Shouts and rotor roar came from his radio. Blancanales looked up. Across the canyon, the third helicopter descended from the sky to land directly on the tiny hilltop where camouflage concealed Lyons and the Yaquis.
Blancanales clicked his radio's transmit key. "Lyons! They're..."
Thunder overwhelmed his voice.
Flame swept the ridge. A hundred meters away, four helicopters disappeared in a maelstrom of fire, the soldiers dying in one instant of superheated gases and high-velocity steel shrapnel. Flash heat burning his face, Blancanales ducked down again and shouted into his hand radio.
"Wizard! A helicopter came down on the Ironman. They're off-loading soldiers."
Gadgets interrupted. "Forget it! That's their problem. The goons are calling down the napalm."
An instant after the flame destroyed the Mexican army unit, the claymore thunder hit Lyons and Vato and the spotter. Looking past the polished boots and gray fatigue pants of the Fascist soldiers, they saw a churning ball of orange-and-black flame mushrooming into the sky. Small secondary explosions popped as the heat ignited the munitions of the soldiers and the fuel tanks of their troopships.
Shouted commands came from the helicopter. The Fascist soldiers fired their autorifles. Cartridge casings showered Lyons and Vato where they hid.
Across the canyon, the Yaquis in Mexican army uniforms ran down the trail from the ridge. Dust puffed around them as the Fascists aimed bullets at the escaping decoy squad.
Dragging his Atchisson and bandolier out of the collapsed camouflage, Lyons buckled the bandolier around his body. He pulled out a second magazine of 12-gauge shells and jerked back the actuator.
Lyons looked to Vato. The Yaqui leader attempted to free his Springfield from under the troopship's skid. The spotter pulled a .38-caliber revolver. Lyons cautioned them both and shook his head.
"They're killing my men!" Vato argued.
"Shout to the others to drop down, then I fire. Ready?"
Vato nodded.
"Now..."
"Yaquis, abajo!"
Lyons sprayed full-auto shotgun fire. Double-ought and number-two steel shot tore through the screen of branches and weeds.
High-velocity steel tore away the leg of a soldier, spinning the maimed Fascist down the steep hillside. Another lost a hand. One startled, his nerves throwing him into a reflexive dive for safety as steel balls severed his spine and exploded from his chest.
Seven full-auto 12-gauge blasts scythed the elite unit of International soldiers before the soldiers realized the murderous fire came from behind them. Trained to react first and think later, they dropped to their bellies.
The pilot started the engine.
Rotors swirling above him, a Salvadorian soldier looked for the source of the fire. He raised his head to look to the other side of the troopship and died, the first blast of the next seven rounds taking off the top of his forehead.
Again, the hilltop exploded as Lyons fired out the Atchisson's magazine. The .38-caliber revolver popped. Rotor storm fanned dust and chopped brush.
The steel skid shifted. Vato jerked free his Springfield. He pointed the .30-06 rifle straight up and pulled the trigger. Then his spotter had his FN-FAL punching the belly of the troopship with point-blank 7.62mm NATO.
Only five seconds had passed since the helicopter landed on the hilltop.
Colonel Gunther had lost six of his men.
As the troopship lifted away, a Chilean soldier clawed his way back aboard only to leap upward suddenly, a slug tearing straight up through the floor panels and continuing through his chest. Blood, pumping from the Chilean's through-and-through death wounds, poured over Colonel Gunther. Another slug careened through the troopship. The colonel grabbed the dying man's M-16.
The helicopter's gunner fired his pedestal-mounted M-60 machine gun. The heavy-caliber autofire tore the hillside. But the weapon could not point under the helicopter.
Lyons jammed in another Atchisson magazine. This one contained one-ounce slugs. He hit the bolt release to chamber the first of the seven rounds.
Standing up in the fighting hole, throwing aside the screen of camouflage, Lyons faced the belly of the troopship. He pointed the weapon at the engine area and fired.
Sheet metal crumpled. Each slug slammed the Huey's belly with thousands of foot-pounds of force. Through the Plexiglas nose window of the helicopter, Lyons saw the feet of the pilot operating the directional control pedals.
The Yaqui with the machine gun fired from his fighting hole, tracers sparking off a steel skid, tearing holes through the aluminum body of the helicopter.
Left hand gripping the airframe, his right hand holding the M-16 like a pistol, Colonel Gunther leaned from the cargo door and fired a burst into the Yaqui's face, killing him instantly. Then Gunther aimed under the skids, to execute the hidden enemy who had slaughtered the men of his squad.
A one-ounce slug smashed up through the Plexiglas nose window, the pilot's left leg exploding and spraying pulped flesh and bone. He convulsed with the shock and pain, losing control of the aircraft controls. The fuselage rotated violently counterclockwise.
G-force broke Gunther's grip. The Fascist International colonel fell out of the doorway.
"Colonel!" the doorgunner called out.
The helicopter spun out of control, the tail rotor roaring over Lyons as he dropped for safety. He saw a Fascist with a rifle crash into the brush.
Thrown from side to side in his safety harness, the gunner clutched his M-60. Then the copilot took the controls and the troopship sideslipped away.
Now the gunner had a straight line of fire on the enemy hidden on the hilltop. He aimed his M-60 at the black-clad commando. Then the commando dived across the dead and dying soldiers of the International and locked an arm around the throat of Colonel Gunther.
"Colonel!" the gunner shouted again. The copilot heard the gunner through the intercom.
"What has happened to the colonel?"
"He's out there! He's on the hill, fighting with..."
"Fire, kill the ones you can," the copilot ordered. "I'll circle. Who's left from the squad?"
The doorgunner glanced to the benches. Two soldiers, strapped into their seats remained. They attempted to aim their M-16 rifles at the enemy on the hill. But the colonel blocked their aim.
"Only two."
"We must get the colonel."
On the hilltop, Lyons smashed the Fascist colonel again and again in the side of the head with his fist. But Gunther slammed an elbow into Lyons's gut, doubling him over.
Lyons fell back. He heard the rotor throb fading as the helicopter banked away. Then a fist smashed him. Stunned, Lyons kicked. A hand clamped around his throat and the fist smashed into his face again.
A Yaqui drove the steel butt of FN-FAL para-rifle into the Fascist's head, once, twice, then the Fascist tore the rifle out of the Yaqui's hands. Lyons slammed his knee into the colonel's groin.
Foul breath exploded into Lyons's face. He grabbed the colonel's uniform shirt and threw him to the side. A Yaqui clamped an arm around the throat of the colonel and choked him. Lyons struggled to pin Gunther's wrists.
The helicopter returned. From the opposite ridge, Blancanales and a Yaqui tracked the troopship with M-60 machine guns. Tracers arced over the canyon.
Lyons heard his Atchisson boom. Vato held the full-auto weapon at his shoulder and squeezed off another shot, the recoil jarring his slight body back. Then he brought the sights down and aimed again.
At a range of twenty meters, he did not miss. A one-ounce slug shattered the windshield of the helicopter and killed the wounded pilot. Vato aimed again, but the Atchisson did not fire. Empty.
Colonel Gunther threw the Yaqui away from him. He broke Lyons's grip and ran for the helicopter. The doorgunner leaned out to rescue his commander.