breaks out here, we’re going to have a hell of a time retreating.”
James glanced at the trailing launch, loaded with more CIA strike force members, then sighed. “The file on Terremota stated that she may have trained al Qaeda operatives for the bombing of the USS Cole.”
“So she knows how to mix water and demolitions,” Encizo answered.
“Johnstone,” James said.
“What is it, Mr. Farrow?” Mills Johnstone, a brawny, pug-nosed man asked. He was the commander of the strike force, and ever since James’s and Encizo’s arrival as Calvin Farrow and Rafael Rey, he’d harbored an edge of impatience in his voice.
“Keep your men on this boat. We’ll go aboard,” Encizo said.
Johnstone’s craggy face bent into a frown. “You boys are too paranoid.”
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” James asked. He glanced toward the rail they were approaching. “Listen, if it’s safe, no problem. If not… Well, you won’t lose any of your men.”
Johnstone snorted. “Fine.”
James slid his hand under his coat, wrapping it around the curved plastic grip of the FN P-90 where it hung by its sling. He placed one foot on the prow of the launch and prepared to hop the rail when he spotted something bobbing in the water.
His body tensed and he looked to Encizo. “Rafe!”
That’s when an explosion ripped through the night. Splinters of the shattered boat sailed on a wave of billowing orange flame.
GARY MANNING THREW HIMSELF out of the jeep when he realized that David McCarter had just developed a case of road rash. T.J. Hawkins was hot on the Canadian’s heels, somersaulting to the ground as a wave of AK-47 steel-cored bullets hammered at the vehicle they exited. Stewart flopped to the ground, wincing in pain from his clumsy dive for cover.
The driver, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was pinned to the driver’s seat for the rest of his short life as 7.62 mm COMBLOC rounds punched through his chest, soaking his woodland camouflage with slick, red blood. Manning’s jaw tightened as he watched the lifeless chauffeur flop over the steering wheel moments before the vehicle’s destroyed tire snagged on the tarmac. The jeep preformed a flip, and if the poor bastard was still alive after being cored by a wave of flying bullets, Manning knew it was too late as several tons of steel sandwiched his corpse between itself and the ground. The Canadian came out of his roll and brought the MSG-90’s scope to his eye.
There would be time to mourn later. Right now, he had to help repel the sudden invasion on the base.
The transport jet they’d come in on gouted flames where an RPG shell had ruptured its hull. Luckily, the grounded bird didn’t need its hydraulics to fly, and its wings were where the volatile fuel was stored. A subsequent hit, however, could change all that.
Manning homed in on an RPG crew and the Bushnell scope atop his rifle brought the faces of the two rocketmen into sharp relief. One was a native Kenyan by the look of him, while the other was an Arab. Somehow, the two nationalities seemed to have come to an agreement of mutual hatred against the U.S. It didn’t matter how they got that way. In a moment, they would both be united in death.
The Phoenix Force sniper triggered his MSG-90 and planted a 175-grain precision match bullet through the forehead of the Kenyan, spraying his brains out the back of his skull in an eruption of crimson and stringy tissue. The Arab, waiting for his companion to load the next shell into his rocket-propelled-grenade launcher, gawked in momentary horror at the disintegration of a large part of his partner’s head. He scrambled for the next shell, but Manning leveled the crosshairs on the base of the terrorist’s neck and milked the trigger again.
He watched to make sure the Arab’s corpse landed on the ground, a massive chunk of spine torn out by the 7.62 mm NATO round, even at a range of 400 yards. Satisfied he hadn’t left a killer still able to fight, he shifted his aim and realized that the remaining guard towers were coordinating their fire. The brawny Canadian turned toward the ditch and saw that the enemy had closed to nearly two hundred yards.
Hawkins hammered out long bursts from his M-4 carbine, 6.8 mm slugs crashing into the attackers even as Air Force and Army personnel flooded out of their barracks. The surprise attack had been slowed enough by Phoenix Force’s instantaneous reaction that the U.S. military garrison could mount a counterattack. Half-dressed soldiers armed with M-16s raced into view.
McCarter, however, was caught out in the open without the protective bulk of the overturned jeep to shield him from incoming fire. Armed only with his custom Browning, he did the only thing he could think of—charge the enemy. There was a method to the Englishman’s madness. While the marauders were still adjusting their aim after engaging in a long-distance shooting match with the other members of Phoenix Force, they were unprepared for the lean, sleek Briton’s mad dash. As they struggled to shoot at the serpentining Phoenix Force leader, McCarter mentally counted down the distance between himself and his foes. All he needed to do was to get within one hundred yards. Precision rifle fire from Manning was buying McCarter some breathing space, while Hawkins and the other U.S. servicemen were doing their best to bat cleanup. AK-47 fire still gouged the ground at McCarter’s feet, and he kept pressing.
When he guessed he was within one hundred meters, he threw himself forward, landing flat on his stomach. Hot 7.62 mm slugs sizzled over his head, barely missing him. Now prone, McCarter swung his front sight to the nearest target and squeezed the trigger on his Browning twice. One hundred meters was a long shot for a pistol, but McCarter was an Olympic-level handgun marksman, and he practiced with his Hi-Power regularly at extreme ranges for emergencies such as these.
His first target was already tumbling into the afterlife when he swung the muzzle to a second terrorist and sent him a few more 9 mm pills to cure him of his antisocial tendencies. Sprays of slugs chewed up the ground in front of the Briton, and he rolled over three times, feeling the thump of bullets strike so close to him. When he came to a stop, he noticed that the squad of attackers was thinned out by the efforts of his partners, but there were still enemies kicking.
Worse than kicking, they were shooting. McCarter ripped out six shots in rapid fire, 9 mm brass ejecting from the breech and raining on his back as downrange, his sweep of Parabellum slugs scattered the remaining attackers in that group. A rifle round rebounded off the tarmac and sliced across his shoulder. It burned only skin deep, but it was enough to make the Phoenix Force commander roll once more, triggering his Browning as he flipped over. Even tumbling, he managed to tag the rifleman whose weapon’s muzzle-flash flickered at him.
The gunman jerked and sprawled lifelessly as McCarter’s 9 mm rounds punched into him. The sound of gunfire rose to a crushing crescendo around the SAS veteran, then died out.
As quickly as the attack had begun, it was repulsed.
McCarter pushed himself shakily to his feet, his flesh wound trickling blood down his triceps. He was out of breath, and his chest hurt where he slammed hard into the ground. His aches were catching up quickly to him as his adrenaline rush died away. He dumped the partially empty clip from his Browning, and was surprised to see there were still rounds in the magazine. He fed the gun a fresh 17-round stick, however. This could have been only a lull in the action.
He looked back to Manning and Hawkins. Both shot him a thumbs-up, indicating that they were unhurt. McCarter was glad for that, but he’d seen enough of the defending servicemen hurt and killed by this attack to realize it was hardly a perfect victory.
Another
