So far, there was no sign of guards or staff, but Al and Tom stood on either side of the stairwell covering the stairs.

When Julia said she’d give it a shot, Mike thought she might have had a little experience with the equipment. As it turned out, at least he’d seen fuel techs refueling aircraft, which was more than Julia had done.

The pump engine was between the stairs and the elevated office. How hard could it be? Turn on the power, flip a few switches, and fuel comes out. Next to the pump was the hose, one end connected to metal connections on the ground. The rest threaded around a large roller, and the end of the hose lay wrapped on itself over and over on the floor. If it could reach the helipad outside without a problem, getting down the stairs wouldn’t pose a problem.

Julia moved purposefully, her feet dancing back and forth through the viscous oily fuel on the ground. There was no fuel tank visible. By the look of the metal connections, the tank was under the pad the helicopter now sat on. For all they knew, it could be a five-gallon tank or five thousand gallon tank.

What he did know was the smell. He’d been in enough military aircraft to recognize the smell of JP-8. It is the standard fuel for U. S. Military aircraft worldwide. It’s a kerosene-based fuel mixture with several different hydrocarbons added to it. But kerosene was the prominent smell that hit you. He didn’t know how they got the fuel to the tank, but this was no fly-by-night facility. Someone spent a lot of money to make this place do what they wanted it to do.

His head darted toward Al. They’d both heard something. Behind him, the fuel pump started. It drowned out any other noise that came from below. Al switched his hands, the left on the pistol grip and the right holding the front of the magazine.

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Al took a breath, looked around the corner, and quickly jerked his head back. Thrusting the barrel around the corner, he fired a long burst.

Several screams erupted from the level below. Rounds from the AK, bullet fragments, or cement fragments got someone. Al fired a second, more extended burst. Return fire pounded into the wall.

Bullet fragments and pieces of concrete flew around Al. He ducked, dropped his rifle, and ran upstairs. A flat metal chunk stuck out of Al's hand red drops landed on the stairs. Tom fired, hoping to skip some rounds off the walls into the enemy.

Al turned the corner, breathing hard. “Contact!” He shouted to the others. “I saw at least ten. There’s probably more.” He tore the flattened bullet out of the top of his hand. With a grimace, he grabbed an oily rag and wrapped it around his hand.

Rifle pointed downstairs, Tom said, “Get Julia’s gun.”

The pump was too loud to hear anything below, but Mike knew his friends could handle it. The hose material tightened and became heavy as the pressure inside rammed fuel through the hose. Fuel dripped onto the floor as he pulled the hose behind him while Julia ran ahead to the helicopter. She opened both hatches to the cockpit while he tested the lever on the nozzle. Fuel streamed out onto the floor. He turned off the nozzle and dragged the hose toward the helicopter.

A rifle barrel snuck around the corner and fired several rounds over their heads.

Al and Tom pulled around their corners and returned fire into the landing.

With the fuel nozzle over the lip of the hatch, Mike pulled the lever back, pouring fuel into the helicopter. It didn’t have the pressure of a fire hose, but it was strong enough to fill the cockpit and leak out onto the hangar floor.

A hand reached around the corner of the wall, holding a grenade. The spoon flew off, and he threw it up. His forearm hit the wall, and the grenade slowly lobbed up, settling on the second step down. The grenade spun in a lazy circle for a second that felt like forever.

“Grenade,” Tom yelled. He and Al dove in opposite directions. Mike dropped the hose, threw Julia to the ground, and landed on top of her. Fuel rushed onto the cement past their feet toward the stairwell.