Jack Grimaldi had seen it, as well. “An Ultralight.”
“Pushing the limits of its range,” Blancanales noted. While he didn’t have a PDA to calculate distance, the wily veteran was as good with a map and compass as any highly trained soldier. “He probably resorted to gliding to conserve fuel, which is how we caught up with him this far.”
“If it’s him,” Lyons countered. “Jack, get us closer. We can resume the search pattern if it’s a false alarm.”
“Got it,” Grimaldi replied.
“We’re closing in on the first airstrip,” Blancanales stated. On his map was a marker of a position that had been provided by Lyons’s contacts within the U.S. Border Patrol. “And he’s circling for a descent.”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Lyons replied. Still, he reached for the DSA-58 carbine he had stashed under his seat. He kept its stock folded, for better maneuverability inside the confines of the helicopter. He idly wished for the nose sensors on the Hughes 500 NOTAR they’d utilized only a few hours before, but the JetRanger had the kind of speed and range Grimaldi required to ferry them on their search of the desert. The airstrip was quiet and still, but camouflage netting could have concealed a small battalion from unaided eyes. FLIR and Terrain Radar would have given them a better heads-up. He clicked on his open line to the Farm.
“Bear, got anything on satellite?”
“The sun’s been baking the area enough to make any thermal imaging a mess. Radar shows you following something, but its signature is faint and indecipherable,” Kurtzman answered. “It’s an ultralight?”
“Yeah,” Lyons confirmed. “It could be made of any one of a dozen materials that wouldn’t show up well on a radar scan. Even its engine would be masked by the superstructure. Are there any vehicles in the area?”
“Anything outside is probably covered,” Kurtzman told him. “The signal isn’t coming back clean, so it’s possible that someone’s got camouflage netting with radar-absorbent material in it. Expect trouble, but I don’t have any magic figures for you.”
“I’ve got the outline of a hangar,” Blancanales called out. “It looks large enough for half a dozen Cessnas. It’s covered in camouflage netting, and low profile to blend into the hills.”
Lyons squinted. There was motion near the airstrip as the Ultralight suddenly banked hard, powering into a climb to push above the altitude of the JetRanger. Grimaldi was watching their aerial quarry, but the movement on the ground was fluid motion of fabric tossed aside.
“Ironman, we’ve got signatures!” Kurtzman shouted. “Looks like…”
“Machine guns,” Lyons bellowed, jolting Grimaldi into a hard juke to one side. Spearing tracers burned through the air only inches from Lyons’s window, twin streams of glowing streaks confirming the dual-mounted .50-caliber machine guns raking the sky. Another position fluttered to life farther down the strip, and Blancanales shoved his folded FAL’s barrel through the window port, holding down the trigger for half of the 30-round extended magazine.
With Grimaldi engaging in evasive action, the Puerto Rican’s fire only swept the machine-gun nest with a few glancing shots, but it was enough to force the antiaircraft position to miss the JetRanger. Still, Blancanales was satisfied with the results of his suppression fire.
Lyons had his DSA-58 burping out rounds to harass the other antiaircraft nest, but he knew that there wasn’t much of a chance of scoring an easy hit, not with Grimaldi weaving through the sky. “Jack, we need to get out of here. At least set us down out of range of the twin mounts.”
“Make me a hole, guys,” Grimaldi said.
Blancanales thumbed a round into the breech of his grenade launcher and fired. The shell hit, spewing a noxious-looking green cloud that obscured one of the machine-gun nests. In the meantime, Lyons unslung his Mossberg Cruiser 500, ejecting its load of Brenneke shells and quickly thumbing in a load of ferret rounds. The 12-gauge shell spit a tear-gas bomb toward the other twin-mounted Fifty. Being a solid round, the shotgun tear-gas shell had the range to pepper the enemy gunnery position. By tromboning the slide as fast as he pulled the trigger, Lyons saturated the nest with a blinding, stinging caldron of capsicum gas. The machine gunner, his sinuses and respiratory passages swollen in reaction to the horrendously hot-pepper extract, held down the spade trigger on the heavy machine gun, firing uncontrollably. His tear ducts felt as if they were filled with scalding hot acid, and he swept the half of the sky that was empty.
Blancanales’s smoker was followed by a second, thickening the turgid green cloud, giving the helicopter room to maneuver.
“Put us down,” Lyons told Grimaldi. “If we back off, they won’t stick around.”
“Roger,” Grimaldi answered. “Luckily, Pol laid down a good landing marker.”
Lyons looked to see that the ace Stony Man pilot had swooped the helicopter over Blancanales’s thick green fog. The rotor wash pushed away the cloud, and Grimaldi let the aircraft drop right on top of the second machine-gun nest. The starboard landing skid hit the frame of the twin mount and tore it from its moorings, digging it into the sand.
Lyons and Blancanales snapped out of their harnesses and were out the chopper’s doors in an instant. The Able Team leader paused only long enough to ram the pistol grip of his Mossberg into the jaw of one of the antiaircraft crew they’d landed among. Bone shattered under the impact, the gunner’s head flopping loosely on a rubbery neck. Blancanales’s FAL carbine burped out a short burst, churning 7.62 mm slugs through the intestines of a second gun crewman.
Lyons didn’t have to tell Grimaldi to take off, as the helicopter popped into the sky like a cork. Already the tear gas was wearing off on the first machine gun nest. “Pol!”
Blancanales whirled, feeding his M-203 again. Snapping the shoulder stock straight on his rifle, he triggered the grenade launcher. A 40-mm round spiraled through the air between the two antiaircraft positions, the shell’s travels seeming to take forever as Grimaldi struggled to gain altitude. When it felt like the first crew of enemy gunners could have recovered and taken a nap to sleep off the effects of the tear gas, the grenade landed at their feet. Six-point-five ounces of high explosive converted from solid potential chemical energy into a thunderclap of pressure and heat. The twin-mounted machine gun was shorn into its component parts by a wave of force that turned its crew’s legs and lower torsos into a rocketing halo of jellied meat. Their top halves were simply lobbed out of the sandbag ring, bouncing on the tarmac.
Lyons traded his Mossberg for the DSA carbine to deal with a group of newcomers to the battle, teams of men exploding through two doors of the hangar, brandishing automatic weapons. Lyons’s full-auto fire lanced into the squad, stitching torsos with high-velocity bullets that exploded through bone and vaporized tunnels through muscle and organ tissue.
“Damn it! Get them!” a voice shouted. Lyons narrowed his eyes and spotted a short, balding man with lean, cruel features, tripping a memory in the Able Team commander’s mental mug book. He dismissed his familiarity with the enemy leader, swinging his DSA’s chattering stream of automatic fire toward his slender opponent. The enemy leader charged ahead of the scything arc of supersonic lead, saving his own life, but causing Lyons to mow down three of his forces.
Blancanales added his autofire to the conflagration, but the fleeing leader was inside the protective walls of the hangar. Rather than being deterred, the Able Team grenadier stuck an M-433 HEDP round into his launcher and fired. When the dual-purpose round touched the wall of the hangar, its copper armor-penetrating shrapnel charge spit out the prefab wall material and molten metal in a cone of lethal devastation that slashed through whatever defenders stood on the other side of the door. Screams of agony split the air.
Lyons