Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton
lodged deep in his lungs. Pink, frothy sputum erupted from his mouth and his weapon flew from numb fingers.
The remaining four realized they had suddenly become targets, their ranks reduced by a third in just seconds. Each man scrambled for cover but realized he was in a poor position for it. They realized the best they could do was split up, each man for himself, and try to keep the heads of the Able Team warriors down while they broke for some kind of shelter from the assault.
“Pol, trunk!” Schwarz shouted as he snapped off three rounds of his own.
Blancanales ceased firing long enough from his position behind the door to reach in and stab at the switch for the trunk release. Schwarz urged his friends to get behind the rear doors, all knowing the thin skin of the fiberglass and metal in the modern sedan wouldn’t do much to stop the heavy-caliber rounds. At least the rear doors, both which Schwarz had opened for them, would add additional shielding. Lyons and Blancanales made their dash for the failsafe retreat position even as the enemy began to reach cover and return fire. A maelstrom of rounds peppered the front doors and windshield, a couple tearing through the front doors and exiting the other side in the empty space vacated by the Able Team warriors milliseconds before.
Schwarz reached the trunk, unzipped a long bag and came away with his prize. The M-16 A-3/M-203 sported the classic combination of effective small-arms features. Built with a carbine-style profile, it chambered 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds. The tubular style grenade launcher running beneath the foregrips fired a variant of the 40 mm grenades of the grenadier’s choosing. Schwarz settled for a high-explosive round this time around, retrieving a satchel of HEs as he ratcheted the breech forward with one hand.
Schwarz popped a shell into the breech, jacked the tube home with a click and flipped the leaf sight into action. He knelt, locked the stock against his shoulder, quick-sighted and squeezed the launcher trigger. The weapon kicked against his shoulder with the force of a 12-gauge shotgun, which paled in comparison to the impact of the blast that came a second later. The shell struck the van center mass and exploded on impact. A fireball erupted from the vehicle, followed by a roiling black cloud of smoke. A secondary explosion signaled the ignition of the gas tank. The blast didn’t engulf their enemies but a good number of them were knocked off their feet by the concussion.
Schwarz didn’t relent, rocking the tube forward to eject the inert shell and popping a fresh one into the breech.
Blancanales called for Schwarz to surrender his Beretta, which he did reluctantly, but also understanding when his friend gestured in Shubin’s direction. He tossed the pistol underhanded and Blancanales caught it one-handed. Schwarz then aimed the grenade launcher and triggered the second 40 mm HE shell. This one he adjusted to land a little farther aft of the van but with no less a devastating effect. Two more of the hostiles died on their feet as the blast separated appendages from torsos and the superheated gases incinerated flesh.
Blancanales used the distraction of the explosion to break cover and beeline for Shubin’s sedan. He reached the car unscathed and wrenched on the door with all his might. It came open enough to allow Shubin to squeak out. Blancanales handed the Beretta to the Army noncom and then urged them to get cover behind the sedan. They took no fire during the time, as the enemy had its hands full between the explosions, autofire from Schwarz’s M-16 A-3 and the sheer, violent will of Lyons and his Anaconda.
Blancanales and Shubin did manage to pick off a gunner who had adequate protection from Lyons’s and Schwarz’s position but could not defend his flank. They triggered shots simultaneously, two rounds from Shubin’s 9 mm punching into the guy’s ribs while Blancanales’s .357 clipped his skull enough to tear away the top of his brain. The corpse teetered and then collapsed, twitching a moment before going still.
That left one man who must have realized his opponents had him outgunned because he emerged from cover, threw down his weapons and raised his arms high.
None of the Able Team warriors moved at first, suspecting a potential trick. They could wait it out as long as necessary now that they had the advantages of position and numbers. After some time passed without the appearance of additional hostiles, Lyons broke cover and moved in to secure the prisoner with a pair of plastic riot cuffs sent with him courtesy of Schwarz. Within a few minutes they had the enemy combatant secured. Lyons counted at least five confirmed kills and he suspected at least one or two more never made it out of the van.
The warriors gathered around Shubin’s government sedan, a safe distance from the flames and thick, acrid smoke that marked what remained of the enemy vehicle. Their prisoner said nothing—he looked American enough but acted as if either mute or non-English-speaking. Either way, the men of Able Team were careful not to say anything classified around the guy in case he was playing possum, a reflex of their training and experience.
The wail of military police sirens drew nearer by the moment.
Schwarz jerked a thumb at their prisoner and said, “We can turn sunshine here over to the MPs when they arrive.”
“Don’t you think we ought to interrogate him?” Shubin asked not without surprise.
“We don’t have the facilities or a secure location to keep him on ice until we can get to that,” Lyons said. “We need to report back to Washington first.”
Shubin expressed confusion.
“This changes things, Sergeant Major,” Blancanales explained. “We’re on a time-critical mission here. That mission just got bumped up.”
Shubin eyed each of the men in turn with skepticism. “There’s no way in hell I’m buying you guys are actually with CID. Not even for a second. So who are you…really?”
“What makes you think we’re not CID?” Blancanales asked.
“You’re kidding, right? I was in the MP Corps for about the first half of my career, then I moved to light infantry. I’ve met many CID and not one of them would have ever responded the way you guys did. You saw that attack coming, you deterred it—saving my ass in the process by the way, for which I’m real grateful—then took those guys down like you’d done it a thousand times before. I’m guessing you probably have.” Shubin jutted his chin toward the M-16 A-3/M-203 slung across Schwarz’s shoulder. “And don’t tell me that over-and-under is standard CID issue. The sixteen I could see, but no way they issue M-203s to just anybody.”
Lyons smiled. “We’re the good guys—that’s about all we can tell you.”
“And I don’t suppose you’d be grateful enough to us that we might keep this between ourselves for now?”
Shubin shrugged. “I can keep a secret but I still have to make a full report to General Saroyan. He’ll have questions. Lots of them.”
“Yeah,” Lyons half said, half grunted. “Can’t wait.”
“WHAT IN THE holy crapping hell did you guys think you were doing?” Major General Anthony Saroyan’s expression bore unchecked apoplexy. “This is a fucking nightmare! I’ll have Congressional inquiries running through here for the next goddamn year!”
“Sir,” Blancanales began with buttery humility, “if you could just listen—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Chief Rose!” Saroyan countered. “I’m the MMFIC on this post, not to mention I outrank all of you! So you’d do well to shut up until you have permission to speak.”
Blancanales closed his yap, erring on the side of discretion being the better part of valor. Not that it mattered, because before Saroyan could continue his tirade the phone jingled on his desk for attention. The officer bristled, stopping in midstride the pacing he’d been doing while chewing out the collective asses of the three CID officers. He looked at first as if he might throw the phone across the room, but then appeared to think better of it and swiped up the receiver in one meaty hand.
“Yes?” he barked. A pause and then he looked almost dazed as wrinkles formed in his forehead. “Who is on the line?”
A longer pause ensued during which