Caitlin brought the CHiPs helicopter to a high altitude halt, maintaining a
relative position to study their objective critically. At her side, Jason
Locke leaned forward against his safety harness to do the same, the Zebra
Squad team mirroring their actions from behind. Not that there was much to
see. Larchmont Field consisted of a single concrete runway set in a
shallow bowl only five kilometers from Horn's estate -- a barren and little
used field that had last seen its heyday during the second world war, when
it had served as a minor refueling station for civilian transports heading
to the west coast. Now it lay abandoned, weeds growing between cracks in
the runway, sun glinting brutally off the corrugated roofs of the two
hangars along one end of the strip.
"Not exactly impressive," Caitlin commented, swinging the helicopter around a one hundred-eighty degree arc. "It's deserted enough that I can see why Horn wanted Hawke to bring Airwolf out here, but I don't see anything like a welcoming committee."
"As well organized as Horn is reputed to be, he would have something up his sleeve. I just wish I knew what." The black agent pulled out a pair of binoculars and repeated his visual scan, from horizon to horizon and back again. "I have to admit it looks pretty quiet."
"Don't believe it. Horn wouldn't underestimate Hawke -- he's got something planned, ah just know it." She accepted the binoculars Locke proffered and made her own examination of the area, then returned them, again wrapping her fingers around the collective. "I wish we had Airwolf's scanners; I'm not used to going in without information. Got out of the habit."
"Info or not, we're going in." Locke flicked a switch on the communications unit, opening a channel to the large helicopter on their tail. "Locke to Brewster. Ready to deploy your men?"
There was a crackle of static, then a deep, masculine voice answered, "Brewster. Zebra Squad is ready on your word, Sir."
Locke took a last look at the outwardly innocuous airfield, and nodded. "The word is given. We'll follow you down."
The two helicopters settled to earth three-quarters of a mile from their target, each spilling their heavily armed passengers. Twelve members of Zebra Squad, in camouflage gear and like-colored caps, spread out in a fan and began to make their way across the low hills separating them from the field. Jason and Caitlin, both armed with handguns, followed them at a short distance so as to not impede the Squad's highly coordinated drill.
As a unit the incursion team made its approach, the last hundred feet dropping from a crouch to a belly-crawl, and again pausing to inspect the area. The light breeze whipped up loose sand from either side of the strip, even rolling the occasional tumbleweed across the field. Beyond that nothing moved. There was something, however; by listening closely they could now hear the low rumble of a gasoline engine, probably located inside one of the hangars.
"To provide electricity," Caitlin whispered to Locke, who lay prone at her side. "Landing lights, maybe?"
"While incidentally screening the sound of any heartbeats from Airwolf's sensors," Locke mumbled back, finally deigning to undo his tie and collar button. Beyond that, he still wore the brown suit he'd started with that morning, the dust and dirt now staining the expensive material and noticeably detracting from its formerly dapper appearance.
At a signal from Brewster, Zebra Squad gained its feet and cautiously completed the short journey, moving as a series of small teams rather than one large squad. Still nothing moved, not a sound disturbing the tranquility beyond the steadily running motor ... until they were within range of the first hangar.
The first incursion member had actually reached out to touch the metal wall when, without warning, desert sand rose in puffs at scattered intervals, the enemy seeming to rise out of the very ground itself! Shots rang out even before the camouflage blankets had fallen away, Horn's troops cutting down three of Zebra Squad's point men in the first salvo. But the Company had trained its soldiers well for such an occasion, and they responded immediately, throwing down a line of fire that sent the ambushers diving for cover.
"Bet they were insulated against a thermal scan," Locke yelled at Cait as the two joined the forward rush launched by Zebra Squad. He stopped, dropping to one knee and loosing two shots at a barely seen shadow against the nearest hangar. A scream divulged the success of his endeavor, the khaki-clad enemy staggering forward a moment later to collapse in a heap in the dirt.
The same play was being acted out all across the field as the fighting intensified, the sounds of shots and pain and death loud enough to drown out completely the gasoline motor that might have defeated more sophisticated technology. Jason and Caitlin found themselves fighting as a coordinated duo, covering the rear of the first hangar, while Zebra Squad took the rear of the second building and the front of both. One by one, the alarmingly numerous enemy fell before their aggressive onslaught. Then....
"Listen." Caitlin pressed her back against the ancient hangar and held up a hand, stopping Locke from turning the corner into the main fray.
