“All right!” Teucer exclaimed. “Let’s waste these suckers!”
Blade’s eyes were riveted on the jeep. He had to get within 20 feet of the enemy. If his memory was right, the strategy would win the day. If not, Jenny would soon be a widow.
The Spartan in the front passenger seat was visible through the bullet-riddled windshield, calmly yet quickly endeavoring to reload the missile launcher. To his left the driver was slumped over the wheel.
Blade realized some of the rounds must have struck the soldier doing the driving. He kept the accelerator all the way down, rapidly closing the range. “Get set,” he told Teucer.
Nodding, the bowman rolled down his window and leaned out, the compound bow extended.
“Wait until I give the word,” Blade admonished.
“Understood.”
In the space of seconds the SEAL drew within 40 feet of the jeep. The soldier suddenly popped into view again, in the act of raising the launcher to his shoulder.
No! Not yet! Blade mentally counted off the yardage and recalled the critical information concerning the Armbrust 700. The state-of-the-art weapon had been developed just prior to World War Three and widely distributed to U.S. forces. Intended for use against enemy tanks, the 700 had been designed with a unique safety feature. To prevent an accidental detonation as the missile was being fired, which sometimes occurred with conventional launchers, the manufacturers of the 700 had incorporated a computerized chip, a smart chip as they were known, into the hollow-charge missile. The projectile actually armed itself after 20 feet of flight. Prior to that range and the 700 wouldn’t explode.
But the SEAL wasn’t close enough yet.
They needed a few more seconds.
“Shoot!” Blade ordered, knowing the angle wasn’t right, knowing the bowman couldn’t possibly score, but banking on the reflex action of anyone who found an arrow headed toward them.
Teucer already had the string pulled back to just below his right ear. He sighted and released the shaft in the twinkling of an eye, then grabbed another one.
The Spartan ducked back the instant the arrow cleared the bow, his aim spoiled, and nearly lost his life then and there when the shaft struck the windshield a few inches to his left, punctured through the glass in a shower of shards and fragments, and thudded into the edge of the seat. He swung out again and swept the Armbrust 700 onto his shoulder.
Blade slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel briskly, slanting the SEAL, intending to pass the jeep on the passenger side.
The Spartan let the missile fly.
Blade saw the projectile leap toward the transport, and the next sequence of events transpired so swiftly they were over in an instant. The missile struck the SEAL’s grill and bounced off without detonating, its smart chip thwarted because the two vehicles were only 15 feet apart.
Teucer loosed his second shaft simultaneously, and this time he had a clear shot.
A lightning streak of green sped from the bow into the soldier, the arrow penetrating his flesh at the base of the throat, the three-edged hunting tip tearing clean through his neck and bursting out of his body next to his spine. He clawed at the shaft, his lips curled in a snarl, then sagged onto the dashboard.
The SEAL narrowly missed the jeep. Blade drove around the smaller vehicle and brought the van to a stop. He looked in the mirror, gratified to see there wasn’t a soul stirring, then faced forward and scrutinized the damage caused by the SEAL’s rocket. both of the first pair of jeeps had been obliterated. Now that the dust had settled, the smoldering wreckage and twisted frames lay like rotted carcasses in the middle of the road.
Teucer eased inside and rested his bow on his lap. “We cut that one close,” he commented.
“At least we took care of their only vehicles,” Blade said. “Dercyllidas’s troops will have a fighting chance.”
“Evidently you spoke too soon,” Rikki spoke up.
“Why?”
The martial artist nodded to the north. “Get set for round two.”
Blade shifted, surprised to behold a pair of motorcycles, large dirt bikes actually, roaring from the direction of the barracks where Agesilaus’s bodyguard contingent lived. “No one said anything about them,” he said, and gunned the engine, bearing to the east.
“Both the riders are holding objects in their right hands,” Rikki announced. “Hand grenades, I believe.”
“Teucer, try to nail one,” Blade directed.
“Where’s a cannon when you need it?” the bowman muttered.
The Spartan bikers raced onto the gravel road and took off in pursuit of the van, their red cloaks billowing, their helmets gleaming.
Teucer eased out the passenger window once more, twisting so he could watch the dirt bikes approach. He nocked another hunting arrow to the string, straightening his left arm, and hugged the transport’s side, keeping his body flat in the hope the Spartans might not notice him until it was too late.
On they came, their tires kicking dirt into the air, the bikes growling as they shifted.
The bowman forced himself to relax, to stay loose. One of the first courses taken by every Warrior was entitled Elementary Combat Psychology, and the Elder responsible for teaching the material had continually emphasized the fundamental importance of remaining calm in a crisis. Adrenaline might add strength to panicked limbs, but the hormonal rush could also cloud the reasoning process and impair overall effectiveness. A calm state of mind, therefore, was critical to Warrior survival.
As the Elder had repeatedly emphasized, self-control and self-composure were the keys to becoming an exceptional fighter and a valued defender of the Home and the Family. Of the two traits, the Elders stressed self-control the most. Without it, self-composure was impossible to attain. “Know thyself” had been carried one step further. “Master thyself” became the basic precept for novice Warriors, and only those who achieved a supreme degree of self-mastery were placed on the active-duty roster.
Even then, the diversity among the Warriors surprised Teucer. The range of personalities ran the full spectrum. There was Blade, the devout Family man, a natural leader of men if ever there was one, whose steely body reflected the steely mind within. There was Rikki, a man who lived and breathed the martial arts, who spent every waking moment honing his skills, who dedicated his entire being to becoming the perfected swordmaster. There was Hickok, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter, who had a reputation as a consummate killer, the man who faced trouble with a smile on his lips and a pair of blazing pearl-handled revolvers. And there was Yama, the Warrior who had taken his name from the Hindu King of death, the Warrior considered by his peers to be the best all-around fighting man at the Home, the Warrior who could do virtually everything exceptionally well and who had transformed his personal combat techniques into a fine art.
Then there’s me Teucer thought. The Warrior who is a poet at heart.
The man who would rather spend an afternoon reading Byron than slaying scavengers. The man who had almost decided not to become a Warrior because he disliked the spilling of blood. Oh, sure, Teucer loved archery, and no one else could handle a bow with such skill and finesse. But his lifelong devotion to archery stemmed from his keen appreciation of the craft’s aesthetic qualities; he shot a bow for the mere sake of shooting. To him, the flight of an arrow qualified as poetry in motion. And striking a target dead center was akin to a religious experience. Back when he’d been twelve years old he’d read Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel, and his life had never been the same.