Trial By Fire. Don Pendleton

cadets stared around at one another glumly. They rose and followed Bolan a little way through the trees. The copilot lay in an open grave about five feet deep and just long and wide enough to fit his frame. Miss von Kwakkenbos knelt beside the grave weeping. The copilot lay with his arms crossed over his chest holding his uniform cap. He looked at peace.

      “I dug his grave, but he was your first officer. He was part of your flight. Flight 499. I figured you might want to cover him. Maybe say something over him.”

      Hudjak took the shovel from Bolan’s hand without a word. He stood over the grave for a moment and then looked back at Bolan. “Sarge?”

      “Huge?”

      “They’re just going to dig him up, and do him voodoo-style like they did the captain. Probably going to eat him.”

      “You’re right, Huge.” Bolan nodded. “Can anyone tell me why that doesn’t matter?”

      “Because there’s nothing we can do about it.” Shelby looked down at the dead copilot. “It doesn’t matter what they do. What matters is what we do, and we respect our fallen.”

      Hudjak nodded and began shoveling.

      The cadets watched silently as Flight 499’s first officer went beneath the ground. “Hey,” Metard said. “Huge.”

      The young man didn’t look up from his work. “What do you want, Meatwad?”

      “A turn.”

      Hudjak straightened. He gave Metard a look and handed over the entrenching tool. One by one each cadet took a turn burying their flight officer. Rudipu spent long moments patting the grave flat and even.

      Bolan nodded. “Anyone want to say anything?”

      Rudipu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He called me Sprout.” A few of the cadets laughed quietly or smiled. Rudipu wiped tears from his face as he gazed upon the grave. “But he gave me a tour of the cockpit before we took off. He showed me his gun.”

      Shelby sniffed and pushed at her face. “He called me Sheila. When I said I was Air Force, he said he liked lady pilots. I liked him.”

      “He fought them.” Johnson stared long and hard at the grave. “Even with two broken legs. He fought them.”

      Tears spilled down Cadet Eischen’s cheeks. “Even when we didn’t.”

      The cadets lowered their heads.

      Bolan spoke over the grave. “He was Pieter Llewellyn, Lieutenant. He flew 604s for the Royal Australian Air Force, Transport Wing. He was honorably discharged after two enlistments and became a private contractor, specializing in the African VIP hub. He fought that plane to the ground.” Bolan looked around at the survivors of Flight 499. “He said you were a likeable bunch of lads and sheilas. He said he’d brought you down, but it was up to me to keep you safe. He said take care of his Niners. He said take them home.”

      The cadets nodded at Bolan, who shook his head. “I couldn’t promise him that.”

      The squad stared.

      “I can only promise you two things. I leave no one behind, and I’ll die before I let any of you get taken again.”

      Profound silence filled the gravesite.

      “Flight Officer Llewellyn,” Bolan intoned. “Niner Squad! Salute!”

      The cadets saluted their fallen copilot with parade-ground precision.

      “Fall out,” Bolan ordered. “Gear up. Line up for inspection in one minute.” The cadets and Von Kwakkenbos fell out and grabbed their kit. They were armed and in line in fifty seconds.

      Bolan took Johnson’s AK. “How many of you have fired a gun?”

      Rudipu, Metard, Eischen and Von Kwakkenbos raised their hands.

      “How many have fired an AK?”

      All hands dropped.

      “This is a Kalashnikov.” Bolan swiftly ran through the manual of arms. “This is your selector lever.” He pushed the lever through the settings, “Safe. Rock ’n’ roll. Semiautomatic. These are your sights. They graduate from 100 to 800 meters. This is the fixed battle setting for all ranges up to 300 meters. This is your folding bayonet.” The squad members eyes widened as Bolan snapped out the foot-long, quadrangular spike. Bolan snapped it back and returned the weapon to Johnson.

      “Set your sights to fixed battle setting. Set your selectors to semiauto. You will not change these settings without permission. Unless the enemy is directly engaging you, you will not fire without permission. Our ammo supply is extremely limited. Every shot has to count. Some of the weapons have folding stocks. You will keep them deployed at all times. You will not fix bayonets unless you are out of ammunition or I have ordered you to do so. Does everyone understand?”

      “Yes, sergeant!” the squad said in unison.

      “Huge.”

      “Yes, Sergeant?”

      “I have no time to train you. You’re going to have learn the joys of supporting fire on the fly.” Bolan pointed at the light machine gun Huge cradled. “Don’t go Rambo on me. Use your bipod. Get on and off the trigger fast. Short bursts.”

      “Short bursts.” Huge nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

      “Rude.”

      “Yes, Sergeant.”

      “So you’re a rifleman.”

      “Yes, Sergeant.”

      Bolan eyed the Dragunov sniper rifle Metard was holding. “Switch with Meat.”

      Metard noted the “wad” suffix had been left off his name and smiled. “But Sarge, it’s bigger than he is.”

      “He’s just going to have to grow into it,” Bolan said, as Rudipu took the Dragunov. The four-foot-long, nine and a half pound rifle nearly reached his chin. Bolan gave the cadet a meaningful look. “Fast.”

      Bolan looked at several abandoned dress uniforms. “Uncle Sam still makes his full dress uniforms out of wool, Niners. You’re going to want those jackets and slacks when it gets cold.”

      King glanced about as the morning mist turned to rainbowing steam in the morning sun. “Sarge?”

      “Donger.”

      “Where does it get cold around here?”

      Bolan pointed directly west at the mist-shrouded peaks that lay between the Niner squad and the Ugandan border. “There.”

      4

      “What have you got for me, Bear?” Bolan asked. Kurtzman looked at his bank of monitors. One screen was devoted to the weather over Equatorial Africa. Three more coordinated satellite feeds as high-resolution imagery intelligence birds became available. Another screen was coordinated with signals intelligence satellites that were eavesdropping on the region. The largest screen, the one directly in front of Kurtzman, was dedicated to what he considered the “footwork” of the Computer Room—his own research and information processing.

      “I have Julius Caesar Segawa.”

      “Cute,” Bolan replied.

      “Nothing cute about him.” Kurtzman looked at the only known photograph of the madman. With his knit cap, dreads and beard, Segawa could have passed for a reggae singer, except that reggae singers didn’t pose for portraits holding an automatic weapon while sitting on a pile of human heads. “We have very little confirmed on this guy, Striker, but what we do know is bad, and I mean bad.”

      “This Caesar, he’s Lord’s Resistance Army?”

      “Worse.”

      “What does that mean?”

      Kurtzman