Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  Some of the combatants fought against each other while others made a point of engaging Bolan’s position.

  There had to be at least a dozen, maybe more, and if he didn’t handle them quickly they would overrun his current position. Bolan dropped the magazine and loaded a fresh one. He fired for effect, triggering short bursts and interlocking his fields of fire as much as possible. There wouldn’t be any way to pin them down, although he’d managed to get them in a bit of a cross fire with the other group and that was helping to narrow the odds considerably.

  Light had broken and Bolan could now make out his targets. In a short time he wouldn’t need the special sights. He put another gunner in the crosshairs and triggered a short burst. One round cut through the man’s throat and tore out a sizeable chunk of flesh. The second round hit him dead-on in the forehead and took the fight right out of him. Bolan dropped another of the newcomers with a cutting burst to the abdomen.

  While the Executioner was making his shots count, the opportunities weren’t coming fast enough. He’d take down one here and one there, then he’d have to grab the shelter of the rock as a fresh salvo of hot lead burned the air around him. The ricochets were also something of concern since the terrain around them was littered with boulders and stones.

  “Let’s move!” Bolan said. “It’s now a free-for-all.”

  “What?”

  “Kill or be killed.”

  “I’d rather not fall into that latter camp,” Serif said.

  Bolan was amused that the woman was using her wit to cope with the stress, but he didn’t have time or the inclination to repost. If they didn’t get out of the hostilities quickly, Serif’s wit wouldn’t matter because the mission would be over and they could count themselves as just two more casualties in the fray.

  Bolan grabbed Serif’s hand and directed her to climb the jumble of rocks behind her. Bullets whined around their heads and fragments zipped past from ricochets off the unyielding rocks. While the aim of their assailants was nothing short of abysmal, they had sheer volume on their side.

  “You got to give them an A for effort,” Bolan remarked.

  Serif cried out suddenly, then lost her footing and fell. Bolan knew immediately from the odd angle at which she struck the ground that she’d probably turned her ankle. It really didn’t come as much of a surprise to him. She’d had a considerable amount of trouble getting down the rugged terrain, Bolan on a couple of occasions having to provide her with significant help.

  Bolan shone a flashlight onto her leg and found it wedged in the rocks. The soldier ran his hands over her leg, looking for a break, but he didn’t find one. “Okay, you haven’t broken your leg. Can you stand?”

  “I think so,” she said, scrambling to her feet. She put pressure on the right foot without complaint, but as soon as she tried to step on her left she went down and let out another cry of pain.

  “You sprained your ankle,” Bolan said.

  “Or broke it.”

  “Don’t be a defeatist.”

  Before Serif could concoct a biting, smart-aleck retort, the situation got desperate. Two men came around the rocks on the left front flank and leveled their weapons in Bolan’s direction. He could now see they were Asian, and he realized that it was probably the little band Quon Ma had brought along in case things went south. Apparently that time had come and especially for Bolan and Serif.

  The Executioner pressed forward in his defense, undaunted, protecting their position with a steady, accurate volley of bursts from the M-4. The 5.56 mm rounds shredded a path through the bellies of the two terrorist gunners, demonstrating the reactionary forces at play in the combat-hardened reflexes of the Executioner. The men seemed to dance like puppets under Bolan’s unerring accuracy, and the rounds they had triggered didn’t come close to Bolan or Serif.

  Before the bodies hit the ground, Bolan had Serif on her feet with one arm around her waist and the opposite holding her arm around his neck. They tried retreating up the rocky incline, but the terrain was simply too awkward. Bolan set her down and considered alternatives. He couldn’t call Grimaldi in to extract them, not in that hot of an LZ. Not to mention, the Stony Man ace would have to fight the prevailing down drafts, all the while keeping the chopper under control as Bolan attempted to extricate.

  Bolan handed his M-4 to Serif and said, “You know how to use that?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Point it at anything that moves. I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To draw the heat off your back.”

