Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (9 page)

 
          
And
then he stopped—because all six of the huge vehicles stopped, and the SS-12
missiles started to rise up off the truck bed, and large steel legs began to
extend to the ground to steady the vehicle. Warning lights began to blink, and
soldiers and ground crew members that had been running around before now
started to take cover.

 
          
“Hey,
guys, I think the Libyans are going to launch these puppies,” Paul said.

 
          
“Oh,
crap,” Patrick murmured. “Base, ETA on the FlightHawks?”

 
          
“Less
than ninety seconds, Castor.”

 
          
Patrick
had no idea how long it took to launch an SS-12, but he assumed that once it
was elevated into launch position, it would take just a few moments. “Stalkers,
converge on Pollux. Let’s take those SS-12s out before they can launch!”

 
          
“I
can take them!” Paul shouted. “You can’t make it here in time! Continue the
evacuation!”

 
          
“Stalkers,
converge on Pollux
now
!” Patrick
repeated. At the same time, he jet-jumped to the east in Paul’s direction.
“Base, have the Hammer meet us at Tango Ten exfil point.”

 
          
“Roger,”
Wendy replied. “FlightHawks are sixty seconds out. Hammer’s ETA to Tango Ten is
two-zero minutes.”

 
          
Paul’s
electrical defensive weapon went off as several Libyan soldiers approached. He
felt heavy-caliber bullets pounding into him from many directions, all on full
automatic and some with very heavy rates of fire—a Minigun or antiaircraft gun
aimed at him. Seconds later, he got a low- power warning. The Tin Man battle
armor was not designed to sustain a heavy attack, and heavy-caliber
automatic-weapons fire drained power quickly. Paul had only seconds to get
away.

           
A loud siren sounded. Paul turned
toward the SS-12 rocket just to the right of him just as restraining clamps
that held the rocket to the launch rail released and the rocket started to
eject some gases from its nozzles. It looked like it was going to launch at any
moment.

 
          
Instead
of jet-jumping away, Paul commanded a full-thrust jet—right into the rocket,
just a few feet below the warhead section. Unrestrained by its road-march
holddown bar, the rocket easily toppled off the launch rail. Just as it hit the
ground, the single-stage liquid rocket propellant ignited. The rocket streaked
across the ground, slammed into the SS-12 unit beside it, and exploded. In
rapid-fire succession, all six SS-12 Scaleboard rockets exploded in a wall of
flame several hundred feet high and nearly a half-mile long. Every building
within a mile was torn apart in the concussion.

 
          
Patrick
did not just see and feel the six nearly simultaneous explosions—he was knocked
off his feet from the concussion and earthquake-like tremors, even though he was
more than a mile away. The eastern sky lit up like a millennium fireworks
display. He didn’t bother getting up from the ground, but low-crawled behind a
doorway that led to yet another passageway underground. “Stalkers, status
check,” he ordered. He knew where the big explosion was, knew who had been
assigned to attack that area, and he dreaded what he was going to learn....
“Castor is secure.”

 
          
“Nike
secure.”

 
          
“Taurus
secure. I got my bell rung, but I’m secure.”

 
          
“Pollux?”
No reply. “Pollux?
Paul
?” Patrick
checked his electronic display for any sign of Paul’s transponder. Nothing.
“Castor is en route to Pollux’s last location,” he said. He hit his jump-jets
and quickly propelled himself toward the massive explosions to the east.
Patrick didn’t have to check his heads-up display to know that Briggs and Wohl
were on their way to join him.

 
          
But
there was no way to reach Paul’s last location. An area the size of at least
four square city blocks was totally engulfed in flames—the very streets seemed
to be rivers of fire, and the sky was thick with roiling waves of heat and
smoke. Patrick was able to move forward another halfblock with great difficulty
before system failure warnings and low-power warnings started to ring. There
were several Libyan soldiers in the area, but they seemed stunned both by the
devastation and by the strangely armored figure before them.

 
          
“Patrick.”
It was Hal Briggs, suddenly appearing beside him as if from nowhere.

 
          
“I’m
going in.”

 
          
“You
can’t. No one can survive that, not even in a BERP suit.”

 
          
“I’m
not leaving my brother behind,” Patrick said. “I left David Luger behind in
Siberia, and he survived only to be tortured for five years by the KGB. I won’t
let that happen to my own brother.”

 
          
“You
can’t do it. It’s suicide.” He paused, studying his electronic visor and
downlinking the status of Patrick’s battle armor system. “You only have ten
minutes of power remaining, and that’ll get sucked away fast inside that
inferno. My power is down to three minutes. Let’s go back to the exfil point
and recharge the suits. By then, maybe the fire will have been knocked back,
and we can all go in and find Paul.”

 
          
“No.
I’m going in.”

 
          
“How
are you going to find him in
thatV

 
          
“I
don’t know, but I’ll find him.” Patrick didn’t know what was guiding him—it
wasn’t any sensor scan or transponder beacon. He had always believed there was
some sort of bond, like a telepathic link, between him and Paul, but it was
something he always dismissed as simply two guys being raised together in a
house full of women. Whatever it was, Patrick was relying on it now. As Hal
Briggs and the amazed and terrified Libyan soldiers looked on, Patrick
jet-jumped into the hellish flames.

