Spartan Run

CHAPTER TEN

Blade had only a split second to react, and his response was automatic.

He already knew the SEAL hadn’t covered enough ground to be safe from the missile. He already knew the transport would be caught in the blast radius. And he already knew evasive tactics would be unavailing at such short range. So instead of trying to evade the missile he committed an act of desperation. His right hand hit the switch to the machine guns.

In a staccato burst of the twin devastators a barrage of lead zinged toward the jeep. With so many rounds filling the air, and with the SEAL and the jeep facing each other when the 50-calibers opened fire, the inevitable occurred. The missile was hit in mid-flight, halfway between the two vehicles, and detonated with an explosion that rivaled the earlier one in intensity.

Again Blade withstood the harsh buffeting. During those precious seconds he had a chance to think, to recollect every fact he knew about the Armbrust 700. One fact, in particular, gave him a glimmer of hope. When the buffeting ceased, he was ready. Instead of continuing in reverse, he put the van into drive and put the pedal to the metal.

“All right!” Teucer exclaimed. “Let’s waste these suckers!”

Blade’s eyes were riveted on the jeep. He had to get within 20 feet of the enemy. If his memory was right, the strategy would win the day. If not, Jenny would soon be a widow.

The Spartan in the front passenger seat was visible through the bullet-riddled windshield, calmly yet quickly endeavoring to reload the missile launcher. To his left the driver was slumped over the wheel.

Blade realized some of the rounds must have struck the soldier doing the driving. He kept the accelerator all the way down, rapidly closing the range. “Get set,” he told Teucer.

Nodding, the bowman rolled down his window and leaned out, the compound bow extended.

“Wait until I give the word,” Blade admonished.

“Understood.”

In the space of seconds the SEAL drew within 40 feet of the jeep. The soldier suddenly popped into view again, in the act of raising the launcher to his shoulder.

No! Not yet! Blade mentally counted off the yardage and recalled the critical information concerning the Armbrust 700. The state-of-the-art weapon had been developed just prior to World War Three and widely distributed to U.S. forces. Intended for use against enemy tanks, the 700 had been designed with a unique safety feature. To prevent an accidental detonation as the missile was being fired, which sometimes occurred with conventional launchers, the manufacturers of the 700 had incorporated a computerized chip, a smart chip as they were known, into the hollow-charge missile. The projectile actually armed itself after 20 feet of flight. Prior to that range and the 700 wouldn’t explode.

But the SEAL wasn’t close enough yet.

They needed a few more seconds.

“Shoot!” Blade ordered, knowing the angle wasn’t right, knowing the bowman couldn’t possibly score, but banking on the reflex action of anyone who found an arrow headed toward them.

Teucer already had the string pulled back to just below his right ear. He sighted and released the shaft in the twinkling of an eye, then grabbed another one.

The Spartan ducked back the instant the arrow cleared the bow, his aim spoiled, and nearly lost his life then and there when the shaft struck the windshield a few inches to his left, punctured through the glass in a shower of shards and fragments, and thudded into the edge of the seat. He swung out again and swept the Armbrust 700 onto his shoulder.

Blade slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel briskly, slanting the SEAL, intending to pass the jeep on the passenger side.

The Spartan let the missile fly.

Blade saw the projectile leap toward the transport, and the next sequence of events transpired so swiftly they were over in an instant. The missile struck the SEAL’s grill and bounced off without detonating, its smart chip thwarted because the two vehicles were only 15 feet apart.

Teucer loosed his second shaft simultaneously, and this time he had a clear shot.

A lightning streak of green sped from the bow into the soldier, the arrow penetrating his flesh at the base of the throat, the three-edged hunting tip tearing clean through his neck and bursting out of his body next to his spine. He clawed at the shaft, his lips curled in a snarl, then sagged onto the dashboard.

