Fireburst

by Don Pendleton

  “Has Eagle One left for the bunker?” a master sergeant growled, his white gloves tight on a spotless M-4 rifle.

  Nobody moved or flinched as sheet lightning crackled across the sky. The stark white light flashed bright as a bomb in the Oval Office, reflecting off the assortment of highly polished surfaces of the assorted pistols and rifles.

  “Yes, Eagle One is secure,” the SAC confirmed. “What about the Veep?”

  As thunder rumbled overhead, the Marines scowled in disapproval, but nobody spoke.

  “Where is the vice-president?” Brognola translated diplomatically.

  “Eagle Two is at the Ellipse, waiting for his wife to arrive in an armored limousine,” the master sergeant replied crisply without any trace of emotion.

  “He’s…outside?” the SAC asked in a strained voice.

  “Yes, sir. The military can only obey direct orders,” the master sergeant growled, twisting his gloves on the assault rifle. “If the vice-president wants to wait at the Ellipse, we can’t stop him.”

  He turned to face Brognola. “Nor can the Justice Department.” Then the master sergeant smiled briefly. “But you Treasury boys sure can.”

  “Understood. Let’s go!” the SAC shouted, charging forward at a full run and touching his throat mike. “Break pack! Repeat, break pack! Eagle Two has gone rogue at the Ellipse! Repeat, Eagle Two is at the Ellipse! Find and detain!”

  “Screw that crap!” Brognola growled, slinging the nylon strap of the laptop case over a shoulder. “Get the fucking Veep inside the bunker right now!”

  Sprinting past the empty Roosevelt Room, the SAC scowled at the vulgarity, but relayed the suggestion anyway word for word.

  “Nicely done,” the master sergeant said out of the side of his mouth.

  Moving at his best speed, Brognola merely snorted in reply, saving his breath to keep up with the Secret Service agents and Marines. There was too much procedure and protocol in Washington these days, and nowhere near enough plain common sense!

  As the heavily armed group raced past a series of small offices, Brognola noted the dozens of clerks, aides, interns and secretaries still diligently working at their desks. Even with the nation under attack, the day-to-day work of government had to continue. The citizens of America expected no less. He knew the staff wasn’t paid enough to risk their lives, it was simply their deeply rooted sense of duty that kept them here.

  Racing around a corner, Brognola saw the vice-president standing under the portico of the Ellipse. He was talking on a cell phone, a pretty young aide protecting him with an umbrella. The rain was coming down hard by now, the droplets bouncing high off the pavement and, oddly, sounding exactly like frying bacon.

  From the rooftop of the Old Executive Building across the street, an Army MRL started firing rockets into the clouds. Some of them were destroyed, but others weren’t, and the multiple-rocket launcher went untouched.

  Feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck, Brognola frowned at that. The enemy was getting smarter. Not good news.

  “Mr. Vice-President, get inside, now!” the SAC bellowed as the group raced past a set of marble pillars.

  As the vice-president started to turn there was a blindling flash of light and the man’s aide was struck as lightning flashed through the umbrella to course through her body. Arms and legs flailing, the horrified aide staggered backward, her tattered clothing in flames. The vice-president toppled to the ground.

  “Eagle Two and his aide are down! Medical at the Ellipse, stat!” the SAC shouted into his throat mike.

  “Down? She’s dead, you idiot!” the master sergeant snarled furiously, staring hatefully at the rumbling sky. “Maybe him, too. What in the hell is going on here?”

  As the searing after-glare faded, soldiers, sailors and Secret Service agents rushed to check the victims in the rain, the SAC running down the pavement to wave off the approaching limousine.

  Suddenly, the lightning returned, a thick blue bar of blinding annihilation that struck the left hand of the dead aide then crawled along the pavement, chewing a path of crackling destruction directly to the limousine.

  Instantly, the military tires exploded off the rims, the bulletproof windows shattered, people screamed and the fuel tank detonated. The combined blast flipped over the armored vehicle and it came crashing back down onto top of the SAC with grisly results.

  As the stunned survivors staggered about trying to get their bearings again, everything seemed strangely silent, almost surreal, and Brognola realized that he couldn’t hear anything. Goddamnit, he had to be temporarily deaf from the concussion! More importantly, he had seen the lightning hit the cell phone of the dead aide when there were dozens, no, hundreds of better targets. Could the terrorists be using cellular transmissions to aim the attacks?

  Starting to go for his cell phone, Brognola abruptly stopped, then swung around the nylon case and hauled out the laptop. That was when lightning flashed again, striking the group of Marines and then the Secret Service agents. Burning bodies scattered wide and far, their weapons discharging randomly.

  The teams were hit separately. That sent a cold sword of comprehension through Brognola as he retreated under the safety of the portico. It now seemed a safe bet that these were controlled attacks! The lightning had gone from a Marine talking on the radio to a Secret Service agent opening a cell phone. He had to tell Bolan this! It could mean all the difference when he faced them in Cornwall!

