“I’m monitoring reports from the canyon. Crew’s getting its ass handed to it so far. Can’t believe they came straight at us instead of using one of the alternate routes.”
“They might be doing both. Warn the teams on the other approaches not to let down their guard.”
“We mined those gulches too, so they’d get plenty of advance warning. Apparently those Bouncing Betties are doing a number.”
Lucas nodded. “Anything I need to know about this trail?”
“Pretty steep in places, and a sheer drop about halfway down. It lets out just north of White Rock. Then straight ride up the Rio Grande to the bridge from there, maybe three miles.”
“Any other way across the river?”
Colt shook his head. “Not really. Some shallow spots, but with the rains…”
“Got it.”
As Lucas guided Tango down the ravine, the sound of explosions and gunfire from the north informed him that the battle had been joined for real. He trusted the big stallion to set a pace he was comfortable with until they were clear of the trail and could gallop to the river. The descent was hair-raising, the track little more than a ledge along a canyon wall, but after an hour it widened and the worst was over. Lucas urged Tango faster, and the sounds of fighting diminished as the stallion cantered to the water, the regular roar of the howitzer growing louder as they neared the bank.
It was getting dark as they traced the river north, and Lucas scrutinized the surging current, searching for a place to cross. Tango was strong, and if he could find a spot where the water was only a few feet deep, he would manage.
The sun dropped behind the mountains, and Lucas spotted a promising spit of gravel where the river widened considerably, the rush slowing with greater width to accommodate the volume. Lucas directed Tango onto the moist gravel and the horse obediently plodded into the river with tentative steps as the water rose to his belly.
The stallion almost lost his footing on the slippery stones twice but recovered quickly, and then they were across, no more than a mile south of the gun. Lucas rode as close as he dared and then dismounted and tied Tango to a tree before disappearing into the dense brush along the riverbank.
Ten minutes later, he had the Crew base in view from the rise along the river. There were only a few gunmen in evidence, a pair guarding a large tent and the rest working the howitzer, four men hauling shells from a nearby truck while three loaded it. Lucas freed the AT4 and sighted on the gun, estimating his range at no more than two hundred yards, and debated inching closer. The risk of detection was minimal, given the cover from the plants, so he edged along the rise until he was as close as he dared.
Lucas drew a bead on the howitzer and squeezed the trigger. Instead of a projectile streaking to the gun, he was rewarded with a snapping sound and a fizzle. He tried again and nothing happened.
After a third attempt yielded no better result, he set the AT4 down and felt for the grenade. Nothing about this adventure had been easy so far, and he wasn’t surprised that things were holding true to form. Now he’d have to do it the hard way, which would involve evading the guards, taking out the gun crew, sabotaging the howitzer, and making it to safety without getting killed.
He considered tossing the grenade at the artillery position, but that wasn’t a sure thing, depending on where it landed. He needed to get close enough to guarantee the gun’s destruction, and the best way to do that was to drop the grenade into the recoil mechanism so it couldn’t fire. That meant much more risk; but he saw no other choice and so removed his hat so he’d be mistaken for another Crew member as he approached the artillery loaders and skirted the encampment, sticking to the shadows while evading the guards who ringed the command area.
Once clear of them, he strode toward the howitzer, M4 in hand, rubbing his face so he looked like another tired Crew gunman. The artillery team barely glanced at him as he approached, and he was no more than twenty yards from them when another shell blasted from the howitzer and he opened fire, cutting the shirtless men to pieces with three-round bursts he hoped would be masked by the echo of the howitzer detonation.
It was over in ten seconds, and Lucas bolted for the gun, not waiting to see whether he’d drawn the guards’ attention. He covered the distance in moments and was at the howitzer in a flash. He removed the grenade from his plate carrier and pulled the pin, and then wedged it into the recoil mechanism just as shots rang out from the guards.
Bullets ricocheted as he sprinted with all the speed he could muster, his boots crunching on the gravel as dirt fountained into the air around him. Then the grenade exploded behind him, and he threw himself behind a cluster of rocks as more shots blew chips from the stones. He brought his M4 to bear, wincing at the intensity of the incoming fire.
