determination in his eyes. "Shove your barrel around the edge and trigger off a five round burst, then I'll go in. Count five and follow."
A moment before Risenberg dropped to one knee, thrust the machine gun around the edge of the doorway and fired, I heard the two AK-47s roar. The SLA was attacking, and we hadn't even gotten off to a good start.
Hunched low, I streaked into the guardroom and darted to the left. Within that fraction of a second, I caught a very brief glimpse of crates, a wall-full of weapons, a table, chairs, and heads and torsos popping up — four, five or more terrorists! I wasn't sure; I didn't have time to count.
I fired on the move, from left to right, the PPsH roaring and shuddering in my hands. One man let out a short yell when several 7.65mm bullets punched him in the chest. I caught a flash of another man's face dissolving in a messy shower of flesh and blood as four or five high velocity slugs exploded his head.
Almost to the window of the south wall, I skidded to a stop and dropped in time to avoid a stream of bullets coming from behind crates on the northeast side of the room. A slug buzzed so close to the left side of my head I thought I could hear it whispering obscenely at me. Another bullet tore through my shirt and grazed my left shoulder, the pain making me angry.
To my right, while I swung my weapon toward the northeast side of the room, another machine gun began chattering — Risenberg's. A quick glance showed that the Israeli fighter had come in low and was raking the tops of the crates with a deadly fire, his bursts having already killed one man who lay face down across one of the large wooden boxes.
Toward my side of the room, three Syrians rose up as a unit to fire. The firefight had progressed with the speed of several bolts of lightning and I reasoned that the three had assumed I was either dead or too wounded to be of any danger to them. As a result, they had crawled behind the crates to the northwest side, no doubt thinking they could rear up and splatter Risenberg before he could swing his muzzle around to them.
For a moment, one of the men, seeing me, opened his mouth in surprise. That split second enabled me to bore a hole through his chest, the impact sending him sprawling all the way back to the north wall.
The last two terrorists hesitated, uncertain of whether to fire at me or Risenberg. The one with the mustache, so long it drooped past his chin, decided on me. The second man chose Risenberg.
I ducked to one side an instant before my attacker pulled the trigger, ignoring the chain of slugs that sliced the air a foot from me and opening up with my own PPsH. The terrorist's head wobbled like a top as my stream of 7.65s damn near decapitated him. Risenberg hadn't been much kinder to the man trying to neutralize him.
Feeling that I was definitely having a bad day, I saw that the rack on the east wall was filled with AK-47 assault rifles and PPsH machine guns, each weapon containing a forty-round «banana» shaped magazine.
Firing was still coming from the hallway, in reply to the SLA people from the outside.
"Tell them in the hall that it's all clear in here," I yelled at Risenberg, who already was snatching AK-47s from the rack.
"I doubt if any of us make it to the tanks," he said calmly, tossed me an AK, then turned and ran into the hallway. I pulled back the cocking knob of the Russian assault rifle, with the thought that it was one of the finest weapons in the world — far more accurate at a longer range than the Israeli UZI, the British Sten, or the U. S. M3-A1 grease gun. Even when rarely cleaned and firing corroded ammunition, it continues to be an effective weapon.
I hurried to the south side window, the only one in the room, and cautiously looked out. The Arabs were firing from the north side of the Tower of Lions, but why weren't slugs coming through this window? Looking around the room, I soon discovered the reason — grenades! Risenberg and I had
A moment before Risenberg dropped to one knee, thrust the machine gun around the edge of the doorway and fired, I heard the two AK-47s roar. The SLA was attacking, and we hadn't even gotten off to a good start.
Hunched low, I streaked into the guardroom and darted to the left. Within that fraction of a second, I caught a very brief glimpse of crates, a wall-full of weapons, a table, chairs, and heads and torsos popping up — four, five or more terrorists! I wasn't sure; I didn't have time to count.
I fired on the move, from left to right, the PPsH roaring and shuddering in my hands. One man let out a short yell when several 7.65mm bullets punched him in the chest. I caught a flash of another man's face dissolving in a messy shower of flesh and blood as four or five high velocity slugs exploded his head.
Almost to the window of the south wall, I skidded to a stop and dropped in time to avoid a stream of bullets coming from behind crates on the northeast side of the room. A slug buzzed so close to the left side of my head I thought I could hear it whispering obscenely at me. Another bullet tore through my shirt and grazed my left shoulder, the pain making me angry.
To my right, while I swung my weapon toward the northeast side of the room, another machine gun began chattering — Risenberg's. A quick glance showed that the Israeli fighter had come in low and was raking the tops of the crates with a deadly fire, his bursts having already killed one man who lay face down across one of the large wooden boxes.
Toward my side of the room, three Syrians rose up as a unit to fire. The firefight had progressed with the speed of several bolts of lightning and I reasoned that the three had assumed I was either dead or too wounded to be of any danger to them. As a result, they had crawled behind the crates to the northwest side, no doubt thinking they could rear up and splatter Risenberg before he could swing his muzzle around to them.
For a moment, one of the men, seeing me, opened his mouth in surprise. That split second enabled me to bore a hole through his chest, the impact sending him sprawling all the way back to the north wall.
The last two terrorists hesitated, uncertain of whether to fire at me or Risenberg. The one with the mustache, so long it drooped past his chin, decided on me. The second man chose Risenberg.
I ducked to one side an instant before my attacker pulled the trigger, ignoring the chain of slugs that sliced the air a foot from me and opening up with my own PPsH. The terrorist's head wobbled like a top as my stream of 7.65s damn near decapitated him. Risenberg hadn't been much kinder to the man trying to neutralize him.
Feeling that I was definitely having a bad day, I saw that the rack on the east wall was filled with AK-47 assault rifles and PPsH machine guns, each weapon containing a forty-round «banana» shaped magazine.
Firing was still coming from the hallway, in reply to the SLA people from the outside.
"Tell them in the hall that it's all clear in here," I yelled at Risenberg, who already was snatching AK-47s from the rack.
"I doubt if any of us make it to the tanks," he said calmly, tossed me an AK, then turned and ran into the hallway. I pulled back the cocking knob of the Russian assault rifle, with the thought that it was one of the finest weapons in the world — far more accurate at a longer range than the Israeli UZI, the British Sten, or the U. S. M3-A1 grease gun. Even when rarely cleaned and firing corroded ammunition, it continues to be an effective weapon.
I hurried to the south side window, the only one in the room, and cautiously looked out. The Arabs were firing from the north side of the Tower of Lions, but why weren't slugs coming through this window? Looking around the room, I soon discovered the reason — grenades! Risenberg and I had
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