Don Pendleton - Texas Showdown

Rushing in, Gadgets banged the light switches on, saw the wires leading from the door frame. He jammed his bayonet into the wires and tore them from the wall. The siren died. Lyons ran past him and threw a double flying kick against the storeroom door, smashing it open. He scrambled to his feet. He searched through the racks of weapons and ammunition.

Grabbing three M-203s — hybrid M-16s fitted with single-shot 40mm grenade launchers — he passed them to Gadgets. He looped bandoleers of ammunition over his shoulders. He found a case of 40mm high-explosive grenades. He also spotted a case of 40mm CN grenades and dragged them out. Gadgets returned to pick up the heavier grenade case. Lyons stopped for one more weapon: the M-14 mounted with the Starlite scope. He took the rifle and the bandoleer of .308 mags that he had loaded himself several nights before. He tried to run with the weight of the rifle and ammunition, but couldn't.

Auto-fire ripped the night. Gadgets rolled through the door, firing a burst with a silenced MAC-10 as he did so. The noise of the .45-caliber slugs ripping through the air sounded louder than the muzzle blast.

Tape on the side of the machine-pistol read "Sgt. C. Pardee."

Crouching in the doorway, Lyons felt concrete chips falling on him as 5.56mm slugs hit the armory. He shouted to Gadgets: "Cover me to the truck, then you got fifteen seconds to wire this toyshop. Make a big bang! Now!"

Slugs zipped past Lyons as he jogged for the tailgate of the truck. He rolled into the back, even as he heard slugs smashing into the truck. Then he heard the metallic report of a grenade launcher from the front of the vehicle. An explosion blasted a sheet steel building a hundred yards away.

Switching on the Starlite's power, Lyons slapped in a magazine and pointed the rifle at the shadows. The scope's electronics revealed a man's head and shoulder behind a barrel. Lyons shot him in the face. A muzzle flash betrayed another soldier. Lyons waited an instant. The soldier exposed himself as he aimed to fire again. Another head shot. A second grenade blast ripped the area. There was no more shooting.

Gadgets sprinted from the armory. "Fireworks in sixty seconds!"

"In back!" Lyons told him. As the truck started, Lyons crouched to the front of the truck canopy. He then smashed the glass out of the cab's back window. "Move it, Mr. Blancanales. Make it through that gate."

"Forget the gate!" Blancanales shouted back. Slugs ripped through the canopy's canvas and punched into the sheet metal cab. "Put out some firepower, passengers."

Lyons found the already open case of 40mm HE grenades, jammed one in an M-203. He fired wild, reloaded, fired again. He broke open the case of 40mm CN grenades. The truck swerved, throwing him on his shoulder.

Gadgets sent a blast of .45 caliber slugs through two mercenaries. The MAC-10 clicked empty. He switched magazines, but then slung the small weapon over his shoulder and grabbed an M-203, loading it with a grenade. He passed the weapon to Lyons: "Teamwork time. Just shoot."

Lyons snapped grenades in all directions as Gadgets loaded. Explosions and CN gas sent soldiers diving for cover, staggering blind and vomiting. Lyons slapped in twenty-round mags of 5.56mm, sprayed the buildings, grabbed another reloaded weapon from Gadgets, fired another grenade.

A major flash lit the night. Huge roaring shook the camp as exploding ammunition belched fire into the sky.

The truck lurched twice as Blancanales smashed through the double chain link fences, snapping off poles and shredding wire.

"We're out!"

Pardee charged through the stinking CN gas, snapping shots at the truck. The truck hurtled toward the road, dragging chain link and poles, disappearing into the dust clouds and darkness. A final 40mm grenade slammed into a barrack wall and the explosion ripped away the head and arms of a soldier who had been leaning there, choking on CN gas. Truncated torso and legs flopped about in the dust.

"Ralston! RALSTON!" Pardee bellowed. Holstering his .45, Pardee shoved soldiers aside, running through the confusion, searching for the platoon leader. "Ralston!"

"Here, sir!" The short wide-shouldered mercenary rushed to his commander.

"Take ten men. Get one of the helicopters to the south road. If those Feds try to make it to the state highway, hit them. Try to take them alive, but stop them."

Ralston ran in the direction of the base offices. Pardee had had the helicopter pilots land the Hueys there to speed his capture of the three federal agents, but the goddamned agents had then roared through the camp in the stolen truck.

Speaking into his hand-radio, Pardee called all his platoon leaders: "Assemble your men. Get them into the trucks. Issue all the available ammunition. Make sure they have flashlights. Now!"

Five voices answered at once, all trying to question their new commander. Pardee cut them all off. "Shut up! Assemble your men."

The wounded screamed. Their friends clustered around the thrashing, struggling injured, wrapping field dressings over wounds, injecting morphine. Pardee saw four men gathered around one man. Two men held the sobbing, writhing man down. They spoke to console him while his other friends worked on his wounds, one of them knotting a tourniquet around the stump of a leg, the other pressing plastic sheeting over a sucking chest wound.

"Leave him!" Pardee commanded. "Assemble with your platoons."

"Sir! He's got a chance to live if..."

Pardee fired a .45 slug through the wounded man's head. "He's dead. Join your platoons."

One of the men snatched his M-16 from the dirt, tried to bring the muzzle to bear on Pardee. A .45 slug slammed him back.

"Now go!" Pardee shouted, waving the pistol past the other men's faces. Slowly, not taking their eyes from Pardee, the three men picked up their rifles, backed away, then ran toward the barracks and the waiting trucks.

Rotors throbbed. Pardee saw dust clouding against the glare of the mercury-arc lights. He holstered his Colt, ran for the second helicopter.

* * *

Jerking a tangle of chain link away from the truck cab, Jack Grimaldi swung open the door. Forty millimeter and 5.56mm brass casings fell to the asphalt. Grimaldi took the passenger seat even as the truck accelerated.

"Hey, Rosario! Que pasa ?" The flyer extraordinaire gave Blancanales a punch in the shoulder. "Saw the fireworks down there. Anything left for me to do?"

"Sure," Blancanales grinned. "Best part is yet to come. But first, could you reload everything for me? Been kinda too busy."

"Yeah, looks that way." Grimaldi looked around at the bullet holes in the cab, the spider-web shattered windshield. He picked up the M-203, found magazines and 40mm shells.

"It's super-fly!" Lyons joked through the shattered back window.

"Ironman! When do I go to work?"

"Ever fire 106mm recoilless rifles from a Huey? A hundred of them?"

"What? Never even heard of..."

"Lyons!" Gadgets shouted from the tailgate. "Helicopter coming after us!"

Scrambling over the weapons, boxes, and rolling cartridge cases, Lyons went to the tailgate, saw the silhouette of a helicopter against the flames and smoke of the camp. But it banked to the south.

"They're going toward the highway," Lyons said. "We got them fooled."

"Guess again."

A second helicopter rose from the camp, banked north. "Oh, shit," Lyons muttered. "Up front, prepare to get strafed!"

Grimaldi heard Lyons' warning, looked over to Blancanales. "Tell me, Rosario. How exactly does someone 'prepare to get strafed'?"

"Say your prayers," Blancanales suggested.

"No time." Grimaldi jammed extra mags for the M-203 in his jump suit's pockets. He pulled a tiny MAC-11 out of a shoulder holster, looped its strap over his right arm. He chambered a round in the M-203, opened the truck's door.