He complied, pausing mid-step, his head cocked to listen. "Another motor," he said, turning to stare at the hangar wall. "In there."
His words preceded by seconds only the loud ripping sound of metal and wood disintegrating under the impact of nearly two-point-five tons of automobile punching its way out. Engine roaring, transmission shrieking its displeasure, a 'stretch' limousine emerged from the new aperture, the wallowing way it accelerated heralding the fact that it was heavier than normal, probably armored.
Caught in the back by a free-swinging board, Jason was thrown several feet to lay wheezing for breath in the dirt. Caitlin, having escaped only by virtue of having been initially far enough from the hangar to catapult herself out of the way of debris, emptied the rest of her clip in the back of the big car, to no avail. "You okay?" she called, abandoning her attack to kneel by the black agent.
He nodded, sitting easily with her help. "That was Morris," he snapped, recovering his breath. "He's getting away!"
She ground her teeth, then slid an arm under his shoulder and pulled. "Looks like he's heading for the main road. We kin still catch him with the chopper if we hurry." She eyed the other inquiringly. "You up to a run?"
White teeth flashed under the black mustache as Locke allowed her to pull him to his feet. "Try and keep up, Deputy." Her answering smile was lost as the two left the security of the now empty hangar and retraced their steps, this time at a flat-out sprint, each determined not to allow their target to escape.
***
Synchronized to the minute with the assault on Larchmont Field only a few miles away, two squads of the elite combat unit known as Epsilon Guard began their own onslaught of Horn's estate, joining the already present rescue team within seconds of their ETA. Jo watched their arrival on Airwolf's computer enhanced imaging system, the pilot part of her admiring the absolute precision with which the two helicopters flew closely aligned so as to confuse enemy radar into showing them as a single blip. She couldn't hear their rotors over Airwolf's own engines, but as they neared she could feel them as a vibration in her back teeth out of tune with the helicopter in which she rode.
"Epsilon Guard making its run," she reported unnecessarily to Mike, who had already cocked his head toward the sky; undoubtedly, he'd felt their approach also even through the continued machine gun fire he'd been using to throw Horn's troops into confusion. He pressed the red button on his stick and a sustained burst disintegrated a large section of the garage, then he strafed the front of the building again, forcing the withdraw of several visible rifle barrels from the windows. The tracer appeared as bright, phosphorous streaks even through the helicopter's darkened glass, and Jo could follow the trail easily even without the small geysers of wood and stone chips that erupted with each impact. The olive-uniformed troopers that had had the misfortune to use that area for cover, scattered like cockroaches under a light, some of them making it no more than a few yards before the tell-tale line of tracer caught them up. Under Jo's horrified gaze, they seemed to dance a little jig before falling like rag dolls to the earth.
She gulped, sickened by the carnage although granting the need for it. For Uncle Dom, she told herself, determinedly switching her attention back to the multi-range imagers she was using to warn Mike of targets. She stiffened, immediately seeing two figures making their way across the roof to a small turret on their right. "Two men, bearing six degrees relative, elevation thirty feet."
"Got it!" Rivers returned, sounding obscenely cheerful under the circumstances. She'd seen that before, though -- noticed it in Saint John as well -- that taut elation that came with the onset of armed combat. She remembered Mike's words of earlier, how this Adrenalin charge was as addicting to them as any drug, and her mouth twisted enviously. They get a rush off all this, she thought with some repugnance. All I get is sick to my stomach. Is that fair?
The thought came even as Rivers altered Airwolf's perspective the prescribed six degrees and opened up again, this time with a single burst from the thirty millimeter cannon. The turret and fifty square feet of roof transmuted into a dust cloud, the now unrecognizable bodies catapulting to the earth.
Mike's triumphant whoop was cut short as Airwolf shuddered, bullets pinging off her armored hide. He realigned her nose again, raking the areas on either side of the garden path. One man rose from the level of the bushes, throwing up his arms and loosing some gleaming metallic object -- probably the source of the impacts on Airwolf, for they stopped briefly before resuming from another direction.
"New target bearing one-eight-one degrees," Jo said, her eyes widening when she saw that there were two targets in that direction, one of them unfolding a suspiciously long, round object with some form of stock. "He's got a rocket, Mike!" she yelled, fighting the scream that wanted to erupt and pleased when the words emerged with far more equanimity than she felt.
"No problem," the combat pilot returned gleefully, making full use of the weapons. "Too bad we can't let go with a Copperhead and solve the whole problem in one shot."
