The next agenda item, Vance realized, was himself. As he tried to roll under the module, one was turning, raising his automatic . . .
Now Eva was yelling, "Michael, stay down."
The kobun all whirled back, but she was ready. Stock extended, full auto.
Jesus, he thought, that hood in the back is holding enough C-4 to clear a small arena. If she hits one of the detonators . . .
It was either a lucky or an unlucky shot. After eight rounds, less than a second's worth, a blinding ball of fire erupted where the kobun had been, sending a shock wave rolling through the open space of the hangar, knocking over technicians almost a hundred feet away. As Vance was slammed under the Personnel Module, out of the corner of his eye he saw Eva being thrown against the doorframe of the office. The air blossomed with the smell of deadly C-4, like acrid Sterno. Not for nothing did the U.S. military swear by it.
Now Yuri Androv was peeling himself off Daedalus II’s landing gear, his flight suit blackened and smudged. Blood from a bullet wound was running down the right sleeve.
They'll be coming for us all, Vance thought. Tanzan Mino's probably somewhere radioing for more guards right now.
Eva was stalking through the smoke, still grasping the Uzi.
"Michael, are you all right?"
"Hell of a morning." He was pulling himself out from under the Personnel Module, awkwardly trying to straighten his flight helmet. "You took out the palace guard, everybody but Mr. Big. Congratulations. And I thought CIA had a patent on that kind of operation."