The two Sikorsky H-76s were sitting side by side. Gadgets signaled for those behind him to wait. He skirted the choppers; in the small space between them he saw the two pilots being interrogated at gunpoint by four rough-looking gunmen.
Gadgets hurried back to the line of Klansmen and athletes. He whispered terse instructions. Armed men disappeared right and left, circling the choppers. Gadgets approached the enemy from the side, keeping the nearest Sikorsky between himself and the enemy. Ten feet from the large helicopter he went to his stomach and crawled under the low belly of the machine.
Mustav's booming voice filled the air. "Drop the guns or die!"
Reacting with a speed that spelled long training, two of the enemy seized the pilots and held .45s to their heads. The other two dropped into battle crouches, ready to return enemy fire. The quickness of reaction, the lack of spoken commands it all added up to mercenary.
Gadgets, still under the belly of the copter, still out of view, pulled the silenced Beretta from its holster. He took a two-handed prone position, lined the sights on a head and waited.
Carl Lyons could now see the barbed wire across the prison camp. Except for those searching the inside of the camp, everyone had departed. He could make out Pol, waiting by the wire, facing out, scanning the horizon. On either side of him stood Zambian athletes, alert, looking for the enemy.
Seconds dragged through Lyons's body like barbed wire dragged over flesh. Time was running out. He looked at a blood-red desert.
"Everyone's left but us." The voice startled him. He turned to see Babette approaching him. "So far none of the athletes have been killed. Some Klansmen, but no athletes."
"Let's keep it that way," Lyons muttered.
Kelly, Babette and Sam Jackson slid under the razor wire while Pol and Lyons covered their escape. Pol was the next to drop to the ground and put himself under the flesh-shredders. Lyons was the last to go. He was up to his chest in the dirt and wire when the area lit up like noon.
16
The pilots were vital, essential if the athletes were to escape death in the desert at the hands of a mercenary extermination force. If the four gunmen managed to extend the hostage situation for three or four minutes, the athletes, the Klansmen and Able Team would be wiped out. Still, Gadgets could do nothing but wait. Wait for the right moment.
From behind him, back near the camp, the Able Team electronics wizard saw a flash that lit up the sky. Gadgets refused to take his eyes off the enemy.
The waiting paid off. One of the killers looked up at the light, another shouted to the athletes and Klansmen at the dunes.
"Throw down your arms or your pilots buy it."
While the goon was shouting, Gadgets sent three bullets in to destroy the head of the other hostage holder. The gunman dropped to his knees, then dropped onto his face, tasting sand only an instant before he tasted death.
Gadgets quickly swung the whispering gun to sight on the second man, whose gun barrel was wavering near the head of the pilot. That killer's speech ended with a 9mm exclamation mark in the temple. He dropped to a sandy death beside his buddy.
Suddenly the dunes were alive with gunfire. The pilots had the good sense to hit the turf. One of the remaining mercenaries stood his ground and fired, dropping a Klansman with a wild shot to the upper leg. The mere was buried in bullets.
The remaining guncock had gone down with the pilots. The two men wrestled with the gunner, forcing his weapon into the sand. Gadgets carefully lined up the shot, taking great pains to save the pilots. He fired. Bull's-eye. Blood marred the man's forehead. The goon's skull was cracked open by a 9mm beanbreaker.
The athletes and the few remaining Klansmen swarmed over the dune. They climbed into the copters. Gadgets went and offered a hand to each of the pilots, helping pull them off the desert floor. They slapped the dust and dirt off their uniforms. They looked shaky. Gadgets gave them a firm hand on the shoulder.
"Need you now, guys. We're counting on you. Get the machines warmed up and off the ground as soon as I say go. The bastards are closing in on us."
The chopper jockeys wasted no time on questions. They kicked up sand as they scrambled for their machines. Gadgets turned back, trying to hurry people onto the choppers.
Lyons was under the razor wire when the lights hit him. Pol reacted instantly. He sent a half clip from the Ingram to shatter the floodlights and destroy the television camera under them.
Petra Dix, who had the camera shot out of her hands, screamed.
The men of Able Team could hear voices shouting from close by.
"That way! It came from over there."
Two of the Zambians, who had liberated rifles from dead Klansmen and were waiting to get onto the copter, started to snipe at enemies moving in from the north.
Lyons regained his feet, at the same time instructing.
"Run for it. Run like hell."
Dix was still screaming. As he passed her, Lyons grabbed a handful of hair and lifted her toes clear off the sand. She gasped. Having been shot at, almost killed, and now this... Petra Dix was losing every inch of self-control.
"Bitch," Lyons snapped at her. "Almost got everyone killed."
He let go of her hair and she looked up at him, ready to lodge a raging complaint. Lyons stared her down. She shuddered.
"What are you doing here anyway?" Lyons snarled.
"I was after a story and I seemed to have found one. What's happening?"
Lyons shook his head. There was no way to deflect this woman away from a story. No way.
Two killers in combat fatigues, who had entered the compound minutes earlier, now used Lyons's escape route and crawled under the barbed wire. Rising to their feet over a small dune, they came upon a helpless Petra Dix and a spinning Carl Lyons. Lyons confronted the gunners, snapping off a burst from his combo gun. The weapon did its work, wiping away their faces in a bloody smear. Dix watched the man at work. Her breath grew choppy, her knees began to buckle.
Lyons grabbed her and propelled her toward the disappearing line of retreating allies.
"Catch up and keep low," Lyons ordered.
She tottered after the line.
"Lower. Faster," Lyons prodded, pushing her in the back with the hot gun barrel.
He could hear activity behind him. The paratroopers were taking over the compound, unaware that those once in the compound had left. Lyons knew they would discover the total emptiness of the area within a minute. Then they would be on the warpath to find the athletes, the deserted Klansmen and whoever had killed the KGB moles.
Lyons decided it was time to discourage pursuit. He stopped and turned, plucking three fragmentation grenades from a bandolier. The first one landed over the dune just as two heads appeared over the top of the sand. They collapsed back, screaming, as the grenade blew.
Lyons raised the M-203 and fired the next two grenades farther back. He was rewarded with ear-piercing screams. He turned and took off with a burst of speed.
When Lyons arrived at the helicopters, they were full. Both were warming up and the pilot of one was waiting to speak to him. Some people were still waiting to board. Lyons looked for his teammates. Pol and Gadgets were holding the area against the most probable directions of attack. Babette, Kelly and Zak Wilson eyed the third quadrant, Mustav and Jackson the fourth.
The pilot reached Lyons at the same time Petra Dix did. Both spoke at once. Lyons slapped in a new clip and then placed a firm hand over Dix's busy mouth.
"Go ahead," he said to the pilot.
The pilot was clearly uncomfortable with his message. "When we turned our radios back on, we were ordered back to base and told to take no further orders from you, sir. Colonel Follet says he's captured a Soviet spy helicopter over American soil."