Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [72]
But Mirowski was in the way! Somehow the SEALS had stopped and spun, charging toward the rocket-launching Eluoi in a fury. The blast caught the Pole in the chest, but not before his G15 had chattered off a long ripping burst. The slugs tore into the Eluoi, and the weapon dropped from the fellow’s nerveless fingers as the force of the rocket, full in the chest, blasted Mirowski against the wall.
“All clear, sir,” Ruiz was reporting, checking the rest of the fallen hostiles.
Jackson barely heard him. He stumbled over to Mirowski and saw the gaping hole in the armor of his suit and the torn flesh underneath.
Even before he knelt beside him, he knew the big SEALS was dead.
Fifteen: Cold Vengeance
A few more suppressed shots coughed through the control room as the grim SEALS stalked around the large compartment. With Mirowski’s body still lying against the far console, they gave no quarter: When they came upon an Eluoi hiding behind a piece of equipment, the alien died quickly. Jackson, his jaw clenched, watched the search with cold detachment for a second, then returned to the slain SEALS. He knelt and found himself compelled to look at the ghastly wound, a crater of flesh, bone, and blood in the man’s chest.
“Teal!” he barked as the corpsman entered the command center. “Get over here! See what you can do!”
Harry Teal ran to the LT’s side and knelt beside the body, taking in the horrific wound that had torn away the man’s body armor and gouged deeply into his chest. He was about to say something to Jackson when something in the officer’s eyes caused him to change his mind.
Instead, he consulted the dials on the life support module of Mirowski’s backpack, which were visible from the side so that he did not have to move the body. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But there’s nothing to do for him. I think he was gone as soon as the round hit him.”
“Dammit, I know that,” Jackson said, slumping into a sitting position with his back against the console. He wiped a gloved hand across his faceplate. “He saved my life.”
“He was a good man,” the corpsman agreed, reaching out to unlatch Mirowski’s helmet gently. Removing the headgear, he took a hand and solemnly closed the big Pole’s—“Polish-American’s,” Jackson reminded himself—eyes.
The LT shook his head, fighting off weariness, realizing that they still had a lot of work to do. He activated his communicator and set it to full power. “Falco? G-Man?” he called. “Do you copy?”
The only answer was static.
Suddenly the lieutenant felt terribly discouraged and weary. The enemy installation had proved to be far more extensive than he could have imagined, and he knew there were still two pockets of enemy holdouts, maybe more, within the maze of tunnels, caverns, and compartments. Two of his men were outside, and God only knew how they were faring.
He looked around the command center and saw that Baxter was studying the main computer center in the middle of the room. Other monitors and drives had been shattered in the brief but violent firefight, but the central bank of equipment seemed to have escaped damage. Schroeder, the other electrician’s mate, went over to the machines and also started to study the keyboards and screens.
Jackson shook his head, banishing his weariness and discouragement with an effort of will. They were still in a dire situation, and his men needed him. He activated his communicator and spoke into the microphone built into his helmet.
“Sandy?” he called to his second in command. “What’s your situation over on the flank?”
“The bastards are still forted up down here, sir,” the lieutenant (j.g.) reported. “They can’t get to us, but we can’t get to them, either.”
“Very well. Steady as she goes, for now. Grafty, do you copy?” he continued.
“Right here, Lieutenant,” the coxswain came back.
“Had any visitors down there?” Jackson asked.
“Actually, we had a hot little dance going on for a few minutes. Some of the bastards came down the stairs, just like you warned