"You know we can't do that!" Jo admonished, for once not appreciating the joke. "Saint John and the others are still inside. They could be killed if you use a missile."
"I know, I know! Relax, Jo, Uncle Mikey has everything under control." Mike sounded so condescending that Jo wanted to slug him, but she had to admit that the man did know what he was doing. He guided the gunship back and across the estate lands like a giant wasp, taking a few hits from ground fire but effectively pinning down most of the enemy troops while their backup achieved positioning.
"Airwolf, this is Epsilon Guard," came through the radio. "Airwolf, do you copy?"
Jo touched a button on her console, opening up communications with the lead chopper. "Airwolf copies you, Epsilon Guard. Is this Agent Klondyker?"
"Ol' Billy-boy Klondyker at your service, ma'am!" drawled an unruffled voice almost as Texas as Caitlin's. "Make one more strafing run then watch your fire, Airwolf; my men are going in after your next pass."
"Roger that," Jo replied, already swaying against her harness as Mike began another run, machine guns chattering. "You just be careful who you guys take out inside -- we have a rescue team gone in after hostages."
"Word has already been passed." It was obvious from Klondyker's voice that he was otherwise occupied. "Stringfellow Hawke is one of the insertion team, isn't he?"
"So?" Jo replied, acutely aware of the lack of affection the Company's agents had for her aggravating maverick of a foster cousin.
"So, nothing, Airwolf," the Company's armed assault leader returned with a hint of mischief. "Knowing that, we'll try not to shoot him on sight. Epsilon Guard out."
"Hey--!" But Jo's protest met only the static of a closed frequency. She fumed silently for a moment, her eyes locked on the scanners, tracking the results of Mike's final run while her mind tossed back all forms of retorts she could have made to the pompous soldier. It was only when the sound of gunfire had ceased that she became aware of the low laughter coming through her headset. "What's so funny?" she snapped, too worried to find much amusement in their situation.
Mike rolled Airwolf up and away from the garden, maintaining an altitude of sixty feet off the ground. "Sounds like the Boy Wonder is packing quite a rep with the regulars," he snickered, assuming a position that would give them a good view of Epsilon Guard in action. "I get the impression there's bonus points for the guy that brings back his ears and tail."
Jo's glare should have bored a hole in his helmet. "Considering these guys are trained killers," she returned coldly, "that might not be off the mark."
Mirth melted out of Rivers voice, and the look he cast at her over his shoulder carried the genuine empathy that had helped make them such fast friends in so short a time. "Saint John, Stringfellow and I are all trained killers, too," he reminded her gently. "That doesn't make us mad dogs out to shoot everything that crosses our paths."
She hung her head, regretting the outburst. "I know. But I can't help worrying. We've no idea what kind of shape Uncle Dom is in. And String's hurt -- bad. He should be in a hospital, not doping himself up and jumping back into a fight."
"Whoa!" Mike interrupted with more optimism than she felt. "They're all going to be fine. We've been doing this a long time, remember." He chuckled again, this time out of friendship. "Even good old boy, Stringfellow! You'll see. Besides, I figure Saint John is planning on pinning back his baby brother's ears personally for this stunt. He's not going to let Epsilon get them first!"
"I doubt it. They always support each other in things like that. Saint John even looked like he approved of String taking those drugs." But she had to smile despite her worry, his infectious enthusiasm renewing old yearnings. "You just wait until we get Uncle Dom back. Both String and Saint John are going to be happy again, just like they used to be!"
"Hmmmm," Rivers answered abstractedly. "Just look at those guys in action!"
'Those guys in action' was certainly a sight to see. Epsilon Guard's two troop carriers hovered nearly fifty feet from the ground, high enough for their snipers to command a good view of the landscape. With them laying down covering fire, the big helicopters next sprouted long tendrils -- a half dozen from the apertures located in each side. Seconds later these tendrils swarmed with men, sliding rapidly to the ground and scattering to set up their own protective lines.
"They're good," Mike approved. "Beautiful coordination."
Jo craned her head, choosing the polarized window over her monitor. The troops certainly were disciplined, moving in a synchronized dance from one point to another. She could make out two sets of combatants: Epsilon Guard, in brown and yellow striped fatigues, mixed here and there with men clad in white coveralls, the highly recognizable trademark of Archangel's section. All carried assault rifles, with grenades stuck to their belts. They engaged Horn's men the minute they hit the ground, slowly, inexorably, forcing them back into the house; the enemy gave ground hard, fighting for each square inch.
