Crouched in a “hasty”-a quickly scratched fighting hole atop the main berm of his ruined camp-Jack O’Neil watched as the exodus of vehicles from the mo-tor pool ended. Judging from the sudden rush of flames over there, young Charlton was either pursu-ing a scorched-earth policy ... or he’d been overrun. Long shadows flickered grotesquely against the sand wall. Even the radio operator silently monitoring transmissions looked up as Charlton and his scratch force ran to join O’Neil’s troops. “I think my farewell present will keep those bad boys busy for a little while.” The lieutenant climbed to his commander’s position with a hangman’s smile on his thin face. “If s the extra-crispy recipe for southern-fired hawk.” Joining the two men in the hasty, the young officer peered off into the darkness in the direction of Nagada. “Where the hell is the local militia?” he muttered. “Skaara has to know there’s trouble out here. You’d think he’d get up off his ass-“ O’Neil cut off his subordinate.
