Читать книгу War Tides - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

“Let me off here!” Lyons ordered.

Blancanales pumped the brakes and Lyons went EVA with the vehicle still moving at better than twenty miles per hour. The Able Team leader didn’t lose stride as he touched the pavement and rushed the front doors of the broken-down factory. The terrorist gunners, firing from positions on the upper floor, tried to cut him down but they didn’t have fields of fire that close to the building. Lyons made it through the rickety doorway unscathed and into the cold, dusty interior.

His breath was visible by the only light in the factory, shafts of sunbeams streaming through cracks and holes in the darkened windows. The shadows nearly obscured a pair of terrorist gunmen save for the light reflecting off their machine pistols. Lyons swung his M-16 A-3 into acquisition and triggered it from the hip. The weapon chattered a 3-round burst that took the first terrorist in the guts before it flipped him onto his back. Lyons had the second gunman targeted before the body of the first hit the stripped concrete floor. Lyons’s rounds struck the terrorist even as the man fired his own weapon and sent bullets into the ground. The man dropped to his knees as blood poured from his chest wounds. The light faded from his eyes before he toppled face-first to the concrete.

Lyons tracked a 360-degree arc with the muzzle of the M-16 A-3 before rushing to a metal stairwell. The fact the enemy had only left a defense of two men on the lower level bothered the warrior enough to pause and consider that he might be walking into a trap. Then again, what did it matter? They had to stay on mission and make sure the terrorists didn’t get away from them, irrespective of the risks. Springing the trap would accomplish the same thing as planning a stealth assault.

Lyons shot up the steps and made it about three-quarters of the way to the second floor before another pair of terrorists emerged from the darkness above. The men hadn’t seen Lyons and he hadn’t seen them, so they nearly collided save for the Able Team warrior’s reflexes. Too close to engage with the business end of his assault rifle, Lyons spun the weapon so the butt came up and caught the terrorist to his right under the chin. He followed through and a crack echoed along the stairwell as the impact flipped the man over the metal railing. The shout of surprise died in the man’s throat when he landed head-first on the concrete.

The other terrorist realized the proximity made any use of his rifle useless and he whipped out a combat knife. He leaped toward Lyons, knife blade pointed down and away from his body. Years of Shotokan training screamed at Lyons and he reacted by stepping inside the entry point of attack that would put the knife wielder’s blade as far from its intended target as possible. As he leaped aside, Lyons delivered an elbow to the side of the terrorist’s jaw while simultaneously checking the nerve in the forearm with the butt of his rifle. He followed with a hammer fist to the man that crushed his nose against his face. The swiftness and efficiency of the attack bought Lyons the time he needed to follow up with a disarm maneuver.

The knife clattered from numb fingers.

Lyons really went to work. He swung the rifle into the terrorist’s solar plexus, and the air rushed from the man in a whoosh. Lyons followed with a stomp kick to the knee that crushed tissue and ripped tendons. The terrorist emitted a howl of anguish as he folded on himself, and Lyons finished his attack with another kick that smashed the man’s head between the sole of Lyons’s boot and the wall of the factory. The terrorist’s body tumbled down the stairs.

Lyons turned and continued up the stairwell, undaunted in his mission to eradicate every last one of the IUA terrorists.

BLANCANALES AND SCHWARZ were pinned down.

The van provided their only saving grace, as venturing from the shelter of the vehicle would have meant the end for the pair of Able Team commandos. Bullets zinged off the pavement or slammed into the roof. There were no windows on the side of the van facing the terrorist assault line inside the second floor of the warehouse, so the specialized Kevlar body of the van easily repelled the firestorm without compromising structural integrity.

“It would seem they’re not going to make this easy on us,” Blancanales announced.

“No, it sure doesn’t,” Schwarz agreed.

“I wish to hell Ironman would have given one of us time to go with him.”

Schwarz decided the moment had come to even the odds, and in way of response to his comrade he grunted as he flipped a switch on the control panel inside the specially equipped van. A small LCD screen set in the sensitive array flickered to life and a picture of several moving shapes materialized a moment later. The heat of the gun barrels firing on them obscured the targets somewhat, but not enough that Schwarz couldn’t implement an effective firing solution.

“Let’s see if we can’t give Ironman some support in another fashion.” Schwarz stabbed a button on the console and the van came alive with a steady, heavy vibration.

Blancanales gripped the arms of the driver’s seat and looked around the van nervously. “What the hell is that?”

Schwarz apparently hadn’t found time to fully brief his companions on every new on-board feature of the van, since they had taken possession of it only a few days ago. The roof-mounted, electronically controlled and fired .50-caliber machine gun happened to be one of those features.

Schwarz jerked a thumb toward the roof. “A top-ten hit by John Moses Browning and the Fifty Calibers.”

“I’ve heard that tune before,” Blancanales said with a grin. “An oldie but a goody.”

“I do try.”