"Looks like it's going to be a long skirmish," Mike said, shooting off several rounds at some brave souls who dared try to use the roof as high ground. "But once Epsilon has them bottled, it shouldn't take much effort to burn them out of the house."
"So long as they don't burn the hostages while they're at it," Jo murmured to herself, her throat too constricted to share the thought aloud.
***
"Not exactly impressive," Caitlin commented, swinging the helicopter around a one hundred-eighty degree arc. "It's deserted enough that I can see why Horn wanted Hawke to bring Airwolf out here, but I don't see anything like a welcoming committee."
"As well organized as Horn is reputed to be, he would have something up his sleeve. I just wish I knew what." The black agent pulled out a pair of binoculars and repeated his visual scan, from horizon to horizon and back again. "I have to admit it looks pretty quiet."
"Don't believe it. Horn wouldn't underestimate Hawke -- he's got something planned, ah just know it." She accepted the binoculars Locke proffered and made her own examination of the area, then returned them, again wrapping her fingers around the collective. "I wish we had Airwolf's scanners; I'm not used to going in without information. Got out of the habit."
"Info or not, we're going in." Locke flicked a switch on the communications unit, opening a channel to the large helicopter on their tail. "Locke to Brewster. Ready to deploy your men?"
There was a crackle of static, then a deep, masculine voice answered, "Brewster. Zebra Squad is ready on your word, Sir."
Locke took a last look at the outwardly innocuous airfield, and nodded. "The word is given. We'll follow you down."
The two helicopters settled to earth three-quarters of a mile from their target, each spilling their heavily armed passengers. Twelve members of Zebra Squad, in camouflage gear and like-colored caps, spread out in a fan and began to make their way across the low hills separating them from the field. Jason and Caitlin, both armed with handguns, followed them at a short distance so as to not impede the Squad's highly coordinated drill.
As a unit the incursion team made its approach, the last hundred feet dropping from a crouch to a belly-crawl, and again pausing to inspect the area. The light breeze whipped up loose sand from either side of the strip, even rolling the occasional tumbleweed across the field. Beyond that nothing moved. There was something, however; by listening closely they could now hear the low rumble of a gasoline engine, probably located inside one of the hangars.
"To provide electricity," Caitlin whispered to Locke, who lay prone at her side. "Landing lights, maybe?"
"While incidentally screening the sound of any heartbeats from Airwolf's sensors," Locke mumbled back, finally deigning to undo his tie and collar button. Beyond that, he still wore the brown suit he'd started with that morning, the dust and dirt now staining the expensive material and noticeably detracting from its formerly dapper appearance.
At a signal from Brewster, Zebra Squad gained its feet and cautiously completed the short journey, moving as a series of small teams rather than one large squad. Still nothing moved, not a sound disturbing the tranquility beyond the steadily running motor ... until they were within range of the first hangar.
The first incursion member had actually reached out to touch the metal wall when, without warning, desert sand rose in puffs at scattered intervals, the enemy seeming to rise out of the very ground itself! Shots rang out even before the camouflage blankets had fallen away, Horn's troops cutting down three of Zebra Squad's point men in the first salvo. But the Company had trained its soldiers well for such an occasion, and they responded immediately, throwing down a line of fire that sent the ambushers diving for cover.
"Bet they were insulated against a thermal scan," Locke yelled at Cait as the two joined the forward rush launched by Zebra Squad. He stopped, dropping to one knee and loosing two shots at a barely seen shadow against the nearest hangar. A scream divulged the success of his endeavor, the khaki-clad enemy staggering forward a moment later to collapse in a heap in the dirt.
The same play was being acted out all across the field as the fighting intensified, the sounds of shots and pain and death loud enough to drown out completely the gasoline motor that might have defeated more sophisticated technology. Jason and Caitlin found themselves fighting as a coordinated duo, covering the rear of the first hangar, while Zebra Squad took the rear of the second building and the front of both. One by one, the alarmingly numerous enemy fell before their aggressive onslaught. Then....
"Listen." Caitlin pressed her back against the ancient hangar and held up a hand, stopping Locke from turning the corner into the main fray.
He complied, pausing mid-step, his head cocked to listen. "Another motor," he said, turning to stare at the hangar wall. "In there."
His words preceded by seconds only the loud ripping sound of metal and wood disintegrating under the impact of nearly two-point-five tons of automobile punching its way out. Engine roaring, transmission shrieking its displeasure, a 'stretch' limousine emerged from the new aperture, the wallowing way it accelerated heralding the fact that it was heavier than normal, probably armored.
