David Robbins - Boston Run

Major General Ligachev began to back toward the helicopter. “Listen to me. I was told that Warriors are men of honor. How can you slay me in cold blood? Don’t you have any morals?”

“I do have this code I live by,” the gunman admitted.

Ligachev smiled. “There. See?”

“It’s called do unto others before they do unto me,” Hickok said, and drew. The Magnums streaked from their holsters and cracked in unison.

The officer’s eyes disappeared and the back of his head exploded outward.

Major General Ligachev died on his feet.

Hickok spun as the Russian started to crumple. He holstered the Colts and raced toward the alley, unslinging the Henry as he ran. Shouts sounded to his rear and he glanced over his left shoulder to see Soviet soldiers pouring from the helicopter. He looked at the mouth of the alley but saw no signs of Geronimo and Marcus. Where the blazes were they?

“Kill the son of a bitch!” someone bellowed gruffly from near the chopper.

Hickok heard the chatter of AK-47’s and he weaved, never running in a straight line for more than a few yards. Rounds smacked into the asphalt or buzzed by. He felt a stinging twinge in his left shoulder and glanced down to see that he’d been nicked. Fifteen yards separated him from the alley, and he knew the Russians were bound to bring him down before he could reach it if Geronimo and Marcus didn’t provide cover fire.

Where were they?

A high-pitched whine emanated from the alley and the SEAL hurtled onto the highway, speeding in reverse. The van screeched to a halt, then rocketed in the gunman’s direction.

Grinning, Hickok whirled and crouched, pressing the Henry to his right shoulder. He took a bead on a soldier leading the pack of Russians and fired, gratified when the soldier reacted as if a sledgehammer had pounded the trooper in the forehead. He snapped off a second shot, flattening another Russian, and then the SEAL braked abruptly alongside him and the passenger door was flung open.

“Need a lift?” Geronimo yelled.

The gunman vaulted onto the bucket seat and closed the door. “I thought you wanted me to do all the driving.”

Geronimo drove forward, directly at the Russians. Bullets were striking the SEAL and ricocheting off. “I knew you’d pull a stupid stunt like this.”

His hands were glued to the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“Like what?”

“I knew you’d blow that officer away,” Geronimo said. “I figured you could use a little help.”

Hickok smiled at his friend. “Thanks, pard.”

They were closing rapidly on the Soviets. Geronimo pressed one of the toggle switches and the 50-caliber machine guns cut loose, their heavy slugs tearing the soldiers to ribbons. He kept the transport on a steady course, kept the machine guns belching lead, narrowing the range to the chopper. A hail of high-powered rounds hit the helicopter broadside, slaying a Russian who was trying to close the bay door. Geronimo angled the SEAL at the copter cockpit and the 50-calibers tracked accordingly, drilling into the cockpit, shattering it, exposing the pilot and copilot. Both were slain the next moment, punctured repeatedly. Geronimo switched off the machine guns. He made a tight U-turn, heading into the town again.

“That helicopter won’t get airborne again,” he commented.

But the three others were already aloft and converging on the SEAL.

“Here they come,” Hickok said.

The helicopter swooping in from the north and the one from the south drew close together above Highway Three, their cockpits slanted at the SEAL.

“They’re aimin’ to use their nose cannons,” Hickok declared, and he reached across the console to flick the toggle activating the Stinger.

At a distance of less than 50 yards, the streamlined missile was on the Russian craft before the pilots could so much as blink, let alone attempt evasive maneuvers. The Stinger struck the chopper on the north side of the highway and the resultant blast was tremendous. A billowing fireball consumed the first helicopter, then swirled outward and enshrouded the whirlybird hovering only a few dozen yards to the south. A second explosion shattered the heavens and rocked the buildings in Strawberry Point, and the added heat and gas and force produced a cumulative effect, creating a small sun, a brilliant ball of candescent energy that scorched the structures and ground underneath.

Geronimo applied the brakes and the transport lurched to a sudden stop. The SEAL was buffeted violently by the twin blasts, and even through the impervious shell the Warriors felt the heat.

“Wow!” Marcus exclaimed.

Intense but short-lived, the fireball dissipated swiftly. Debris rained on Strawberry Point. Twisted, smoldering wreckage and fried body parts thudded onto the highway and the roofs.

Hickok leaned forward, searching for the fourth helicopter, the one that had landed far off at the east end of town. Reddish-orange flames and plumes of black smoke obscured his view for over a minute. He finally caught sight of the ribbon of highway stretching into the distance, and tensed.

The last chopper was gone.

“Get this buggy movin’,” Hickok urged.

Geronimo drove eastward, adroitly avoiding the larger segments of wreckage scattered in their path.

“Where’d the other helicopter go?” Marcus asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok responded.

“Maybe it’s on its way back to the Russian lines,” Marcus said.

“I doubt it.”

“Why? We just took out the other three. The Russians in the fourth helicopter won’t want to mess with us.”

“They’ll come at us with everything they’ve got for the same reason I would if I was in their shoes,” Hickok stated.

“What’s that?”

“To get even.”

They rode in silence for several hundred yards, their eyes on the sky.

“What are they waiting for?” Marcus queried impatiently.

“My guess is that they don’t know we only had one stinger mounted on the roof,” Geronimo said. “They don’t want to suffer the same fate as their buddies, so they’ll come in fast and low.”

They did.

Like an enormous bird of prey, the Russian helicopter swept on the transport from out of the south, flying only a few yards above the trees and the rooftops.

Hickok glimpsed the chopper out of the corner of his right eye and swung around, crying in warning, “This side! Look out!” He saw a tiny puff of white smoke appear underneath the fuselage.

The roadway in front of the SEAL suddenly exploded, spraying chunks of asphalt and dirt in all directions.

Geronimo jerked on the steering wheel, cutting the van to the right, hanging onto the wheel tightly as the concussion from the blast hit the SEAL. He straightened the vehicle and scanned the sky for the enemy aircraft.

But the chopper had already vanished to the north.

“Hit and run,” Hickok said bitterly. “Whatever you do, don’t stop. We’ll be sittin’ ducks.”

“Maybe we can lose it by hiding in an alley,” Geronimo suggested.

“Get us out in the open where we can maneuver,” Hickok said. “Then we’ll teach those hombres a lesson.”

Geronimo angled the SEAL closer to the curb on the north side of the highway, using the structures bordering the road as partial cover. “How can we fight back? The machine guns, the rocket, and the flamethrower are all aligned to take care of targets directly in front of the SEAL.”

“I’ll think of something,” Hickok replied.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Two hundred yards passed and the helicopter failed to attack.

“Maybe they’ve given up,” Marcus remarked.

Its rotors spinning and shimmering, the great brown craft came at them from out of the north, flying low as before. They fired another rocket.