Dick Stivers - Five Rings of Fire

Keeping as close to the wall as possible, Gadgets moved until he found a maintenance ladder leaning against the side of the building, away from the parking lot. As he went up the ladder, he heard the Champlin speak twice, its retorts keeping the KGB killer pinned.

Gadgets crouch-walked to the far side of the air-conditioner housing. The Champlin sounded three more times, but the bullets were missing the mark. Pol seemed to be having difficulty keeping the third member of the KGB hit team pinned down. Gadgets decided to creep over the top of the housing. When he eased his head up, he almost lost it. A rapid burst of fire from the corner of the other school building clanged off metal. He jerked back.

He pulled the Makarov from his pocket and tossed it over the housing. The KGB killer's taut nerves reacted to the flying, dark object as if it were a grenade. The highly trained specialist flipped himself around the housing in a fraction of a second — right into a stream of 5.45mm slugs fired by Gadgets, who had taken off on the run as soon as he tossed the Makarov. The gunner's face was turned into a bloody, shredded mess.

The next logical thing to do was to throw himself flat, out of the line of fire of the remaining KGB guncocks. But the Able Team fighter was not feeling logical. Lyons wasn't around to be hard-assed and unpredictable, so Gadgets took over. He kept running straight at the Kalashnikov AKS74 barrel that was swinging to bear on him from the corner of the other building. He ran straight off the edge of the building.

Letting gravity grip him and drop him down, Gadgets fired the rest of the clip toward the building, aiming just above the submachine-gun barrel. Two of his bullets chewed at a piece of arm.

Gadgets landed easily from the ten-foot drop, rolling to his left as soon as he touched down.

Knowing that his target was down and rolling, the wounded KGB killer took two seconds to change clips, then charged around the corner, finger tightening on the trigger of the submachine gun. His steps suddenly turned into a rubber-legged stagger as his right arm and left leg exploded, sending pieces of flesh and bone airborne. The scum's face slammed into a brick wall, changing the features from ugly to uglier. Gadgets had heard the rumbling sounds of Politician's big Champlin and he knew that once again he owed his life to a fellow member of Able Team.

Politician had seen the attack coming and he had prepared himself for three quick, well-placed shots. His aim was deadly.

Gadgets scrambled to his feet and walked over to examine the last opponent, now lying dead in a puddle of blood. Gadgets searched for intel into the ambushers. He tore open the camo-fatigues. Underneath was battle armor that look like Kevlar. It had done little to discourage the entry of a 500-grain avenger. He rolled the corpse over. It was little consolation to the wearer, but the jacket had prevented the spent slug and gore from exiting.

Gadgets looked at the face from quarter view. It was disturbingly familiar. Puzzled, he walked to the man he had killed with his hands. That face was not familiar. He started for the ladder to the roof of the other building and met Pol on the way.

"Thanks," he said. "I owe you one."

Pol shrugged off his friend's talk. "Think you'd do the same for me."

The pair stepped around the air-conditioner housing and rolled the body onto its back. The soft cap came off. Long, blond hair spilled out.

"A woman," Pol said.

"A bitch," Gadgets muttered.

The two men quit the battlefield.

Alf Inkster had a nervous, tight feeling in his guts. He did not really know why, but Captain Young always made him feel that way. Inkster looked again at the flight plan Young was filing. He wished he had his air controller, who understood these things, but the man had recently quit.

"You're doing a night jump over the Mojave Desert?" Inkster asked.

Captain Young just nodded. The lanky pilot was not one to waste words.

"Long way to go for a desert when there's plenty right around here," Inkster ventured.

Again Young nodded. Inkster waited for an explanation, but the captain supplied none. Inkster knew the man was cleared for night work; he had watched him acquire his licenses right here at this small airport.

When the airport had lost its only controller, Inkster had been sure they would have to close. He could not possibly bid for a new man in the competitive market and when he tried to direct air traffic, he grew dangerously confused. Fortunately, Captain Young and the Southern Survivalist Parachute Club had vowed to remain. On the few occasions when the airport had several planes to handle at once, Young or one of the other pilots from the SSPC took control of the radio and organized things.

"Guess it's not such a farfetched idea," Inkster picked up lamely. "You got a copy of the weather report?"

Young had.

"Good flight."

Young left.

Alf Inkster watched him walk across the tarmac. It was ninety-two sweltering degrees outside. Just the thought of ninety-two degrees made Inkster sweat, even though he was being cooled down by air conditioning. He shook his head. That Young was a cool bastard. Young went into the cinder-block SSPC house at the corner of the airport. Permission to build the clubhouse had been granted only because it meant the little airport could stave off bankruptcy. Inkster had never set foot inside the building, and he had no desire to. The Survivalists gave him the creeps.

Inside, Peter, the club's other pilot, was poring over maps and charts. Everyone else was checking weapons.

Young walked over to a large map of southwestern United States. He picked up a pool cue, which he used as a pointer. He slapped the cue against the wall, gaining everyone's attention. The club members fell silent.

"We'll be jumping at the crack of dawn," Young began.

"Wouldn't it be safer if we hit them in the dark?" one of the men said.

"No," Young replied. "We'll be going down while it's still dark, but it'll be easier if we have just enough light to tell friend from enemy. Don't forget there's three of our men in that camp. We want to get them, and only them, out alive. We have to wait until the desert is as cool as it's going to get in order to pinpoint the hidden camp with the infrared scanner.

"Now, pay attention," Young continued. "We want a complete wipeout of the blacks and the Klansmen. But we've got to keep those dune buggies in shape because that's how we're getting out of there."

"I'd rather be using a good machine pistol or a sawed-off shotgun than these M-16s," another club member complained.

Young turned and looked straight into the eyes of the speaker, giving the man a gaze so cold it forced him to shiver.

"You'll use only the assigned arms. You'll be inspected before boarding the DC-3. No one carries a favorite weapon. You have the same weapons that are issued to the U.S. Marines. One of the armed forces is going to be blamed for this massacre. It's going to look as if the United States fumbled again in trying to free the hostages. They'll deny it, but who will believe them? No one. So, taking anything into the battle zone that isn't consistent with that story will get you killed — by me. Is that clear enough?"

All agreed. It was crystal clear.

Klaus Boering was within sight of Edwards Air Force Base. He constantly kept watch in his rear-view mirror, checking for possible tails.

Helen, a cynic and the only female athlete in the limousine, questioned the driver.

"Boering," she said, "what the hell's coming down? We're heading toward Death Valley. You're supposed to be taking us out of the country, not deeper into it."

"I'm taking you to a temporary camp until I can get a helicopter to pick you up later tonight," the mole answered.