arm out at the door that would return him to the outer hall, and pushed it open.
He was halfway through the entry when Ricci lunged from behind and caught hold of his backpack.
The man beside the TRAP T-2 firing commander stared into his handheld monitor. “Jeeps are still coming on.”
The commander breathed. Didn’t those dumb bastards realize what kind of hell storm they were heading into?
“Fire at will,” he said into his headset.
The attackers riding in the jeeps had not expected to come up against the remote gun platforms. Kuhl’s scouts had told them that the east perimeter, now under American control, was guarded by an inadequate number of men possessing only nonlethal small arms intended to disrupt and incapacitate. The scouts had told them that the VKS was apparently convinced an offensive against the space center, if it came at all, would be launched against its industrial area — never expecting that Kuhl and his small group would
Although the TRAP T-2s had come as a surprise to him, the leader of the attack force had assumed they had been moved into position after the last forward reconnaissance. Having never seen anything like them, he completely underestimated their precision-firing capabilities. Furthermore, the smoke, gas, and fireworks belching from the fixed platforms seemed to confirm his intelligence — relayed by Kuhl himself — that the Americans were under stricter no-kill orders than in Brazil.
Completely misled, he stuck to his plan of attack and ordered the jeeps to roll on toward the perimeter.
The Sword gunners opened up on them with everything they had, the TRAP T-2 VVRS platforms unleashing streams of deadly ammunition, angled to cover the entire field of approach with plunging, grazing, and crossing fire.
Men leaped from their vehicles as they were sprayed with bullets, many falling dead before they could make their exits, others managing to take cover behind the jeeps and return fire with their FAMAS guns. But they knew they were stalled, unable to advance, and by the time the QR squads came speeding up on their flanks, the attackers left alive were ready to surrender.
Their assault lasted just under half an hour before the Sword guards were satisfied it had been suppressed.
Exactly as Kuhl had planned.
His rifle slung over his shoulder, the fingers of one hand clutching the strap of Kuhl’s backpack, Ricci pulled Kuhl toward him, keeping him in the doorway, hooking his free arm around Kuhl’s chest. But Kuhl continued to press forward, fighting to escape, twisting slightly to drive an elbow into the center of Ricci’s rib cage.
The wind knocked out of him, Ricci struggled to keep his arm around Kuhl, took another hard, crisp elbow jab to the diaphragm, a third.
His hold relaxed but didn’t break.
Gunfire racketing behind them, the two men grappled in the narrow space of the entryway, both their rifles clattering to the floor, their arms and shoulders banging against the partially open door, slamming it repeatedly back into the wall. Then Ricci saw Kuhl reach down with his right hand, saw the truncheon in his belt scabbard, and tried to grab his wrist to keep him from getting a grip on it. But Kuhl was too fast. He pulled it from the scabbard, brought it up, half-turned again, and thrust its blunt hardwood tip into Ricci’s solar plexus.
Ricci tightened his abdomen against the blow, but the pain was nevertheless tremendous. He grunted and crashed dazedly back against the door. His hold around Kuhl slackening, he somehow managed to cling to the strap that was his only remaining purchase, pulling it backward again even as Kuhl pulled
There was a sound of fabric giving way, the strap tearing free of the stitches that held it to the pack, swinging loosely from Kuhl’s right shoulder.
Slipping down his opposite arm, the pack dangled there momentarily, and then fell toward the floor between the two men.
Kuhl spun, reached a hand down to catch it, but his brief distraction had allowed Ricci a chance to recover. He brought his knee up into Kuhl’s stomach, staggering him, then bent his legs to give himself some momentum and snapped a hard uppercut to Kuhl’s jaw.
Kuhl’s head jerked backward, but Ricci could feel him roll with the punch, and knew he’d avoided the worst of it. Ricci hit him again, aiming high, unable to maneuver in the cramped doorway and just hoping to connect with a solid hit. This time his fist smashed into the side of Kuhl’s nose, and blood came spurting from it onto Ricci’s knuckles.
Though Ricci could see the pain register in his opponent’s eyes, Kuhl gave no other sign of weakness. Before Ricci could follow up with a third blow, he slammed his truncheon lengthwise across Ricci’s side directly over his kidney, then brought it up and back for another strike, this one aimed for Ricci’s temple
Raising his arm to block the swing, Ricci forced the stick out and away from himself. But his side was on fire and he was still too stunned and breathless to move. Then, through the specks of light wheeling across his vision, he saw Kuhl’s left hand thrust downward again, his fingers groping for the backpack lying on the floor between them, then clenching around its broken strap.
He snatched it up and turned toward the corridor.
Gulping air, Ricci pushed himself off the door. Whatever was in that pack had to be important enough for the other man to have paused
As Kuhl fled into the hall, Ricci launched into the air after him, tackling him around the middle with a force that sent both men crashing to the noor — Ricci atop Kuhl’s back, Kuhl facedown beneath him, their legs stretched out into the entryway and blocking the door from swinging shut. The truncheon skittered from Kuhl’s grasp, but his other hand remained tightly clenched around the dangling strap of the backpack. Ricci could feel his enormous power as he fought to get out from underneath, feel the muscles of his back and arms working, flexing, bulging up against his chest. The man was like a wild stallion, and Ricci knew he wouldn’t be able to keep him pinned for too long.
Pressing all his weight down on Kuhl, Ricci raised his fist over his head, then hammered it against the hand clutching the pack. Kuhl did not let go. Inhaling deeply, lifting his arm back up, Ricci struck another side-fisted punch to Kuhl’s knuckles.
This time he both heard and felt the splintering of bone. Though Kuhl again gave no outward indication of pain, his fingers splayed open around the strap. His chest flattened against Kuhl’s back, Ricci reached out, grabbed the pack off the floor of the corridor, and slung it over his shoulder through the entryway behind him, the door of which remained propped open by both men’s outstretched legs.
It was just then that a hand gripped Ricci’s ankle.
Blood trailing out behind him in a long, smeary ribbon, a feeling of looseness where he’d been shot, Antonio crawled across the floor on his belly until he was through the doorway and, mustering all the strength left in his fingers, caught hold of Ricci above his foot. It had not occurred to him that he had been intentionally sacrificed by the man he was trying to save.
“
My hand, your life.
Glancing over his shoulder at the dying man, Ricci tried to shake his ankle free of him, couldn’t at first, then kicked out hard, his shoe bottom crunching into Antonio’s face.
Antonio held on to his ankle, held on through willpower alone, pulling him backward. His lips were peeled away from his gums in a kind of rictus. There was blood smeared on his teeth, lips, and chin.
