Section 8 Read Online Free PDF Page A

compartment, killing those who had survived the initial blast.

The other three helicopters landed on the beach, and the men on board jumped out into the middle of the raging firefight. Vaughn was forced to dive to the sand as concentrated automatic fire tore through the air in his general direction, barely missing him. He had no idea if anyone else from his helicopter had followed him, and he was still a good fifteen meters from the hostage building.

Vaughn continued firing as he spotted targets. He estimated there were at least thirty or forty guerrillas opposing them—the result of failing to destroy the barracks. They had not planned for this. Military tactics dictated a three-to-one ratio in favor of the attacking force for an assault to be successful. The odds here were reversed.

As he sighted in on another target, a large flash lit the night and his night vision goggles blacked out. Then a hot blast of air lifted him up and slammed him down to the ground while a thunderous explosion deafened him. Sand and debris came raining down—among it, body parts.

Ears ringing, Vaughn slowly rolled onto his back. He blinked as the night vision goggles worked to regain their setting after the overload. He didn't really want to see. Didn't want to get up. Didn't want to confirm what he already knew. It was only a question of how truly bad this was, and he instinctively knew it was very bad.

As the ringing subsided, he could dimly hear firing, though not as much as before. Accepting his duty with the battle still going on, he tucked the MP-5 into his shoulder and got to one knee, scanning the area, though he knew they'd already failed.

The hostage shack was gone. A gaping hole stood in its place. The explosion had been so large, it also took out most of the barracks building, killed quite a few of the terrorists who had been arrayed around the complex, and cut a swath into the jungle behind the buildings. There was no way anyone inside could have survived the explosion.

As if on autopilot, Vaughn fired at an Abu Sayef guerrilla who was limping away from the scene of the explosion. He continued to scan, saw bodies everywhere, turned and looked behind him. A half-dozen Filipino commandos were tentatively moving forward. He could see the crashed helicopter burning in the surf.

Drawn by the flames, Vaughn walked toward it, the water lapping around his legs. A couple of his men were already at work, removing bodies from it, searching for survivors. He paused as he recognized one of the bodies laid out next to the helicopter—or partial body.

A helicopter blade had sliced through the man, cutting him in half. The upper half had been dragged above the waterline. There was no sign of the lower half. Most likely it was still pinned in the wreckage.

Trembling, Vaughn walked over to the torso and knelt next to Sergeant Major Jenkins. He ripped open the combat vest and body armor and, reaching into the breast pocket, retrieved the picture of Jenkins's wife—his sister. He looked at it for several moments, then at his friend and brother-in-law.

"I'm sorry," he said.
    * * *
    Over four kilometers away, on the side of a mountain to the southeast along the shore, an old man sat in a wheelchair. He was parked on a narrow ledge, less than five feet wide, that had been cut out of the rock. On the right arm of the wheelchair was a red button, which was depressed under the weight of his hand. He slowly released the pressure. To his right, a man stood behind a digital video camera set on a tripod. The video camera had a bulky lens—a night vision device. And it was pointed toward the clearly visible flames where the battle had just taken place. The sounds of shots still echoed across the water toward their location, but the number and frequency had dropped off considerably.

"Did you get it all?" the old man asked in Tagalog, the language of Filipinos.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you identify them as Americans?"

"The zoom on this is very good. There