Caught in the back by a free-swinging board, Jason was thrown several feet to lay wheezing for breath in the dirt. Caitlin, having escaped only by virtue of having been initially far enough from the hangar to catapult herself out of the way of debris, emptied the rest of her clip in the back of the big car, to no avail. "You okay?" she called, abandoning her attack to kneel by the black agent.
He nodded, sitting easily with her help. "That was Morris," he snapped, recovering his breath. "He's getting away!"
She ground her teeth, then slid an arm under his shoulder and pulled. "Looks like he's heading for the main road. We kin still catch him with the chopper if we hurry." She eyed the other inquiringly. "You up to a run?"
White teeth flashed under the black mustache as Locke allowed her to pull him to his feet. "Try and keep up, Deputy." Her answering smile was lost as the two left the security of the now empty hangar and retraced their steps, this time at a flat-out sprint, each determined not to allow their target to escape.
***
Synchronized to the minute with the assault on Larchmont Field only a few miles away, two squads of the elite combat unit known as Epsilon Guard began their own onslaught of Horn's estate, joining the already present rescue team within seconds of their ETA. Jo watched their arrival on Airwolf's computer enhanced imaging system, the pilot part of her admiring the absolute precision with which the two helicopters flew closely aligned so as to confuse enemy radar into showing them as a single blip. She couldn't hear their rotors over Airwolf's own engines, but as they neared she could feel them as a vibration in her back teeth out of tune with the helicopter in which she rode.
"Epsilon Guard making its run," she reported unnecessarily to Mike, who had already cocked his head toward the sky; undoubtedly, he'd felt their approach also even through the continued machine gun fire he'd been using to throw Horn's troops into confusion. He pressed the red button on his stick and a sustained burst disintegrated a large section of the garage, then he strafed the front of the building again, forcing the withdraw of several visible rifle barrels from the windows. The tracer appeared as bright, phosphorous streaks even through the helicopter's darkened glass, and Jo could follow the trail easily even without the small geysers of wood and stone chips that erupted with each impact. The olive-uniformed troopers that had had the misfortune to use that area for cover, scattered like cockroaches under a light, some of them making it no more than a few yards before the tell-tale line of tracer caught them up. Under Jo's horrified gaze, they seemed to dance a little jig before falling like rag dolls to the earth.
She gulped, sickened by the carnage although granting the need for it. For Uncle Dom, she told herself, determinedly switching her attention back to the multi-range imagers she was using to warn Mike of targets. She stiffened, immediately seeing two figures making their way across the roof to a small turret on their right. "Two men, bearing six degrees relative, elevation thirty feet."
"Got it!" Rivers returned, sounding obscenely cheerful under the circumstances. She'd seen that before, though -- noticed it in Saint John as well -- that taut elation that came with the onset of armed combat. She remembered Mike's words of earlier, how this Adrenalin charge was as addicting to them as any drug, and her mouth twisted enviously. They get a rush off all this, she thought with some repugnance. All I get is sick to my stomach. Is that fair?
The thought came even as Rivers altered Airwolf's perspective the prescribed six degrees and opened up again, this time with a single burst from the thirty millimeter cannon. The turret and fifty square feet of roof transmuted into a dust cloud, the now unrecognizable bodies catapulting to the earth.
Mike's triumphant whoop was cut short as Airwolf shuddered, bullets pinging off her armored hide. He realigned her nose again, raking the areas on either side of the garden path. One man rose from the level of the bushes, throwing up his arms and loosing some gleaming metallic object -- probably the source of the impacts on Airwolf, for they stopped briefly before resuming from another direction.
"New target bearing one-eight-one degrees," Jo said, her eyes widening when she saw that there were two targets in that direction, one of them unfolding a suspiciously long, round object with some form of stock. "He's got a rocket, Mike!" she yelled, fighting the scream that wanted to erupt and pleased when the words emerged with far more equanimity than she felt.
"No problem," the combat pilot returned gleefully, making full use of the weapons. "Too bad we can't let go with a Copperhead and solve the whole problem in one shot."
"You know we can't do that!" Jo admonished, for once not appreciating the joke. "Saint John and the others are still inside. They could be killed if you use a missile."
"I know, I know! Relax, Jo, Uncle Mikey has everything under control." Mike sounded so condescending that Jo wanted to slug him, but she had to admit that the man did know what he was doing. He guided the gunship back and across the estate lands like a giant wasp, taking a few hits from ground fire but effectively pinning down most of the enemy troops while their backup achieved positioning.
