Triplecross. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
vehicle was made of flashpaper and nitro, ready to blow up at the first bullet that glanced off its fuel tank. Most of the fuel in McCarter’s cover vehicle was now soaking the snow beneath the pickup’s wreckage. Even if it caught fire, it would just make McCarter’s brief stay that much more comfortable. But even without the risk that his cover would erupt into flying shrapnel without warning, he had plenty of bullets to worry about.
The Pakistanis were fielding Kalashnikovs by the truckload, from what he could see. As he watched, one of the Jamali fighters sprang up from the perforated remains of his tent with an AK in either hand. Screaming what McCarter assumed were bloodthirsty oaths, the fighter blazed away from the hip, bracing the stocks of the AKs between his body and his elbows, letting the muzzle rise carry his twin streams of bullets to hell and gone.
McCarter let his Tavor lie at the end of its single-point sling. He pulled his Browning Hi-Power, thumbed back the hammer and took careful aim.
The dual-wielding soldier was still screaming when McCarter’s carefully aimed 9 mm bullet tunneled through his forehead and blew a hole through the back of his skull.
“Close it up, lads, close it up,” McCarter said, knowing his transceiver would carry his words to the others. He stood, ready to push forward, cutting through the center of the encampment as he’d said he would.
“David,” Calvin James warned, “you’ve got a wild one headed your way.”
“Wilder than dual-wielding assault rifles?”
“On your two o’clock,” James said.
But McCarter already saw the Pakistani soldier coming. The man held what looked like a battered Makarov pistol in one hand and in the other...
“Bloody hell,” said McCarter softly. “Is that a fireman’s ax?”
The other Phoenix Force members began engaging new targets. Automatic weapons fire from the Tavors filled the air, met by diminishing return fire from the scouts.
McCarter hit the snow and rolled as bullets filled the air where he had been standing. His charging attacker emptied the Makarov and actually threw the pistol through the air as McCarter struggled to regain his feet. It was a move the Briton hadn’t seen outside a cowboy movie in a long time.
From his back in the snow, McCarter brought up the Browning and fired three times. He struck the attacking soldier in the chest, but the gunshots weren’t enough to bring the man down. The Phoenix Force leader felt the air being forced from his lungs as the Pakistani shooter collided with him, crushing his ribs and shouting in pain and anger. McCarter shoved the Hi-Power into the man’s torso and pulled the trigger, but the slide was out of battery. He smashed the weapon against the side of the Pakistani’s head and pushed with his off hand, rolling them over just as the enemy soldier tried to bring the fire ax down.
The gunfire all around the two men, cutting through the small encampment, increased in pitch. The Briton had seen some strange weapons carried into battle by men who had their idiosyncratic favorites. A fire ax was not the most unusual one he had seen, but it was a rare thing. It was also long and deadly, with a rear spike as long as his hand.
McCarter pushed until he was on top of the enemy. He smashed the Hi-Power against the man’s face once more and grabbed the ax, twisting it out of the other soldier’s grip. Only then did he see the soldier pulling a combat knife from a sheath at his waist. There was nothing else McCarter could do. If he hesitated, that knife would be in his guts and he would be a dead man.
He brought the heavy blade of the ax down on top of the enemy soldier’s head.
There was a sickening crunch. The packed snow around the two men was suddenly red with blood. McCarter bent, retrieved the Hi-Power he had been forced to release and reloaded it. Adrenaline dump coursed through him, familiar and powerful.
“David,” James said as McCarter checked his six o’clock and saw his teammates closing on his position. The camp was suddenly quiet. The gunfire had ceased. They had neutralized all the opposition.
An engine roared to life.
The covered troop truck was rolling slowly through the snow, the tires digging for traction, the vehicle picking up speed. McCarter turned, spotted the vehicle and ran for it, shoving his Hi-Power in his belt and raising his Tavor as he did so. He wanted to line up the truck for a shot, but it was already out of range.
“David,” Manning warned. “Get down.”
McCarter knew instantly what the stolid Canadian had in mind. He flattened himself into the snow, feeling the chill of the crystals against his clothing. Half a moment later the distinctive sound of a rocket-propelled grenade sailing overhead caused him to put both hands on top of his insulated skull cap.
As if that gesture would save me if the RPG wasn’t precisely on target, he had time to think.
The RPG round struck the rear of the troop truck, blew apart the canvas-covered bed and physically shoved the truck through the snow. It was a very precise shot...but the RPG had detonated against the flimsiest portion of the vehicle, short of the cab. The truck, now a pillar of orange-yellow fire from behind the cab to the rear of its troop area, continued to plow through the snow. The engine raced harder.
“I don’t believe it,” McCarter muttered to himself.
The other four members of Phoenix Force joined him, flanking him as they came up from behind. Manning began to load another RPG round, but the truck was out of range.
“We could let them go,” Encizo said.
“Chances are,” said McCarter, “when Gera’s men home in on this area, they’re going to be drawn straight to that.”
“A flaming troop truck moving through a frozen, desolate wasteland?” James asked. “Who’d notice that?”
McCarter shot James a look. He gestured. “We can go back to where we stashed the MRAPs,” he said, “or we can run them down on foot. So let’s do both. Calvin, you’re with me and Gary. Rafe, T.J., you go get the trucks and bring up the rear. They aren’t moving fast and they’re heavily damaged.”
“Not to mention glow-in-the-dark,” Encizo said.
“That, too,” McCarter said. “We’ll catch up, circle the wagons and make ready to intercept whatever diplomatic overtures Gera’s forces are likely to make.”
“On it,” Encizo said.
“You got it,” Hawkins drawled.
As the two men traced their approach back to the armored vehicles, McCarter, Manning and James set out after the burning truck, trotting through the snow at a brisk pace. McCarter was grateful for the activity. It was damned cold out here, even though the weather was calm at the moment. It felt good to put some blood back in his extremities.
“I don’t know, man,” James said as they moved. “I mean, I’m no Native American tracker or anything. We might lose them.”
Ahead of them, the trail made by the truck through the fresh coating of snow was as clear as a highway. Not that much farther ahead, the still-burning truck was impossible to miss, like the light at the end of a train tunnel.
“Somehow,” Manning said quietly, “I think we’ll manage.”
They had not gone far when the sound of the two MRAPs was audible at their backs. The troop truck was growing larger, too; they were gaining on it.
Something didn’t feel right.
“Slow it up, lads,” McCarter said quietly. The transceivers Phoenix Force wore made it possible for him to issue quiet verbal commands where he might otherwise have used hand signals. He did not have to speak loudly enough to be heard; he only had to speak loud enough that his transceiver picked it up. His amplified voice was then run through the earbuds of the other team members. The transceivers had smart algorithms for screening noise, too, which was why they did not transmit the sounds of gunfire and explosions.
“Yeah,