Melissa grasped the handles of her wheelchair to hold her in place. McCracken took up position directly in front of the old woman.
“I think you’d better sit this one out.”
“This is my home!”
“Then let me save it for you,” McCracken said. He had been studying the flower-encased tank at the entrance to the kibbutz and now turned to face Melissa. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
He shielded her with his body, as they drew closer to the center of the battle.
“What are we going to—”
“Just stay close to me! Move when I move!”
“For the tank?”
“For the tank.”
First glance when he came within view of the kibbutz’s open front showed the eight large jeeps tearing forward onto the grounds in spread fashion. Each boasted either a 50 caliber machine gun or a 7.62mm Vulcan minigun pedestaled in its rear hold. The machine gunners fired on the run, while the Vulcan-equipped vehicles needed to come to a halt or at least slow considerably before firing with reasonable accuracy.
A trio of the buildings closest to Nineteen’s entrance were torn apart by minigun bursts. Those scampering away from the cover the buildings had provided were traced by machine-gun fire and hopelessly pinned down. More of the kibbutz’s female commandos charged forward with rifles blasting, but they were no match for the enemy’s superior weaponry.
But who was the enemy? McCracken could accept a small team of terrorists sliding through the Israeli Defense Forces beyond, but eight heavily armed vehicles? It was unthinkable!
The vehicles streamed farther into Nineteen, crisscrossing each other as they fired. The unarmed residents of the kibbutz were fleeing toward the rear with the aged and children in tow. Vulcan fire blocked their path on several occasions and had many hugging the ground, the adults shielding the bodies of the youngsters.
Blaine and Melissa darted behind the cover provided by the huge dirt-encrusted structure of the tank.
“What do you need me for?” she asked him, heaving for breath.
“One person can’t operate a tank like this alone, never mind fire it.”
“Operate? Fire?”
“On the money, Melly.”
McCracken lunged atop the tank ahead of Melissa and yanked open the top. He beckoned her to follow and eased her down into the M-60’s innards ahead of him. His eyes began studying the interior layout of its cab, even as he was closing the hatch behind him.
“I haven’t had much experience with tanks,” Melly reminded.
“That’s okay; I have.”
In truth, he only had experience with the M-60A1 and A2, more complex generations of this version. But the control panel on this one was virtually identical — an easy transition, so long as his memory cooperated. Blaine flipped a switch, and the tank’s interior filled with a dull glow. The weapons rack was a full five feet behind him, a dozen shells accounted for in its slots. With the gunfire continuing to rage outside, he moved to the tank’s control console and pressed its starter button.
The engine grumbled, growled, then shook to life as it did every Sabbath evening. McCracken slid to his right toward the gun sight, then turned fast toward Melissa.
“Back against the wall, do you see that stack of shells?”
“Yes.”
“Bring me one.”
After a momentary twinge of fear that the shells might be dummies, he was reassured by the weight of the first one Melissa handed him. He chambered it and sighted forward again.
“Take the chair in front of the control console on my left,” Blaine instructed. “Red control arm there controls the turret. Take it in both hands and move it the way I tell you.”
Through his sights, Blaine could see that one of the vehicles bearing a minigun had come to a halt twenty degrees to the right.
“Move the control lever clockwise. Slowly, Melly, that’s it.”
The turret rotated with a rough grinding sound.
“Stop!” Blaine ordered when the Vulcan-wielding jeep was dead center in his crosshairs.
At the very last, he thought he could see the occupants of the vehicle turn his way.
Then he fired.
The old tank kicked backward slightly as the shell burst outward. Melissa was jostled out of her chair.
Come on, he urged. Come —
The first Vulcan-wielding jeep exploded in a shower of flames, metal fragmenting in all directions.
“We did it!” Melissa beamed.
The percussion of the blast forced an enemy vehicle equipped with a machine gun fifteen yards from the blown jeep to waver out of control and cross the path of another. As Blaine watched through his sights, they collided in a rolling cloud of twisted, shrieking metal that slammed finally into the remains of one of the blasted outbuildings. McCracken checked the area through the open view plate and found a second of the Vulcan-wielding jeeps bearing down on the M-60.
“Another shell!” he called to Melissa.
The tank shook from the impact of the minigun’s powerful 7.62mm ammo. Blaine steadied himself and sighted forward again, while Melissa pulled herself across the floor for a second shell. The jeep holding the Vulcan was already charging away.
“Hurry!”
An instant later, Melissa eased another shell into his hands and resumed her position in the pilot’s seat farther forward. McCracken slammed the shell home and returned to his sight.
“Counterclockwise, fifteen degrees,” he instructed. “Easy, easy … That’s got it!”
He aimed slightly ahead before firing. The shell thumped out behind the gun’s recoil. Blaine kept his eyes glued to the viewer and saw instantly that his aim this time looked slightly off. Fortunately, though, the jeep struck a ridge that slowed it enough for the shell to impact upon its rear. No flames this time, just a rolling carcass spilling its occupants into the air along the way.
Four down, Blaine thought, and four to go …
“Got him!” Melissa beamed.
“Still got plenty of company.”
The sight through the view plate confirmed his warning. The three remaining jeeps equipped with machine guns were speeding along toward the larger congestion of buildings and kibbutz residents. The final one with a Vulcan dragged a bit behind them.
“Change seats with me!” McCracken ordered Melissa, and shifted into the pilot’s chair, while she slid past him.
The moment he was seated, he began working the controls of the old warhorse to get it moving. The tank refused to cooperate at first, and it took several seconds of coaxing with the floor pedals as well before it lurched forward with a jolt. The top layer of plantings and ornaments were thrown off. A pile of dirt built up before the view plate, and Blaine jammed on the brake suddenly to force the debris aside.
A severe list to the right told him that only one of the tank’s treads was functioning properly, and McCracken compensated with the T-bar steering control as best he could. The gears screeched and whined in protest; the tank was a sleeping bear stirred from its hibernation ahead of the seasons. He figured he could fire without sacrificing significant pace or control, so long as Melly could take his place as driver.
“Watch what I do,” he told her. “Get ready to switch places again.”
The tank continued to shake the ornamental plantings off itself, as he shoved it on. Before him a determined charge by Nineteen’s commandos had neutralized one of the jeeps equipped with a machine gun. He searched the area for the final Vulcan-wielding vehicle and found it measuring off shots toward the kibbutz’s largest buildings, where most of the inhabitants were likely to have gathered.
“Okay,” he called to Melissa again. “Switch!”