Private Paris (Private 10) - Page 90
“On my mark,” he muttered into the mic.
When he was positive that the police and armored trucks were well within the launcher’s three-hundred-yard effective range, he whispered, “Now.”
Mfune cut all power to the apartment building.
Shouts and curses echoed out the windows of the housing project. Sauvage released the rocket launcher’s safety lever, swung the sights over the heads of the advancing police, and steadied his aim.
He punched the trigger.
There was an initial thumping sound like a bass drum being struck. The rocket blew a plume of intense pressure and fire out the rear of the launcher. The flames and blast waves bounced off the apartment walls and pummeled the blanket and Sauvage from behind like a crashing wave of fire.
Despite the heat and force of the backblast, the major never lost sight of the contrail of the 86-millimeter rocket, the warhead of which contained 440 grams of Octol, a substance so volatile that it’s also called HEAT, for high-explosive anti-tank.
Many of the riot police threw themselves to the ground just before the HEAT rocket struck the blade of one of the antiriot trucks and detonated in a thunderclap that spawned a brilliant red mushroom cloud.
Chapter 71
SAUVAGE DROPPED THE spent rocket launcher on the floor and threw off the singed fire blanket. He tried to stand but felt unbalanced by the backblast that had ruptured the air pressure in the apartment and upset his equilibrium.
On this second try, however, the major was up and yanking out the ear protectors in time to hear chaos in the streets below as the riot police shouted to one another, and bands of immigrant youth cheered the attack.
Sauvage did not pause to savor the havoc he’d caused. Instead, he pocketed the police scanner, threw the rolled rug over his shoulder, and went to the door, ignoring the charred and smoking apartment walls.
He pulled open the door. The dark hallway was filled with people panicking at the explosions and trying to get out of the building. Stepping into the hallway, he got out a pen flashlight and
turned it on, saying into the jaw mic, “Joiners?”
“Not yet,” Epée said.
“Encourage them,” Sauvage said, head down, focused on the light beam, moving fast and straight toward the stairwell, using the rug as a soft battering ram to push people aside.
Through the open door by the stairway, the major heard Epée squeeze off three short bursts of automatic rifle fire. That caused pandemonium and shrieking in the hallway, which the major used to his advantage.
While most of the immigrants went to the ground, Sauvage went over the top of them, and shouldered his way through the staircase door. Holding tight to the rug, he started leaping down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.
Behind and above him, Sauvage heard more shots, quick and erratic—not the disciplined bursts of fire that Epée employed.
Amateurs!
They had the AK-47 assault rifles and 7.62mm ammunition!
And they were fighting for AB-16!
The major barreled down the stairs like a wild man now, using the rug to knock the people below him aside and roaring out, “Allahu akbar! God is great!”
When he reached the first floor and burst out the rear entrance, Mfune was waiting. The captain took the rug, and they hurried with a knot of people fleeing pistol shots and submachine gun fire.
It wasn’t until they were well south of the housing project and crossing the Rue du Général de Gaulle that Sauvage felt comfortable enough to get out his real phone and call Amé, who answered on the first ring.
“It’s live!” she cried. “They’ve broken into programming!”
“Claim it,” he said, and hung up.
On the Avenue des Rossignols, Epée was waiting with the car. They put the rug in the trunk and got in. The tagger pulled out and drove away at an untroubled speed.
Feeling safe behind the tinted glass, Sauvage stripped off the beard, wig, and fake eyebrows before rolling the window down.
When they stopped at an intersection, he heard police sirens wailing north toward Les Bosquets. To his ears, it sounded like a triumphant symphony.
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