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"How bad am I?"
"Except for a broken right arm and shoulder, one or more cracked ribs-- I can't tell without X-rays-- fractured left tibia and ankle, plus a sea of bruises and possible internal injuries, you're quite all right."
"You're very honest," said Eva, gamely forcing a thin smile at the medic's battlefield whimsy.
The medic patted her good arm. "Forgive my bleak bedside manner, but I think it best you know the cold truth."
"I appreciate that," she said weakly.
"Two months' rest and you'll be ready to swim the channel."
"I'll stick to heated swimming pools, thank you."
Pembroke-Smythe, indefatigable as ever, moved about the crowded arsenal keeping everyone's spirits up. He came over and knelt by Eva. "Well, well, you're one iron lady, Dr. Rojas."
"I'm told I'll survive."
"She won't be engaging in wild and crazy sex for a while," teased Pitt.
Pembroke-Smythe made a comic leer, "What I wouldn't give, to be around when she recovers."
Eva missed the Captain's sly innuendo. Almost before he finished his remark she had slipped back into unconsciousness.
Pitt and Pembroke-Smythe stared over her into each other's eyes, the faces suddenly devoid of humor. The Captain nodded at the automatic pistol slung under Pitt's left arm.
"In the end," he said quietly, "will you do her the honor?"
Pitt nodded solemnly. "I'll take care of hers."
Levant came up, looking grimy and tired. He knew his men and women could not endure this punishment much longer. The added burden of watching the suffering of women and children wrenched at his tough, professional spirit. He hated to see them and his beloved tactical team being mercilessly subjected to such torment. His coldest fear was being overrun when the bombardment stopped, and then watching helplessly as the Malians ran amok in butchery and rape.
His best guess of the force against them was between one thousand and fifteen hundred. The number of his men and women still capable of fighting was down to twenty-nine including Pitt. And then there were the four tanks to contend with. He had no idea how long they could hold out before being overrun. An hour, maybe two, more likely less. They would make a fight of it, that much was certain. The bombardment had oddly worked in their favor. Most of the rubble from the walls had fallen outward, making it difficult for assaulting troops to climb over it.
"Corporal Wadilinski reports the Malians are beginning to form up and move in," he said to Pembroke-Smythe. "The assault is imminent. Widen the entrance to the stairs and have your people ready to move out the instant the firing stops."
"Right away, Colonel."
Levant turn
ed to Pitt. "Well, Mr. Pitt. I believe the time has arrived to test your invention. . ."
Pitt stood and stretched. "A wonder it hasn't been blown to splinters."
"When I gave a quick look aboveground a few minutes ago it was still sitting in one piece under a section of one wall that was still standing."
"Now that's enough to get me to quit drinking tequila:"
"Nothing so drastic as that I hope."`
Pitt looked into Levant's eyes. "Mind if I ask what your answer was to Kazim's surrender demands?"
"The same reply we French gave at Waterloo and Camerone, merde."
"In other words, crap, " Pembroke-Smythe translated.
Levant smiled. "A polite way of putting it."
Pitt sighed. "I never thought Mrs. Pitt's boy would end up like Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie at the Alamo."