He jettisoned his spent clip, slapped a fresh one into place, and leveled a few bursts at the guards he could see in the rifle’s night vision scope, but it quickly became obvious that the Crew fighters had him pinned down – it would be only a matter of time before they tossed a grenade at him or, worse, fired an AT4 in his direction and ended the show. His magazine emptied in moments and he fished another from his vest, mind working furiously on an out.
Lucas continued to exchange volleys and paused when he pulled his last magazine from his flak jacket and slammed it home. He continued firing, but he knew in his gut that he would be dead within a matter of moments. More rounds pelted into the rocks around him as though to confirm his assessment, and he ducked down and cringed, secure that he’d at least saved Shangri-La from further shelling.
The shooting accelerated, and then his worst fear was realized when the heavy fire of an M2 blasted at the rocks from one of the Humvees, making it impossible for him to do anything but wait for the end.
Chapter 54
Brett was almost to where the .50-caliber Browning was chewing the Crew apart when an explosion silenced it in a spray of rock and dirt. He continued toward the weapon and stopped at the sight of the two-man gun team, both dead, blown clear of the sandbagged trench. The gun rested on its side, smoke rising from the soil around it. Brett lumbered over to it, his balance precarious as he reeled from his injuries. Other dead Shangri-La fighters lay sprawled along the trench, victims of the intense shooting from the attackers.
A glance over the bags revealed the shadowy forms of hundreds of Crew in the canyon below, who were taking fire from behind from at least twenty of the defense force. He could barely make them out in the growing darkness and knew that within moments it would be too dark to see without night vision gear. He felt for his NV goggles, but he’d lost them at some point during the battle, and he groaned as his fingers closed on a shattered set near the gun – of no use.
Brett heaved with all his might and righted the Browning, setting the tripod crookedly on the rock between the sandbags, and checked the ammo belt, which trailed from an ammunition can that had been blown askew by the blast. He glanced around, spotted another can, and moved to it. A pull at one of the handles confirmed it was full, and he dragged it back to the big gun and opened the top so he’d be ready to reload – assuming he lived long enough for that to be an issue.
He blinked away dizziness and peered down the sights. When he squeezed the trigger, a grimace of fury on his dirt-smeared face, the big gun bucked like a living thing in his hands as he sent a hail of rounds into the Crew’s ranks. The belt was expended in mere seconds, and he rushed to reload as bullets snapped past him, and then he was firing again, controlling the bursts more accurately, showering death down upon the exposed Crew fighters.
When the second belt was finished, Brett searched around in the gloom for more ammo cans, and found one several yards behind him. He hauled it to the gun and fitted the lead round into place, cocked the weapon, and continued the onslaught, killing scores with each salvo.
The Crew fighters were caught in a pincer, defending a low position from a crossfire assault, a recipe for disaster no matter what the circumstances. The Browning blast
ed away and the Shangri-La assault rifle fire picked them off, there being little cover to shield them from both angles.
When grenades lobbed by the defenders began landing in their midst, the rout grew worse, and soon the surviving Crew fighters were in full retreat, concentrating on clearing a way back down the canyon. They were able to overwhelm the Shangri-La gunmen and make it past, Brett’s fire cutting them down as they ran for the dogleg.
When another belt was exhausted and he could see no more in the darkness, Brett groped in his flak jacket for his radio. He held it to his lips and transmitted. His voice came out as little more than a croak, and his ears howled with a dull ache.
“This is Brett from the canyon end point. The Crew’s in retreat back down the canyon. No more than fifty left, but they wiped out our guys. Send more fighters. Repeat, they’re in retreat, but we need more fighters with NV gear. I can’t hear anything – ears are damaged. Over.”
Brett fell back, the stars overhead pinwheeling when he closed his eyes, deaf to the acknowledgement message that blared from the handheld and numb to the pain in his ears and the wounds from ricochets.
