The Medusa stone

by Jack Du Brul

  When the new, straighter drift had been driven into the mountain, the workers must have back-filled the passageway to the room and pillar mine chamber. In the thousands of years since then, the fill had settled enough for Mercer to crawl almost to the point where it emptied into this room. Of course, Selome had recognized that if she dug into the base of the mountain of dirt, it would collapse into the room and free him.

  "I'm sorry it took so long, but when I fell into this chamber, I cracked my head against the floor and blacked out." There was an angry bruise above her left eye.

  "You won't hear me complaining." Mercer gulped half the remaining water from their canteen and examined the shovel Selome had used to loosen his earthen constraints. "It's a shame you had to use that. It's a beautiful example of a bronze-aged tool."

  "Then I'm glad you're not an archaeologist. I ruined about five of these things getting you out."

  There was a collection of primitive tools in one corner of the room, picks and shovels, some scaled for an adult's use, other miniature versions for the child slaves. Next to them sat rotted piles of leather that had been buckets and water flasks. A little bit off lay stacks of clay lamps.

  "We can bemoan lost artifacts later," Mercer said. "Right now I want to get us out of here and take care of some business."

  He rigged the stones blocking the alcove exit with explosives from his kit bag, careful to use just enough to take down a section of the wall and not blow it apo idea what was happening in the main tunnel beyond the barrier and didn't want to advertise his presence until he was ready.

  "What about fuse? Didn't you use it against Mahdi?"

  Mercer plucked another coil from his bag and snipped off a length. "Second rule of hard rock mining: you can never have enough fuse."

  "What's the first rule?"

  Mercer held up more dynamite. "You can never have enough explosives."

  The fuse was much slower than the one he'd used to disable Mahdi, so they had plenty of time to make it to the trench redoubt he'd dug with Selome's help. He covered his head with one arm, keeping his body over Selome. When the charge blew, the concussion pelted them with debris.

  He looked up and blinked. The wall hadn't crumbled, but there was a three-foot crawl space at its bottom and light from the outside spilled into the chamber. Neither of them had ever thought they would see sunshine again and they embraced in its comforting aura.

  "Now, let's see this put to an end." Mercer slung his bag over his shoulder, snatched up the AK-47, and led Selome into the tunnel.

  The echoing sounds of a gun battle reverberated down the length of the shaft, stray tracer rounds winking by. Mercer quickly shoved Selome back into the chamber.

  "Stay here and don't move until I come for you. You just saved my life. Now it's my turn." He stepped out, keeping low to the footwall, the AK at the ready.

  Mercer couldn't tell who was using the mine as a cover position so he started crawling forward as more rounds streaked over his head. His eyes adjusted to the sunlight filling the shaft, but the haze of cordite smoke was nearly blinding and he had to get close to recognize the men firing out toward the camp. They were Sudanese soldiers. Habte must have made the call because he guessed the return fire ricocheting down the drive was from the Marines.

  The rebels held an unassailable position against the American soldiers as long as they had ammunition. Unless a rocket launcher was used, there was no way to dislodge them. The Marines surely knew Habte's warning to Henna about the trapped miners, so explosives were not an option. Remembering Mahdi's sneak attack in the mine and the brutal raping that had taken place outside the women's stockade, Mercer felt nothing as he brought the AK to his shoulder.

  With controlled double taps on semiautomatic, he shot four Sudanese in the back and the remaining two in the chest when they whirled to face the threat that had come unexpectedly from behind. He scrambled up to their barricade and searched frantically for something white to wave at the Marines still pouring rounds into the tunnel entrance. He had to make do with the well-used handkerchief he found in the pocket of one of the dead man. A second after waving it over the barricade, he heard a command in English to hold fire.

  He stood. "Don't shoot. I'm an American."

  "Dr. Mercer?" a Texas drawl asked over the din of a continuing battle farther from the mine.