Chips of concrete marked where the .50-caliber shells struck, raising clouds of dust and debris that obscured the van. Blancanales saw the opportunity to bail and cradled the Beretta SCS-70/90 in a ready position. He crossed the open space and managed to get clear of the front as he sprinted along the side of the building and came up on its rear. Once he reached a safe point, Blancanales stopped to catch his breath and put his back firmly to the wall. There were no terrorists shooting at the rear because there were no windows.

But Blancanales found what he’d hoped to find: a door.

The warrior took several more deep breaths of the chill midday air and then rushed to the door. He tried the handle first. Locked. Blancanales stepped back, held the SCS-70/90 tight and low and squeezed the trigger. The 5.56 mm rounds shredded the flimsy metal of the lock and the door popped from the lock and swung outward.

Blancanales smiled as he edged through the gap, thankful fate had gone easy on him so far. He’d never been the superstitious kind but right now was a time he could believe in it. Lyons had once again opted for the direct approach by charging the building in a frontal assault like a madman. Now Blancanales had to traipse after him, cover his six so he didn’t get it shot off by a horde of well-armed terrorists.

Blancanales spotted a stairwell to his right. The body of a terrorist heaped at the bottom of the steps marked Lyons’s trail. Blancanales hopped over the body and took the steps two at a time. The reports of autofire had faded with the onslaught delivered by the electronic heavy battery being poured out by Schwarz. Blancanales figured it was proving enough to keep terrorist heads down, and that would buy him the time he needed to find his friend.

Blancanales should have known it wouldn’t be difficult. As he reached the top of the steps, he glimpsed Lyons hunkered behind a large steel drum for cover as at least a half dozen terrorists were angling for a clear shot. Blancanales took them by surprise when he rested his Beretta across the railing that lined the opening to the stairwell and, using it as a sort of bipod, strafed them with a sustained barrage of NATO rounds.

Lyons glanced at his friend and then with a wicked smile he popped up from the cover of the steel drum and joined in the offensive. The terrorists were unprepared to have the tables turned on them in such a fashion, and it didn’t take much to cut them to ribbons. Blancanales took out four of the six with bursts that struck heads, chests and stomachs. Lyons implemented a more methodical strategy, taking the time to draw close aim on his targets before squeezing off 3-round bursts in precise kill-zones. Their assault lasted only a matter of seconds and when the dust cleared the Able Team pair couldn’t hear anything but ringing in their ears, didn’t smell anything but spent gunpowder.

A squawk resounded in Blancanales’s ear, a signal from the van com. “What’s up, Gadgets?”

Schwarz’s voice came back. “I got company here!”

Blancanales heard the autofire through the earpiece the same moment he and Lyons heard it echo through the cavernous second floor from outside. He tried to inform Lyons but the Able Team leader already seemed aware of it because he was on the move before Blancanales could utter a word. The two men descended the steps with all speed and made for the front door. They emerged from the semidarkness into the blazing sunlight, the effect nearly blinding them, but caught enough of the scene in front of them to understand.

Three terrorists had entered one of their vans and were trying to make a break for it, shooting at Schwarz as they attempted to flee. Before either Lyons or Blancanales could react, the unoccupied van suddenly exploded in a flaming gas ball. Metal shards rained near them and one missed Lyons by mere inches. The Able Team duo raced for their van as one of the terrorists who had taken advantage of the distraction got behind the wheel and fled with a squeal of tires.

Lyons and Blancanales reached the van, Lyons diving into the back and shutting the door behind him as Blancanales got behind the wheel.

“You all right?” Lyons asked, his eyes shooting to the splotch of blood soaked into Schwarz’s shirt.

Schwarz had been gripping his forearm, and when he pulled his hand away it was slick with more blood. “Minor wing.”

“Don’t look minor.” Lyons groused as he broke out the first-aid kit.

Blancanales put the van in motion and whipped it around with enough force to knock Lyons off balance. Lyons muttered curses under his breath but they weren’t really at Blancanales; he knew the stakes were high here. A lot depended on them catching up to those IUA terror-mongers. If the terrorists escaped, it could mean serious consequences for the entire country.

Lyons finished bandaging Schwarz’s arm and then moved to a spot between the front seats while Schwarz turned his attention to the console. The terrorists had put considerable distance between them but Blancanales managed to gain on them. Considering the head start they had, Lyons was impressed that Blancanales had enough foresight to figure their best direction, and he said as much.

“No sweatski,” Blancanales said. “The highway was the most logical choice for escape.”

“Still…” Lyons said, but he didn’t press it. The warrior looked over his shoulder at Schwarz. “You got any electronic doodads that might be able to disable that thing?”

Schwarz shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Lyons reached down and scooped up his M-16 A-3. He detached the M-203 from it as this model could perform in an attached or stand-alone capacity. The warrior reached into the bag and withdrew a 40 mm round. As he slammed it home and closed the breech with a pronounced movement he declared, “This should do the trick.”

Schwarz expressed horror. “That van’s our only remaining lead. You’re going to blow it up?”

