Triplecross

Manning pulled the trigger of the RPG. The rocket blazed from the tube, made its deceptively lazy way to the target and struck just to the rear of the cab, blowing a hole in the sheet metal and knocking the truck over on its side. A singed door, ripped free of its hinges, flew through the air and landed in the snow between the doomed vehicle and where McCarter and Manning were stationed.

“Rafe, T.J., bring it in. Put yourselves on either side of the truck and get those turrets manned. If the Farm has done its part we won’t be lonely for long. Rafe, what’s the latest satellite tracking update?”

“They’re headed to us, all right,” Encizo said through the transceiver link. “I estimate eight minutes, maybe ten, before we’ve got all the Gera we could ever want.”

“Then let’s make sure we wrap up the party here first,” said McCarter. He got to his feet and offered Manning a hand up. Given Manning’s size, the Briton had to put his weight into it.

“You’re not getting any lighter, mate,” McCarter noted.

“But you’re as charming as ever, David,” Manning retorted with a grin. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” the Phoenix Force leader said. He brought his weapon to his shoulder and stalked toward what was left of the troop truck.

Nothing moved in the wreckage until the two men were practically on top of it. McCarter didn’t see the man who climbed out of the “top” of the truck. With the vehicle on its side, what had been the driver’s window was now the only egress through the hole where the door had been. A single Pakistani gunman, his bloody uniform bearing Jamali’s modified military crest, half jumped, half fell directly on top of McCarter.

The Briton went down under the weight of the other man. Just as quickly, he surged to his feet, carrying the smaller, lighter Pakistani with him, smashing the man against the burned-out hulk of the troop truck.

As McCarter was slamming the butt of his Tavor down on the skull of his enemy, he was aware of the gunfire around him. Manning was engaging a contact at close range, and while McCarter dealt with his own enemy, he saw James appear in his peripheral vision. The lanky James sauntered up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Steam escaped from the neckline of his cold-weather fatigues. He had been pushing hard. His assault rifle was still in his hands.

“You all right, David?” James asked.

McCarter looked down where he knelt. The Pakistani was dead. He checked his rifle for damage, but there was none that he could perceive. He took the time to eject the magazine, check it, seat it and make sure a round was chambered. Then he stood.

“You couldn’t find something a little more unique?” James said.

“What, mate?” McCarter asked, momentarily confused.

“You know, like a garden hoe or maybe a rake.”

“What are you on about, Calvin?”

“Dude, you killed a guy with an ax a little while ago.”

It was then that McCarter realized that, no matter what else happened on this mission, he was never going to live that down.

CHAPTER FIVE

Twin Forks, Utah

Shouting a battle cry that Lyons swore was in Chinese, the gunmen began hurling themselves down the hallway, seemingly heedless of the return fire that would greet them. Lyons unleashed a new barrage from his shotgun, but for every man he cut down, another two emerged from the darkened corridor. With nowhere to go and no options, the Able Team leader decided he would have to take the only obvious exit.

“Gadgets,” he said, throwing his shotgun over his shoulder on its sling, “come here.”

Schwarz had time to turn and throw the duffel bag on his back before Lyons bent down, grabbed the slimmer man by his belt and one ankle and threw Schwarz bodily into the ceiling. The Stony Man electronics expert squawked as he was thrown, but he got the idea, grabbing on to the drop ceiling struts and clambering into the darkened crawl space.

Blancanales did not need to be prompted. He took a running start and, as Lyons held his hands low as an improvised stirrup, Blancanales didn’t so much climb as jump up into the crawl space, using the boost that Lyons gave him by standing suddenly. The two smaller men, in turn, groaned under the strain of hauling Lyons up after them.

“Go,” Lyons urged. “Go, go, go!”

Bullets chased them into the crawl space. As they pulled themselves along the metal lattice framing the drop ceiling, the shooters in the corridor below moved into position to spray upward. Raking the tiles fore and aft of Able Team’s position, they began punching holes that tracked toward the three men from front and back.