"Airwolf, this is Epsilon Guard," came through the radio. "Airwolf, do you copy?"
Jo touched a button on her console, opening up communications with the lead chopper. "Airwolf copies you, Epsilon Guard. Is this Agent Klondyker?"
"Ol' Billy-boy Klondyker at your service, ma'am!" drawled an unruffled voice almost as Texas as Caitlin's. "Make one more strafing run then watch your fire, Airwolf; my men are going in after your next pass."
"Roger that," Jo replied, already swaying against her harness as Mike began another run, machine guns chattering. "You just be careful who you guys take out inside -- we have a rescue team gone in after hostages."
"Word has already been passed." It was obvious from Klondyker's voice that he was otherwise occupied. "Stringfellow Hawke is one of the insertion team, isn't he?"
"So?" Jo replied, acutely aware of the lack of affection the Company's agents had for her aggravating maverick of a foster cousin.
"So, nothing, Airwolf," the Company's armed assault leader returned with a hint of mischief. "Knowing that, we'll try not to shoot him on sight. Epsilon Guard out."
"Hey--!" But Jo's protest met only the static of a closed frequency. She fumed silently for a moment, her eyes locked on the scanners, tracking the results of Mike's final run while her mind tossed back all forms of retorts she could have made to the pompous soldier. It was only when the sound of gunfire had ceased that she became aware of the low laughter coming through her headset. "What's so funny?" she snapped, too worried to find much amusement in their situation.
Mike rolled Airwolf up and away from the garden, maintaining an altitude of sixty feet off the ground. "Sounds like the Boy Wonder is packing quite a rep with the regulars," he snickered, assuming a position that would give them a good view of Epsilon Guard in action. "I get the impression there's bonus points for the guy that brings back his ears and tail."
Jo's glare should have bored a hole in his helmet. "Considering these guys are trained killers," she returned coldly, "that might not be off the mark."
Mirth melted out of Rivers voice, and the look he cast at her over his shoulder carried the genuine empathy that had helped make them such fast friends in so short a time. "Saint John, Stringfellow and I are all trained killers, too," he reminded her gently. "That doesn't make us mad dogs out to shoot everything that crosses our paths."
She hung her head, regretting the outburst. "I know. But I can't help worrying. We've no idea what kind of shape Uncle Dom is in. And String's hurt -- bad. He should be in a hospital, not doping himself up and jumping back into a fight."
"Whoa!" Mike interrupted with more optimism than she felt. "They're all going to be fine. We've been doing this a long time, remember." He chuckled again, this time out of friendship. "Even good old boy, Stringfellow! You'll see. Besides, I figure Saint John is planning on pinning back his baby brother's ears personally for this stunt. He's not going to let Epsilon get them first!"
"I doubt it. They always support each other in things like that. Saint John even looked like he approved of String taking those drugs." But she had to smile despite her worry, his infectious enthusiasm renewing old yearnings. "You just wait until we get Uncle Dom back. Both String and Saint John are going to be happy again, just like they used to be!"
"Hmmmm," Rivers answered abstractedly. "Just look at those guys in action!"
'Those guys in action' was certainly a sight to see. Epsilon Guard's two troop carriers hovered nearly fifty feet from the ground, high enough for their snipers to command a good view of the landscape. With them laying down covering fire, the big helicopters next sprouted long tendrils -- a half dozen from the apertures located in each side. Seconds later these tendrils swarmed with men, sliding rapidly to the ground and scattering to set up their own protective lines.
"They're good," Mike approved. "Beautiful coordination."
Jo craned her head, choosing the polarized window over her monitor. The troops certainly were disciplined, moving in a synchronized dance from one point to another. She could make out two sets of combatants: Epsilon Guard, in brown and yellow striped fatigues, mixed here and there with men clad in white coveralls, the highly recognizable trademark of Archangel's section. All carried assault rifles, with grenades stuck to their belts. They engaged Horn's men the minute they hit the ground, slowly, inexorably, forcing them back into the house; the enemy gave ground hard, fighting for each square inch.
"Looks like it's going to be a long skirmish," Mike said, shooting off several rounds at some brave souls who dared try to use the roof as high ground. "But once Epsilon has them bottled, it shouldn't take much effort to burn them out of the house."
"So long as they don't burn the hostages while they're at it," Jo murmured to herself, her throat too constricted to share the thought aloud.
***