Extinction Crisis. Don Pendleton

saw a flare light and he knew that a ricochet had punctured the gas tank. Dripping gas was ignited, and the robot was now lost in a roaring cauldron of fire. If this had been a movie, the van would have rocketed skyward on a column of blossoming fire, but that usually occurred with the assistance of several pounds of plastic explosives and hydraulic rams. The reality was that there weren’t enough fumes inside the van’s gas tank to cause an explosive situation as the liquid fuel poured and kept the enflamed gasoline from detonating. As the gas burned in open air, it had room to expand without increased pressure.

      James had hoped that the blazing heat would have hindered the enemy robot, but another gunshot hammered into the dirt close to him. The rebounding slug clipped him across the collarbone, only striking the Kevlar vest’s shoulder strap. It was a stunning blow regardless, and his rifle dropped into the dirt. He rolled away from the fallen weapon, another round only missing by inches, plucking the cloth of his pant leg.

      Cut off from communications with his partner and under fire from an enemy robot obscured by a wreath of flame, James rolled, scurrying out of the path of the hostile mounted weapon. Somewhere in the crackling blaze beneath the van, the robot swiveled and turned to keep its aim directed at the prone Phoenix Force fighter.

      It wasn’t much better than the rifle at this range, but the former Navy SEAL pulled his Glock and cut loose with it. The wide-mouthed hollowpoints, however, would have a better chance to snag on the smooth, curved skin of the enemy mechanism and cut into its electronic guts. James grimaced as he realized that he was no better than shooting blind into the harsh glow of the burning gasoline, but he emptied a half-dozen shots, cranking the trigger as fast as it reset against his finger.

      A burning figure scurried out from under the van. James swung his point of aim to pursue the fiery mechanism when a second round of gunfire burst out of the van. Two robots were applying pressure on the Phoenix commando now, and this one had been shielded from the flames by the interior of the van. He pushed himself to his feet and charged out of view of the back of the vehicle. Bullets kicked up sand at his heels as the second infiltration mechanism cranked off rounds at him. Encizo, in the distance, opened up with his SIG carbine, 5.56 mm rounds able to pass through the skin of the van as if it was made of paper. James skidded to a halt to avoid crossing his partner’s line of fire. The full magazine tore a precision burst through the vehicle, and a limping, floppy mechanism crashed out of the rear doors into the dirt.

      James swung his Glock toward it when a bullet hit him just above the solar plexus. Fortunately, the Kevlar prevented a catastrophic injury again, but the impact knocked the wind out of James’s lungs. Farkas and Kristopoulos turned their rifles against the muzzle-flash, which originated from a flaming copse of grass where the first robot had escaped. The two robots swung and cut loose with their weapons. Kristopoulos jerked as she took a round in the thigh, outside of the protection of her body armor. The bullet only struck muscle, not bone or artery, and she somehow managed to find the strength to continue to stand and fire. Farkas slipped his arm around her waist and triggered his AK from the hip. James whirled back to the machine that Encizo had damaged. It writhed in an effort to target the closer Phoenix Force commando. Together James and Encizo concentrated their fire on the machine as its operator struggled to choose between the two Phoenix targets.

      A storm of 9 mm and 5.56 mm slugs tore into the silvery form and chewed it into confetti, knocking segments apart. James had reloaded his 17-round magazine twice in rapid succession and Encizo had fed a new magazine into his carbine.

      “The other one’s still moving!” Encizo relayed across from the pair of Farkas and Kristopoulos. “How much punishment can these things take?”

      “Not that much when you can concentrate fire on them,” James said. “But it’s not like shooting an animal or a human. These things probably have redundant motors and electronic systems that make them harder to incapacitate. Throw in their metal covering and the fact that they don’t have the breath—”

      “Enough lecture! Get your rifle!” Encizo snapped. He reloaded his spent SIG’s magazine and ripped off a full automatic fusillade against the burning shrubbery. James scooped up his weapon and added his firepower to the final knockout. Four people with automatic weapons had expended almost 500 rounds in unison against a pair of these mechanisms, and had unhindered fields of fire against them.

      James knew that any attempt to hunt these down in the confines of a nuclear facility would be a nightmarish struggle, even if they could manage to spot such robots in ventilation ducts and access pipes. The Chicago Phoenix Force warrior continued to pound out the contents of a second magazine into the writhing mass of machinery until it stopped twitching. He held his distance, not wanting to be caught in a self-destruct mechanism blast radius, but since the robot had been torn to shredded metal, he wondered if any detonator would have been still in operation after such a hammering.

      “Farkas, are you and Atalanta all right?” James called.

      “We’ll be fine,” the Egyptian said. “I’m applying first aid to her leg. She only took it in the meat, nothing structural or circulatory harmed.”

      James nodded. “Let me handle that. We need a bomb team here, just to be certain.”

      Encizo walked closer to the robot that he and James had poured nearly a hundred bullets into. “How many times did we have to hit the other one, after you’d lit it on fire?”

      James looked up from Kristopoulos, medical kit in one hand. He looked at the Greek Israeli woman. “How many magazines from you?”

      “Only one from my rifle before that bastard smacked me in the leg,” Kristopoulos growled. “Then I transitioned to my SIG-Sauer.”

      “Farkas?” James asked.

      “Two magazines from my AK. Then what you two threw at it,” the Egyptian said.

      Encizo held up his hand to cut off James’s estimation. None was needed. “We’re looking at devices that possess a remarkable amount of durability. If it takes at least ninety rounds of 5.56 mm, not counting the stuff that managed to hit with Farkas firing his AK from the hip, these things require the same kind of firepower that’s reserved for anti-aircraft or anti-matériel purposes.”

      James frowned. “Then again, Carl did disable some of its mechanism with a .357 SIG round.”

      “He disabled the Taser,” Encizo countered. “One component in an arsenal. And that was a high-pressure, near-Magnum round at a range of less than five feet.”

      “So we utilize more appropriate weaponry,” James said.

      “Like what?” Farkas asked.

      “Shotgun saboted slugs?” Kristopoulos suggested.

      “You read my mind,” James returned. “Then I’ve also seen bomb disposal robots which utilized a .44 Magnum Redhawk.”

      “That’s old school,” Kristopoulos said. “How old are you again?”

      James looked at the Greek woman, then smiled. “I’d tell you, but it’d depress me.”

      “Give me some credit, Mr. Farrow,” Kristopoulos replied.

      Farkas was on the phone to his allies in Unit 777. Encizo scanned the air overhead, frowning.

      “Is the UAV still up there?” James asked.

      “It’s moved on,” Encizo replied. “Just the same, I wouldn’t go close to the robots until the bomb squad has dealt with them.”

      “At least it wasn’t armed,” James returned.

      “No, but now whoever is in control of these machines knows what we look like,” Encizo said.

      James frowned. “General appearance.”

      “So how many tall African-Americans and stocky Hispanics have you seen running around with weaponry in Egypt?” Encizo asked.

      James sighed. “I’ll get back on the horn to Barb to see if we can get some sanitization of our identities.”