  Bolan burst from the rocks with Beretta 93-R in hand. He triggered a couple of shots on the run as he moved off their position at an angle and headed for an open area he’d spotted earlier when coming down the rocky hill. Light had now begun to spill over the peaks as the sun climbed higher into the sky. Bolan eyed his previous position, watching to see if anyone made for it. Apparently it had been too dark or their position too obscured for the gunners to see Serif, because none headed in that direction.

  The various factions fighting one another realized they had a common enemy who’d been picking them off one by one. With only a few enemies left, Bolan figured it might be time to create a diversion to see just how resolved his foes were in protecting their position as best possible. The heavily armed men continued to press forward, moving on Bolan’s position with less hesitancy and increased courage.

  It was at this point Bolan decided to bring in the heavy guns. The Executioner reached to his harness strap and came away with an M-67 HE grenade. Bolan ducked behind the concealment of the rocks and remained in a crouch as he changed positions, moving behind an adjoining bolder about fifteen yards to his right. He didn’t expect to toss the grenade into the midst of the crew but rather thought he’d catch their attention by offering no resistance whatsoever.

  It took almost a minute before three of the men approached and peered around the edge of Bolan’s boulder. Meanwhile he’d been holding the spoon against the body with the pin drawn. As soon as he heard the first tumble of rocks crunching beneath boots, Bolan let the thing fly and counted a cook-off interval. At the last moment he tossed the grenade gently over the boulder and it came down between the enemy gunners just a moment before exploding. One man’s head was completely separated from its owner’s body while a second was instantly blinded by the hot flash that scalded his eyes and face. The last man stared in shock at his arm, which had been separated from the shoulder socket and lay several feet from him as he stared at it.

  Bolan swung around the opposite side of the rocks and came up on the right flank of the two survivors waiting in the wings to draw him out. They looked surprised when Bolan appeared on a rock right over their heads. They were on their bellies and tried to bring weapons to bear but Bolan wasn’t having any of it. The Executioner cut them down with short bursts to the head.

  As the sounds of battle died quickly in the crisp, morning air, Bolan’s ears picked up what sounded like the roar of a vehicle engine. He quickly sprinted in the direction of the sound and rounded the corner of a massive rock in time to see three men rocket out of the clearing in an open-topped Range Rover. Bolan didn’t recognize the man in the passenger seat or the man in the back seat, but he definitely recognized the driver. Amocacci was attempting to escape, and there was no way Bolan could permit that.

  The soldier whipped out his radio. “Striker to Eagle. Come in, Eagle!”

  “Eagle, here,” came Grimaldi’s reply.

  “Come down on this signal. Our friends are trying to escape by vehicle, and we can’t have that.”

  “Roger that, Striker. I’m on my way!”

  Bolan clicked off and raced back to the position to find Alara Serif waiting patiently for him. Her face was smudged with dirt but it did nothing to rip the fire and verve from those smoldering dark eyes. More than ever,
she seemed intent on seeing the situation through. Despite her pain, she indicated she would walk with Bolan’s assistance.

  Toward the last thirty yards or so to the LZ, Bolan had to pick her up and toss her lithe form over his shoulder as a matter of expediency.

  Once they were up in the air, it didn’t take Bolan and Grimaldi long to spot the Range Rover’s plume of dust. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder what had transpired. He didn’t recognize either of the men who accompanied Amocacci, who was fighting desperately to keep the vehicle under control despite the unwieldy terrain. He’d not seen Quon Ma; he assumed the guy was dead. He also hadn’t seen Derek Savitch.

  Bolan gestured at the Rover as soon as he spotted it, and Grimaldi nodded at Bolan’s hand signals. The chopper came down low and hovered over the bouncing vehicle. Amocacci jerked the wheel back and forth, trying his best to evade, but at one point he nearly tossed one of his passengers out and flipped the vehicle. It was when he slowed considerably and Grimaldi slowed to match speed that Bolan saw his opportunity.

