Strike Eagle (35 page)

Bruce struggled to a sitting position. “Pompano—
Pompano!
It’s me—Bruce!”

Pompano swung around, bringing his rifle barrel around with him.

“Bruce?” A faint voice came from behind him. Bruce turned—Yolanda stepped uncertainly from the jungle. “Bruce—you were not on the helicopter?”

“Yolanda—no!” Pompano waved her back into the foliage.

“Bruce!”

“Yolanda!” Pompano crouched and started toward the jungle; he looked around. “It is too dangerous!”

“Father …” She spoke to Pompano, but looked at Bruce.

Pompano hissed, “Yolanda!”

A shot rang out. Pompano whirled and dropped his rifle. He clutched at his arm. “Yolanda, get down!” He fell to his knees. Another shot …

Bruce swung his M-16 up and fired into the jungle. Yolanda threw herself onto the ground. Bruce fired over her.

Bullets peppered the area around Bruce.

Bruce shot off a few more rounds, fanning the jungle. Popping another cartridge into the M-16, he waited. The sniper was still out there.

Another moan came from the helicopter. Bruce wasn’t more than twenty yards away, but the sniper would surely try to stop him. He wet his lips. “Yolanda.” His voice was hoarse. “Yolanda, don’t answer. Stay where you are—I’m going to help your father.”

Bruce crawled backward. He aimed the M-16 at the jungle, keeping cover on the sniper.

He gritted his teeth from the pain. Sweat trickled into his eyes, mixing with the grime and mud, causing him to blink. He wiped a hand across his face.

As he approached Pompano, the sobbing from the helicopter grew louder.

Bruce had to hurry. The sniper could take potshots at Bruce all day long unless Bruce drew him out of the jungle. That was the only way he would have a chance of stopping him.

Sweat ran down Barguyo’s face. Moments earlier, bullets, hurled from unseen gargoyles in the clouds, had peppered the area around him. The bullets had spat up globs of mud as they struck the ground. He heard screams from his fellow Huks as they were hit from the burning metal raining from the sky.

But now the clearing was still from bullets, quiet. Except for a growing whine of jet noise, descending from the clouds.

Barguyo pressed his thumb against the HPM firing button. He pushed his head against the throbbing metal capacitor bank and wished that the invisible electromagnetic waves would take out the rest of the American force.

How well it had worked! Bringing down the vice president’s plane, that helicopter in the field …
If only the HPM weapon would hold out for this final onslaught of American attackers 
…

Barguyo drew in a breath and strained to keep the firing button depressed. The sound of an American fighter jet grew louder and louder. It must be making a run toward the plantation. Barguyo pushed up from the control panel and tried to look through the clouds. Nothing. The sound increased. He wet his lips.

Cervante was nowhere to be seen. No other Huks were in sight. Had they deserted him? Had the remainder of the New People’s Army left the plantation to escape through the jungle? The thought sent a surge of fear though his body. Was he all alone, left here with the injured?

The memory of Cervante befriending him as a youngster raced through his mind. He had been all alone then, and Cervante had taken him in. Could he now stay here to repay the debt he owed him? Certainly
Cervante
was still around…?

A high-pitched whine caused Barguyo to jerk his head up. He tried to cry out, but his larynx couldn’t react fast enough to what he saw: A long, tubular missile was breaking through the clouds and racing straight for the HPM antenna. He couldn’t make out any of the missile’s features in the scant milliseconds left in his life. His final thoughts exploded in a mishmash of white light as the HPM weapon died with him.

Skipper watched the heads-up display, paying no attention to the swirling clouds outside the cockpit. As they drew closer, a popping sound grew in his earphones. The LANTIRN projected a rectangular target onto the display. The rectangle blinked furiously. Panther yammered in the backseat, “Pull up, pull up! We’re being jammed!”

Skipper kept on, oblivious of the warning. He focused on taking out the HPM weapon. He jabbed the bomb switch. “Maddog One, bombs away. Off to the right!”

A voice came instantly over the radio. “Maddog Two, in hot.”

Pop pop pop pop!
As Skipper pulled back on the stick, the high-definition TV in the middle of the console exploded, sending glass flying into the heads-up display.

“Mayday, mayday!” Skipper still had hydraulics, but he couldn’t tell where he was going.
Keep it cool, don’t panic!
“Panther—what do you read?” She didn’t answer. “Panther? Panther?!” He flipped to the Guard frequency and fought to keep the fighter level, although without any instruments he couldn’t tell up from down. “Mayday, Mayday! Maddog One …”

A noise caught Bruce’s attention—a piercing whine that started to rocket up through the frequencies. Then a flash—and the plantation exploding in a fireball. A burst of flames rolled over the house, igniting the wood frame. The sound of a jet thundering overhead caused him to turn, but he couldn’t see anything in the clouds.

Seconds later there came the dull thud of something
huge
hitting the ground, ripping through the jungle—and the subsequent shock of an explosion. Bruce didn’t wait to guess what had happened, who in Maddog had just bought the farm.

He slowly positioned his body, then rolled to the helicopter. He tried to keep the plantation in view as a reference point as he rolled, around and round.…

Shots hit the mud around him. Bruce stopped rolling and swung his M-16 up.

The sniper stood at the edge of the clearing, aiming at Bruce.

Cervante brought up his rifle.
Pompano, or the American?
He knew that Pompano had the stamina to survive, but this American needed to be taken care of. He pulled off a round of shots.

Bruce squeezed the trigger as hard as he could, trying to coax more energy into the bullets. He fanned the area, spraying metal into the jungle.

A second bomb hit the plantation, shooting debris and burning wood high into the air. Bruce allowed the brilliant flames from the explosion to guide him as he covered the jungle with round after round of bullets. When his weapon ran out of ammunition, he quickly inserted another cartridge.

He brought the M-16 up.…

The first bullet ripped through Cervante, stunning him.
It did not even hurt!
He
was
a god, indestructible, able to accomplish anything he pleased.…

Seven other bullets spun him around, causing him to fling out his rifle. His vision blurred; acidic vomit crawled up his throat.

The last thing he saw was Yolanda’s body, her silhouette against the burning plantation house.…

By the light of the fire Bruce could make out a figure sprawled face down in the mud, just inside the clearing. A rifle lay by his side.

The sound of moaning caught Bruce’s attention. He dragged his M-16, but as he approached the helicopter set the rifle down. “Mr. Adleman? Gould … Head?”

No answer. He had to get in.

Bruce pushed up and tried to straighten. Flames still flickered inside the Black Hawk. He could use the helicopter’s structure to support himself when he entered. He had started to hop in when Pompano’s voice stopped him.