Lyons grinned and his eye took on a fearsome glint. “Watch and learn, my friend. Pol, get up beside that thing.”

“Best possible speed. Aye-aye, skipper.”

Blancanales put pedal to metal and shortly they were gaining on the terrorists’ van. The thing the terrorists had forgotten was that most rental vans had governors on them—not that it would have been any competition against the 8-cylinder Hemi engine beneath the hood of Able Team’s van, which was further enhanced by a Cummins turbocharger. When they rolled up parallel, Lyons opened the side door of the van, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of the M-203. The shotgun-style pop of the weapon drowned out the sound of breaking glass.

The driver’s compartment immediately began to fill with smoke, and the van quickly took on an erratic course. Lyons ordered Blancanales to steer to their right rear quarter even with the front bumper of the enemy van so that they could keep the van from swerving into oncoming traffic. The thick white smoke now permeated the van interior, and the driver had no choice but to pull to the side of the road. He went a little too far and ended up rolling down a shallow, grassy embankment. Fortunately, the van came to halt where it wouldn’t pose any danger to bystanders.

As they came to a stop behind the van, Schwarz slapped Lyons on the shoulder. “Well played, Ironman!”

Lyons nodded acknowledgment before he bailed from the van with Blancanales and approached the enemy vehicle with weapons held at the ready. The rear doors opened and Lyons reached up and hauled out a pair of choking, gagging terrorists without giving them the chance to dismount. They hit the ground hard and Lyons held one down with his foot while he pointed the muzzle of his M-16 at the other.

Blancanales shouted for the driver to surrender, but the guy came out with SMG in hand and left Blancanales no choice. The terrorist triggered several rounds skyward as Blancanales tapped him with two rounds to the chest. The terrorist came off his feet and landed flat on his back in a muddy depression.

Blancanales returned to the prisoners and applied plastic riot cuffs on their wrists while Lyons covered him. He then took over watch duty while Lyons searched the van thoroughly.

The Able Team warrior finally emerged from the van several minutes later and Blancanales noted the puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t get it. What do you mean nothing?”

“Just like I said. There are no plans, no papers, nothing… zip, nada. The thing’s totally empty.”

“You didn’t actually think they were going to leave us the kitchen sink, did you?”

“That’s just it,” Lyons said. “If they didn’t have the plans with them, then that means either they already got rid of them or—”

“They blew them up,” Blancanales finished. “You’re right, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Lyons turned his eyes on their prisoner. Like the other IUA combatants they had encountered, Lyons noticed the burning fanaticism in the man’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose we’d have much chance of coercing this guy—” Lyons kicked the bottom of the terrorist’s heel “—into telling us anything.”

Blancanales studied him. “You’re probably right. And we don’t really have time anyway. If they—”

The roar of an engine and echo of autofire cut his words short. The pair looked in the direction of the van and saw Schwarz battling it out with another van full of IUA goons, this one similar to the others. The terrorists didn’t seem very interested in negotiations. About a half dozen IUA gunners, automatic rifles clutched in their fists, erupted from the side of the van as it skidded to a halt on the loose gravel along the side of the road.

“So that’s how they did it,” Blancanales said.

Lyons nodded quickly as he took off in Schwarz’s direction and called over his shoulder, “That’s our missing link!”

The Able Team leader only got about a half dozen strides before he noticed one of the IUA terrorists lift a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and aim it in the direction of Able Team’s new war wagon. Lyons glanced at Schwarz, who also saw the move, and felt a relief as Schwarz made haste to get clear. Lyons went prone and aligned his M-16 on the launcher-toting terrorist, but he was a moment too late. Milliseconds before his volley of 5.56 mm rounds struck flesh, the rocket left the launcher with a deafening roar. The terrorist’s body fell to the pavement at the same moment Able Team’s high-tech van burst into a fireball with enough force to lift it off the ground.

Flames roiled from the van and vapors shimmered in the air, distorting images surrounding it as heat consumed the combustible fuels. Lyons ignored the destruction, stealing a glance to make sure Schwarz made it away before he turned his rifle on the next terrorist. About the same time he heard Blancanales begin to open fire with the Beretta, and Schwarz joined moments later with another M-16.

The three Able Team warriors hammered the five remaining terrorist gunners with a fusillade of high-velocity rounds. The terrorists danced under the onslaught like marionettes controlled by puppeteers. One terrorist caught a number of slugs to the throat, and blood spurted from the gaping neck wounds as his body slammed against the wall. Two more fell under the unerring fire from Schwarz and tumbled down the slight incline.

The van lurched to life, tires squealing, but the trip came to an abrupt end when Lyons shot out both the front and rear tires on the passenger side, causing the driver to lose control. Seeing any attempt to operate the van as futile, the surviving terrorist bailed from the driver’s seat and used the van to cover his escape. Lyons scrambled to his feet and sprinted off in pursuit.

It took Blancanales some time to figure out Lyons’s intent. “Where the hell are you going, Ironman?”

But the blond warrior was already out of earshot.