More fighters arrived ten minutes later, but by then Brett was dead, his life drained from him onto the rocks beneath, a serene expression on his youthful face. Their leader smoothed his eyes shut with a gloved hand and then adjusted the NV goggles strapped to his head before turning to his men.
“You heard him,” he said. “They’re trying to escape. Let’s make this the most difficult trip of their miserable lives.”
The gunmen nodded in unison. The sight of the hundreds of dead Crew glowing in their goggles gave proof that they’d prevailed, and now they would finish the battle for good. The leader made his way down a trail that ran along the crest, the satchel of grenades hanging from his shoulder and the M4 in his hands ready for what was to come. The men followed in silent determination, the only sound their boots on the dirt and the hiss of their breathing, NV goggles lighting the way.
Chapter 55
Lucas was preparing to unleash his final bursts when shooting erupted from his left. A scream from one of the guards carried from the road, and then a grenade exploded by the Browning and it fell silent. The gunmen shifted their focus to the new threat and a vicious firefight ensued, muzzle flashes lighting the night. Lucas held his fire, conserving his few precious rounds of ammo, and only after it became obvious that nobody was shooting at him any longer did he dare peer over the rocks.
The command tent opened and four gunmen emerged, Kalashnikovs at the ready, a mammoth of a man in their midst. One of them ran toward the river and called over his shoulder, “Magnus! This way. Hurry!”
Lucas raised his M4 and tried to sight on Magnus, but the Crew leader was moving too erratically, so Lucas settled for the nearest bodyguard. A three-round burst sent the man reeling backward, firing his rifle into the air, and Lucas shot him again to put him down hard.
More shooting drove Lucas back behind the rocks, and then a figure appeared out of the darkness behind him, firing as he ran to him. The gunman threw himself down as rounds snapped overhead, and Lucas rolled away and brought his M4 to bear on the new arrival.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” Arnold said, and rattled another burst at the Crew shooters.
“Thought you left,” Lucas said.
“I came back.”
“Just in time.”
“Better late than never, right?”
They both fired at a gunman who was using the corner of one of the buses for cover. Lucas aimed below it, trying for his legs. The man screamed, confirming that at least one of the slugs had done some damage. Lucas leaned toward Arnold. “Magnus is getting away.”
“What? Where?”
“He took off down the river.” Lucas exhaled loudly. “Lay down some cover fire for me, and I’ll go after him.”
“I don’t know where all the shooters are.”
“Do your best. He’s got three bodyguards with him.” Lucas paused. “You got any spare ammo?”
“I’m on my last mag.”
“Damn. All right. Toss another grenade at that bus, and when it goes, I’ll make for the river.”
“Got a few more of those left,” Arnold said, and extracted one from the pouch on the front of his flak jacket. He worked the pin loose and lobbed it high into the air. They waited for it to explode, and when it did, Lucas leapt up and ran for the river, the dirt around him geysering as shots narrowly missed him.
Once at the water, he slowed and swept the bank with his scope, searching for a sign of Magnus or his men. He spied motion downriver and stuck to the brush line as he followed the water, wincing at the sound of each footfall on the loose gravel. He stopped periodically and surveyed the way ahead in the green glow of the eyepiece, determined that the source of his misery not escape.
~ ~ ~
Magnus had been in the command tent with his security detail, listening in disbelief to the panicked radio report about his force’s rout from one of his surviving lieutenants. He was shaking his head as though he wasn’t hearing correctly and interrupted the man’s transmission with a growled threat not to return without Eve’s head.
Magnus had thrown the radio to the ground in disgust, his chest heaving beneath the bandoliers of grenades over his flak jacket, and glared at his men as though daring them to say anything.
An explosion rocked the tent, and everyone but Magnus hit the ground. He glowered at the entryway and stormed to it as his guards rose. “What was that?” he demanded, but was interrupted by gunfire from nearby. “Who’s shooting?” he yelled, and one of the guards poked his head out of the tent to see.
“Our men. They’re firing at the howitzer. The explosion was from there.”
“Why are they shooting at their own people? That’s insane.”