  Kneeling on the sidewalk, Brognola started hurriedly typing, his fingers flashing across the miniature keyboard when the terrible white light returned. There was a bone-breaking surge of incredible pain through his entire body and Brognola felt himself flying. He landed on something hard with a jarring impact, and lost consciousness, still struggling to reach the blasted ruin of the scorched laptop… .

  Cornwall, United Kingdom

  HORN BLARING, HEADLIGHTS flashing, a huge tanker truck rumbled along the mountainous road at breakneck speed. It appeared to be driverless.

  “We don’t know for certain that your contact is dead,” Kirkland said into his throat mike while running across the irregular countryside. “The transmission was terminated early, that’s all.”

  “Have there been many survivors before?” Bolan asked, adjusting his parachute while keeping pace.

  “Very few,” Kirkland grudgingly admitted.

  Tilting dangerously, nine of the eighteen wheels of the Bug-B-Gone vehicle squealed loudly as the colossal truck took a tight curve, then came crashing back down to continue faster than ever.

  “Razor up, boys,” Montenegro said, delicately turning the miniature steering wheel on the remote control. “We’re almost there!”

  Quickly, everybody banished all considerations for absent friends, and concentrated on crossing the rough hills of Cornwall. This next part was going to be extremely difficult.

  While flying from Alabama to England, Bolan and Montenegro had been able to ascertain that the most likely location for the hidden base was the Hercules Granite Mine and Quarry, just outside Mousehole. Aside from a staggering surge of ozone in the atmosphere of such a nonindustrial area, the local UFO clubs had also reported a startling increase in recent sightings. It had always been Kirkland’s experience that what many UFO buffs thought to be alien visitors were in fact covert military helicopters not using their running lights while flying under the national radar grid.

  “Sorry that we had to leave Emily in your jet at Heathrow
Airport,” Bolan said, checking his body armor. “But we’re racing against the clock.”

  “I’m sure she understands these things. The mission always comes first,” Kirkland said.

  “Has the RAF been told this is a no-fly zone?” Montenegro asked, checking the GPS on her watch, while braking the tanker truck into another curve. “A helicopter skimming the trees might be us running for our lives.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll listen, but they have been told,” Bolan stated, checking his pockets for any loose items. Extracting a couple of quarters and a dime, he tossed them into the tall grass. Going into battle with loose coins in a pocket was an excellent way to inform an enemy you were nearby and please-come-kill-me.

  “SAS, too?” Kirkland asked.

  “Everybody in British law enforcement, except for Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Good enough!” Montenegro said, accelerating. “Because, here we go!”

  Horn still blaring, the rattling Bug-B-Gone truck charged past the chained access road to the quarry and drove over the edge of the cliff. Soaring gracefully into the quarry, the tanker truck rotated slightly as if doing a swan dive before thunderously crashing onto the rocky bottom. Broken bits of metal and glass sprayed out in every direction as the truck compacted like an accordion, but, almost out of gas, there was no fiery blast from the engine or fuel tanks. However, a thick greenish fluid squirted out from a hundred rents in the pressurized tanker, the viscous fluid splashing like mutant gore across the smoothly cut walls.

  Even as it trickled along the rock face, the ten thousand gallons quickly evaporated into a heavy swirling mist that flowed across the quarry to the lowest point—the mouth of the abandoned tin mine.

  The problem of how to invade the terrorist hardsite without getting killed in the attempt had been solved by the simple procedure of using poison gas. There were a lot of military gases much heavier than air that would flood the underground mine, killing everybody down there.

  The trouble was that those sorts of chemical weapons were obviously unavailable to the team. Also, there might be civilians present—either prisoners of the terrorists down in the mine, or just walking past the quarry. Bolan and his people needed some sort of a gas that was heavier than air, and extremely painful, but not overly toxic. The answer had been simple: a chemical compound used by exterminators to kill termites.

  Moving faster than water flowing down a drain, the green mist entered the mine, rushing to find any and all crevices, vents, cracks and doorways.

  Reaching the edge of the pit, Bolan, Kirkland and Montenegro dove into the quarry, immediately pulling the ripcords on their parachutes. As the chutes opened, their descent rapidly slowed but they still hit the pool of drainage water hard, going deep, their boots actually brushing the bottom before they were able to start swimming to the surface.

  Scrambling out of the stagnant water, they slapped the releases on their chest harnesses and dropped the parachutes behind, sprinting toward the tin mine.

  “Now, that was close!” Kirkland panted, flashing a crazy grin. “If that water had been just a little more shallow, we would have broken both legs on the bottom!”

  “It was either jump or chance the access road,” Bolan countered, swinging up the XM-25 grenade launcher.

  “No, thanks!” Montenegro chuckled, clicking off the safety on the Neostead. “Land mines are bad for my figure!”

  Reaching the entrance of the mine, they dove over the threshold, fully expecting there to be trip wires, explosive charges or deathtraps of some kind. But their arrival only invoked a cloud of dust as they landed on the wood floor.

  “We’re going to look pretty stupid if this is not the right place,” Kirkland said.

  Suddenly, there came a rumble of thunder from outside the mine, followed by a bright flash as a lightning bolt slammed into the crashed truck.

  “Nope, this is it,” Bolan growled, staying alert for any possible deathtraps.

