"All numbers, Three," Jeffrey heard. "Roof level secured. Four more enemy dead, no friendly losses."
"Three, Four," Jeffrey said, "SEAL One's hit, bad. Missile secured." Jeffrey turned to Clayton, who seemed distraught over his man.
"Leave me," One said. "I'll be okay."
"Do you want some morphine?" Clayton said.
"No," One said, "I have to hold down the bunker. Bandage the exit wound and give me a local. Hook up a plasma drip and give me back my weapon." The smell of blood was thick.
"Shaj," Jeffrey said, "take care of him. I'm going over to Ilse's team to lead the main attack. We have to keep up the pressure — we can't let the Boers regroup." Jeffrey grabbed a South African assault rifle and all the ammo he could find on both of the bodies. He noticed the one he'd killed was a lieutenant.
"I'll catch up with you in a minute," Clayton said. He held a spray can of antihemorrhage wound-fill foam.
Jeffrey saw Clayton's jaw and eyes set tight as he treated SEAL One with ruthless efficiency. Jeffrey knew that feeling all too well.
Outside the bunker Jeffrey grabbed SEAL One's mine-detecting scanner. He ran through the rain for the front steps into the Sharks Board, then threw himself to the ground. There were no targets, no return fire.
"Three, Four, status?" Jeffrey called.
"We've breached the roof-level stairway bulkhead," the SEAL chief said. "We're starting down to the second deck."
"Three, Four, okay, Chief. We're assaulting the front entrance now." Jeffrey got up and waved to Ilse and the two SEALs with her. The four of them charged up the tile-covered steps, between the aluminum handrails, firing at the glassed-in entryway. By their muzzle flashes Jeffrey glimpsed the stickers to the right of the doors. The admissions fee was ten rand for adults, six for kids and oldsters, and they took Visa and MasterCard. Then all the glass shattered and the team ran through, maintaining a volume of fire.
Two guards were visible inside, behind an armored see-through partition that was stopping Jeffrey's rounds. A transceiver sat on a table, its outer casing charred. The guards were heading for the back of the building, where Jeffrey could hear frag grenades and screaming from upstairs. The guards turned when Jeffrey's group came in by the front door. They fired instinctively, but their rifle bullets grazed the partition without going through.
"Blow it down!" Jeffrey shouted. He and Ilse took cover behind two big concrete planters in the lobby. SEALs Two and Seven placed a small satchel charge against the base of the partition, then joined Jeffrey and Ilse. Both guards fled to the rear after popping chemical smoke grenades that blocked IR. The satchel charge went off with a roar — the partition was in ruins. The foursome dashed straight through, tossing stun grenades into side rooms and following up with volleys from their weapons. Jeffrey's South African R4 clicked empty. He reloaded on the run, another thirty-five-round clip, then fired right through the plasterboard interior walls. The air filled with white dust. His receiver parts clattered noisily, and spent shell casings clinked. He tossed another grenade, then sprayed more bullets after it — the pantry room, unoccupied. They swept the first floor quickly. The guards had all taken cover inside a sandbagged and armored vestibule, protecting the stairs to the basement lab. SEAL Two was using the radar scanner. "This deck's been structurally reinforced. That's the only way down."
The Boer guards shot at SEAL Two through firing slits in their miniature fortress, and Two hit the deck.
"Four, Three, upper level clear, all occupants terminated. We're at the bottom of the staircase down to you. We'll give covering fire so you can breach the vestibule enclosure."
"Good," Jeffrey said. "Shoot from hip level into the slits. We'll crawl under your suppressing fire and put satchel charges in place."
SEALs Two and Seven each grabbed a pair of satchels from their packs. Jeffrey dropped his rifle and grabbed a satchel too. He held his pistol in one hand.
"Chief," Jeffrey said, "open fire." The SEAL chief and the two men with him, Eight and Nine, hit the slits of the enclosure. Jeffrey crawled forward with Seven and Two, shooting on the way. They took cover at the base of the sandbags, which were leaking from all the bullet holes.
Two frag grenades came out of a firing slit and landed on the floor. Whoever threw them was hit — there was a scream inside the vestibule. Jeffrey turned. He couldn't reach the grenades. The SEAL chief saw them too. He ran from the stairwell and flung himself, landing just as they detonated. He was lifted off the deck by the concussions, then bounced back in a heap, helmetless and smoldering. Jeffrey knew he was dead, shards of steel through his heart. The other men in the stairwell kept firing at the slits.
"Arm the satchels!" Jeffrey shouted to Two and Seven. Then they pulled well back. "Fire in the hole!" Jeffrey screamed. SEALs Eight and Nine stopped shooting — they must have gone up the stairs.
There was a huge eruption, the loudest explosion so far, and Jeffrey's visor screens blanked out the glare. Jeffrey was deafened; he choked on the fumes and the sand. Rubble was burning and the museum displays were a mess. Pieces of shark skeleton were scattered all over the place. Every window on the first floor was blown out — Jeffrey could feel the breeze. It was helping clear the smoke.
The Boers' enclosure was wrecked. Two bloodied soldiers took cover behind fallen piles of sandbags, firing viciously, one of them now using a light machine gun on a bipod. Six other figures lay limp, some of them dismembered.
"Eight and Nine," Jeffrey said, "open fire again — make them keep their heads down." Just then Clayton arrived, crawling up beside Jeffrey. Both men winced as ricochets zipped by.
"One isn't going to make it," Clayton said.
"The chief bought it too," Jeffrey said.
"I saw," Clayton said. "Let's give them a taste of their own medicine." Clayton took two fragmentation grenades from his vest. More enemy slugs snapped overhead, pulverizing the walls. Clayton held a grenade in each hand and Jeffrey pulled the pins. Clayton popped the spoons. "One, two, three," he counted. Then he yelled "Grenade!" and tossed them both at the Boers.
Jeffrey hugged the floor, his arms protecting his head. There was a stabbing flash and a sharp double crack, brief screaming and writhing, then stillness and silence, except for more painful ringing in Jeffrey's ears. He saw Eight and Nine rush the Boers, firing into their bodies, long past when they were dead.
Jeffrey turned to Ilse. "Get some fire extinguishers and put out whatever's burning!" Ilse nodded. "Don't forget the bodies!" Jeffrey shouted after her. "We don't want their ammo cooking off!"
Jeffrey and Clayton threw concussion grenades down the stairs, then clambered into the basement. They took a bend in the debris-strewn concrete hallway, then came to a door. Clayton examined it carefully. "It's solid steel, no lock we can reach, the hinges are on the inside."
"Crap," Jeffrey said. "They'll be trying to signal for help." Clayton turned to his men. "Get the thermite lances!"
SEALs Eight and Nine came down, carrying rods three feet long, and wearing asbestos gauntlets. They put on dark goggles, then donned their gas masks, then pulled out igniters for the rods. The rods began to burn, a hissing, brilliant white. Eight and Nine held the rods to the door, starting to burn their way through. Soon Nine said, "It looks like three-inch armor plate." He and Eight kept working. SEAL Two set up a battery-powered fan on the steps, for ventilation.
"Two and Seven," Clayton said. "Police up the bodies outside, dump them in the workshop. Establish perimeter security, the amphitheater, the road." The two men nodded and left.
"This'll go faster if we help," Jeffrey said, then he coughed from the fumes. He and Clayton put on their gas masks and lit two more lances. Above the thermite's eager, potent hiss Jeffrey heard Ilse working upstairs, the squirting sound of extinguishers. They were all on their third set of lances, the last they had. They were almost done making a hole at the base of the door, big enough to run through at a crouch.