The soldier grunted, the air popping out of his lungs in one great whoosh, but he crawled to his hands and knees and got to his feet …
… just as Teresov kicked again, using a snapping karate side kick.
Teresov saw that the Marine was festooned with weapons and hardware — a big sidearm, a thick flak vest, a knife in a shoulder harness, pouches and utility bags filled and attached all over his body, and an MP5 submachine gun carelessly tossed aside — but he seemed to have forgotten about all of them. Who was this guy? The Americans actually sent an untrained, unskilled boob to rescue Luger! Teresov’s kick landed squarely on the Marine’s head, bowling the guy over and dropping him. But the big guy was up again, struggling to his feet, almost as wild and possessed as Luger. The Marine’s helmet was nearly turned sideways on his head from the force of the kick, and he pulled it off, revealing a mop of short blond hair and a round, almost boyish face. Teresov guessed his age at forty-something, well-exercised and big-shouldered but not hard and lean. A pretty soft-looking Marine.
Teresov danced easily around the lumbering Marine. “They should have sent a better-skilled soldier to do the job, pretty boy,” he said gaily in English. He made another whirling roundhouse kick to the right side of the Marine’s head, and the guy slumped to his knees. This was fun!
Seeing his opportunity, Teresov stepped forward, reached into the Marine’s holster, and pulled out his sidearm. He recognized it instantly — a 9-millimeter Beretta automatic, standard issue from the U.S. Marine Corps. He cocked it, held the Marine’s head steadily with his left hand, and pointed the big pistol at the helpless Marine. “Doh svedanya, Master Marine…
A shot rang out, a booming, heavy explosion, very close. Teresov jumped, dropped to one knee, taking cover behind McLanahan, and pointed the pistol toward its source. He should have guessed there might be another Marine down here, but if he was as incompetent as the first he should have no trouble dispatching him.
The first shot, and now a second shot, both missed, flying well overhead. Teresov looked up and saw the second Marine, a short, goofy-looking man with no helmet, short brown hair, aiming a pistol unsteadily at him. He simply emerged from the shadows, now about forty feet away, not bothering to take cover. The second Marine took a third shot, and that one missed as well.
This is ridiculous! Teresov aimed his captured weapon at the second Marine and fired, hitting him squarely in the chest and dropping him easily. Two down and one to go …
But he had ignored his other captive far too long.
McLanahan grasped Teresov’s left hand with his own left hand, twisting him around so the Russian was facing the floor, then he reached up to his left shoulder with his right hand, withdrew his KaBar infantry knife, and plunged it into Teresov’s belly, thrusting upwards with so much power that the point of the big knife protruded from the Russian’s back.
Teresov stiffened, all feeling and breath draining from his entire body, and dropped the gun.
McLanahan tossed the dying man away from him and left him lying in a pool of his own dark, warm blood.
McLanahan crawled over to the inert form lying against the thick cell door. “Dave? Dave?”
It was him, all right.
He was thinner than he’d ever imagined, and his head and chest were covered with blood — but it was warm, red blood, not dried blood, which meant that Luger’s heart was still beating. McLanahan felt around Luger’s bloody chest, and finally found the wound, high on the left side. One shot had missed, and Luger’s clavicle had deflected the other bullet up and away from his chest. A quarter of an inch lower and it would have deflected into his heart. While pressing his left hand hard into the finger-sized wound, McLanahan retrieved his first-aid kit from his ALICE harness and withdrew a thick combat dressing pad. When he pressed it into the wound, a low moan escaped from Dave Luger’s crusty lips.
“Dave? It’s me, man — Patrick. Wake up!”
Luger’s eyes fluttered, strained to focus in the dim light. He blinked, eyes scanning the bloodied, exhausted face before him. “Shto?” Luger asked in Russian. “Kto tam…?”
“Dave, it’s me, Patrick,” McLanahan said. “You’re okay. It’s me. Your partner — Patrick.”
Luger’s eyes opened wider, and Patrick was surprised to feel a hand on his face, brushing away bloodstained hair. “Pa… Patrick? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Dave,” McLanahan said, his heart so full of joy that he almost burst out crying. “Yeah, it’s me …”
“How very touching,” a weak voice said. Behind Patrick, Vadim Teresov had somehow gotten to his feet, the 9-millimeter automatic in his hand. The KaBar infantry knife was still sticking in his stomach, the blood-covered, parachute-cord-wrapped handle protruding from his belly like some sort of hideous organism. “So… you two are old friends, eh?” Teresov gasped in English. “Well, you can join me in hell.” He raised the pistol in shaky hands and aimed it at the back of McLanahan’s head. “Good-bye …”
“Good-bye to you, motherfucker,” General John Ormack said. He leveled his MP5 at Teresov and pulled the trigger. Thirty-two rounds of 9-millimeter death on full automatic took about three seconds to empty into Teresov’s body, and this time when he fell, he was dead. He did not have the luxury of a thick Kevlar flak vest to protect him, as Ormack had had when Teresov’s earlier shot had hit him.
“And good riddance,” Ormack said. “Who says I can’t hit the broad side of a barn?” He dropped the spent weapon and knelt at Luger’s side. “Luger, is that you? Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
The burst of automatic gunfire seemed to have fully revived Luger, because his eyes widened in shock and disbelief when he turned to face Ormack. “Colonel … Colonel Ormack, is that you? You’re here too …?” It was like a dream from long ago and far away.
“You bet I am,” Ormack said proudly. “And you can call me General, son.”
“Right,” Luger said with a weak smile. “Right. General. I should have known that. Patrick?”
“Right here, Dave.”
Ormack handed over his first-aid kit and Patrick applied it to the exit wound in Luger’s back.
“Are we going home now?”
McLanahan didn’t have a chance to answer. He heard a footstep in the shadows. Quickly he reached for the fallen automatic, turned, and aimed it into the shadows.
“Nice move, Colonel,” Gunnery Sergeant Wohl said as he stepped into the light. Instantly, the area was filled with three other Marines. Wohl raised his night-vision goggles and said with a hint of a smile, “For a second there I thought these goggles were defective — you looked like a real Marine there for a second.” He motioned to Luger and said, “Who is this? Is this REDTAIL HAWK?” He then saw Teresov’s body, a mangled heap of tissue a few feet away, and shook his head. “I hope that wasn’t him—”
“Shot?” Luger asked.
“Oh, great. You bagged a Russian …”
“No, this is him,” McLanahan insisted. “Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, meet First Lieutenant David Luger, U.S. Air Force. Dave, Gunny Wohl. I need some help with this chest wound.”
“Rourke, front and center,” Wohl said, motioning to a Marine carrying a green canvas medical bag. Wohl stooped down and patted Luger on the leg, giving him a nod and a reassuring smile. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m glad McLanahan and Ormack found you — and I’m glad we found all of you alive.” Wohl then looked at Ormack, who was lying against the cell wall trying to massage away the pain of the bullet impact on his chest, and added, “Sheesh, General, Luger’s even skinnier than you are! What is it with you Air Force pukes, anyway? You have an aversion to pumping some iron?”