and Parker were preparing
to make their stand. He wore a black jumpsuit and helmet, but Sigler could
distinctly make out a wisp of blond hair sprouting from the man’s chin. The
paratrooper wielded a pair of enormous pistols, one in each hand, and as he
fired them out, the last of the charging insurgents went down.
The newcomer shrugged out of his parachute
harness before the canopy could settle around him, then hastened to join
Sigler. He kept his pistols aimed in the direction from which the attack had
come, but the balance of the enemy forces were well beyond pistol range, even a
pistol as massive as the Desert Eagle. When he reached Sigler’s side, they all
hastened into the relative safety of the concrete building.
“Heard you guys were throwing a party,” the
blond man said, grinning. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing.”
Sigler was almost too stunned to reply. “The
more the merrier, but I hope you brought some beer. We’re out.”
One of the other paratroopers stepped
forward. “No beer, but we have these.” He passed over a clutch of magazines.
“Sonny Vaughn, call me ‘Houston.’ Smiling boy over there is Stan Tremblay—Juggernaut.”
He jerked a thumb toward the third paratrooper. “That’s Silent Bob. We’re Alpha
team.”
In a rush of understanding, Sigler realized
that these men had performed a HALO—a high altitude, low opening—parachute
jump. The dangerous technique, which involved jumping out of a jet aircraft
from an altitude of 35,000 feet, freefalling for two minutes, and then popping
a chute just three hundred feet above the ground, was usually reserved for
stealthy insertions into enemy territory, but it was an effective way to get a
shooter onto the battlefield in a big hurry.
Alpha
team…HALO jump… These guys are Delta .
For the first time since the battle had
begun, Sigler felt a ray of hope. He took one of the magazines and reloaded his
carbine. “Any more of you guys on the way?”
“Cherry should be around here…” Tremblay
started to say, but Vaughn cut him off.
“Cherry burned in. What you see is what
you’ve got.”
Sigler remembered the loud impact that had
preceded the paratroopers’ arrival. There were no second chances with a HALO
jump. You could get hypoxic during the long free-fall, or giddy with nitrogen narcosis… Your hands could freeze… Your chute could
malfunction…and that was it. Game over, permanently.
“Aww shit, really?” Tremblay shook his head.
Three men. Sigler’s candle of hope flickered a little.
Still, they were Delta operators, and that was nothing to sneeze at.
Parker clapped Tremblay on the shoulder. “You
saved our asses with those hand cannons of yours. Is that Alpha standard issue?
Jack, you gonna get us some of those?”
Tremblay sucked in a breath and then stoked
his grin back to life. “I found these babies just lying around. They were too
shiny to pass up.”
“Hang on to them. You’ll probably get another
chance to use them.”
Sigler cleared his throat. “If you girls are
done fixing your makeup, there’s work to do.”
“Roger that, boss. What’s the plan?”
Sigler had been pondering that very question.
The enemy knew where they were, and the odds were good that they were already
planning another mass attack. He hastily outlined his defensive plan: two
sniper teams on the roof, shooters at every window.
Each of the Alpha team shooters had brought
along eight thirty-round magazines, and they divided these so that everyone had
at least two full mags. The newcomers had also brought along another five
hundred rounds of loose ammunition. Everyone immediately set about reloading
empty magazines, but it was a tedious chore, and Sigler doubted very much that
enemy would give them time to complete it.
They got about four minutes.
The insurgents had used the brief lull to
send a flanking element around to approach from the south. When one of the
snipers on the roof spied their approach and started picking
to make their stand. He wore a black jumpsuit and helmet, but Sigler could
distinctly make out a wisp of blond hair sprouting from the man’s chin. The
paratrooper wielded a pair of enormous pistols, one in each hand, and as he
fired them out, the last of the charging insurgents went down.
The newcomer shrugged out of his parachute
harness before the canopy could settle around him, then hastened to join
Sigler. He kept his pistols aimed in the direction from which the attack had
come, but the balance of the enemy forces were well beyond pistol range, even a
pistol as massive as the Desert Eagle. When he reached Sigler’s side, they all
hastened into the relative safety of the concrete building.
“Heard you guys were throwing a party,” the
blond man said, grinning. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing.”
Sigler was almost too stunned to reply. “The
more the merrier, but I hope you brought some beer. We’re out.”
One of the other paratroopers stepped
forward. “No beer, but we have these.” He passed over a clutch of magazines.
“Sonny Vaughn, call me ‘Houston.’ Smiling boy over there is Stan Tremblay—Juggernaut.”
He jerked a thumb toward the third paratrooper. “That’s Silent Bob. We’re Alpha
team.”
In a rush of understanding, Sigler realized
that these men had performed a HALO—a high altitude, low opening—parachute
jump. The dangerous technique, which involved jumping out of a jet aircraft
from an altitude of 35,000 feet, freefalling for two minutes, and then popping
a chute just three hundred feet above the ground, was usually reserved for
stealthy insertions into enemy territory, but it was an effective way to get a
shooter onto the battlefield in a big hurry.
Alpha
team…HALO jump… These guys are Delta .
For the first time since the battle had
begun, Sigler felt a ray of hope. He took one of the magazines and reloaded his
carbine. “Any more of you guys on the way?”
“Cherry should be around here…” Tremblay
started to say, but Vaughn cut him off.
“Cherry burned in. What you see is what
you’ve got.”
Sigler remembered the loud impact that had
preceded the paratroopers’ arrival. There were no second chances with a HALO
jump. You could get hypoxic during the long free-fall, or giddy with nitrogen narcosis… Your hands could freeze… Your chute could
malfunction…and that was it. Game over, permanently.
“Aww shit, really?” Tremblay shook his head.
Three men. Sigler’s candle of hope flickered a little.
Still, they were Delta operators, and that was nothing to sneeze at.
Parker clapped Tremblay on the shoulder. “You
saved our asses with those hand cannons of yours. Is that Alpha standard issue?
Jack, you gonna get us some of those?”
Tremblay sucked in a breath and then stoked
his grin back to life. “I found these babies just lying around. They were too
shiny to pass up.”
“Hang on to them. You’ll probably get another
chance to use them.”
Sigler cleared his throat. “If you girls are
done fixing your makeup, there’s work to do.”
“Roger that, boss. What’s the plan?”
Sigler had been pondering that very question.
The enemy knew where they were, and the odds were good that they were already
planning another mass attack. He hastily outlined his defensive plan: two
sniper teams on the roof, shooters at every window.
Each of the Alpha team shooters had brought
along eight thirty-round magazines, and they divided these so that everyone had
at least two full mags. The newcomers had also brought along another five
hundred rounds of loose ammunition. Everyone immediately set about reloading
empty magazines, but it was a tedious chore, and Sigler doubted very much that
enemy would give them time to complete it.
They got about four minutes.
The insurgents had used the brief lull to
send a flanking element around to approach from the south. When one of the
snipers on the roof spied their approach and started picking
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