A hundred yards from the main gate of the base, Johnny lifted Pop’s CB to his lips.
“Come in, Pop.”
“Right here, son.”
“I’m ready.”
“So am I.”
McCracken was still trying to figure out a way to slip out of the chains fastening him tight to the wall when the first explosion rocked the building. A second one followed almost immediately, and loosened plaster from the walls showered him. Three more blasts came in rapid succession, and fragments of the ceiling caved in.
Johnny! It had to be Johnny! Not dead at all and outdoing even himself!
The next explosions shook the floor and opened wide fissures in the walls. His manacles, only crudely driven home, showed signs of weakening. Blaine began pulling with all his strength, feeling them begin to give. His right hand came free first, followed by his left. From there, it was a simple matter to pull the manacles binding his legs from the crumbling wall.
It was impossible to open the manacles. While they would be uncomfortable, they would hardly prove a hindrance. With the explosions sounding even more regularly now, Blaine rushed for the door. It had been locked from the outside, but the mechanism was simple and already weakened by the blasts. A quick series of kicks shattered the latch, and McCracken burst into the corridor.
Not all the initial explosions were on the mark, and Johnny called back to Pop to adjust the coordinates slightly. He stepped out of the truck to find Tyrell Loon coming his way, while the rest of Blue Thunder’s passengers distributed Heydan Larroux’s weapons amongst themselves, each searching for the one that best suited his fancy.
“We be ready,” Loon announced.
“Not yet, Sheriff.”
“When?”
“First I have work to do by myself inside.”
Loon wasn’t arguing. “Fine with me. Think even the Old One would understand. Shit, I’m still close enough to bring ya luck, don’t ya think?”
“I do,” Johnny said, turning away.
“How will we know when to follow?”
Johnny looked back at him. “You’ll know.”
Wareagle left the sheriff and his men there outside the fence and gave the tanks the signal to roll straight on. He walked alongside the old Sherman, as the M-60 and M-60A1 plowed right through the base’s security fence.
The explosions in the central area were coming every three or four seconds now. Huge plumes of smoke and debris coughed into the air with each blast. The tanks continued on, crashing through what they could not easily avoid. The Sherman hung back long enough for a path to be cleared for it, but had pulled up even by the time its offspring rolled onto the tarmac. A few of the hundred or so troops rushing about caught sight of the trio of tanks and pointed their way frantically. The tanks stopped and began to fire.
One by one their gun turrets snapped backward as shells were expelled. The explosions caught the enemy where they stood. The M-60A1 made a trio of armored personnel carriers its primary targets and blew them apart before any could start into motion. The Sherman and the M-60 focused their fire in any direction where congestions of the enemy could be found. All return volleys were token. The opposition was being blasted from all angles at once, and fear had replaced confidence in their motions.
The gunner in the M-60A1, who had performed the same service in Vietnam for considerably less money, saw the big Indian dart suddenly before his view plate toward the enemy forces. The gunner closed his eyes for an instant, as another shell was expelled. When he gazed back outward, the Indian was gone.
Arnold Rothstein grasped Billy Griggs by the lapels.
“The White Death, you’ve got to save it! Do you hear me? You’ve got to save it!”
Griggs looked at the old man in bewilderment.
“Drive it out of here! Wait until the battle recedes and drive it out of here. The tanker’s armored. You can make it. Get to the backup rendezvous point! I’ll meet you there!”
Billy Boy knew that the old dude was crackers, had known it for some time, but playing along at this point could be his ticket to bigger and better things. Besides, maybe he’d just up and drive that supertanker, three times the capacity of a normal oil truck, full of the White Death wherever he damn well pleased. Use it for his own gains before the old guy was any the wiser, his own plan in shambles.
Griggs headed for the basement and the underground passage that led to the hangar where the tanker was stored.
McCracken knew the White Death would be hidden out of plain sight and well protected. That made one of the hangars the most logical choice, but which one?
Blaine burst out of the base headquarters into the chaos that the explosions had caused. The huge artillery shells continued to carve craters everywhere they hit. The Tau rushed about in all directions. In the confusion, Blaine decided he could safely bypass the hangar the army of the Tau had poured from to catch his commando team in an ambush. Instead, he headed for the one next to it first, worked open the door, and slid inside.
Windows shattered by the numerous explosions provided the only light, but it was enough for Blaine to see dozens of crates spread out everywhere. Weathered and browned, they were obviously the ones that had been pulled from the Nazi storage chamber at the dig site in Ephesus. Closer inspection revealed that the crates were empty. The tanks that had held the White Death were gone.
Glass shattered, and McCracken blamed it first on another explosion until he heard the faint flutter of footsteps. He froze, turned left and then right.
The Twins were approaching him from either side of the hangar. They were bare-chested, massive muscles rippling with each step. Neither showed a weapon. Both were smiling.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
The one in the hangar’s rear rushed at him with a throaty rasp. The burst of speed he managed was incredible, so fast that he never noticed Blaine grasp the lid off one of the worthless crates and slash it forward. The rushing Twin managed to get his hands up, and the lid shattered into splinters over them, catching just enough of his head to daze him. He wobbled on his feet and started to list. Blaine drew his arm overhead for the kill and felt his still-manacled hand jerk backward as it was twisted. The force of the move pitched him through the air, and he collided with yet more of the abandoned crates.
Stunned, Blaine nonetheless regained his feet without even pausing for breath. The smiling Twin who had tossed him effortlessly aside stalked toward him, hands held leisurely near his waist. The wounded Twin was just regaining his senses and joined the approach. Blood dripped from his scalp and soaked his hair.
McCracken backpedaled, feeling his way with his feet. The Twins closed on him from angles that made escape between them impossible. Blaine continued to back up until his shoulders came to rest against the hangar wall, with one of the blast-shattered windows just to his right.
The unbloodied Twin threw himself into a lunge, as Blaine’s hand darted up and to the side. He snapped off a thick shard of glass from the window and thrust it toward the midsection of the lunging Twin. In his mind McCracken pictured the shard slicing through flesh and shredding everything in its path. He was surprised to see the Twin still smiling at him and gazed down.