  "Yeah, I'm Mercer." The euphoria he should be feeling had been suppressed by his desire to make the Sudanese and especially Gianelli suffer for what had happened in the past weeks. "I've got a woman with me, and there are forty miners still trapped in here." He looked to where he thought the Marines had taken cover, but he couldn't see them. There were too many places to hide ome of the heavy equipment that hadn't been damaged during the battle or behind one of the countless piles of dirt excavated from the mine.

  "Ya'll have to hold tight for a spell longer. This is one hot LZ." The soldier's comment was drowned by the thundering rotors of an AH-64 Apache gunship as it crabbed across the desert, its chin gun pouring a steady stream of 20mm rounds into the far side of the camp.

  Mercer spotted the cluster of Force Recon Marines huddled next to an overturned and still burning D-4 bulldozer. The soldier in charge saw him, waved in acknowledgment, and led his squad across the camp. Mercer drained the contents of two Sudanese canteens, and when the Marines were out of sight, he bolted from the mine, jinxing around toppled lighting towers and mountains of overburden. Though the rain had stopped, the sky was thick with clouds. The heat and humidity made his dash slow, and his bruised chest protested every breath. The knife wound in his leg was a sharp throb. Suddenly, the sky directly overhead exploded. A pressure wave of air slammed him to the earth, the concussion blasting against his eardrums. He rolled to his back and began scrabbling across the ground.

  Two hundred feet above him, the flaming carapace of the Apache gyrated out of control, streamers of greasy smoke belching from its engine, its tail rotor assembly coming apart like a shrapnel bomb. One of the rebels had fired a surface-to-air missile into the helo and scored a direct hit. The gunship crashed close enough to throw Mercer again, fiery sheets of aviation fuel raining around him, but incredibly none landed on his clothes or skin.

  When he stood, the ribs that had first taken a pounding under Hofmyer's fists and later by Mahdi and the tunnel walls had finally given out. He felt a sharp stab of pain that reached all the way to his heart, and the agony of the broken bones forced him to his knees. He had taken so much physical abuse that he wondered just what he hoped to accomplish. The Marines were here. They would handle the rebels. He was putting his life in danger for absolutely no reason.

  Deciding that maybe it was best to wait this one out, he was searching for a good place to hole up when bullets kicked up erratic fountains of dirt at his feet. Clutching his ribs with one arm, Mercer ran as best he could, reaching cover behind a big portable generator. He squinted into the haze created by the dozens of smoke grenades, their clouds of smog cutting visibility to almost nothing. He didn't see who had opened up on him, but spotted a Sudanese ambush set up for a squad of patrolling Marines. The American soldiers were alert and moved well, but they were about to be diced in a surprise cross-fire.

  The AK bucked in his hands, stitching two of the guerrillas and then the clip ran empty. Mercer fumbled to slam home a fresh one, dodging to the other side of the mobile generator as rounds pinged off its metal hide. The Marines dropped to the ground, entering the melee and killing three more Sudanese. Mercer was joined a second later by the four young Americans.

  "Thanks, pal," the leader of the patrol wheezed, slumping against the Ingersoll-Rand.

  "My pleasure. Can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

  "You're Mercer, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "We were briefed to look for you when we landed, but weren't you buried or something?"

  "I was until about ten minutes go." Mercer took a p know more than we do. Briefing said about fifty armed troops guarding this camp
with minimum equipment and arms. Bastards capped an Apache just a minute ago with a portable SAM, and there seem to be a lot more than fifty."

  "The number's about right," Mercer countered. "But these guys have been fighting for years in the Sudan. They've got combat experience to spare, and their former commander was one mean son of a bitch."

  "Yeah, well, anyway, we've taken heavy losses. If it weren't for all the civilians mixed up with the bad guys, the captain would've called in some close air support and bombed the shit out of this place."

  Any chance for a continued conversation was shattered by a chain of detonations at the fuel tank farm. The eruptions of flame and smoke towered into the leaden sky, building and blooming like deadly flowers. The ground shook so hard that Mercer felt his teeth were going to loosen from his jaw.

