Ted Bell - Warlord

"Agree."

"We send Ugg out first, open fire with his twin guns to slow them down, create panic and disorder in the front ranks. The second his ammo's completely expended, I'll step out and throw three smoke grenades into the main body, blinding them, filling the space with smoke. Then we round the corner and enter the tunnel as one unit, moving as fast as we can right into them, simply firing ahead, covering quads, side to side, knowing we'll hit them because inside a tunnel they've nowhere else to go. With me?"

"All the way."

"Each man fires two weapons simultaneously, doubling our firepower. Rifle in one hand, sidearm in the other. Don't stop. Just roll right into and over them until we break through at the rear of their formation. Then turn and fire at them as we retreat to find our true target. Yes or no?"

"Yes."

Hawke toggled the fire control, opening up on the advancing phalanx with both barrels, swinging Ugg's turrets from side to side with murderous fire at this range. As men went down, troops surging forward from behind stepped over their dead and wounded only to be killed themselves. There were screams and shouts of confusion from the enemy. Hawke stepped out into the tunnel and heaved three cooked-off grenades into the midst of the enemy, instantly filling the space with thick white smoke.

"Good," Hawke said to his men. "We bunch up, stay glued to each other, move as a single unit and only fire outward at chest high level, got it?"

Every man looked at him, grim but determined, and nodded yes. "Good. Let's knife through these troops and go find that child-killing bastard and do what we came here for. Go! Go! Go!"

Hawke, his men tightly gathered behind him, rounded the bend and waded as one into the swirling smoke, firing into it with everything they had, knowing their rounds were finding targets because the enemy had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

There was withering return fire, and Hawke sensed they were taking heavy casualties. But the enemy was surprised and completely disoriented at the sudden and vicious attack. They were firing wildly, killing more of their own than the invaders. Still, his militiamen were dying, falling around him. For every five feet he advanced, Hawke sensed losing two men.

Hawke felt like he was moving against a human tide of agony, mowing down whatever was in front of him, his boots slipping and sliding in the endless blood and gore that lay before him. It was as if time itself was paused, and this horrific journey through the tunnel of death would never end-but he finally broke free of the writhing mass of dead and dying bodies-and emerged, grateful to be alive, into clear air.

He looked over his shoulder at the swirling smoke. The most terrifying thing in combat is to be a leader who glances behind him and finds no one there. Then he saw Stoke emerge, saw him slap in a fresh mag, then whirl around and fire into the few enemy who remained on their feet. Hawke waited for more of his own men to emerge, fearful that all but Stoke had died in the firestorm.

But here came two, stumbling, one supporting the other. They looked shell-shocked from the carnage in such a confined space. He waited another minute. Only one more member of his militia came out of the smoke and blood. His team now numbered five. Ragged, reeking men, eyes blood red with smoke, now drenched in blood from head to toe. Five would have to do.

And Stokely Jones? Stoke was at least three more men all by himself, Hawke told himself.

So, counting Stoke, make it eight.

THE TUNNEL TURNED FROM ROUGH stone to smooth white marble. There were classical pillars and pilasters and pediments. There were heavily carved doors of solid bronze, and niches in the polished stone walls, each one with a bust or torso of great antiquity. Soft recessed lighting now illuminated hidden coves and architectural features, and Persian tapestries hung in great profusion.

It was like a dream after the nightmare they'd just come through, like coming up from the dark stygian underworld and into the Kingdom of the Sun.

Massive bronze double doors, a rampant lion carved into each one, stood at the far end of this brilliant passageway. Beyond them, he had no doubt, waited the master of this brilliant domain. The Lion of the Punjab, Sheik Abu al-Rashad.

Hawke held the keys to the Kingdom in his hand, a weapon capable of penetrating virtually any door ever conceived and now he'd get a chance to use it. He pulled the rocket-propelled slug from his web belt and affixed it to the muzzle of his M4. Unlike a grenade designed to effect a maximum kill radius, this explosive round was designed to punch a hole one foot across in three feet of steel-reinforced concrete. As far as he knew, it had never been used against doors like these but what the hell.

"You know the drill," he said to his four-man squad, and they stacked up behind him, weapons reloaded, and prepared to face whatever they found on the other side. Stoke took one look at the size of the grenade on the end of Hawke's gun, put a finger to his lips, and waved everybody back.

"As Adam said to Eve, 'Step back, baby, I got no idea just how big this damn thing is gonna get.'"

Hawke laughed out loud. It was just what they all needed. Hawke held the weapon six feet from the great locks where the double doors joined and pulled the trigger. The resulting shock wave buffeted him back, almost knocking him off his feet. The two doors blew inward with tremendous force. Had they not weighed so much, they would surely have been blown off their hinges.

As it was, the great doors simply smashed into the walls to either side of the entrance, causing, Hawke saw, massive damage to a portion of the Sheik's exquisite art collection.

"Picasso?" Hawke said to the man who had to be the Sheik as he entered, his.45 automatic pistol leveled in the middle of al-Rashad's chest. The man was seated and wisely had both of his hands on the desk in front of him. The room was exquisite, high white walls reaching up to a barrel-vaulted ceiling, floors of Persian marble inlaid with semi-precious stones, and tapestries woven in silver and gold thread hung from many of the walls.

"Dubuffet, to be precise."

"What the hell, they all look the same to me," Alex said, wiping somebody's blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Lord Hawke," al-Rashad said, smiling at him above the great expanse of his ebony and ivory desk. Stoke had swung inside the great room on Alex's heels, pivoting left and right with his weapon, covering Hawke and ensuring that the room was clear and that the target was all alone. He was. Stoke signaled, and the three remaining militiamen entered, taking up positions that covered both the entrance and egress, and the target himself.

"Sheik Abu al-Rashad," Hawke said, "so sorry to drop in unexpectedly."

"You come highly recommended, your lordship. And I must admit I'm impressed with your grand entrance. Nothing like it has ever been even remotely attempted."

"Really? Recommended by whom, may I ask?"

"Our mutual friend, of course. Mr. Smith."

"Ah, the ubiquitous Mr. Smith. Odd, we've never met. After all these years. Pity."

"He certainly knows you."

"Then I'm afraid Mr. Smith has me at a disadvantage."

"He does indeed."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he is about to change the course of British history. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it."

"Hardly merits discussion then, does it?"

"I suppose not. You are here looking for the missing device? Or simply to kill me?"

"Both."

"Good. In that case we shall mount on golden wings and fly to the gates of paradise together."

"I think not."

"I think so," the man said, raising his right hand and revealing something cradled in his palm. It was a shiny black metal object the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes.