few seconds later the pilot pulled her up and out to turn and make another

pass through the narrow canyon. As the gunship ended her turn

and lined up for her second run, seven of the enemy still advanced. Hunt

covered his sergeant's retreat.

He killed five of the enemy with a combination of a rocket-propelled

grenade and a concentrated field of fire. But two made it close to Hunt's

position. One shot him in the shoulder as he turned to retreat.

The second one slit his throat with a wicked-looking curved knife.

Starting down in the dive for the fire run, the pilot of the AC-130

saw Hunt being killed and radioed it to the other aircraft. Hunt's troops

saw it as well-and the sight removed their fear and replaced it with

rage. As the AC-130 lined up for the pass, the troops rose and charged

another wave that had just left the cave and was advancing downhill.

Pushing forward as a team, they reached their fallen leader and erected

a protective circle around his body. They waited for the enemy to advance,

but as if by magic, or sensing the fury of the American troops, the

enemy began to turn and retreat.

TWENTY THOUSAND FEET above them and less than ten minutes

from the target, the pilot of the B-52 flicked off the microphone and replaced

it in its cradle.

"Did you all hear that?" he said quietly on the intercom to his crew.

The plane was silent save for the drone from the eight engines. The

pilot didn't need an answer-he knew they'd all heard what he had

heard.

"We're going to turn this mountain into dust," he said. "When the

enemy comes for the bodies, I want them to need to collect them with a

sponge."

SACRED STONE 23

FOUR MINUTES LATER the helicopters came for Advance Three.

Hunt's body and the wounded were loaded in the first Blackhawk. The

rest of the soldiers, heads hung down, climbed into the second. Then

the helicopter gunships and the AC-130 began raking the hillside with a

fury of lead and explosives. Soon after that the B-52 came calling. The

blood flowed down the hill and the enemy was obliterated. But the show

of force came too late for Lieutenant Hunt.

In time, only the need for revenge would remain to mark his passing.

And it would be years before that played out.

SACRED STONE 25

2

THE OREGON SAT alongside a pier in Reykjavik, Iceland, tied fast to

the bollards. The vessels in port were a mishmash of both work boats

and pleasure crafts, fishing boats and factory trawlers, smaller cruisers

and-unusual for Iceland-a few large yachts. The fishing boats supported

Iceland's largest industry; the yachts were here because the Arab

Peace Summit was currently in session.

The Oregon would never win any beauty contests. The five-hundredplus-foot-long

cargo steamer appeared to be held together mostly by rust.

Her upper decks were littered with junk, her upper and lower hull were a