Mission Liberty Read Online Free Page B

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     intersection, but when he did, he stopped when a pair of “technicals” came into view, two Toyota pickup trucks, one green,
     one white, with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in the back. A rebel in the green truck opened fire as Zoulalian hit the
     brakes, backing up to speed forward again on the street he’d tried to turn from. The green truck followed while the white
     truck raced parallel to them, firing at them whenever there was a gap between the houses, doubtless causing serious collateral
     damage with rounds that didn’t make it through the gaps. DeLuca shot at the truck behind them, though the road was so uneven
     with potholes, exposed cobblestones, and eroded excavations that it was impossible to steady his aim, and he knew he was firing
     more for demonstration than effect. The rebel soldier manning the machine gun looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen
     years old, but for all DeLuca knew, he’d been fighting half his life.
    “What do we have?” he called to support. “Taking fire.”
    “Stay your course,” command and control came back. “
Minneapolis
has it.”
    He estimated their speed to be fifty or sixty miles an hour. As the next intersection loomed, he turned toward the sea. With
     the green truck bearing down on them from behind, slowing down was not an option. At the intersection, beyond the corner house,
     he looked down the street, his weapon ready. He saw the sea, and then he saw the white truck appear, and then he saw it launched
     into the sky when a shell from one of the destroyer’s six-inch guns struck it. The van was through the intersection before
     DeLuca had a chance to see the truck land.
    “Nice shot,
Minneapolis,
” he said.
    “We’ll give the computer an assist on that one,” a voice in his headset said. “Apache Three at your back door.” He turned
     in time to see the AH-64D Longbow attack helicopter descending on the green truck, closing the distance rapidly. A burst from
     the Apache’s M230 chain gun, mounted beneath the fuselage, sent a stream of 30mm rounds down the center of the green Toyota,
     which veered suddenly into a wall before flipping and barrel-rolling on its side a half dozen rotations before coming to rest
     on its collapsed roof.
    The Apache climbed quickly, at low altitudes an easy target for shoulder-fireds and RPGs.
    “You’re three blocks beyond the take-out point,” DeLuca heard in his headset. “Come back, come back three!”
    Zoulalian turned right, then right again onto the street that paralleled the beach, racing past a row of fish vendors and
     an open-air bar, speeding another block before turning left at a marine repair shop when the way ahead was barricaded by a
     pair of overturned cars. He threaded his way between overturned brightly colored fishing boats and turned right again once
     he hit the beach, the van fishtailing and slowing as the sand grabbed at the tires. The way ahead was clear, until DeLuca
     saw a man rise from the sand and wave his arms at them to stop.
    “Navy SEAL, Navy SEAL!” he heard in his earpiece as Zoulalian hit the brakes. “Claymores directly in front of you—do not proceed!”
    Team Red spilled from the van, MacKenzie staying by the ambassador’s side, while DeLuca gazed seaward, where he saw the destroyer
     USS
Minneapolis,
and closer in, the LST from which the helicopters had launched. The USS
Lyndon Johnson,
the aircraft carrier that was their final destination, cruised beyond the horizon.
    The SEAL stood in the sand, pointing to a spot at his feet and gesturing with his arm for the team to approach.
    DeLuca turned the binoculars up the beach, in the direction of the soccer stadium and presidential palace. He saw, perhaps
     a thousand yards off, several hundred rebel troops running as fast as they could in his direction. When he turned 180 degrees
     and looked toward the castle, he saw another group of rebel soldiers, larger than the first, headed their way.
    “Det cord, right