  The Executioner planted both feet on the skids of the Huey and timed his jump so that he landed on the rear deck plate of the Rover. Amocacci jammed on the brakes and tried to send Bolan flying, but the soldier had anticipated that move and managed to get a hand on the roll bar. When the vehicle suddenly slowed from Amocacci’s move, Bolan simply rolled over the bar to displace the motion and came down with both feet flat on the seat.

  The guy in the back and to the soldier’s left tried to stab him in the gut with a knife. Bolan blocked the attack by hammering the man’s wrist with his left fist. He then wrapped the crook of his left arm around the roll bar and jumped while using the bar for leverage. He managed to get his thighs locked around the smaller man’s neck and squeezed, pinning the guy to the seat.

  The comparatively older man in the front passenger seat—who had been an observer to this point with the obvious belief his compatriot could handle Bolan—reached beneath his jacket pocket and withdrew a wicked-looking pistol. He leveled it at Bolan and started to squeeze the trigger. The soldier did something completely unexpected, lashing out with a rock-hard punch to the back of Amocacci’s head. The blow jarred the man with enough force that he nearly lost consciousness for a moment and his foot tromped the gas pedal. The sudden acceleration caused the gunman’s shot to go wide, missing Bolan by a considerable margin.

  It was the delay Bolan needed to draw his Desert Eagle. The pistol gleamed with silvery menace in the morning light. The front passenger looked surprised as the barrel of the .44 Magnum pistol wavered only a moment in front of his face. Bolan squeezed the trigger and the man’s head blew open like a melon under a sledgehammer, the heavy-grain bullet entering his skull with such force the normally closed container could not cope and responded in the only natural way possible under such circumstances.

  Bolan’s legs started to cramp and he eased up the pressure, the knife-wielder no longer fighting and obviously unconscious. Somehow, Amocacci had managed to remain conscious. He started to come around and tried to get the vehicle under control. Bolan put the warm barrel against Amocacci’s head.

  “Stop now!”

  Amocacci started to slow as if he planned to comply, but at the last minute he jerked the wheel hard left. The sudden turned sent Bolan’s top-heavy arm flying and it struck the roll bar, knocking his pistol out of his grip in the process.

  Amocacci bailed from the Rover while it was still in motion and Bolan suddenly realized why. Looming straight ahead was the lip of a precipice. The soldier scrambled to the edge of the Rover and leaped out before the vehicle went over the edge and disappeared from view.

  Sweat now poured from Bolan’s forehead and he breathed hard with the exertion of battle. He heard a sound and looked up in time to see Amocacci swinging a heavy tree branch in his direction. Bolan rolled from the blow and it glanced off his left shoulder; fortunately not the one that had been winged. But it wasn’t for lack of trying on Amocacci’s part as he attempted to get inside the Executioner’s guard. Bolan ducked under one last mighty swing and moved in and took Amocacci to the ground with a midsection tackle. The Italian squeezed from Bolan’s attempted hold, which fell short of the waist and instead degraded to a loose capture of the ankles.

  Amocacci had been trained in the finer points of hand-to-hand combat, but years of soft living had left him less than proficient. Still, he seemed pretty able and probably tough enough to take a beating. He managed to wriggle free by driving a boot into Bolan’s cheek that split the skin just below the Executioner’s eye. Bolan and Amocacci got to their feet simultaneously. Bolan kept his guard up and parried each attack Amocacci threw at him. He deflected numerous punches and kicks, but he knew he outclassed Amocacci in both experience and weight.

  When the opening finally came, Bolan took full advantage of it. Amocacci managed to land a hammer blow on Bolan’s wounded shoulder and when the soldier stepped back in pain, Amocacci seized the moment and produced a boot knife. He rushed for the kill, but what he hadn’t planned on was Bolan’s deception that Amocacci’s blow to his wounded shoulder actually did him more damage than it had.