“This is bad!” Blancanales shouted.

“Gadgets!” Lyons called. “Give me CS!” He pointed toward the gap in the tiles behind them.

Schwarz nodded. From the duffel bag he produced several CS gas canisters, pulled the pins and lobbed the gas grenades through the opening. Lyons’s nose twitched as the familiar smell hit him. He had never particularly liked tear gas. Which was the point of the stuff, he supposed.

“Keep moving,” Lyons directed the other team members. “Backtrack until we get near the end of the building.”

The feedback in his ear told him his transceiver was still being jammed. Whatever was going on here at the EarthGard mine, it spoke worlds that the gunmen guarding the place had active jamming equipment readily available. What would justify so much hardware? Assuming the shooters believed Able Team represented the federal government, the guards had been awfully quick to shoot down agents whose deaths could bring a world of trouble down onto the mine.

Not that Lyons intended to die here today.

They reached a split in the crawl space where two prefabricated sections were joined. The connection formed a T-shape that led left and right. If Lyons’s bearings were correct, they were headed to the opposite end of the building, with the hub behind them. That put the left turn north and the right turn south. He took the left and glanced back over his shoulder to make sure his men were following.

“Gadgets!” he called.

Schwarz came up alongside him with Blancanales trailing. As they crawled through the ceiling, the footing beneath them became more firm. Lyons looked down and realized the drop ceiling frame had given way to plywood. The terminus of the wing they were navigating had been reinforced. There was no immediate exit.

“Ironman?” Schwarz asked.

“In a minute,” Lyons answered. He withdrew the folding combat dagger from the pocket of his jacket and snapped it open. “Dig!”

“Should have made that left turn at Albuquerque,” Schwarz muttered. He snapped open his own blade while Blancanales did likewise. All three men began stabbing at the plywood, taking large chunks out of the wood. Soon they had created a hole large enough for the three of them to slip through, although Lyons’s broad shoulders would be a tight fit.

“Down?”

“Not until they get closer,” Lyons answered. “Did you text the Farm?”

“You thought of that, too?” Schwarz asked, grinning. More seriously he said, “Yes. They’re relaying our request for air support to Jack.”

“Then we just have to try not to get dead until the air cavalry arrives,” Lyons said.

Rays of light from the fixtures below punched through the darkness of their space just short of the exit they’d created. The three men of Able Team rolled aside, pressing themselves against the sides of the upper walls. Schwarz groaned as Lyons’s bulk practically crushed him against the vertical boards of the trailer.

“Thanks, Ironman,” he gasped. “I didn’t know you cared enough to shield me from bullets.”

“Shaddap, Gadgets,” Lyons said. “And hand me a flashbang.”

Schwarz handed over the grenade. Lyons pulled the pin, released the spoon and dropped the weapon through the hole, making sure to put some spin on it to get it rolling toward the enemy. All three Able Team members closed their eyes, covered their ears and opened their mouths to equalize pressure.

The vibration of the powerful flash-bang grenade shook the plywood beneath them and set Lyons’s ears to ringing. The explosion was Able Team’s cue to act. They dropped down to floor level, Lyons first, his two teammates following.

Several uniformed guards struggled to bring their weapons up. At least one man’s ears were bleeding. All were squinting hard, trying to see through the blinding flashes that had been left in their vision. Blancanales brought his M-4 to his shoulder and snapped off two rounds into the head of each one. He moved like a machine, firing and swiveling, until all the hostiles were down.

“Let’s take this party outside,” Lyons said. He turned, knelt and emptied the drum of his USAS-12, dropped it, reloaded and repeated the process. The ringing in his ears was worse now, but not so bad that it would stop him from fighting. He threw kick after powerful kick at the ravaged wall until it gave way, creating a hole the men of Able Team could simply walk through.

Lyons’s boots hit the arid soil outside.