  So far, all they had encountered was some artificial trash and a lot of dead rats. That was just camouflage to distract any curious tourists or wandering constables. The real defenses would be located much farther in the mine, where the explosions and screaming couldn’t be heard by outsiders.

  Following the flow of green fog, Bolan and the others zigzagged their way deeper into the mine, bypassing many side tunnels, until they reached a dead end.

  “Now what?” Montenegro demanded into her throat mike.

  Before anybody could answer, the rock wall ahead of them broke apart and out rolled a British army Warrior armored vehicle, its 7.62 mm machine gun blazing away as the 30 mm cannon fired.

  The shell missed the Americans by inches, and disappeared down the tunnel to explode in the far distance. The concussion of the muzzle-blast slammed Bolan and Kirkland into the rock walls, while Montenegro was thrown flat on her back and rolled directly into the stream of copper-jacketed death pouring from the chattering machine gun.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Firebase, Ithnaan

  Slamming the door aside, Major Armanjani burst into the control room, coughing and hacking. The air in there was also misty with the emerald-colored gas, and every inch of his exposed skin was beginning to itch fiercely.

  Rudely pushing a path through a crowd of coughing people, the major reached the pressurized air tanks in the corner. Twisting the release handle, he let the stream of pure air fill his aching lungs and wash the stinging fumes from his tearing eyes.

  In spite of his many years of using chemical weapons on insurgents, the major had absolutely no idea what was being pumped into the base, yet the reeking fumes had spread through the entire underground base like wildfire. Listening to the chatter coming over the intercom and radio links, Armanjani was seriously displeased. Frightened by the gas, and unable to see clearly, soldiers were allegedly shooting one another by mistake in the swirling clouds.

  What was this shit? The major frowned. It wasn’t toxic enough to activate the bio-sensors, but it was more than caustic enough to incapacitate most of his staff. It almost seemed like some odd kind of tear gas… .

  That was when it hit him. Bug spray! This was exactly the sort of chemical gas the American Army used to fumigate a house infested with insects: fire ants, termites and such.

  The realization sent a surge of cold fury through the major. They’re trying to kill us like vermin? he thought. Somebody would pay dearly for this mortal insult. Pay for it with their lives.

  Grabbing a gas mask from a shelf above the air tanks, Armanjani had the stream of air to wash it clean first, then hurriedly pulled it over his head, and headed to the main console.

  “Red alert, gas attack!” Armanjani coughed into a microphone. “Don masks immediately! Get to your gas masks before anything else! Then seal every d-d-d…” He stopped to draw in some deep breaths of filtered air until he was able to speak clearly once more.

  Nearby, Nasser and Hassan were working in unison, cutting towels into strips and soaking them in the washroom sink before tossing them to Khandis. Kneeling on the floor, he was packing the material along the bottom of the door to try to block the advance of the disgusting vapors. The tactic seemed to be working, and soon the humming air purifier had the atmosphere clear of the vile green tinge.

  “Gas attack!” Armanjani repeated. “Use wet clothing to block the doors, and execute emergency protocol five! Repeat, emergency protocol five!”

  “Orders, sir?” Nasser demanded, dry
ing her hands on a cloth. A Russian gas mask was in place, but her eyes were terribly bloodshot from just a brief exposure.

  “Lieutenant, find the intruders and kill them!” he barked, working the slide on the Tariq pistol to chamber a round. “Those orders are to stand until revoked by me personally. Personally, not by radio! Understood?”

  “Yes, sir! The invaders may try to issue false commands!” Nasser replied with a salute. “Sergeant, with me!”

  Hesitantly, Hassan glanced at the major first, then nodded and retrieved his Atchisson autoshotgun before he followed the departing lieutenant.

  “Dr. Khandis, I want you to contact the British government,” Major Armanjani said with a gesture, stepping away from the console. “Tell them to immediately stop this attack, or else we will level London!”

  “At once, sir!” Khandis replied, tightening the strap on his gas mask. “And if they don’t think that we are serious, what then?”

  “Convince them otherwise,” Armanjani growled, striding from the room with a gun in each hand.

  * * *

  THE MACHINE GUNS ON THE armored vehicle fired again.

  Grunting loudly as the 7.62 mm rounds painfully bounced off her body armor, Montenegro rolled out of the way of the bullets and came up in a kneeling position with the Neostead shotgun roaring. The stainless-steel fléchettes mercifully hammered the machine gun, tearing off tiny flecks, and it instantly jammed. She fired again, and a man inside the armored vehicle screamed, blood splattering onto the ceiling.

  However, even as the machine gun went silent, the 30 mm cannon noisily swung to a new position. Moving fast, Bolan and Kirkland dove headfirst at the vehicle, and rolled underneath just as the cannon cut loose again. Angled downward, the 30 mm shell punched a big hole in the wooden floor, but the distance had been too short for the warhead to arm, and there was no explosion.

  Still reeling from the concussion, Montenegro swept the Neostead across the front of the Warrior, the fléchettes wildly ricocheting off the armored prow, but smashing both of the headlights. As they winked out, darkness filled the mining tunnel once more.