Dick Stivers - Deathbites

The other passenger placed both of his bags on the helicopter, and without removing his hands from their grip, vaulted on after them. The one with the British accent easily clambered aboard and accepted his war bags from Jackson. Jackson had to lift them one at a time.

"Don't know what I'd have done without you," the passenger told him.

Jackson looked into the mocking blue eyes and canceled his scowl. He dogged the door and hurried to the flight deck.

"Let's get out of here, sir," he told the colonel.

"What are our passengers like?" Fulton asked as he slapped the Sikorsky into maximum climb.

The acceleration pushed Jackson into his seat before he was buckled in.

"I met someone like those two once before," Jackson said. "A big dark guy with icy eyes."

Jackson paused and shuddered.

"Colonel, the rpm are red zone."

"Them's our orders. This chopper only has to last long enough to get them to MIT."

"There's no pad at MIT."

"That's what I told them," Fulton said.

"And what was the response?" the captain asked.

Colonel Fulton grinned. "Tough," he quoted.

July 13, 1148 hours, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Aya Jishin stood at the front of the bus and looked down its length, assessing what she saw. She had twenty of her Cambodia— and Moscow-trained specialists with her. The other thirty passengers were locals, recruited and trained through HIT. The specialists all sat at the front, near her. It would not do for them to mingle with the foot soldiers.

The bus gave a sudden swerve. She fired an angry glare at the driver. He was wiping a hand on his pants and paying little attention to the road.

He caught the glance and explained uneasily. "Whoever slit the driver's throat got blood on the controls. It's getting sticky."

"Be thankful it isn't your blood," Jishin told him.

The driver looked straight ahead and did not answer. He was noticeably paler.

Jishin was genuinely annoyed with him. What was a lit-tie blood? Did they expect to destroy a system without getting blood on their hands? Americans isolated themselves from reality to an extent her Japanese mind could never fathom. There had been only six passengers on the bus, all older people. If there had been forty-odd women and children, she doubted if these troops would have even seized the bus.

They pulled onto the campus of MIT. Harvard was right next door along the Charles River.

"Which building do we want?" the driver asked.

Jishin pulled out a crumpled campus guide and shoved it at the driver. One of the buildings was circled.

"Not many people around for this time of day," someone observed.

"We're being flagged down," the driver said.

A workman in beige coveralls was in front of the bus, madly waving a red flag.

"Stop and see what he wants," Jishin ordered.

Her internal alarms were buzzing. The campus was too quiet for midmorning.

The driver stopped and opened the doors of the bus. The workman, a rugged blond-haired man, bounced on board as if he wanted to fight. His attitude lulled Jishin's suspicions slightly. People who lay ambushes try not to look overly aggressive.

"You idiot. Don't you know you're driving into a blast zone?" the worker demanded.

"Blast zone?" The driver was genuinely perplexed.

"Like they told you at the gate — no one on campus until the blast is set off."

"What blast?" The driver was almost whining.

Jishin was almost convinced, until she locked eyes with the man. His face was surprisingly controlled for a long-nose, but he could not totally hide the recognition that flashed behind his eyes. He raised his yellow hard hat to the Japanese terrorist.

"The blast that's just about to happen," he told the driver. Then he leaped off the bus.

Attention was distracted by the smashing of the rear window of the bus. The glass fell inward on the American terrorists-in-training, followed by two hand grenades.

Jishin forgot all about the workman and threw herself into the laps of two terrorists in the front seat. She yelled, "Grenade!" while she was in the air.

The blasts made mincemeat of much of the local talent, but did nothing to the professionals at the front of the bus. Being thoroughly trained professionals, they held their seats while the survivors from the back of the bus pushed and shoved in their desperate haste to get off the rolling death trap.

Jishin regained her feet and barked commands. "Weapons out and look sharp. Throw yourselves flat and return any fire. Don't push each other, push that smart ass out there."

Her hoarse, drill-sergeant voice brought them short. It was evident that they still had more fear of Jishin than they had of grenades. M-16s were readied and cocked. The trainees left the bus and hit the close-cropped lawn like trained infantry. They spread and started to return the machine-gun fire that cut into them from the corner of a nearby building.

The driver started to leave his seat. Jishin pushed him back roughly.

"Fool! Don't you go running out into an ambush. Get this thing out of here."

The driver took no more convincing. The bus took off, careening around the orderly but deserted drives, heading for Cambridge traffic. On board were Jishin, twenty Communist-trained terrorists, seven dead terrorists-in-training and three who were so wounded that they had been unable to leave the bus. The professionals used knives to silence those three as they sped from ambush.

July 13, 1002 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

Lyons had had to jog almost two miles before finding a telephone. His return to the window was cautious. He noticed that the window was down. He walked up to it slowly. Four terrorists rushed him. Lyons caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.

The first thug to reach him came from the left. He ran straight into a spear hand to the larynx. The terrorist lay down and drowned in his own bloody

Lyons side kicked the idiot diving at him from the right. The man's low flight took him straight into the whipping boot. A loud snap sounded as the man's neck broke.

The impact put the Able Team warrior slightly off balance, causing him to spin ninety degrees before he could put his foot down and brace himself. By that time, the last two were on top of him — one wore brass knuckles, the other had a small blackjack. Lyons jerked his head to one side. The brass knuckles painfully scraped one ear.

Lyons backed up quickly, trying to separate himself from the attackers. The goon with the brass knuckles attacked. His flurry of blows bruised Lyons's forearms and opened a cut on his cheek. Lyons suddenly lashed out with his foot. The fighter with the knuckles coolly twisted and took the kick on the thigh, lashing out with a jab as he did so.

The scrappy blond deflected the jab with a punch to the forearm. He then saw that the other terrorist was circling to come at him from behind. Before the man could move in behind him, he launched a swift assault against the animal with the knuckles. He advanced with a series of kicks. His enemy managed to dodge one and deflect one, but a third kick crashed into open ribs, sending the goon staggering.

Lyons whirled on the blackjack wielder just in time to drive his knuckles into the back of the hand wielding the weapon. The goon tried to score with a backswing, but had his hand hit again. A shout of agony escaped his lips, but he hung onto the sap.

Lyons then stepped to one side and spun around. His other opponent nearly bowled his ally off his feet as he charged right past where Lyons had been. Carl hurried the charge with a boot to the calf.

Both men swung to face him. This time they were both on the same side of their intended victim. Lyons rapidly closed in on the terrorist with the brass knuckles, giving him no time to get set or to think. He intercepted a straight jab by grabbing the wrist with his right hand and locking the elbow with his left. He gave a hard pull, levering one opponent into the other. The moment the two thugs collided, they lost the match.