trig-ger of the assault rifle in his left hand as he ran.
It too ran dry. He left both rifles fall to his sides on their black webbed slings. His right hand moved to his trouser band—the Metalifed Colt Government Model. He jacked back the slide, stabbing it toward the KGB position, firing, knowing that at the range it was virtually useless.
The mouth of the corridor was now fifteen yards. He ran, Natalia only a few paces ahead of him—the one article of clothing she had changed was footgear—the uniform boots she had worn with her attempted disguise had been vastly too large for her and stuffed with rags and paper. But she moved fleet footedly now, changed to her own boots.
The M-16 in her left hand was shot out now, but the one in her right still spit fire.
Ten yards, Reed’s men laying down a solid field of fire toward the KGB position, Rourke leaning into the run, his lungs burning with it, the .45 empty in his right fist.
Natalia reached the mouth of the corridor, Rourke skid-ding on his heels behind her—his borrowed uniform boots weren’t the greatest fit either, he realized, his left heel ach-ing. Rourke dropped to his knees, swinging the CAR-15 forward from behind his back, the Colt .45 stabbed into his trouser band, the slide stop downed. He telescoped the stock, pulling free the scope covers, stuffing them into his shirt pocket, putting the CAR-15 to his shoulder, firing. Semi-automatic only, with the Colt three power scope he picked his targets—a KGB lieutenant, a shot into the right side of the forehead; an enlisted man and a shot into the neck as he raised up to shoot; another enlisted man in the right forearm; another man—he couldn’t tell the rank—in the mouth as it opened—it never closed.
Daszrozinski and the M-72 were coming, the running man beside the car—the ammo bearer—jumping to the side of the sidecar now, Daszrozinski picking up speed, the RPK still firing, the gunfire from the KGB position less and less.
But from behind Rourke now, near the far end of the cor-ridor, there was gunfire. Rourke looked back—Vladov and his men had gone ahead and they were meeting resistance.
“Shit,” Rourke snarled. Rourke turned to Reed. “Keep covering Daszrozinski, then catch up to Natalia and me. Keep a small force as rear guard to back us up when those guys behind the electric cars start for the corridor.”
“Hey, who the hell made you the general?”
“You got a better idea?” Rourke smiled.
“Yeah, but I can’t say it in front of Major Tiemerovna. Go on—we’ll cover ya—and I’ll take care of a rear guard—go on.”
Rourke nodded, ramming fresh magazines into both of the M-16s, saving the CAR-15, pushing it back across his back beside his pack. An M-16 in both hands now, rasping to Natalia, “Come on,” he started to run again, the length of the corridor. Ahead, Vladov’s men weren’t falling back, but they were under heavy fire.
It was what he had said it would be—a shooting gallery, Rourke thought.
Chapter Forty-five
Pockets of KGB personnel were everywhere in the space be-yond the end of the corridor. Mezzanines, ranked like vineyard steps, terraced, were ranked one slightly above and rearward of the other at the far side of a vaulted assembly area, office doors to the right, large metal doors, like garage doors to the left.
Rourke estimated the number of guns trained on them and firing as over a hundred and growing.
He flattened himself against the corridor wall, the RPK fir-ing toward the tiered mezzanines, but Rourke realizing it would have little effect—the enemy numbers were just too high.
“Vladov, have your men strip out the five pounds of C-4 each of them has. Who’s got the Dragunov?” And he looked around. The GRU major carried it slung behind his right shoulder.
“Pick your best shooter, give him this. Have the rest of your men break up their plastique bundles into five equal increments, then have ‘em mold them into a ball—as quickly as possible.”
“What are you—” Natalia began, then her eyes lit, their blueness still something Rourke lost himself in as he watched her. “We throw the plastique like grenades, then we shoot into the plastique.”
“You got it,” Rourke nodded. “You use an M-16, I’ll use my CAR-15, and one of Vladov’s men on the Dragunov. Three guys throw, the rest keep us covered and them covered.” Rourke turned to the Russian SF-ers. “Okay, how many of you guys have heard of the game baseball?”
Natalia laughed ...
Reed had joined them. The pitching roster included three Russians and four Americans now, the rest of the Americans and some of the Russians in the rear guard unit—and already the KGB
personnel from the earlier fight were closing on the mouth of the corridor behind them.
“Once things start to blow,” Rourke cautioned, “we head for that nearest garage door—the major here,” and Rourke gestured to Natalia, “and Captain Vladov will use some of the C-4 to can opener the door for us. Should be more of those electric cars inside—golf carts. That’s all they are. In an en-closed space like this you can’t use more than say a half dozen internal combustion vehicles and those have to be strictly con-trolled for pollutants and lead emissions. Maybe we’ll luck out and there’ll be a regular vehicle or two inside. Whatever, we get a vehicle, we can outdistance these people for a while before they get so organized that we can’t reach the cryogenics lab at all.”
“That’ll be guarded by now, so heavily we’ll need an army to get in,” Dressier groused.
“Well, fine, I’ll worry about that when we get there. And besides, Sergeant,” and Rourke looked at the white-haired man, “we are an army, remember?”
Dressier nodded, laughing. “All right, you men, I want those plastique charges ready on the double.”
They were being piled up like a stack of cannon balls at a monument, out of reach from all but the most bizarre rico-chets from the terraced mezzanines. Rourke had freshly re-loaded the magazine for the CAR-15 while they’d talked from the boxes of loose 5.56mm ammo in his pack. He rammed the fully loaded thirty round stick up the well now. Ready.
Natalia, prone on the floor, legs spread wide, the butt of an M-16 snugged to her shoulder called, “Ready to fire.”
Lieutenant Daszrozinski—Vladov had selected him as the best man to use the Dragunov—was by the other side of the corridor, prone as well. “I am ready also.”
Rourke positioned himself behind Natalia, standing, leaning his body into the wall for added support. “Ready—Vladov—call the shots.”
“Yes, Doctor,” and Vladov addressed the pitchers. “Gentle-men, take your first one pound balls—we will fire in volleys. On my signal.” Vladov addressed the men providing covering fire.
“At the count of three, provide the suppressive fire. One—two—three!”
Gunfire, the roar of it deafening, Rourke feeling it as hot brass pelted against the exposed flesh of his neck, his face, his forearms. Then Vladov’s voice, “Pitchers—ready—prepare to throw—throw!”
Rourke saw the first grey blur, arcing high toward one of the upper level mezzanines, Rourke settling the Colt scope’s reti-cle, snapping the trigger—it was shotgunning, not rifling, he realized.
There was an explosion, then another and another.
Two more balls of the plastique, Rourke hitting a second, another explosion, then one of the balls landing near the base of the lower mezzanine. There was a burst of full auto fire from in front of him, the ball of plastique exploding, chunks of the mezzanine structures were collapsing now, fires burn-ing, glass shattered on the floor everywhere.
Vladov shouted, “Cease fire.”
The mezzanines were for upper level corridors—each corri-dor, Rourke realized, teeming with more of the KGB person-nel. “Aim for the mezzanines themselves—we make ‘em so they can’t be crossed, we can slow ‘em down,” Rourke shouted.
Vladov’s voice. “There you have it, gentlemen, we must do better. Pitchers ready. Marksmen, we are ready.”
“Ready,” Rourke called.
“Ready,” Daszrozinski snapped.
“Ready,” Natalia answered.
“Suppressive fire—on three. One—two—three!”
