nothing moving. Fisher turned to check their right flank and saw a figure charging at them from medical.
“Target!” he said, and squeezed off two rounds. The figure went down. “Moving.” Groza still at his shoulder, he paced forward. Gillespie followed, turning in a half circle as she covered their flanks and rear. Fisher reached the corner at the corridor, paused, peeked around. A muzzle flashed in the darkness.
“Fire at the bottom of the ramp,” Fisher advised Hansen.
“Roger. Coming down now.”
Fisher saw the three of them appear down the ramp. He gave them a nod, then stuck the Groza around the corner and fired two shots down the corridor. Hansen, Noboru, and Valentina rushed forward and pressed against the opposite wall. Noboru dropped to one knee and aimed the ARWEN back up the ramp.
“How many?” Hansen asked Fisher.
“One that we know of.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
Fisher nodded, and he and Gillespie backed away and kept circling around the ramp until they reached ballistics.
“Target!” Gillespie called. Fisher turned with her. They fired together. The figure went down.
“Are these Zahm’s?” she asked.
Fisher nodded. “Unless he expanded his crew, he’s only got three left.”
From medical rose a double pop from a Groza. Valentina called over her radio, “Target down.”
Fisher replied, “Hansen, you and Valentina clear medical.”
“Roger.”
“Noboru, can you hold the ramp?”
“Bet your ass.”
From down the corridor to ballistics they heard a shout. Fisher stopped and crouched down. Gillespie did the same. “That’s Ames,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Fisher radioed to Hansen, “Moving to ballistics.”
He and Gillespie headed out. A hundred yards down the corridor they heard Ames’s voice again: “Shouldn’t have left it sitting here alone, Chucky.”
“Ah, bloody hell, you little weasel! Come down here so I can put a bullet in your brain.”
“Can’t do that, Chucky—”
“Don’t call me Chucky!”
Fisher and Gillespie kept going until they were within sight of the main door. Pressed against the near wall, with Gillespie behind him, Fisher slid ahead until he could see inside. Like the ballistics zones above, this one was wide open, measuring several football fields in length, and filled with engine test stands and workbenches.
Fisher peeked through the door, then pulled back and said to Gillespie, “Zahm’s at the far end of the room with his last two men. They’re standing at the mouth of the middle blast funnel. Right inside the door there’s a double row of workbenches running down the right hand wall. Keep your eyes sharp for Ames. He’s hiding somewhere. Ready?”
She nodded.
Fisher eased back to the door, lifted the Groza, and braced the barrel against the jamb. He nodded. Hunched over, Gillespie stepped around him and crept to the nearest bench. She took up a covering position, and he trotted forward to join her.
Zahm yelled, “Give it up, Ames. You ain’t going to get ’em open.”
“Don’t want to!” Ames shouted back.
Gillespie whispered, “What’s he doing?”
Fisher shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Hansen said over the headset, “Medical clear.” “Move on to weapons.”
“Roger.”
“Noboru?”
“All okay. I can hear them moving around up there but no action. I think they’re trying to call the elevator. Should I—”
“No, leave them. We’ve got Zahm and we’ve got the arsenal. Not exactly the original plan, but it’ll do. Hansen, once you’re done clearing weapons and electronics, backtrack to Noboru and hold. As soon as we wrap up Zahm, we’ll be there.”
“Roger. And Ames?”
“He’s dumb enough to have stayed. We’ll take him, too.”
Leapfrogging, Fisher and Gillespie made their way down the row of benches until they were within a hundred yards of Zahm and his two men. Fisher gestured for Gillespie to take the man on the left. She nodded and set up for the shot. Fisher fired first. His target went down. Zahm spun that way, then heard the second man collapse and turned back.
“Hi, Chuck,” Fisher called.
Zahm turned around. He was holding a 9mm semiautomatic in his right hand.
“Lose it,” Fisher ordered.
Zahm dropped the gun. “Fisher!” he called back with a wide grin.
“You just couldn’t sit still, could you?” Fisher replied. “Couldn’t have stayed in Portugal, enjoyed your villa and your mojitos and your boat.”
“Boring. Too damned boring.”
“Then you’re going to hate prison,” Fisher called.
“You can put me in, but you can’t keep me there.”
From somewhere in the space, Ames yelled, “You’re both wrong!”
Fisher looked at Gillespie. “He’s not in here.”
“What?”
“The echo’s wrong. He’s above us — ballistics, second level. He’s yelling down the exhaust shaft.”
And then Fisher realized what was happening. He keyed the radio, “Ben, say position.”
“Electronics. Just finishing.”
“Move now, back to the ramp. You, Valentina, and Noboru get topside as fast as you can.”
“What’s going on?”
“Do it. Blast your way through whoever’s up there, but don’t slow down.”
“Roger.”
Gillespie asked Fisher, “What’s—”
Ames shouted again: “Okay, Chucky, here it comes….”
Fisher told her, “We’re leaving. Move!”
From the far end of the space they heard a crash. They turned back to see an Anvil case bounce off the middle exhaust funnel and slam into the wall behind it.
Zahm spun around and stared at the case. “Son of a bitch! Ames, I’m gonna—”
A second case fell, this one the size of a closet. It struck the floor upside down and split open. Fisher saw a couple of dozen cylindrical objects skitter across the floor. Another case fell, then another, and then they were raining down the exhaust vent until the mound was taller than the funnels. Over the din, Zahm was shouting unintelligible curses. He stopped suddenly and stared at the debris.
Ames called, “Missed one. Here it comes.”
A brick-sized white object dropped down the vent and disappeared into the pile.
“Ah, bloody hell!” Zahm called.
Gillespie said, “What?”
“Semtex,” Fisher replied. “Run.”
They were sixty feet from the door when the charge went off. A split second later a grenade detonated, then