“I didn’t see anybody.”
More shooting erupted, and soon the sound of at least six AK-47s filled the air, answered by a higher pitched rifle from the artillery position. The gun battle intensified, and then the M2 came into the mix, its bass boom as distinctive as a fingerprint.
The explosion of a grenade rocked the bus beside the tent. The .50-cal stopped firing, and assault rifles joined the fray from the east. Magnus’s guards exchanged worried looks, and Magnus yelled at them, “Get me out of here!”
The head of the detail nodded and pushed from the entry, and the rest of the bodyguards surrounded Magnus, shielding him with their lives. The leader sprinted down the bank and called to him as he stepped from the tent. Magnus hesitated for a split second and then zigzagged toward the leader as one of the guards behind him went down shooting.
There was just enough starlight to make out the bank, the moon still low in the night sky, and Magnus trotted after his man as his other two gunmen guarded his rear. He had no idea how everything had gone so wrong so quickly, but he vowed he’d return with an even larger force and raze the earth. Visions of retribution filled his mind as he neared the river, and then shooting rattled from behind him, and one of his men screamed in agony.
~ ~ ~
Lucas spotted a Crew bodyguard and dropped into a crouch, steadying his aim as he fired a burst. The guard jerked as bullets shattered his front ceramic plate, and Lucas fired another three-round volley to ensure he was neutralized. Another bodyguard returned fire and Lucas dove to the side; the man obviously was equipped with a night scope, judging by how narrowly the shots missed. That changed everything – it was now three against one, and at least two hostiles with NV gear.
He debated whether to continue, and then the leaves beside him shredded from a full-auto burst, making the choice for him. He rolled into the brush with his rifle in front of him and glued the scope to his right eye, waiting for either a muzzle flash or movement. His patience was rewarded after fifteen seconds when another long burst rattled in his direction, and he stitched the area where the shooting had come from with three bursts of his own.
A body fell onto the bank, and Lu
cas nodded grimly. One down, two to go. Those odds he could deal with, after all he’d been through. Lucas scanned his surroundings and spotted a faint trail that paralleled the river. He moved cautiously onto it, staying low, finger on his trigger guard as he crept along the bank.
Lucas heard a rustle ahead and saw a pair of men disappear around a bend. He increased his speed and followed the curve…and barely escaped being shot when the surviving bodyguard opened up at him from behind a tree.
Lucas tucked and rolled, angry at himself for his overconfidence. That had been a mistake made in the heat of pursuit – one that had almost gotten him killed. He remained motionless, the bushes so thick he could barely make out anything, and thanked Providence that the bodyguard would have the same success seeing him.
More shooting missed him by several yards, and Lucas emptied the remainder of his magazine in methodically grouped bursts at the source, imagining a grid as he did so. He freed his Kimber and waited for more shooting and, when none occurred, pushed to his feet, shouldering the M4 sling and reaching for the monocle in his flak jacket pouch.
He didn’t see anything but empty bank, but his nerves were sounding a shrill warning as he made his way along the track. Assuming the bodyguard had bought the farm, that still left Magnus, who’d been carrying a pistol, nothing more. But Lucas didn’t want to assume he’d hit the bodyguard – the man might, even as Lucas moved forward, be lining up the reticule of a scope on his head.
Two minutes went by, and when Lucas was still alive and had advanced past the point from which the bodyguard had been firing, he stopped and regarded the bank. Magnus couldn’t disappear into thin air, and he couldn’t fly and didn’t appear to have much stealth or physical grace, so if he was moving, Lucas was confident he would see him eventually.
The game of cat and mouse came to an end when the snap of a twig no more than fifty yards up the bank echoed off the water. Lucas was instantly in motion and spied Magnus’s bulk running toward the nearby hill. Lucas slipped the monocle into his pouch and assumed a two-handed military stance to squeeze off five rounds from the Kimber. None hit Magnus, who twisted as he ran and fired back at Lucas. His aim went wild, the bullets missing by a wide margin.
The Day After Never Bundle (First 4 novels) Page 71