"Neither did I. However, I suggest that instead of the Mahdi contract, you send young Pinell to Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas, who seems to be getting too big for his britches, as Buck would have put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian is an old hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being blooded. I'll want a full report from him and then, possibly, we'll have Buck's son here to the Wolfschloss to gather our own impressions."
His second in command shrugged it off, clearly dissatisfied, and turned back to his clipboard. "Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has been poaching on our military surplus enterprises. Last week he sold one hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia who is attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations with the United States of the Americas."
Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists
Rick Flavelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned against the steel wall near one of the gunports.
Rick said, "It's damn quiet."
"Yeah," Alfredo said. "Ever since they yelled for us to surrender and you told them to get fucked. You know what they're doing? They're bringing up something to open up this tin can."
"Hell," Rick said, checking the clip in his Gyrojet automatic. "They'd need a laser rifle. How's your arm?"
"I immobilized it with a syrette. But it's sure as hell useless. How's your side?"
"Okay," Rick lied. He carefully slid back the slide of his gunport and peered out. There was nothing to be seen.
The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was beautifully camouflaged in almost the exact center of the Dunninger Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beautiful, but on the shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well knew, the pillbox looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to scramble about it quite carefully to find the well-disguised door, not to speak of the gunports.
Rick said, "How's your ammo?"
"Down to the last clip. I'm too fucked up with this dead arm to throw the clip and count them."
"You better click the stud over to single fire," Rick said.
The other made a face in pain and growled, "You think I'm a dizzard? I long since did that."
Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the gunport. He squinted and gently, gently, squeezed the trigger.
"What the hell you shooting at?" Alfredo growled. "Did you get him?"
"I don't know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something move. You think the bastards might be gone?"
The other laughed bitterly. "You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why should they be gone? We've had it. Whatever they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any fire from the other boys for ten minutes. They've had it."
"What they want is Dunninger," Rick said emptily. "He was the only one here when they came in. All the family just left for Mexico. Have you called him?"
"Hell, no. He's down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his pants. Damn this arm. You know, maybe Cliff had some shells left."
Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. "He had an assault rifle," he said. "The ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros."
Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you've used up your rocket shells, use his gun, I'd get it myself but you can move easier."
Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully made his way over to the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.
The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn't want them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firepower to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.
Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.
He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear and apprehension by talk, "What the hell happened, anyway? Who are they?"
"The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn't pulled the other four guys off, we would've had a chance. But eight of us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons of bitches hit."
Rick said, "Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up for replacements."
"Yeah?" the other sneered. "Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger's family leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all in the dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job like this."
Rick said wanly, "You should have thought of that during the two years we've been on this cushy assignment."
"Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won't kill us. Hell, they don't want us, they want old man Dunninger.''
His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically. "Sure, Al. And then spend the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation, any pension, any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got two kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable Basic Stock so they won't wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of their lives."
"Oh, great," the other sneered. "Two kids, eh? A regular one-man population explosion. Well, I'm not that far around the bend, Rick. I don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there'll let us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We'll worry about him when the time comes. We've both copped one, haven't we? What does he expect?"
Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he could hear something going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn't resist anyway.
There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he could move. A thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
He called out finally, "You all right, Al? They've got some kind of heavy weapon out there. That was an explosive shell, not just a bomb."
"Shit! Whad'da'ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we've had it! Yell to them. Toss in the towel."
Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It sagged inward.
"Oh, Jesus," Rick panted. "Why can't those four new guards show up? Take 'em from the rear." He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic around.