 
          
System
warnings flashed in his electronic visor, and his skin felt as if it was going
to vaporize right off his body, but he kept going. Moving inside the fire was
actually easier than he had thought. His battle armor’s sensors detected any
large debris around him, so he was able to sidestep the pieces of vehicles and
buildings without walking into a burning trap. The multiple blasts had leveled
most everything, so all he had to do was avoid the larger pools of burning
rocket fuel and continue on. Three or four jumps, and he was in the center of
the inferno.

 
          
His
power was nearly gone. The last estimate he had was five minutes remaining, but
the estimate just a minute before that said ten minutes, so in reality he had
only a few minutes to get out before the battle armor completely shut down.
Patrick knew if that happened, he would be instantly baked alive inside the
armor like a potato in a microwave oven—crispy on the outside, well-done on the
inside.

 
          
One
more jump, and he found him—or, rather, what was left of him. Patrick could
only stare at his brother, not in horror but in sorrow. He had to have been
right atop the SS-12 when it detonated, because the blast had torn right
through the Tin Man battle armor. It had been all but peeled off his body,
stuck on here and there like clumps of dirt. The intense fires had taken care
of the rest. Patrick lifted the body of his younger brother as gently and as
completely as he could, then jetted away to the east via the shortest way out
of the flames.

 
          
The
Libyans were getting meaner and bolder now. As Patrick jump-jetted again just a
few dozen yards from the perimeter fence, he felt heavy-caliber bullets hitting
him from his sides and back. He had commanded the selfdefense electrical beams
not to fire to save energy, but his power was all but exhausted. One more jet
propelled him over the fence, and the last of his energy reserves drained away.

 
          
The
fence kept him and the Libyans separated for now, but that didn’t last long.
Already troops were streaming out, angry voices piercing the night sky,
drowning out even the roar of the huge fires behind them. Their blood lust was
evident—they were out for revenge and retribution, not capturing prisoners.
Patrick had nothing left with which to fight. He could not avoid capture
now....

           
Suddenly, there was a string of
explosions between him and the advancing Libyans, stirring up the desert floor
like an instant sandstorm. Without the protection of his fully charged armor,
Patrick was knocked off his feet as he was pelted with supersonic-blasted sand
and rock. Stunned, he lay on the desert floor, knots of pain dotting all around
his body. Writhing in pain, he saw the dark profile of his dead brother lying
beside him. Both McLanahans, killed in one day, on the same mission. Shit.

 
          
He
heard a loud roar and felt, rather than saw, more sand being kicked up. The
Libyans were closing in, this time with helicopters or armored vehicles,
hunting down Wohl and Briggs. The mission was a success, but they might all be
wiped out, Patrick thought wearily. Once captured, their bodies put on display
along with the remnants of their armor, the Night Stalkers would be dead, the
United States would be embarrassed again, and ...

 
          
“Patrick?”
He willed his eyes to open and was surprised when they worked. He was looking
directly at the alienlooking helmet worn by Hal Briggs. “You okay, man?”

           
“Am I shot?”

           
“You sure as shit got fragged pretty
good by the Gators, but I don’t see any holes,” Briggs said. Patrick moved his
arms and legs and found they all functioned, so he struggled to his feet.
“Wendy sent in FlightHawk Two right in the nick of time, and she laid down a
carpet of cluster bombs and mines right in front of about a hundred Libyan
regulars. The armor protected you from the fragments. We’re safe right now, but
we gotta move.” Briggs quickly got to work, snapping a fresh battery pack onto
Patrick’s backpack. He looked down, examining the body lying in the sand. “You
got Paul out. Good work. I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m gonna miss working with
him. He’s a hero.” Patrick reached for the secure latches to his helmet, but
Briggs stopped him. “Better not, man,” he said seriously. “FlightHawk One has
detected radioactive and chemical agents in the area.” He motioned toward the
Libyan soldiers lying dead in the aftermath of FlightHawk Two’s raid. “If the
mines hadn’t got them, the radioactivity or nerve agents would have. That
replacement battery pack should give you enough juice to hop out of here and be
far enough away for the Pave Hammer to safely pick us up. We’d better go.”

 
          
Patrick
nodded, thankful to be alive. The noise Patrick heard was not a Libyan
helicopter or tank, but the CV-22 Pave Hammer, making a high-speed pass over
the area to check for pursuit. He reached down to pick up his brother again,
but Chris Wohl carefully, gently pushed him away, and picked up Paul’s body.
Together the three commandos and their dead partner jetted eastbound into the
desert.

 
          
They
unearthed one of their prepositioned resupply caches a few minutes later.
Fifteen minutes later they were far enough away so that radioactive and chemical
weapon residue levels disappeared. Only then could the CV-22 land and extract
them, first eastward into Egypt and then northwest out over the Mediterranean
Sea.

 
          
It
was a long, sad, quiet flight back to the
Catherine.

AKRANES
,
ICELAND
 
THAT SAME TIME

           
“What in hell are you whining about
now, Zuwayy?” the Russian shouted on the secure satellite channel. “This had
better be important.”

 
          
“My
missile base at Samah was attacked and nearly destroyed by commandos!
American commandos
/” President Jadallah
Salem Zuwayy of Libya shouted in passable Russian. He was wearing a polyester
blue and red warmup suit, with no shoes—the clothes that had been thrown to him
as his security officers burst into his bedroom and snatched him literally out
of bed into a waiting helicopter. At first, he thought it was an assassination
squad—rampant fear was finally being replaced with white-hot anger as he
realized he was safe. “They have set eighteen of the missiles on fire! There
are nerve agents and radioactive materials spreading all across my desert!”