Strike Eagle (32 page)

A volley of shots ripped through the door.

“Back—get back!”

The man crumpled, blood running from his stomach.

Cervante took an instant to decide what to do. He ran out the front, yelling at the top of his voice. “The Americans! They are coming!” Out in the rain, he spotted two of his men underneath the overhang by the right side of the house. They looked quizzically at him, holding cigarettes. A group of men poured from the house, rifles at ready.

Cervante pointed to the high-power microwave weapon in the truck. “You two—start the device. Everyone else—capture the Americans!”

“Where are they?”

“What? I only hear—”

“Which way?”

One of the men unfolded the three-meter dish antenna.

Barguyo appeared on the porch, rifle at port arms. He looked wildly around. “Cervante—which way do I go?”

Cervante motioned toward the high-power microwave. “Stay here—direct the men setting it up.”

Barguyo took a step out into the rain. Cervante motioned for his rifle. Barguyo hesitated, then, grudgingly, turned the weapon over. “I … I must join the others.”

Cervante nodded to the HPM device. “You are needed here. Your talent is too valuable to lose.”

Shouting mixed with the sounds of gunfire came from behind the house. The rain made Barguyo look like a little drenched rat, so hopeless standing there, as he was not allowed to join his comrades. Barguyo’s mouth twitched as he spoke.

“But what can I do?”

“The HPM weapon can stop them.”

“How? I do not hear a plane.”

The shouting continued. It sounded as if the men were chasing a fox through the clearing.

Cervante set his mouth. “They did not get here through the jungle. Someone will fly in to pull them out. The HPM weapon will stop them.” He turned to join the others, leaving the boy in charge.

“Got ’em, got ’em, got ’em!”

The Electronic Warfare Officer on board the MC-130 Combat Talon looked excitedly up, for the first time all flight. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the blacked-out interior, but he threw his head back and took in the darkness—for relief of eye strain, if nothing else. The Coke-bottle-thick glasses he wore didn’t get in his way as he clicked the mike.

“Pilot, EWO. Assassin is away from the house, carrying a captive.”

“Rog, we copy the image up front. Can you make out any details?”

The EWO squinted back at the computer-enhanced infrared screen. “Negatory. The house is too bright, but—wait! A crowd has come into view. They don’t look like they’re bidding Assassin a fond good-bye.”

A second passed. The pilot’s voice was replaced by Colonel Lutler’s. “Can you pinpoint the good guys from the bad?”

The EWO leaned into the screen. He played the small recessed ball on the side of the control panel. The view jumped from person to person, but he still couldn’t get a good ID.

Two additional figures ran from the house at right angles from Assassin—if it
was
Assassin. The EWO swore to himself.

“I can’t get a positive.”

“Then scratch calling in Maddog right now. There’s too much uncertainty to have them blowing the hell out of everything. Put them on standby.”

“Sir, what about the Vulcans?”

“What?”

“The Vulcan cannons. It might be too tight for the ’15s down there right now, but we could use the IR to direct the Vulcans, at least to lay down a shield until the Black Hawk arrives.”

“Have they deployed that HPM weapon?”

“I haven’t spotted it, sir. But as long as we stay at least a thousand yards out, the HPM’s intensity won’t affect us.”

Lutler appeared at the young officer’s side. He placed a hand on the EWO. “I’ll help the gunner set it up, you sing out and aim it. Have the pilot bring us into range.”

“Rog.” The EWO turned back to his scope. He clicked his mike. “Pilot, EWO. Lutler will fire the Vulcan.”

“I know, EWO. I figured that’s what he’d have us do. We’re pulling into position now.”

Seconds later the EWO heard the side hatch come open and the Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannon swing into place. Colonel Ben Lutler positioned the cannon as the EWO slaved it to the IR sensors.

Captain Head bypassed the standard five-minute warm-up and punched the main rotor engine after a ninety-second surge. The rotor caught, causing the Black Hawk to vibrate.

Three minutes later they were in the air, a hundred feet over the top of the jungle. Gould kept in communication with Mother Hen. The MC-130 vectored them in to the south, but warned them to stay away from the house in the middle of the clearing.

Head looked over to Gould as he pulled his night goggles down. “Tell Zaz to break out the miniguns. The hoist will have to wait.”