  As he was recovering, the Marine seated on the far side of the corporal jumped spastically and the paintwork of the generator behind him splattered with clots of blood and the back of his skull. The Marines reacted even before they knew where the shot had originated, sending out a scathing return fire and racing from their cover. Mercer had no choice but to follow. He ran in a doubled-up position, aiming the AK behind his hip and unleashing a fusillade of his own.

  They slogged up a mound of overburden, the soldiers slowed by the pounds of equipment each carried and Mercer by his own condition. Another shot blew a geyser of dirt just an inch to the left of Mercer's shoulder, grit lashing his face as he clawed his way to the summit. In the protection of the artificial hill's flat peak, he realized just who was shooting at them and why.

  The Israeli team was still here. The two shots were so accurate that they could only come from a sniper rifle. They were either firing to add to the confusion so they could slip into the mine or they were planning on an evacuation and wanted to keep the combatants occupied while they escaped. For Mercer, both options were unacceptable.

  Chancing a look over the parapet of their earthen fortress, he could survey the entire camp and the clusters of men fighting below. It looked as if the Sudanese's numbers were greatly diminished. He could see a few holdouts near Gianelli's big transporters. In the distance, there were figures running away from the battle, but he guessed they were Eritreans. Of the bodies he could see littering the ground that weren't dressed in American desert BDUs, two were white, but from this range he couldn't tell if either was Gianelli.

  "Say again?" the corporal was shouting into the radio built into his combat helmet. "Roger that, Sky Eyes. Keep us posted."

  "What's happening?" Mercer clipped his last banana magazine into the well of the AK-47.

  "AWACS plane circling off the coast reports a low-level contact about six klicks east of here and moving in at a hundred miles an hour."

  "Shit!"

  "What is it?"

  "There's a team of Israelis in the area. They've been after this mine for a while, but I think they're cutting their losses and bugging out."

  "Well, they're going to make it," the Marine said, not really interested in another enemy with his hands so full of Sudanese. "We don't have any more gunships to go after it, and if that AWACS only now just spotted it, you can believe it'll disappear just as easily."

  Three charging guerrillas were hit in the hail of gunfire, snapped back by the pounding gun in near perfect sequence.

  "Keep the fuckers back!" Chavez screamed as he worked on a gash in the leg of the other soldier. The man's desert camo uniform was soaked through with blood from a point just below his groin.

  Mercer continued to fire the weapon, traversing the barrel in tight sweeps to keep the Sudanese pinned. Another rocket slammed into the hill, and part of its peak blew away, exposing their flank. He had no idea how many rounds were in the boxy magazine clamped under the SAW, but he prayed it was enough to cover them until the chopper arrived.

  "Evac flight." Chavez was on the radio with the helicopter again. "We need some help here . . . Roger."

  Chavez unclipped a smoke grenade from his combat harness, slipped the ring, and tossed it to the other side of the hill's summit. A second later, putrid green clouds boiled off the mountain, marking their location to the approaching Blackhawk.

  Bullets raked the top of the hill, explosions of dirt and lead that sent Mercer and the two surviving Marines reeling. Yet over the din they could still hear the chopper as it came in, its rotors whipping the smoke in violent eddies. The copilot had opened the helicopter's side door, but as they began their hover for the pickup, he was forced to return to the cockpit.

  "The pilot can't land, not enough room up here. You'll have to jump in first," Chavez screamed over the rotor blast, his dirty hand still clamped over the entrance wound in his squad mate's leg. "I need to hold pressure on this dressing."

  Mercer emptied the SAW's clip, a further thirty rounds chewing up the camp. He commandeered the wounded soldier's M-16 and, as the Blackhawk lowered even closer to the hillock, leaped for the open door.

