The Second Saladin by Stephen Hunter Read Free Book Online

the convoy. He could see glass shattering, the canvas of the trucks shredding, the tires deflating. Now and then a smaller explosion and a puff of flame rolled up as one or another of the petrol tanks detonated. And soon no fire came from the trucks.
    “Cut,” Jardi yelled.
    The Kurdish fire died down.
    “Let’s get ’em out of here,” Jardi yelled to Ulu Beg.
    “But, Jardi,” Ulu Beg called, “there’s weapons and booty down there.”
    “Not enough time,” said Jardi. “Look, that scout car.” He pointed to a Russian vehicle on its side at thehead of the convoy. “Look at the aerial on that baby. The jets’ll be here in a few minutes.”
    That was Jardi too: in the middle of battle, with bullets flying about, he was coolly noting which vehicles had radios—and estimating what their range was and how soon MiGs would respond to the ambush.
    Ulu Beg stood.
    “It’s time to flee,” Ulu Beg yelled.
    But it was too late. Far down the line he saw three men break cover and begin to gallop toward the crippled vehicles, their weapons high over their heads in exultation.
    “
No
,” commanded Ulu Beg, “stop—”
    But two more broke from the line and others turned back toward him, frozen in indecision.
    “Back,” he shouted.
    “We must leave the others,” Jardi said. “The jets’ll be here in seconds.”
    But one of the men was Kamran Beg, a cousin, who had been bodyguard to the boy Apo.
    Ulu Beg saw his own child rise from the gully and begin to run down the hill.
    “What the hell,” said Jardi. “Why the hell did you—”
    “I did nothing. I—”
    Then they saw the tank. It was a Russian T-54, huge as a dragon. It swung into the enfilade. Tanks had never come this high before. Ulu Beg watched as the creature swung along on its tracks, its turret cranking. It moved with awkwardness, tentative even, despite its weight.
    “Down!”
Jardi yelled, in the second before the tank fired.
    The shell exploded under the first three running men. They were gone in the blast. Others raced up the hill. The machine gun in the turret cut them down.
    The small boy lay still on the ground.
    Ulu Beg rose to run to him, but something pressed him to the earth.
    “No,” somebody hissed in his ear.
    Jardi vaulted free and raced down the slope. He had abandoned his rifle and held only a rocket-propelled grenade. He ran crazily, not bothering to veer or dodge. He ran right at the tank.
    Its turret swung to him. Machine-gun bullets cut at the earth and Ulu Beg could see them reaching for Jardi, who seemed to slide in a shower of dust as the bullets kicked by him.
    He lay still.
    The tank began to heave up the ridge toward them.
    Ulu Beg saw that they were finished. They couldn’t get back up the slope; the tank would shoot them down. A tank. Where had it come from?
    He tried to clear his brain. He could think only of his son, dead on the slope, the brave American, dead on the slope, his men, his tribe, dead on the slope.
    But Jardi rose. He was not hit at all. He rose, sheathed in the dust he’d fallen through, and stood, one leg cocked insolently on a stone. A wind came and his jacket billowed. From down the slope they could hear Jardi cursing loudly, almost—the man was crazy—laughing.
    The tank turret swung to him again. But Ulu Beg saw that Jardi was close enough now and that the big gun would never reach him in time, and as its barrel swung on to him Jardi fired the RPG one-handed, like a pistol.
    The rocket left in a fury of flame, spitting fire as it flew, and struck the tank on the flat part of the hull, just beneath the turret.
    The tank began to burn. It fell back on its treads and flames began to pour from its hatch and from its engines. Smoke rose and blew in the breeze.
    Jardi threw away his spent launching tube and ranquickly to the boy. He hoisted him and climbed up to them, but he had no smile.
    “Come on, get these guys out of here,” he said. “Come on,” he turned to shout at them, “get going,