Atlanta Extreme by Randy Wayne White Page A

other men have questions?”
    They avoided his eyes; no more questions.
    â€œGood. Then listen up. Sergeant Miles and I are going to enter that village. We are going to do it quietly, under stealth, so that if any government troops are hidden in those chikees, we can take them by surprise. If there are troops, you will hear the firing and Sergeant Miles will set off a red flare. Upon seeing the red flare you will immediately attack. If there are no government troops, we are going to centralize the village population—bring them into one chikee or one common area. Upon our signal—a green flare—you men are going to enter the village and attack. But you are not going to charge down off the hill; you are not going to make noise. This is an exercise, gentlemen. Colonel Curtis will be watching you carefully from the other side of the valley. We want to see how well you do in a hand-to-hand attack situation. That means no firearms. Only knives.”
    â€œOnly knives!” weasel-face sputtered under his breath.
    Hawker gave him a searing look. “If Sergeant Miles fires a green flare, that means that there are no government troops, mister. It means that there are only women and children and old men in the village. It means that even without firearms it will be like killing fish in a barrel. Do women and children and old men frighten you, mister?”
    â€œI … I didn’t think of it that way, sir. When you put it that way, it sounds kind of fun.”
    â€œThat’s what we’re here for, fuckhead—to make sure you have fun.” Hawker had been squatting; now he stood. “Okay. It will probably take Sergeant Miles and me about twenty or thirty minutes to scope out the village. You men are not to move under any circumstances—repeat, under any circumstances—until you see a red or green flare. Understand?”
    They understood.
    Hawker nodded to Miles, and the two men headed down the hill. When they were out of earshot, Miles whispered, “We’re not really going down to the village, are we? We’re skipping out, right? Hell, that was a great idea, Mr. Hawker! With a half-hour lead they’ll never catch us.”
    â€œYeah, but we won’t have a half-hour lead because I really am going into the village. You’ll stop at the line of trees and hold my weapons. I don’t want to scare anybody when I go in.”
    â€œAnd then what? What the hell are you going to do when you get down there?”
    Hawker put the M16 on the ground and unbuckled the belt that held his canteen and cheap production military knife. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m going to have to play it by ear.”
    Hawker was sure what he wanted to do, but he still felt uncomfortable telling Miles. What if the sergeant’s story were an elaborate setup? At least , thought the vigilante, I can save most of these villagers. If I’m lucky .
    As Hawker walked into the village he forced himself to relax, put a broad, easy smile on his face, and let his arms hang loose, like some benevolent uncle coming to call. He took care to stay close to the circle of chikees so that he could not be seen from the far hillside where Curtis and his troops waited. As he did he confirmed what he had noticed on the hike over: the edge of the village drifted into the line of trees not far from the river. It would be the one exit not open to easy view. When the village dogs saw him, they came to attention, ragged ears held high, then set off the alarm, barking wildly. The stickball game stopped; infants ran; mothers stood to stare. From beside the cooking fire in the center of the yard, an old man stood. He wore a brightly colored serape, still wet from the storm just past. His eyes were milky with age; his face gaunt, sun-blotched. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but he walked fearlessly toward Hawker.
    The vigilante held up his hand, feeling ridiculously