  A surge of air grabbed the chopper at that instant, and Mercer's chest slammed into the bottom of the door frame. In the split second before the pain struck, he felt the ends of his ribs grind against each other like corroded machine parts. The Blackhawk had been pushed away from the mountain of overburden, and Mercer found himself dangling above seventy feet of empty space, his legs bicycling uselessly as the pain loosened his grip on the door sill.

  The pilot must have seen what happened. Ignoring the turbulence and the whirling blades' proximity to the ground, he heeled the nimble chopper nearly onto its side, throwing Mercer bodily into the aircraft. By the time Mercer recovered enough to crawl to the doorway, the Blackhawk was once again on station over the hill. Chavez was ready to pass the wounded Marine up to him.

  They came under renewed and intense fire, the chopper taking a dozen rounds, ricochets scoring the cabin like hot coals. Mercer fired his M-16 one-handed, the stock braced against the helo's body as he lay half in and half out to help Chavez. He had his free arm under the young Marine's limp arms when a third RPG rocket hit the top of the hill. The Blackhawk lurched with the explosion and the Marine slid from Mercer's tentative grip. The soldier and Corporal Chavez disappeared in a hellish world of flame and smoke and debris.

  The Blackhawk pilot lifted his craft away from the hill and out over the open desert, well beyond the range of any weapons the Sudanese might have. Mercer sat numb, unmoving, staring downward as if he could bring back the two dead soldiers by freezing his position. It took all of his strength to blink, to wash>

  "I'll call you later." Mercer killed the connection and slumped. Oh, God, thank you.

  The guilt and the fear and the responsibility fell off Mercer in a liberating wave, leaving his mind clear for the first time since Harry's abduction. It was over. He was finished. Nothing else mattered anymore. Harry was safe. Selome was safe. The Eritreans were free. Even Gianelli's plan to blackmail the diamond cartel was over. He knew if he let it, his relief would cut through his resolve. But he wasn't quite done yet. Mercer wasn't going to allow Yosef to escape. He didn't want it for his friends or for anyone else. He wanted this for himself.

  The pilot spoke before he could switch the radio back to the fleeing chopper. "We've got two problems here, Dr. Mercer. One is we'll enter Saudi airspace in about four minutes. The other is a pair of fast movers just came up on radar. They're closing at mach one from the north. ETA is ten minutes."

  "Whose are they?" Mercer had a sinking suspicion he knew the origin of the approaching jets.

  "I've got no IFF signature off either of them." The pilot referred to the Identify Friend or Foe transponders carried by the military aircraft of the United States and her allies.

  "So they're not Saudi?"

  "I doubt they'd shut off their IFFS over their own territory, especially since the coastline's covered with SAM installations."

  "In other words, we've got ten minutes before that helicopter's fighter escort arrives."

  "Yup.">

  "Let's take 'em dow
n."

  "Hey, listen, Doc, is that such a good idea? I mean, whoever has the clout to wrangle up fighter cover must be legit."

  Mercer grunted. "We're about to be one of the checks and balances of the Israeli democracy. Maneuver us directly over that helicopter. I've got an idea."

  Two miles from where the land met the sea, the Israeli renegades banked north to meet up with the jet fighters, skirting the outer reach of Saudi Arabia's coastal defenses. There was no chance the lumbering Super Stallion could outrun the Blackhawk, but they certainly were trying. It took only three more minutes for the American helicopter to take up a position above the Israeli's huge rotor.

  "You'd better have a damn good idea," the copilot shouted. "Radar has those jets down our throats in four minutes."

  Mercer worked furiously. "When I shout, break left as hard as you can, then land this pig. Fast. Those jets may take a shot even after I destroy the Stallion." He keyed his mike to speak to Yosef. "Listen up, you son of a bitch, and listen good."

  "Ah, the good doctor is back," Yosef replied mockingly. "I thought you'd already left us."

  "I've always preferred roulette, but I know enough about poker to know that when your bluff gets called, the game's over."

  Yosef's voice was strained and his reply took just a fraction too long. "And you think I'm bluffing? Remember, it's not your life you are gambling with but that of your friend, Harry White."