  Amocacci looked surprised, then, when he drove the knife toward Bolan’s gut and suddenly his opponent seemed to erupt into action. Bolan pivoted sideways to present a narrow target and so that he could deflect the knife with his right hand, shuffling to get on the outside of Amocacci’s guard. Bolan grabbed his opponent’s wrist and pulled tight as he drove an elbow downward and connected with the meaty part of the arm at the elbow joint. The blow numbed the hand holding the knife and it sprang from Amocacci’s useless grip.

  Bolan swept the Italian’s leg from under him while pulling in the reverse direction he had before to take the guy off balance. Bolan then came down on top of Amocacci’s chest with his knee and drove a ridge-hand blow into his adversary’s throat. The blow fractured the voice box and Amocacci let out a gurgle and crackling noise. Less than a minute later, he lay utterly still and his breathing stopped.

  Bolan, soaked in sweat and his body aching, retrieved his Desert Eagle just as Grimaldi set the chopper down less than twenty yards from his position. Bolan waved at Grimaldi to hang tight and then rushed to the precipice. He stopped and carefully peered over the side only to find the vehicle had merely dropped into a very large depression.

  And he heard the only survivor of the Council of Luminárii moan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tyndall Air Force Base, Florida

  Heinrich Wehr sat and studied the fighter jets that sat on the tarmac and gleamed in the midafternoon sun.

  The fighters were F-22 Raptors, the latest class of stealth air superiority fighters. There wasn’t anything Wehr didn’t know about these modern marvels. The specifications had come easily enough to him through his various connections within the DIA. Alongside those fighters were the variant future jets based on the original Lockheed Martin design. The F-35B Lightning II fighter was the most advanced aircraft ever to take to the skies, developed to take on a number of roles, including reconnaissance missions, air-to-surface first-strike capabilities and air-to-air defense. It could travel at Mach 1.6, exceed more than a thousand nautical miles on its own internal fuel capacity and had max-out at nearly 9 g.

  It was this marvel of avionics that had been brought to Wehr’s attention and the reason he’d gone to Savitch with the idea. The entire thing had been a setup, of course, and he’d managed to get them to let him on the inside of their plans. It was when Quon Ma had been snooping in affairs that didn’t concern him that Wehr realized the need for the man to die. He’d manipulated the situation exactly as planned but managed to keep the rest of the Council of Luminárii members restless. He’d done it all—from the provision of manpower to disrupting the operations of the American military officer named Stone to engineering the kidnapping of Alara Serif.

  Wehr had even convi
nced Amocacci of the need to seek vengeance on the U.S. after the death of his family. Unfortunately it wasn’t U.S. special operatives who had actually been responsible for their deaths. Once more, that had been the handiwork of Heinrich Wehr and his men. It was the British SIS agent who’d proved the most difficult to control. Instead of keeping Willham on a tight leash, Wehr had sent Savitch directly to him without Savitch even knowing he was behind it. Wehr had then arranged for Savitch to hire him to do the hit on Quon Ma, a hit that he’d botched because he’d been sloppy.

  As good fortune had it, Willham had been more than kind enough to take the heat for that entire situation, and he’d played perfectly into Wehr’s hand by letting the control over Savitch go to his head. Wehr had been disgusted by the complete lack of vision on the part of the other members of the Council. Not a single one of them had been able to realize their full potential, and now they were dead. Not a single one of those pathetic bastards had been able to understand the importance of this operation. The American military intelligence groups weren’t a threat because they conducted random operations here or there where a few noncombatant casualties occurred. Such were acceptable losses in any military action, regardless if it was peacetime or war. Where the U.S. military intelligence was dangerous was in their protection of military technologies that made them unaccountable to anyone else.

  No nation, no world government and no treaty organization could stop the United States. It continued to develop its weapons in secret and to manipulate the rest of the world into disarming while it continued building its military industrial complex. It was the greatest war machine of hypocrisy the world had ever seen, and it was the military intelligence people who continued to perpetuate the myth. They were the propaganda arm that was answerable to no one. They did not recognize any other authority, whether that was mandated by human life or by a higher power.