Blade bent down and removed the AK-47 the guard had carried, then picked up the one he’d left on the ground. Now he had three. He slung the assault rifle he’d used to press down the barbed wire, the same one he’d used during the fight at Khrushchev Memorial, the one containing the fewest rounds in its magazine, over his left shoulder.
He was all set.
Blade hunched over and ran toward the buildings, plotting his strategy.
Surely at one in the morning most, if not all, of the HGP supersoldiers would be asleep. Doctor Milton had claimed there were 18 of the genetically perfected commandos, and Blade intended to insure they were all dead before he departed Boston. He slowed when he was 50 feet from the three structures, moving silently now, laying his combat boots down softly, studying the setup.
The barracks building was positioned within 20 feet of the west fence and was smaller than the pair of hangars located to its left, both of which were two stories in height and a hundred feet in width. The rear of all three structures faced to the north.
There was no sign of any activity.
Blade padded to within 30 feet of the barracks, his finger on the trigger, the AK-47’s on his back sliding slightly with every stride. An important consideration occurred to him. Would the supersoldiers fly their own aircraft or would an Air Force pilot handle the chore? The answer was critical. Elite units normally included whatever specialists were required within their own ranks. The Warriors, as an example he readily thought of, didn’t use Tillers to drive the SEAL for them. If the supersoldiers flew their own helicopters, if a few of them had been trained as pilots, then he had his ticket back to the Home.
Muffled conversation abruptly arose from the northwest corner of the barracks.
The Warrior dropped to the tarmacadam and the AK-47 over his right shoulder clattered against the ground.
A pair of soldiers appeared at the corner, a man and a woman, both attired in combat fatigues, both wearing auto pistols in leather holsters strapped to their hips. The woman spoke to the man in Russian and they both took several paces and scanned the runway.
Hidden in the shadows, Blade held his breath. If they spotted him, he’d have to open fire and the shots would alert the supersoldiers inside the barracks. His eyes narrowed. Were those two part of the HGP Unit? Both were well over six feet tall and endowed with strapping physiques. Both had attractive features revealed in the light from a lampost next to the fence. Was he gazing at biologically perfect specimens?
The man addressed the woman, who shrugged. They continued to walk around the rear of the barracks, past a closed door and a blackened window, and passed out of sight when they sauntered between the barracks and the first hangar.
Instantly Blade stood and raced to the northwest corner, his eyes on the window. The lights in the barracks were all out, and for all he knew there could be someone standing in there, watching him. He reached the building without incident and leaned against the wall, pondering. Perhaps the supersoldiers didn’t trust the ordinary base guards to protect them properly, or maybe the supersoldiers were required to perform such mundane chores as part of their typical duties. In any event, he had to take them out quickly. He searched the ground and found gravel underfoot. Just what he needed. He grabbed a handful and moved to the northeast corner, doubling over when he went by the window, staying below the sill. At the corner he straightened and peeked past the edge.
The pair were just going around the southeast corner.
Blade slid to the east side of the building, then swiftly laid the three AK-47’s alongside the foundation. He inched his right eye to the corner and held his right arm poised to throw the gravel. If the man and woman were making a circuit of the barracks, they’d soon appear at the northwest corner again.
The seconds dragged by, became a minute.
And then they were there, coming slowly around the building, engaged in a quiet discussion.
Blade stepped back, then cast the gravel overhand with all of his strength out over the runway. He drew the Bowies and pressed closer to the building.
The gravel spattered onto the tarmacadam.
An exclamation in Russian came from the male supersoldier. The Warrior heard them talking in hushed tones, and he eased his right eye to the edge once more and peered at the rear of the barracks.
Their hands on their pistols, the pair were advancing across the runway, proceeding carefully, searching for the source of the noise, their backs to the building.
Blade crept after them, doubled in half, the Bowies at his waist, treading lightly. They were engrossed in scrutinizing the runway, exchanging whispered remarks, obviously perplexed but not unduly concerned.
Their mistake.
The woman intuitively sensed Blade’s presence when he was a stride off, and she spun and started to draw her pistol. He was on her in a flash, his right hand sweeping up and in, the Bowie tearing into her abdomen and carving a grisly path up to her sternum. She grunted and sagged, and Blade had to release the right Bowie in order to confront the man, who had whirled and was just clearing his holster. Knowing he couldn’t afford a gunshot, Blade speared the left Bowie into the supersoldier’s right wrist and the pistol fell to the ground. Before he could follow through with a body slash, the Russian retreated a pace, then executed a superb spin kick.
Lightning fast, the supersoldier’s boot smashed into the left Bowie and knocked the knife from the Warrior’s hand.
Surprised by the power in that kick, Blade adopted the horse stance and formed his hands into tiger claws, intending to use a Hung Gar offense to swiftly break through the Russian’s guard and dispatch his adversary. But any hopes he entertained of disposing of the supersoldier easily were dashed in the opening moments of their hand-to-hand combat.
Although his right wrist was injured and dripping blood, the HGP commando assumed the Neko-ashi-tachi, the cat stance, and met the Warrior head-on.
Blade let fly with a series of hand and foot strikes, and every one was countered or blocked. He went for the throat repeatedly, and repeatedly his blows were deflected. He tried again and again to shatter a kneecap, and again and again he was thwarted. To his amazement the commando took the initiative, launching a flurry of superlative karate kicks. Blade blocked a Hidar-mawashi-geri, a left roundhouse kick, then an upper side kick, on the defense now and giving ground to evade the supersoldier’s whirling feet.
The commando was a master. He refused to be daunted by the giant’s superior size. Any one of his blows would have shattered a brick, and had he been able to land a crippling strike to a nerve center, to a pressure point, to any vulnerable part of the giant’s anatomy, the battle would have been promptly ended. But he couldn’t and frustration made him uncharacteristically careless. He tried a low kick, aiming at the giant’s right shin, and for once his kick landed. The giant started to buckle, his left hand grabbing for his injured leg, exposing the left side to an attack.
Which was exactly what the commando wanted. He stepped in close and whipped a Nukite, a piercing hand strike, at the giant’s throat.
As Blade hoped he would. The Warrior had deliberately absorbed the punishing kick to his shin to trick the supersoldier into making a fatal mistake. Now he simply snapped his left hand up, batting the Nukite aside, and uncoiled, ramming a palm heel thrust into the commando’s jaw.
There was a loud snap and the soldier went rigid as a pole, then collapsed without a sound.
Blade straightened and breathed in deeply. If all the genetically bred commandos were as stalwart and formidable, it was no wonder the Soviets wanted to create as many as they could. A battalion of such supermen and superwomen would be virtually invincible. But all the Soviets had were 16 others, and if Blade had his way they wouldn’t have any. He retrieved his left Bowie, walked to the woman and wrenched out his right Bowie, then hurried to the barracks.