The SEAL narrowly missed the jeep. Blade drove around the smaller vehicle and brought the van to a stop. He looked in the mirror, gratified to see there wasn’t a soul stirring, then faced forward and scrutinized the damage caused by the SEAL’s rocket. both of the first pair of jeeps had been obliterated. Now that the dust had settled, the smoldering wreckage and twisted frames lay like rotted carcasses in the middle of the road.

Teucer eased inside and rested his bow on his lap. “We cut that one close,” he commented.

“At least we took care of their only vehicles,” Blade said. “Dercyllidas’s troops will have a fighting chance.”

“Evidently you spoke too soon,” Rikki spoke up.

“Why?”

The martial artist nodded to the north. “Get set for round two.”

Blade shifted, surprised to behold a pair of motorcycles, large dirt bikes actually, roaring from the direction of the barracks where Agesilaus’s bodyguard contingent lived. “No one said anything about them,” he said, and gunned the engine, bearing to the east.

“Both the riders are holding objects in their right hands,” Rikki announced. “Hand grenades, I believe.”

“Teucer, try to nail one,” Blade directed.

“Where’s a cannon when you need it?” the bowman muttered.

The Spartan bikers raced onto the gravel road and took off in pursuit of the van, their red cloaks billowing, their helmets gleaming.

Teucer eased out the passenger window once more, twisting so he could watch the dirt bikes approach. He nocked another hunting arrow to the string, straightening his left arm, and hugged the transport’s side, keeping his body flat in the hope the Spartans might not notice him until it was too late.

On they came, their tires kicking dirt into the air, the bikes growling as they shifted.

The bowman forced himself to relax, to stay loose. One of the first courses taken by every Warrior was entitled Elementary Combat Psychology, and the Elder responsible for teaching the material had continually emphasized the fundamental importance of remaining calm in a crisis. Adrenaline might add strength to panicked limbs, but the hormonal rush could also cloud the reasoning process and impair overall effectiveness. A calm state of mind, therefore, was critical to Warrior survival.

As the Elder had repeatedly emphasized, self-control and self-composure were the keys to becoming an exceptional fighter and a valued defender of the Home and the Family. Of the two traits, the Elders stressed self-control the most. Without it, self-composure was impossible to attain. “Know thyself” had been carried one step further. “Master thyself” became the basic precept for novice Warriors, and only those who achieved a supreme degree of self-mastery were placed on the active-duty roster.

Even then, the diversity among the Warriors surprised Teucer. The range of personalities ran the full spectrum. There was Blade, the devout Family man, a natural leader of men if ever there was one, whose steely body reflected the steely mind within. There was Rikki, a man who lived and breathed the martial arts, who spent every waking moment honing his skills, who dedicated his entire being to becoming the perfected swordmaster. There was Hickok, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter, who had a reputation as a consummate killer, the man who faced trouble with a smile on his lips and a pair of blazing pearl-handled revolvers. And there was Yama, the Warrior who had taken his name from the Hindu King of death, the Warrior considered by his peers to be the best all-around fighting man at the Home, the Warrior who could do virtually everything exceptionally well and who had transformed his personal combat techniques into a fine art.

Then there’s me Teucer thought. The Warrior who is a poet at heart.

The man who would rather spend an afternoon reading Byron than slaying scavengers. The man who had almost decided not to become a Warrior because he disliked the spilling of blood. Oh, sure, Teucer loved archery, and no one else could handle a bow with such skill and finesse. But his lifelong devotion to archery stemmed from his keen appreciation of the craft’s aesthetic qualities; he shot a bow for the mere sake of shooting. To him, the flight of an arrow qualified as poetry in motion. And striking a target dead center was akin to a religious experience. Back when he’d been twelve years old he’d read Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel, and his life had never been the same.

On his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming, he’d selected the name of the famous Greek bowman who had fought so valiantly during the siege of Troy. He’d been tempted to pick the name of several other famous bowmen; Robin Hood, especially, had appealed to him. But since The Iliad had always been one of his favorite books, and since he’d always been fascinated by the exploits of the best bowman in the Achaean force, he’d finally settled on Teucer.

