heads of his friends hanging around their necks. Same fierce look in their eyes.
We should never have come here, Aswalo thought as the machete came down on his neck. We should have all just stayed home ….
There was real trouble now, Ganganez could taste it in the air. The men at the rear of his column were running toward the safety of the middle, thus bunching the majority of his force in a small clearing about halfway up the side of the mountain. Despite his efforts, both yelling into his radio and at the top of his lungs, Ganganez could not calm his men down. Something awful was happening at the rear of the column. Unseen, unheard, but terrifying enough to make his highly trained soldiers panic.
Ganganez looked up ahead of him, at the trail as it left the small clearing, and saw the native guide Xaxmax standing on a tree stump, waving at him. The native was tipping his hat and laughing, too. Ganganez raised his pistol and fired twice at the man—obviously he’d led them into this trap. But the bullets missed the grinning native by a mile.
Ganganez directed his men to shoot at the gap-toothed man too, and they did. But somehow the man was able to dance his way out of the line of fire. Now more soldiers were firing at him, but the native continued his dance and managed to dodge the fusillade being directed at him.
By this time the column of panicky soldiers was flowing into the clearing, accordionlike, dangerously bunching up in clumps of ten or more. Ganganez turned his attention away from the native and back to his men. He began screaming at them again, ordering them to go back down the trail so they all wouldn’t be so woefully exposed. But no one was listening to him. And no one was going back down that trail either. That was very evident now.
The gunfire aimed at the native, the sounds of the panicky 600-plus men pouring into the clearing, and the sound of Ganganez’s own voice drowned out another, deeper, more ominous sound riding on the wind.
It was the groan of sixteen jet engines, flying very high, but coming down very, very fast.
The gunship arrived overhead at precisely 1100 hours.
It had been airborne for ninety minutes, circling very high above Xwo mountain, tracking the progress of the ascent of the Night Brigade via its long-range monitoring array.
The timing of this aerial operation had to be exact for several reasons. It would have been a mistake to attack the Night Brigade while they were still in the village below. Thousands of years of heritage were represented by the Intez settlement and it simply could not be destroyed. Besides, an attack on the ground would have given the Brigade a means of escape.
But up here, halfway up the mountain, they had nowhere to go.
Taking out fifty of the Argentine soldiers at the rear of the column had been a ritualistic exercise more than anything else. It was the Intez way to instill fear into their enemies before destroying them. Lopping off the column’s tail had certainly filled that bill.
It had also served to drive the rest of the column into the open area known as Axaz, or “flat place, halfway up.”
This was the only place on the mountain trail in which the gunship would have a clear shot at the column. It was here that the airplane—and its forty-four high-powered guns—would do their bloody work.
The pilots of the aircraft got a message from the control hut on top of Xwo at 1110 hours. The native chief, Xaxmax, was clear of the enemy column. The Axaz plain was now a free-fire zone. The controllers were giving total fire control over to the big airplane’s pilots. They in turn radioed back to their small army of gunners in the hold of the aerial giant: Load weapons and get ready for action.
The airplane itself was rather frightening just to look at. It was nearly 300 feet long, with an enormous wingspan. Sixteen engines adorned its wings. All of them jets, all of them spewing thick, gray exhaust and emitting a scream that sounded like a
We should never have come here, Aswalo thought as the machete came down on his neck. We should have all just stayed home ….
There was real trouble now, Ganganez could taste it in the air. The men at the rear of his column were running toward the safety of the middle, thus bunching the majority of his force in a small clearing about halfway up the side of the mountain. Despite his efforts, both yelling into his radio and at the top of his lungs, Ganganez could not calm his men down. Something awful was happening at the rear of the column. Unseen, unheard, but terrifying enough to make his highly trained soldiers panic.
Ganganez looked up ahead of him, at the trail as it left the small clearing, and saw the native guide Xaxmax standing on a tree stump, waving at him. The native was tipping his hat and laughing, too. Ganganez raised his pistol and fired twice at the man—obviously he’d led them into this trap. But the bullets missed the grinning native by a mile.
Ganganez directed his men to shoot at the gap-toothed man too, and they did. But somehow the man was able to dance his way out of the line of fire. Now more soldiers were firing at him, but the native continued his dance and managed to dodge the fusillade being directed at him.
By this time the column of panicky soldiers was flowing into the clearing, accordionlike, dangerously bunching up in clumps of ten or more. Ganganez turned his attention away from the native and back to his men. He began screaming at them again, ordering them to go back down the trail so they all wouldn’t be so woefully exposed. But no one was listening to him. And no one was going back down that trail either. That was very evident now.
The gunfire aimed at the native, the sounds of the panicky 600-plus men pouring into the clearing, and the sound of Ganganez’s own voice drowned out another, deeper, more ominous sound riding on the wind.
It was the groan of sixteen jet engines, flying very high, but coming down very, very fast.
The gunship arrived overhead at precisely 1100 hours.
It had been airborne for ninety minutes, circling very high above Xwo mountain, tracking the progress of the ascent of the Night Brigade via its long-range monitoring array.
The timing of this aerial operation had to be exact for several reasons. It would have been a mistake to attack the Night Brigade while they were still in the village below. Thousands of years of heritage were represented by the Intez settlement and it simply could not be destroyed. Besides, an attack on the ground would have given the Brigade a means of escape.
But up here, halfway up the mountain, they had nowhere to go.
Taking out fifty of the Argentine soldiers at the rear of the column had been a ritualistic exercise more than anything else. It was the Intez way to instill fear into their enemies before destroying them. Lopping off the column’s tail had certainly filled that bill.
It had also served to drive the rest of the column into the open area known as Axaz, or “flat place, halfway up.”
This was the only place on the mountain trail in which the gunship would have a clear shot at the column. It was here that the airplane—and its forty-four high-powered guns—would do their bloody work.
The pilots of the aircraft got a message from the control hut on top of Xwo at 1110 hours. The native chief, Xaxmax, was clear of the enemy column. The Axaz plain was now a free-fire zone. The controllers were giving total fire control over to the big airplane’s pilots. They in turn radioed back to their small army of gunners in the hold of the aerial giant: Load weapons and get ready for action.
The airplane itself was rather frightening just to look at. It was nearly 300 feet long, with an enormous wingspan. Sixteen engines adorned its wings. All of them jets, all of them spewing thick, gray exhaust and emitting a scream that sounded like a
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