Rourke rasped through his tight-clenched teeth.
He brought the truck to a halt, then started into reverse, fum-bling the gear box, making the gears grind, stalling again for time. He started backing the vehicle toward the loading dock. Once the first of the boxes was moved, the Americans inside the truck would be spotted—and push would have come to shove.
He let the engine die, making a show of starting again, letting the engine die, half tempted to flood it, but worried that he might so overdo the incompetent driver routine as to raise suspi-cion. Instead, he let the engine catch, then eased the truck back toward the loading dock lip. The traffic director was cursing. Rourke grinned at him.
Vladov and the other motorcycle combination driver had parked at the farthest end of this section of loading dock, near to the vault door that led into the Womb.
Rourke said quickly, “Tell the convoy personnel to disembark the vehicles. When they holler at you for it, tell them the men are tired from the drive and you’re going to rest them—you out-rank everyone I’ve seen out here.”
“All right, very good, Doctor,” and as Rourke slammed the vehicle to an uneven halt, intentionally bumping into the load-ing dock—watching in the mirror as the loading dock personnel jumped back—Daszrozinski jumped down.
“Disembark the vehicles. Stay near your tracks,” Daszrozinski shouted.
Rourke could hear Ravitski, from the running board of the second truck, echo the command as the track pulled into its slot beside them.
The third track was still in motion.
Rourke cut the engine, leaving the vehicle’s transmission in reverse, leaving the emergency brake off. He started down from the driver’s side as the third vehicle pulled into its slot.
He made a show of stretching, but not so much a show as to profile the guns under his tunic.
From the loading dock, he could hear a voice shouting, “Comrade Major, the men are not allowed to leave their tracks.”
“Captain, these men are tired. They shall not damage your precious loading dock.”
“But, Comrade Major—”
“Yes—it is Major—do not forget that, Captain.”
The conversation ended, Rourke smiling. From the tone of Daszrozinski’s voice, Rourke surmised the lieutenant had al-ways wanted to talk to a senior officer that way and was making the most of the opportunity of pulling his spurious rank.
Rourke could see Natalia standing beside the front of the cab, at the right fender, trying to stand with her legs apart, her hands locked behind her—trying to look like a man. It wasn’t working to anyone who looked closely, Rourke thought.
He glanced toward Vladov, following Vladov’s gaze. A ramp led from the level of the horseshoe up toward the level of the door into the Womb. Vladov looked at him. Rourke nodded, he hoped imperceptibly.
The loading dock personnel were approaching the trucks now—it would be time.
Each of the personnel inside the trucks—mostly Ameri-cans—carried five pounds of the C-4, liberated from the pack-ing crates, the rest of the C-4 in the three trucks wired to detonate—Natalia had seen to that quickly after the takeover. The battery from the comman-deered patrol vehicle had been wired into the plastique in the center truck, the charges posi-tioned to blow outward toward the flanking trucks and deto-nate the plastique there. The last man out would leave the wristwatch commandeered from one of the dead KGB men be-side the battery—set for two minutes.
Rourke knitted his fingers together, bracing them against his abdomen, working open two of the uniform tunic buttons as he did—the Python was under his jacket as well, stuffed in his trouser band. It would be the first gun he could reach.
The loading dock personnel were starting to lift the tarp cover.
Rourke heard the roar of Vladov’s motorcycle combo, Vla-dov shouting in Russian, then in English, “We attack!” The RPK on the sidecar was already opening up, Vladov racing his machine toward the ramp and the vault door, Rourke reaching inside the deuce and a half s cab with his left hand, awkwardly, finding the ignition switch, starting the engine. Still in reverse, the emergency brake off, the truck lurched backward into the loading dock and the men starting to lift the tarp, Rourke’s right hand finding the butt of the Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Py-thon under his tunic, ripping the six-inch Colt .357 clear, his right index finger double actioning the revolver into the face of the traffic director who was already pulling his .45. Rourke fired again, killing a KGB guard as he raised his M-16, men pouring from the backs of the three trucks now, assault rifles— M-16s and AKS-74s—blazing into the dockworkers and the guards. Rourke pumped the Python’s trigger once more, gun-ning down another of the military traffic cops, snatching up the M-16 from the guard he’d shot an instant earlier. The selector moved under his right thumb as he switched the Python into his left hand, opening up with the M-16 on full auto, three round bursts punching into targets of opportunity as he ran for the loading dock, jumped, rolled, on the dock now, the Python fir-ing once, then once again, shearing the nose and left ear from the face of another of the guards.
Rourke was on his feet, emptying the last round from the Python into another of the military police, the man’s body jack-knifing, his .45 discharging into the loading dock surface near Rourke’s feet.
The tunic open fully now, Rourke rammed the fired out Colt into his trouser band, snatching up a second M-16, forwarding the selector, opening fire—he had gambled twice the chambers would be loaded and they were.
An M-16 in each hand, he started to run, for the vault door, claxons sounding in the air around him, shouted commands, curses, the M-72 combination Vladov piloted through the vault door now, each side of the door littered with bodies cut down by the RPK light machinegun. The second M-72 was moving along the horseshoe, the RPK in the sidecar firing at anything that moved beyond the loading dock.
Rourke saw Natalia, an AKM in her tiny fists, the muzzle spitting bursts of fire, KGB guards falling before her as she raced along the ramp, up toward the vault door.
Daszrozinski held an M-16, firing it out in neat bursts, cutting down guards on both sides as he covered the dock area.
Reed, along with a half dozen Americans, was holding the center of the loading dock—they looked like a picture of Ous-ter’s last stand, Reed at their center, wingshooting a .45 from each hand, the men kneeling around him, firing their rifles. Where Reed had gotten the second .45, Rourke didn’t know.
“Come on!” Rourke screamed the words. The vault door! Hurry!”
And as Rourke turned, the vault door was beginning to close.
A jeep in the horseshoe—KGB guards firing from behind it, Rourke turned both M-16s toward them firing as he ran the width of the loading dock, jumping, both guns going dead in mid-air, throwing the guns away from his sides. He hit the road surface, going into a tuck roll, coming up on his knees, in both fists one of the twin Detonics stainless pistols, his thumbs jack-ing back the hammers, both .45s belching fire as he climbed to his feet, storming the Jeep.
One KGB guard dropped, beside the two Rourke had already killed with the M-16s, a second man down, his head exploding with a double impact of 185-grain JHPs, a third one—his M-16
was firing, Rourke hitting the road surface, rolling up, firing out both pistols, fists at maximum extension, emptying the twin .45s into the assault rifle firer’s chest.
The body rocked back, then slumped against the Jeep.