“Come on, Paul,” Captain Banks said. “Let’s practice our running and grab a lift. I don’t relish the idea of spending another night in Algeria, and definitely not out here.” “Run?” Paul asked with short, breathless pants. “I’m State Department. We don’t run.”
“Yeah, and I’m FBI and we do. Let’s go!” He grabbed Paul by the pants and with a quick tug, the muscular Marine jerked him up.
The two ran the twenty feet to the nearest truck, rolling slowly past, where two Marines hoisted them aboard. Several wounded and dead evacuees lay about the bed. Captain Banks and Paul fell into the back of the truck as the Marines returned the gunfire from the buildings.
“There, Paul, we made—” Captain Banks said. A bullet hit him in the chest, sending the Marine flying across the truck to land on top of several cowering civilians.
A Marine near the front let loose a tattoo of automatic fire at the window where the shot originated. A body crashed through the remaining glass to fall ignominiously on the street and roll under the front wheel of the truck behind them.
Paul bent down and touched the neck of the Marine captain. His heart was still beating, but Edgar was unconscious.
Paul turned his attention to the surrounding buildings. What would America do now? Korea in flames and now Algeria. He knew what would happen. It happened in World War II. It happened in Korea years ago.
So many times in history countries had underestimated America. We’d respond. Hell, yes, we’d respond, but Paul knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. F/A-18s roared by overhead, followed by four Harriers that hovered over the convoy firing their cannons at unseen targets to the left. America would come armed for vengeance. But with the size of the military today, it would take time.
An explosion ahead knocked Paul to the bed of the truck. The lead truck burned. Those still alive jumped from the back, their clothes aflame. Their screams carried the length of the convoy. The convoy stopped once again.
Overhead two CH-46s roared in. Ropes cascaded out of the helicopters.
United States Marines followed as they hot-roped into the battle and onto tops of the surrounding buildings. Paul saw a couple of the Marines, during their quick journey down the ropes, toss hand grenades through nearby windows. Within minutes another thirty-six Marines were on the street. The two Ch-46s disappeared, to be replaced by a CH-53.
Along the sides of the streets leading toward the convoy, Paul saw shadowy figures coming around the edge of the burning convoy truck.
Sweat broke out anew on his forehead and he wiped it off. Then he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were Marines, not Algerians.
The Marines came out of the smoke like specters, their guns blazing as building by building they drove the rebels back. He looked behind him, trying to see the end of the convoy that was lost in the smoke, twists, and turns of the street. The gunfire from back there told him some sort of battle was going on.
He never heard the bullet. One moment he was watching the approaching Marines, the next he was against the cab of the truck on top of a woman crouching there. She eased him off her, ripped her dress, and pressed the simple compress against the shoulder wound.
“Don’t move,” she whispered.
He put his hand over hers and relaxed. “Your powers of persuasion have convinced me, miss.”
All along the convoy, United States Marines hurried the evacuees out of the trucks. Sporadic fire from the buildings tapered off as the Marines did what Marines do best. Dead and wounded enemy soon outnumbered the casualties of the evacuation. Marine fire teams rushed from one building to the next, lobbing grenades into each, and then following the explosions inside with rifles on semiautomatic fire.
Prisoners were not being taken.
The evacuees, most with vacant stares, followed the Marines as they fought through the smoke and smell of battle toward the harbor. Two embassy men helped Paul out of the truck.
Paul looked back to where two Marines crowded around Captain Banks. One shouted for a corpsman, who ran by Paul to jump into the truck. Paul wanted to find out Banks’s condition, but the two men pulled him forward. Paul leaned on them as they started north. He hoped the brave Marine lived. Paul looked up as another formation of helicopters filled with Marines roared past. Well, Algeria, you’ve done it. You’ve unleashed the Pandora’s box of America’s might.
Those were not frightened faces on the Marines hurrying by him toward the sounds of battle at the rear of the convoy. They were angry faces.
Determined faces. Faces of America’s youth.
Paul fell forward. The two men grabbed him before he hit the pavement.
As Paul faded into unconsciousness, the thought came to him that America had arrived and it was angry.
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Document creation date: 17.6.2013
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