Then a flash wiped them away. The battered, windowless hulks of the Land Cruiser and the truck rocked on their springs, surrounded by ruptured, smoldering flesh. Screams rose from the dismembered.
Blancanales sighted his M-16/M-203 and fired a high-explosive 40mm frag. The shell popped in the midst of the wreckage, gasoline flashing. The fireball rose into the darkness.
Lyons shouted out, "The gate!"
Other voices shouted in Spanish. Moving in one rush, the fourteen men sprinted through the flame-lit night.
24
Dropping down through the clouds in the borrowed DC-3, Grimaldi saw the flames. He eased into a wide circle around the mountaintop and watched the desperate firefight. From three thousand feet, he could see only the flashes of grenades and rockets. Streams of tracers streaked through the darkness. But he knew how many men Able Team and their allies-of-expedience he had dropped on a Honduran pasture. Those men now fought hundreds. When he returned with the Huey, he knew he would not take fourteen men out.
Grimaldi unplugged his headset. He slipped off the headphones and spoke into a Stony Man hand-radio.
"Able Team, this is the Eagle. Able Team, this is the Eagle. I'm up here with a surprise. Able Team, this is the..."
Lyons answered. Noise and autofire almost drowned out his voice. "What took you so long?"
Grimaldi glanced back to the cabin door before speaking again. No one had entered the pilot's cabin. "I got Agency people with me. They think we're over Ocotal, Nicaragua. How's it going?"
"Not too good. Had to shoot our way in. Still haven't found our man."
"Find him quick. I'm up here with five thousand liters of av-gas high-octane in plastic bladders. Give me a target. Won't make any bangs, but believe me, that place is going to be gone!"
"Stand by," Lyons told him. "We got to get organized. Over."
Replacing his headset, Grimaldi spoke into the intercom. "Gentlemen, prepare to crisp those Commie critters."
On his back behind the concrete foundation of a prefab barrack, Lyons hooked his hand-radio onto his web belt. Autofire continued from the offices across the wide asphalt traffic circle. A Toyota Land Cruiser sat on its rims, its tires shot flat, its windows shot out, the bullet-ripped bodies of the soldiers jerking as crisscrossing autofire from both sides of the lane smashed it again and again.
The School had been constructed around the central lane. Branching out from the center lane, side streets led to auditoriums and classrooms and service buildings. In the center, offices clustered around the traffic circle. Beyond the offices, rows of barracks occupied the other half of the mountaintop.
Fighting past the classrooms, the squad of North Americans and Salvadorans met the concentrated fire of hundreds of gray-uniformed soldiers pouring from the barracks. The surprise attack had killed scores of the surprised soldiers, but the attack had failed. Alerted by the airfield alarm, the fascist officers had gathered their troops to annihilate the few infiltrators.
Now, NATO-caliber slugs from G-3 rifles and M-60 machine guns smashed through the plywood-and-aluminum wall only inches above Lyons's face. He felt the slap of slugs impacting the concrete foundation. Staying flat, he snaked along the foundation to Blancanales.
The Puerto Rican ex-Green Beret, working flat on his belly, taped a field dressing to a Salvadoran's bullet-smashed ribs. He spoke loud encouragement to the guerrilla as he worked to tape the man's arm against his torso. Lyons shouted to be heard.
"The Eagle's up there! He's got a thousand-something gallons of aviation gas in fuel bladders to drop."
Blancanales raged with anger. "Don't even thinkabout another assault on those offices! He won't have any accuracy! We can't expect any kind of control. Grimaldi will burn us alive with that gas. You understand! Mister John Wayne hero motherfucker and your goddamned revenge!"
"Ease off," Lyons answered. He had never seen Blancanales this angry before. "I hereby vote for a withdrawal. No more of this, we're up against hundreds of them."
"What? Lyons the Brave recognizes a limit? Gracias a Dios!"
"Really, this is too much. Pass the word. The Eagle will drop that gas to cover the retreat. How's this Salvo?"
"Shattered ribs. Maybe bone fragments in his lung. But he can move. I'll pass the word to the others."
Blancanales spoke quickly to the wounded man, then went to Floyd. The two men spread word to the others. The survivors of the squad began a staggered retreat.
Lyons understood that he could not hope to search the base for Quesada. His bravado and daring had failed. He no longer thought of revenge, or of tearing information out of Quesada. He thought of getting his partners and friends out alive.
Counting by touch the Atchisson magazines in his bandolier, he found only three. Twenty-one rounds, plus three in his autoshotgun. He checked the setting of his fire-selector. Semiauto. Gripping the weapon, he joined the retreat.
He crabbed to the corner of the office building's foundation. A bloody Salvadoran with a Galil aimed single shots at the flashing muzzles of fascists across the street. But Lyons knew the lightweight 5.56mm slugs from the Galil might not penetrate the walls of the prefabs. Not like the 7.62 NATO slugs punching through the building above them.
Blancanales and Captain Lizco gathered their men. Scattered riflemen abandoned isolated positions. Darting from one building to another, throwing themselves flat behind the cover of the concrete foundations, the fighters assembled to continue the retreat.
Blancanales loaded one of his last 40mm shells. He aimed carefully at a window across the traffic circle. Captain Lizco braced his Galil, then shouted to his men.
The 40mm grenade flew through the window as the captain sprayed slugs through another window. The flash silhouetted fascists firing from inside. The firing stopped instantly as spring-steel shrapnel killed the fascists. The Salvadorans sprinted across the open ground.
Firing from other enemy positions now doubled. The prefab wall above the crawling men exploded with slugs and splintering wood. A rifle grenade burst in front of the building. Captain Lizco moved his men to the other end.
Lyons saw the men gathering behind him. He pointed out one window to the Salvadoran beside him, then pointed to himself and pointed to a second window. The Salvadoran nodded. Captain Lizco shouted out the signal.
The group bolted across the space. Lyons triggered quick semiauto blasts, punching steel shot into the faces of fascist gunners as the Salvadoran sprayed out a magazine of light 5.56mm slugs into other gunners.
All of the Salvadorans and North Americans made the dash untouched. They fired at the fascist line of autoweapons as Lyons and the remaining Salvadoran made their run.
Grimaldi radioed again from the DC-3 circling overhead. "Give me a call, you crazies! You can't do it all yourself."
"We got to break out," Lyons answered. "We got wounded. We're up against hundreds of them. And they ain't just goons with guns. We busted into a military base."
"Mark their position! I'll heat up the situation."
"Okay, I'll mark it with a burning car. Stand by"
Blancanales listened in on his radio. Lyons pointed for Blancanales and Gadgets to continue. Then Lyons reloaded his Atchisson with slugs.
Gadgets shouted into his hand-radio. "Do it right, wingwipe. We're in the shit so deep we need a periscope."
The squad had the cover of a building for their withdrawal. Three riflemen directed fire at the offices and barracks to keep pursuers back as the squad crept backward.
Bolting to his feet, Lyons ran to the other end of the building. He eased around the corner. A dead fascist sprawled against the wall, his G-3 still locked in his hands.