The Destroyer - 116 - The Destroyer 116 - The Final Reel by Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

Author:Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir [Murphy, Warren & Sapir, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Pulp Action
ISBN: 9780373632312
Publisher: PINNACLE BOOKS
Published: 1999-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

The dirt floor of the bar rocked from the impacts outside. Bottles crashed from collapsing shelves. Men yelled and raced for the exits. In fear for his life, Assola bolted after them, hoping they would lead him to safety.

They led him directly into the mouth of the attack. The five Russians MiL helicopters had flown in from a base in Tajikistan to the north. They swept down on Faizabad like Apocalyptic horsemen. The very air shrieked in pain.

Missiles exploded flaming trails of orange from wing rocket pods. The four-barreled machine guns mounted in the noses rattled deafeningly, spitting death-dealing lead at the scattering hordes. All around, people screamed.

But they were not screams of fear. These men of Faizabad reacted like trained soldiers.

As the Russian helicopters swept around for another pass at the city, weapons were brought from a wood-and-grass hovel. Cowering in the street at the rear of a rusted Rambler, Assola got his first up-close view of both the famous American Stinger missiles and the infamous mujahideen.

The swarm of MiLs had spun around. The lead helicopter was nearly upon them when a scraggly-faced old man swept a Stinger to his shoulder. With a casualness that could not but impress Assola al Khobar, the man aimed and fired.

The missile flew a steady course into the under-carriage of the nearest MiL. The helicopter dutifully exploded.

It dropped from the sky like a wounded beast. Behind it a cloud of acrid smoke filled the air.

To Assola's horror the remaining four helicopters burst through the shroud of black smoke, weapons blazing. Three more were taken out as easily as the first. Assola was relieved when only the fifth remained. His relief lasted up until he realized that there were no fighters near him and that the helicopter was heading his way.

Terrified, Assola began crawling rapidly away. Beside the Rambler his shaking hand struck something soft and wet.

The mujahideen fighter, on whose bleeding chest Assola al Khobar had dropped his hand, groaned. An unused rocket launcher lay in the frozen dirt beside the dying man.

Assola grabbed the fighter by his shirtfront. "Get up! Get up!" he pleaded.

The man shook his head. "I am shot," he wheezed.

Assola's eyes were wild. The ground shook. All other sounds were muted by the ferocity of the MiL's pounding rotors. The helicopter was nearly upon them.

"But you must shoot it down!" Assola yelled.

"I am dying," the man gasped. Pinkish froth bubbled from between his parted lips. "You must do it."

Assola's eyes went wide. It was the first thing anyone had asked him to do since he'd failed to take out the garbage for his mother back in Saudi Arabia. "What do I do?" Assola asked, panicked.

They were spotted cowering in the dirt. The nose machine guns of the MiL roared to life. With every inch the gunner drew a more accurate bead.

"Point it and fire!" the man screamed in what would be his final words.

As the mujahideen fighter breathed his last, Assola wheeled, missile in hand. Before he even knew it, he had depressed the fire button.

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