Bruce quit trying to pull Adleman along. He positioned himself under Adleman’s right armpit and lifted, carrying the man.

Bullets whizzed by, zinging into the ground and sending up sharp splashes of mud. Bruce tried to keep low, but the vice president threw off his center of gravity.

Step, slide. Step, slide.

Bruce squinted up, out of breath.

The jungle was still a hundred yards away.

Bruce dropped Adleman to the side and swung the M-16 around. The house looked too close. He hadn’t gone anywhere.

He pulled back the safety and took a knee, aiming the automatic rifle towards the bobbing shapes that came toward him.…

Lightning. Thunder.

The sound nearly bowled him over. It came in a long, drawn-out
zzzziiiipppp,
trailing red light behind it.…

And it came again.

Bruce fell back onto his buttocks, stunned. The sound struck again, peppering the area in front of him. Screams came from the house—around the corner and to the far left.
Zzzziiiipppp
—the sound echoed throughout the clearing, rolling back and forth.

A Vulcan cannon!
Someone was covering him, either from a gunship or a helicopter. The bullets rained down from above at an unthinkable rate, so fast that the ear couldn’t discern an individual round going off. It sounded like one long shot, two- or three-second bursts at a time.

Bruce found himself breathing hard. He took a moment to allow his chest to slow down, then turned to Adleman.

The vice president lay on his side. His head rolled listlessly; mud covered most of his body. Bruce put an ear by Adleman’s mouth—he was still breathing.

Bruce swung the M-16 over his shoulder, secured it, then straightened. He dragged Adleman to his knees and managed to get the vice president over his shoulder. Bruce took an unsteady step, then started for the jungle. He moved as quickly as he could, but now he didn’t look back.

Captain Head brought the MH-60 Black Hawk around in a tight bank. Gould kept his head glued to the infrared and terrain-following radar, calling out the altitude. There were no obstacles to worry about twenty feet above the tree line. As they approached the fire zone, Gould continued to rely on the electro-optical instruments.

The clearing they were vectored to was lit up brighter than a centennial birthday party.

Gould scanned the clearing while Head lowered the craft to prevent them from being seen. They were two hundred yards away. Bolts of Vulcan cannon fire erupted from the MC-130 orbiting four hundred feet above them, inside the clouds.

Head clicked the mike. “Mother Hen, Fox One. Do you copy our location?”

“Rog, Fox One. Don’t get any closer.”

“Rog. Ah, the pickup, Mother Hen. Looks pretty dangerous, even with your cover. Do you want to call in a strike?”

“Negative, Fox One. We’re saving Maddog—some friendlies might be in the house.”

Head thought for a moment. He saw sporadic gunfire bolt across the clearing then stop, as the MC-130 trained its cannon on the sniper.

Head clicked the mike. “Do you have a visual on Assassin?”

“Ah, we think so. They’re heading for the south side of the clearing. Can you pick up?”

Head watched the firefight continue. The Combat Talon was doing a damn good job, but there were too many bullets flying. Maybe if the bad guys could be diverted … out in the open the Black Hawk would go down in seconds. Assassin needed to reach the jungle.

“Negative on the pickup, Mother Hen. What about the Fulton?”

“Can you drop it?” Head clicked over to the intercom. “Zaz—the Fulton Recovery hardware ready to drop?”

“Rog-o, Captain.”

Head flipped back to the ops frequency. “Rog, Mother Hen. We’ll do a quick pass and drop it on the south side.”

“Do it to it.”

Head clicked his mike twice, then said to Gould, “Make sure Zaz gets it right the first time. We aren’t going back if he misses.”

“Right.” Gould spoke quietly into the microphone, talking with Zaz in the back. Head drew in a breath and wheeled the Black Hawk around. Seconds later, they were headed straight for the mouth of the beast.

Bruce dumped Adleman on the ground, then dragged him a few feet into the jungle, watching out for his leg. The vice president had fainted from the pain. Bruce scanned the area for Pompano and Yolanda, but didn’t see them. God, he prayed that she was all right.…

The vice president was breathing, and that was all that mattered at the moment. Except for Yolanda.…

Keeping a lookout through the brush, Bruce pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Mother Hen, Assassin.”