Reflexive Fire - 01 (32 page)

   With eight men on the other end of the strap, they managed to yank the door a few inches ajar with the first heave.  From inside they could hear shouting in Chinese, the actions on pistols and submachine guns being racked.

   Another heave and the door was pulled farther open, this time leaving about a foot of space.  Two mercenaries ran up, each tossing a nine-banger through the opening as gunfire began slamming into the vault door from the inside.

   Giving a final tug on the tow strap, they got the door fully opened, just as the flash-bangs began to go off.  Two squads were already on standby and rushed through the door.  Stacked in a column, they pushed forward like Roman legionnaires in a phalanx, desperate to get into the fight.

   The first assaulter through the door immediately went down under a hail of gunfire.

   Jean-Francois ran for the assault truck and jumped up on the side.  His boot catching on the side of the truck, he stumbled before righting himself.  Slinging his rifle, he reached down to the pivot mount and yanked the retaining pin out that held a PKM machine gun in place.

   The stench of gasoline invaded his nose, the tank punctured from one of the previous gun runs.

   The sound of jet engines grew near.

   The J-10 opened fire with its 23mm cannon, JF firing his own weapon, careful to lead the aircraft by a wide margin by watching his tracer fire.  It was one of those instances where tracers were of vital importance, but of course the enemy could follow their trail right back to him as well.

   Several other streams of fire sprayed in front of the Chinese fighter jet, the Kazakhs having the same idea and recovering their automatic weapons from the trucks during a pause in the chaos.  The others joined in, firing their AK-103s from doors, windows, and anywhere else they were able to take cover.

   Someone must have begun scoring hits, the pilot probably hearing the impact against his fuselage, because suddenly he yanked on his controls.  The J-10 arched up and away, attempting evasive maneuvers to avoid the ground fire.

   Shouts of elation went up from the mercenaries, proud and relieved to have driven off the enemy. 

   Sadly, their celebration was short-lived as the second J-10 came in on approach, nosing directly towards JF's position.

   Four members of Second Platoon came stomping up the stairs and down the hallway.  In their hands they struggled with two rectangular dark-green wooden crates which were carried by attached rope handles.  Setting them down in the lobby, they stepped away as Deckard kicked open one of the lids with the edge of his boot.

   As advertised, a HN-5 anti-aircraft missile launcher sat in the crate in pristine condition.

   “We have them cornered in their bunker,” one of the Kazakhs reported.

   “Peng?”

   “We are looking.”

   Grunting, Deckard yanked one of the missile launchers out and shouldered it.  One of the older looking Kazakhs handled the second HN-5.  Sometimes he forgot that their Central Asian home country was once a Soviet satellite state, many of them having grown up around Russian weapons platforms.

   “Let's do this,” he told the Kazakh.

   Stepping outside, they screwed the thermal batteries into the front end of the launch control unit attached to the missile tube itself.  With the HN-5s on their shoulders, they used the iron sights on the tubes to target the approaching J-10, while they waited for the electrical supply and internal gyros to stabilize.

   Deckard milked the trigger halfway while sighting in on the Chinese fighter jet.  He was the first to get a solid IR lock, the control unit buzzing and blinking red.

   “I got him,” Deckard said, ordering the Kazakh to stand down.

   As the jet swooped over the compound, he took up the rest of the slack in the trigger.  The missile launched, the booster burning out before it left the tube.  The rocket engine initiated, the four stabilization fins unfolding simultaneously.

   With the HN-5's seeker locked onto the jet's IR signature, the missile flew at over four hundred meters a second, eating up the distance in a heartbeat.

   Jean-Francois rolled the dice and lost, the two hundred round belt having been exhausted by holding down the PKM's trigger, leaving him with nothing but a smoking barrel.

   The J-10 closed in.

   Cannon fire spat from the aircraft, large caliber rounds tearing up the ground and headed straight for him.  The former legionnaire winced a moment before the anti-aircraft rocket smashed into the side of the jet.

   The impact fuse on the missile detonated the fragmentation warhead, lighting up the J-10's reserve fuel tank and separating one of the wings, sending the rest of the jet spinning out of control.  Separate streams of fire flashed out in the night as the wreckage crashed into a hill behind the UWSA compound.

   The second J-10 coming in behind tried to pull up, the pilot having seen what happened to his partner.  He popped chaff and flares just a moment too late as a second HN-5 missile snaked right up the jet's tailpipe and exploded, blowing the aircraft out of the sky.

   With the back end taken out, the aircraft folded on itself, wings blazing, the fuselage engulfed in flames.  The pilot never had the chance to eject as the enormous g-forces hurled him back and forth before the entire jet separated and fell to the jungle below like miniature meteorites.

   JF set the machine gun down, remembering to breathe.

   Deckard turned towards the Kazakh as he dropped the still smoking launch unit to the ground.

   “Talk to me about promotions when we get home,” he told the mercenary. 

   Deckard's business model promoted positive performance.

   Shaking his hand, Deckard could have sworn he saw a smirk on the trooper's face.

   Peng cursed his misfortune.

   He had gotten his ducks in a row a long time ago, greased the right palms, played by the rules, and now he was left in ruin.  The Sino-Burmese gangster had so much dirt on so many Chinese bureaucrats that he wielded a disproportionate amount of power that stretched far beyond the small autonomous zone he had carved out of the jungle to freely run his narcotics business from.

   If the information he had was revealed in the Chinese press, dozens of officials would instantly walk home and commit suicide, knowing that there was no such thing as a not-guilty verdict in a Chinese courtroom.  That was the kind of power that allowed him to wake up generals in the middle of the night and have fighter jets deployed against his enemies.

   Waging war against the Burmese Government might be off-limits, but gunning down foreign mercenaries was another matter entirely.

   Straining his entire body, he managed to push open the trap door at the top of the ladder he stood on.

   They had watched the entire assault via closed-circuit television cameras hidden throughout his compound.  Sixty million bought a lot, but apparently not invulnerability.  The foreign mercenaries brought down the reinforced concrete walls, fought their way inside, and had the audacity to burn their way into his inner sanctum.

   Seeing the red glow of some strange type of cutting torch slicing through the supposedly impenetrable vault door, Peng had decided it was time for him to utilize his fall back plan.  He abandoned his bodyguards just as the door was being hauled open, slipping behind a bookcase that moved on well maintained hinges.  Disappearing into the darkness, he had heard the firefight rage behind him.

   It was a four hundred meter long underground escape tunnel, the first structure he had built, even before the walls went up.  The contractors came from Hong Kong, recommended by a Triad boss and trading partner of his.  It was the backup plan for the backup plan.

   Emerging into the terraced central highland fields, Peng actually felt relieved.  He'd been fighting his whole life.  The UWSA leader took a deep breath of fresh air, palming the pistol tucked into his pants and freeing it, just in case.

   Every day for decades, he had to respond to one emergency or another.  Uniting warring ethnic groups, playing others off against each other, fighting it out with the SPDC every few years, blocking Triad attempts to edge into his market.  It was exhausting and he wasn't getting any younger.