Don Pendleton - Dark Star

Focusing their attack on the crest of the cone, the British soldiers got off only a few bursts before the X-ship incredibly started to rise and a monstrous wave of volcanic heat-searing fumes poured over the parapet, stealing the air from their lungs.

Coughing hard, the soldiers were driven back inside the South Tower and hastily slammed the ancient iron door shut.

“Mother of God,” a corporal wheezed, barely able to form the words, while another man bent over the iron railing at the top of the granite stairs and nosily lost his breakfast. Struggling to pull in a breath, none of the others blamed the poor sod a bit. That was the closest any of them ever wanted to get to hell. A few more seconds of that and they all would have keeled over.

Suddenly the streams of heat came from around the thick door, eased away, and a great silence filled the tower.

Never pausing in the reloading of their weapons, the troopers listened hard, but they could only hear the piteous wails of the wounded and the crying civilians mixing with the crackling of the burning cars and trucks.

“Did it leave?” a private asked, thumbing a 40 mm shell into the grenade launcher of his L-85 assault rifle.

“Bleeding hope so,” another man snarled, then hawked and spit in the corner. “God, I can still taste the stink!”

“Silence!” the lieutenant snapped, pressing an ear to the warm metal of the door. Instantly the men went quiet, but still he could hear nothing from outside. Nothing at all. Strange…

“What is it doing, sir?” the sergeant asked, loading another Stinger missile into the spent launcher.

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