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The two Malian air force guards on the military side of the airfield watched in fascination as the strange vehicle raced toward them. Only when it was within 100 meters did they recover and recognize it as a threat. They raised their guns to fire but were cut down with a quick burst from the forward gunner and his Vulcan.
Then the driver swung a sharp turn and the gunners began concentrating their fire on the eight Malian jet fighters parked on the tarmac. Unthreatened by a wartime emergency, the aircraft were not dispersed, but lined up in two neat rows as if awaiting inspection. The heavily armed vehicle bored in, lashing out with short, devastating bursts from its automatic weapons. In quick succession, aircraft after aircraft went up in fiery explosions and black storms of smoke as rivers of shells sledgehammered into their fuel tanks. One moment a sleek fighter jet was there, the next it was gone, a burning mass of wreckage.
Gunn observed the drama in genuine astonishment. He cringed behind the acacia as if its slim trunk was one wide concrete shield. The whole operation had taken no more than six minutes. The armed all-terrain vehicle sped back toward the jetliner, taking up a position at the entrance of the terminal. Then a man in an officer's uniform stepped from the boarding steps, holding what looked to Gunn like a bullhorn.
The officer held the speaker to his lips and spoke, his voice carrying over the flaming destruction on the other side of the airfield. "Mr. Gunn! Will you please step forward? We don't have much time."
Gunn was stunned. He hesitated, not knowing whether it was some sort of complex trap. He quickly shook the thought off as stupid. General Kazim would hardly destroy his air force just to capture one man. Yet, he still was reluctant to rush into view of so much firepower.
"Mr. Gunn!" the officer boomed again. "If you are within sound of my voice, I implore you to hurry or I will be forced to leave without you."
That was all the urging Gunn needed. He leaped from behind the acacia tree and ran over the uneven ground toward the jetliner, waving his hands and shouting like a madman.
"Hold on! I'm coming!"
The unknown officer who had hailed him
paced the tarmac like an impatient passenger, irritated at a flight delay. When Gunn jogged up and stopped, he studied the NUMA scientist as one might look at a street beggar. "Good morning. Are you Rudi Gunn?"
"I am," answered Gunn, panting from exertion and the heat. "Who are you?"
"Colonel Marcel Levant."
Gunn gazed with admiration at the elite force efficiently guarding the perimeter around the aircraft. They had the appearance of a tough group of men with no qualms about killing. "What group is this?"
"A United Nations tactical team," replied Levant.
"How did you know my name and where to find me?"
"Admiral James Sandecker received a communication from someone called Dirk Pitt saying you were hiding near the airport, and that it was urgent you be evacuated."
"The Admiral sent you?"
"With the approval of the Secretary General," replied Levant. "How do I know you're Rudi Gunn?"
Gunn gestured around the desolation in the surrounding countryside. "How in hell many Rudi Gunns do you think just happened to be roaming around this part of the desert waiting for your beck and call?"
"You have no papers, no proof of identity?"
"My personal documents are probably on the bottom of the Niger River. You'll just have to trust me."
Levant passed the bullhorn to an aide and nodded toward the aircraft. "Recall and board," he ordered tersely. He turned back to Gunn and regarded him with a marked lack of cordiality. "Step into the plane, Mr. Gunn. We have no more time to waste in idle conversation."
"Where are you taking me?"
Levant threw a glance of irritation at the sky and said, "To Paris. From there you will be flown to Washington by Concorde where a number of very important people are anxiously waiting to debrief you. That is all you're required to know. Now please move along. Time is crucial."
"What's the rush?" Gunn demanded. "You've obviously destroyed their air force."
"Only one squadron I fear. There are three others based around the capital city at Bamako. Once alerted they can still intercept us before we escape Malian air space."
The armed dune buggy had already driven on board and was quickly followed by the ground forces. The flight attendant who had bravely cut the control tower cables took Gunn by the arm and hustled him up the boarding ramp.
"We don't have a first-class cabin with gourmet meals and champagne, Mr. Gunn," she said brightly. "But we do have cold beer and bologna sandwiches."
"You don't know how good that sounds," Gunn smiled.
He should have felt a great surge of relief as he climbed the boarding stairs, but suddenly he was swept by a wave of anguish. Thanks to Pitt and Giordino he was safely escaping to freedom. They had sacrificed to save him. How on heaven's earth did they ever manage to find a radio and contact Sandecker, he wondered.