Now he was about to demonstrate once again the expertise that had earned him the respect of every other Warrior, the archery skill few men could ever hope to match. He saw one of the Spartans bearing down on the rear of the SEAL, evidently planning to race in close and toss a grenade, and he forced himself to stay still until the soldier came within 15 feet of the bumper. At the moment the Spartan pulled the pin and lifted the grenade overhead to toss it, Teucer leaned out, pulled the string on the 75-pound pull compound bow back to his ear, and loosed the shaft.

The green arrow was a blur as it flew straight and true, the hunting point boring into the Spartan’s chest, the impact jerking him backwards.

He lost his grip on the handlebars and toppled off the bike. At the very moment he struck the gravel the grenade detonated with a brilliant flash.

By then the transport had traveled another 40 feet.

The whomp of the concussion blasted a gust of hot air and stinging dirt particles into Teucer’s face, and he squinted and held on tight to the edge of the window. One down, but where was the other rider? Teucer knew the second Spartan could toss a grenade at any second. He also knew he couldn’t finish the man off if the soldier stayed on the far side of the van.

With the Commando and the AR-15, the Warriors had no way of nailing their foe. So there was only one thing to do. He slung the bow over his left arm, twisted, and reached overhead, straining his arms to the limit until his probing fingers touched the narrow, thin railing that ran around the entire roof. He gripped the rail, took a deep breath, and hauled himself out.

“What are you doing?” Blade called out.

As much as he would have liked to respond, Teucer had more pressing concerns. His legs dangled and banged against the SEAL’s body, and his shoulders were focal points of sheer torment. He must reach the roof, and rapidly.

“Teucer?” Blade shouted.

The bowman grunted and pulled his body gradually higher. While he possessed a muscular build, he wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Blade.

Nor, for that matter, could he match Rikki in strength. The martial artist might be small, but he was all muscle.

“Teucer!” Blade roared.

Unable to respond, gritting his teeth against the pain, fighting the wind and the bucking of the transport, the bowman inched high enough to put his feet on the bottom of the window. The added support elicited a sigh of relief, and for a few seconds he clung there, gathering his energy.

From the rear rose the roaring of the motorcycle.

Teucer resumed his climb, bracing his elbows on the top and using his arms for added leverage. In moments he succeeded in drawing his legs onto the roof, and he simply slid onto his stomach and rose to his knees.

To his immediate left was one of the solar panels.

The noise of the dirt bike grew louder and louder.

Turning carefully, Teucer rose to a crouch and made his way to the back of the van. He kept low and risked a peek, unslinging the bow as he did.

Thirty feet away rode the second Spartan. From the grim set of his features, it was obvious he intended to ram the grenade right down the SEAL’s exhaust pipe.

Teucer slid an arrow from his quiver and notched it. He counted to three, calming his nerves, then straightened and in a fluid motion whipped the bow up, pulled the string, and released.

The Spartan spotted the man in green at the last instant. He looked up and automatically tried to swerve to the right. The cycle had just started to turn when the arrow caught him in the mouth, the metal point drilling through his front teeth, through his tongue, and deep into his throat. He grabbed at the protruding shaft, lost all semblance of control, and went down in a crash with the bike.

Almost immediately the SEAL began to slow.

Teucer grasped the rail and waited until the van came to a halt before he hastily climbed down the metal rungs at the rear. He hastened around the corner and almost bumped into a peeved giant.

“Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Blade demanded.

“I needed the exercise.”

“Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again without ample cause.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Blade proposed “We’ll return to the barracks and consult with General Leonidas.”

“Not yet we won’t,” stated a soft voice behind him.

Blade pivoted to find Rikki standing near the open door, the katana already out. “Why not?”

“See for yourself,” Rikki replied, and nodded to the north.

Dreading the worst, Blade looked and discovered eight Spartans bearing down on them.