines. Nothing else! No furniture, no pets, no prized possessions. The boats will be overloaded as it is. It’ll take you an hour or two to get that done, and we’ll be fighting long before you’re finished. If it turns out okay, we can come back when it’s safe. Now move, damn you!”
The councilors scattered like chickens being chased by foxes, yelling at the tops of their lungs. “Everyone to the harbor! Take food, water and medicines—nothing else! Move! Now!”
As the other armed men hurried to their preassigned positions, Francisco ducked into the small church for a moment. He knelt before the tabernacle, looking up at the gold vessel that held the consecrated Sacrament, and tried to remember an old warrior’s prayer. “Lord, you know how busy I will be today. If I forget you, please don’t forget me! I . . . I’m sorry if this is wrong, Lord. I’ve done my best to be a good priest; but sometimes a shepherd has to protect his flock from the wolves. I don’t know any other way to do that, here and now. Please help us!—and if today should be our last, receive our souls into Your mercy. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
He crossed himself, rose to his feet, and opened the tabernacle. He hurriedly consumed the consecrated hosts in the chalice. There was no point in leaving the Sacrament to be desecrated by the fanatics, if they won here today. Closing and locking the tabernacle, he headed for his position at the base of the draw.
He’d only just settled into it when his radio crackled. “Padre, this is Ramon. I’ve talked to the skipper of that freighter. Guillermo is aboard her. He says he asked for help, but they had no men or weapons to spare. However, your friend sent this ship to collect us all and take us to safety. She’s not very big, but she’ll do. The captain says he’ll load us aboard, but we have to hurry. His radar shows boats heading this way from the other side of the island. I reckon some of those Ikhwan bastards have commandeered fishing boats, and are planning to attack the harbor while their friends come down the mountainside.”
Francisco cursed again, and keyed the microphone. “Does the captain have any weapons to hold them off?”
“No, he doesn’t. He asks if you can spare some of your men. They can take cover with their rifles behind the gunwale, and use slings to toss grenades at the Alsamak boats.”
The priest hesitated, then made up his mind. It was critical to get the families away. If some of the defenders had to protect the evacuation, so be it. He looked around.
“Zacharias! Take these four trainees, a case of grenades, and extra rifle ammunition. Get aboard a fishing boat and head for that ship. You must defend it against boats from Alsamak while our people get aboard. Aim for the helmsmen in their wheelhouses, so they can’t safely steer. That should keep them at a distance. If they get closer, use slings to throw grenades at them.”
“But what about you, Padre? How will you get away?”
“Never mind me! The ship must be kept safe! Go! Go now!”
Zacharias hesitated, then snapped to attention and peeled off a salute that would have gladdened the heart of a drill instructor. “I hear and obey, Padre. God be with you!”
Francisco looked around. Only he and Nicolau were left now, to defend the upper slopes of the village. “I guess it’s up to us now, my friend,” he said heavily.
“Oh, well. I always used to enjoy a good fight. Looks like I’ve got one of the best coming my way!”
They smiled shakily at each other, and set about preparing their fighting positions. Francisco laid out grenades and magazines where he could reach them easily, and checked the detonator switches for the napalm barrels dug into the sides of the draw. Nicolau moved to the other side of the draw, and settled down behind some rocks.
Scattered shots sounded from the ridgeline above them, a few at first, then more and more, until the sound of firing became a constant rattle. As the advancing enemy drew closer, a few grenades began to explode. The radio next to the priest crackled. “Francisco, are you there?”
He snatched up the microphone. “Yes, Esteban, I’m here.”
“The Alsamak villagers tried to duck as soon as the shooting started, just as you thought they would; but the extremists began to shoot at them, forcing them to stand and run forward. I’m sorry to tell you that Abdullah was one of the first they shot.” The priest closed his eyes, murmuring a soundless prayer for his friend’s soul as Esteban continued, “They’ve kept coming. We’ve hit two or three dozen of them, including three of the uniformed men, but they won’t stop. Two of my men are down. The enemy is only a hundred yards away. What should we do?”
“Come down! Send your people down in twos, and cover each other’s retreat.”
“I’m on my way. Carlos, Elias, down the hill! Move! Ignacio, Cornelio, you’re—aaaah!”
Francisco’s heart froze at his friend’s agonized cry. “Esteban! Esteban! Are you all right?”
A barrage of shots and the sound of multiple grenade explosions came from the ridge. Two figures showed themselves, leaping down the slope as fast as they could. There had been seven villagers up there . . . but no more appeared. Instead, half a dozen brown-uniformed men appeared and began chasing the two survivors, shooting as they came.
Francisco steeled himself. “It looks like that’s all there are left, Nicolau. Let them get through the draw, then we’ll take on those chasing them.”
“I hear you, Padre.”
He cast a glance behind him. The crowd of people that had thronged the jetty and quayside in the harbor had grown much smaller. Fishing boats were heading for the freighter, figures crowded on their decks, while others that had already unloaded their human cargoes were on the way back for more. Faintly he heard the sound of shots as Zacharias and his men fired at three Alsamak fishing boats. They appeared to be circling aimlessly, a few hundred yards from the freighter. He nodded approvingly. Rifle fire from the steadier platform of the larger freighter should render their wheelhouses untenable, making it impossible for them to get closer. Now, if they could just get the last of the villagers to safety . . .
He felt cold inside as he reached for the microphone. “Zacharias, do you hear me?”
A brief pause, then, “Yes, I hear you, Padre. We’re holding them off.”
“Good. Listen, Zacharias. When the last people are aboard, tell the freighter to get out of here. Don’t wai
t for us. We won’t be able to break contact long enough to get aboard a boat and reach you. Save the villagers at all costs. Don’t try to rescue us.”
“But, Padre! We can’t just abandon you!”
“Do as I say! God bless you, my son. I’m switching off now.”
He heard Zacharias’ voice squawking from the speaker as he laid down his microphone, reached for the power switch, and flicked it off.
The freighter’s skipper listened as Zacharias reported the priest’s instructions. He nodded slowly. “You’ve got one hell of a pastor there, brother. I wish we could get him out, but he’s right. If we tried, we’d simply make ourselves targets for those Ikhwan bastards, and we’d probably lose everyone who tried to reach him.”
There were tears in Zacharias’ eyes. “I don’t reckon the Church will recognize him as a martyr, but in my book, a sacrifice like his is right up there with the greatest of them.”
“I’ll not argue with you.” The captain picked up his binoculars, and scanned the harbor. “The last fishing boat’s coming out now. That’s everyone who’s coming, I guess.”
He trained his binoculars on the slope above the town, watching as the two survivors bounded down the draw and ducked into prepared fighting positions. A man in black—he presumed it was the priest—half-rose from a central fighting position, peering up the draw, then pressed something beside him. Gouts of flame and fire spurted out from both sides of the draw, immolating three of the brown-uniformed attackers. The three behind them screamed their anger and frustration, charging forward, throwing grenades and firing. The captain cursed as smoke from the burning napalm, and the dust thrown up by exploding grenades, drifted across the scene, hiding it from view.
As the last of the villagers came aboard, the smoke and dust began to clear. He could see no movement at all on the slope. The black-clad man had fallen forward over the rocks that had protected him, almost touching the last of the attackers, who had collapsed with his head down the slope.