Reaching the garage, the companions raced directly through the open doorway. A couple of mechanics were tinkering with a wag and turned with their blasters leveled at the invasion, but then paused at the sight of Sheffield. The companions didn’t hesitate and the men died on the spot.
Surveying the place, Ryan saw a dozen U.S. Army 4×4 trucks, five Hummers and one APC, all loaded with supplies. The war wag looked in good shape even it did have only seven tires. The installation of the eighth had been interrupted by death.
“One of these trucks will hold all of us,” Doc stated, grabbing a roll of duct tape off a workbench.
“Take too long to unload,” J.B. said.
“And too slow.” Ryan frowned. “We’re taking the LAV. Right out the front gate.”
As Doc started to wrap the baron’s arms to his sides with the tape, Sheffield stared at Ryan as if he were insane. The front gate was the strongest point of the whole ville. How could they exit there?
Krysty tried the rear door. “Locked!”
Without comment, J.B. doffed his fedora and dived underneath the wag. As his legs wiggled out of view, he cried out and started to fire the Uzi on full-auto, the muzzle-flashes strobing from beneath the LAV-25.
Ryan hit the concrete floor, his Kalashnikov searching for targets, but only spent brass and J.B. were in sight. Plus, a lumpy pile of bleeding leather.
“Some sort of egg sack under the wag,” the Armorer said breathlessly, working on the belly hatch. “Damn thing started to hatch when I arrived.” The small door yielded to his touch and the man wiggled inside the APC.
Seconds later the rear doors swung open wide, and the companions piled inside. J.B. took the driver’s seat and started the engines. Ryan slammed the baron into a wall seat and buckled him in painfully tight. The man glared but said nothing. Going to the turret, Ryan checked the cannon on top of the wag. It seemed to be in perfect condition, but it was unloaded.
“Ammo!” he called down as the wag rolled out of the garage.
Using both hands, Krysty passed up a weighty roll of 25 mm shells for the electric-driven Gatling. Mildred got busy strapping Jak across several wall seats, then started to wash his wounds with the water from her canteen. Once she got her med kit back, the boy would be fine. Other than the broken nose, none of the wounds were serious, or the cuts very deep. The blues had been going purely for pain, nothing more.
As J.B. headed straight for the front gate, lights were flickering on all over the base, brightly illuminating the buildings and streets. Doors were flung open by unshaven men with blasters, rubbing sleepy faces. Some started running around madly, shouting orders and questions. The companions opened fire with their AK-47s through the blasterports of the APC, cutting down the men mercilessly.
“Two minutes!” Doc warned, slapping a fresh clip into the Kalashnikov.
In a crash of splintering wood, the LAV plowed through the kiosk, men inside yelling for only an instant. Then the gate loomed before them. Ryan concentrated the roaring 25 mm cannon on the hinges, the HE shells chewing a path of destruction along both sets. Shards of metal flew in all directions under the furious bombardment. Ryan never stopped shooting until the gate was too close, then he was forced to drop inside or risk being sheered in two.
“Hold on!” J.B. shouted, shoving the gas pedal to the floor.
The wag seemed to exploded as it struck the steel bars, the passengers thrown forward as every loose item went flying. The front of the armored wag lifted into the air as the sound of screeching metal assaulted their ears. Then there was a tremendous crash and metallic ringing as the LAV straightened its keel and rolled over the fallen barrier. The engines sputtered, and J.B. fought to keep them alive as the wag raced over the hardened landscape, putting as much distance as possible between it and the doomed ville.
“Angle away from the gate!” Ryan ordered, grabbing another belt of ammo from the locker and struggling up into the turret. “Then stop!”
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