positions around Hut Two.
A moment later Alex saw four SAS men slip out of the door of Hut One and disappear around the far side.
From the generator area he heard the crack of 203 grenades launched by Dog and Stan and a moment later the familiar stutter of Mi6s on rapid fire as the assaulters completed the movement. The RUF were now under sustained assault from three directions, trapped in a lethal cage of noise and shrapnel. No RUF man was going to risk standing up for long enough to aim and correctly discharge an RPG in all of that, Alex reckoned. Quickly, he called in the reserve Puma.
The pilot acknowledged the signal and sixty seconds later the big snout-nosed chopper swung in fast and steep, dropping down next to the twisted and still burning wreck of the first. It had hardly touched the ground when the rescue team sprinted out of the barracks-block with the ITN crew over their shoulders. Hurling the journalists through the open doorway like so many sacks of coal and dragging themselves in afterwards, they were away within seconds, dipping and swaying across the grey-green jungle canopy to safety.
On the sat-com, Alex called up Ross.
"Hostages airborne," he told the GO, 'but we've taken casualties." Quickly, he brought him up to speed with events.
"Keep me posted," said Ross tersely, and broke the connection.
Silence now from the RUF all of their remaining strength pinned down in and around Hut Two. Above them, the sky seemed to be darkening again. Stalemate.
Alex slotted a fresh 30-round magazine into the belly of his weapon.
Does the fight have to be to the death, he wondered. The fierce anticipation of the night before was entirely spent. The camp was a butcher's shop now and one or two of the RUF corpses looked horrifjingly young. All that he felt now was revulsion a desperate longing for the whole thing to be over.
And then Dog Kenilworth's Brummie tones were in his earpiece.
"They're jacking it in. Slinging their rifles out."
Alex exhaled, permitted himself a moment of relief "Any men followed the rifles?"
"No, not so far. Yeah, hang on, one's just shouting to Stan now.
"What's he saying?"
"Dunno. Something meaning "No shooting!", I'd guess. He's coming out."
"Watch yourselves, OK?"
"Don't worry, Alex."
One by one the RUF soldiers processed out of Hut Two and the other outbuildings at the eastern end of the camp. From the tree line Alex saw the line of disarmed men, hands raised, shuffling towards the smoking wreck of the first Puma. There, under the watchful eye and trained Mi6s of the assault team, they waited in disconsolate ranks.
"Andy," Alex ordered, 'cut across and join Stan and Dog. When it looks as if all the prisoners are under guard, I want the three of you to do a quick house-to-house, check for stay behinds
"Understood," said Maddocks.
Alex turned back to Ricky Sutton. The trooper was pale and clearly in shock, but managed a wry grin. An SLR round had torn a furrow over the hamstring muscle at the back of his thigh, and despite the two shell-dressings blood was still welling hotly through the gauze.
"Right," murmured Alex briskly.
"Who had the patrol med pack
"I'm lying on it."
Carefully, Alex eased the pack from beneath the trooper's chest, found a morphine stick, and angled it into Sutton's thigh. Within seconds, the taut, fearful strain in the young trooper's eyes was replaced with a dreamy vagueness.
Reaching for his UHF set, Alex pressed the transmit button.
"How's it going, lads?" he asked.
"Fine," came Andy Maddocks' voice.
"No stay-behinds, all bad boys disarmed. What shall we do with the weapons? We've got a hundred-odd SLRs, few AKs, RPGs, odds and sods."
Alex removed a saline drip assembly from the med-pack.
"All weapons, amino, and comms kit goes into the river." He thought of the women and children who, raped, traumatised and with one or both arms hacked off by men such as these, were still arriving daily in Freetown.
"And that includes all pan gas machetes,
A moment later Alex saw four SAS men slip out of the door of Hut One and disappear around the far side.
From the generator area he heard the crack of 203 grenades launched by Dog and Stan and a moment later the familiar stutter of Mi6s on rapid fire as the assaulters completed the movement. The RUF were now under sustained assault from three directions, trapped in a lethal cage of noise and shrapnel. No RUF man was going to risk standing up for long enough to aim and correctly discharge an RPG in all of that, Alex reckoned. Quickly, he called in the reserve Puma.
The pilot acknowledged the signal and sixty seconds later the big snout-nosed chopper swung in fast and steep, dropping down next to the twisted and still burning wreck of the first. It had hardly touched the ground when the rescue team sprinted out of the barracks-block with the ITN crew over their shoulders. Hurling the journalists through the open doorway like so many sacks of coal and dragging themselves in afterwards, they were away within seconds, dipping and swaying across the grey-green jungle canopy to safety.
On the sat-com, Alex called up Ross.
"Hostages airborne," he told the GO, 'but we've taken casualties." Quickly, he brought him up to speed with events.
"Keep me posted," said Ross tersely, and broke the connection.
Silence now from the RUF all of their remaining strength pinned down in and around Hut Two. Above them, the sky seemed to be darkening again. Stalemate.
Alex slotted a fresh 30-round magazine into the belly of his weapon.
Does the fight have to be to the death, he wondered. The fierce anticipation of the night before was entirely spent. The camp was a butcher's shop now and one or two of the RUF corpses looked horrifjingly young. All that he felt now was revulsion a desperate longing for the whole thing to be over.
And then Dog Kenilworth's Brummie tones were in his earpiece.
"They're jacking it in. Slinging their rifles out."
Alex exhaled, permitted himself a moment of relief "Any men followed the rifles?"
"No, not so far. Yeah, hang on, one's just shouting to Stan now.
"What's he saying?"
"Dunno. Something meaning "No shooting!", I'd guess. He's coming out."
"Watch yourselves, OK?"
"Don't worry, Alex."
One by one the RUF soldiers processed out of Hut Two and the other outbuildings at the eastern end of the camp. From the tree line Alex saw the line of disarmed men, hands raised, shuffling towards the smoking wreck of the first Puma. There, under the watchful eye and trained Mi6s of the assault team, they waited in disconsolate ranks.
"Andy," Alex ordered, 'cut across and join Stan and Dog. When it looks as if all the prisoners are under guard, I want the three of you to do a quick house-to-house, check for stay behinds
"Understood," said Maddocks.
Alex turned back to Ricky Sutton. The trooper was pale and clearly in shock, but managed a wry grin. An SLR round had torn a furrow over the hamstring muscle at the back of his thigh, and despite the two shell-dressings blood was still welling hotly through the gauze.
"Right," murmured Alex briskly.
"Who had the patrol med pack
"I'm lying on it."
Carefully, Alex eased the pack from beneath the trooper's chest, found a morphine stick, and angled it into Sutton's thigh. Within seconds, the taut, fearful strain in the young trooper's eyes was replaced with a dreamy vagueness.
Reaching for his UHF set, Alex pressed the transmit button.
"How's it going, lads?" he asked.
"Fine," came Andy Maddocks' voice.
"No stay-behinds, all bad boys disarmed. What shall we do with the weapons? We've got a hundred-odd SLRs, few AKs, RPGs, odds and sods."
Alex removed a saline drip assembly from the med-pack.
"All weapons, amino, and comms kit goes into the river." He thought of the women and children who, raped, traumatised and with one or both arms hacked off by men such as these, were still arriving daily in Freetown.
"And that includes all pan gas machetes,
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