Fireburst

by Don Pendleton

  “Okay, you want this soft or hard?” Kirkland asked, thumbing a switch. With a low whir, the six barrels of the XM-214 began to spin rapidly.

  “That’s for them to decide,” Bolan replied, loosening the Desert Eagle in his holster. Unfortunately, the Black Arrow was too powerful to use inside the confines of their vehicle. The blowback would have permanently deafened everybody inside the vehicle.

  Tense minutes passed with nobody talking, then a fat sergeant lurched away from the other men and started along the dirt road.

  “Stop right there!” Bolan ordered through the open window. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  Stopping halfway between the Saracens and the Humvee, the sergeant scowled at the foreign language. “Government checkpoint!” he proclaimed in heavily accented English, resting a hand on the Beretta at his side. “Everybody out vehicle! We search for contraband!”

  The group of soldiers chuckled among themselves over that statement, a couple of them openly leering at Montenegro. Coolly, she looked back at them with no more interest than a concrete abutment.

  Keeping the engine running, Bolan leaned out the window. “We’re neutral observers from Switzerland,” he stated, displaying a forged document bearing all of the correct seals. “We have full diplomatic immunity from any and all searches.”

  “Everybody searched!” the sergeant reiterated with a snarl. “No exceptions!”

  “That is not legal,” Bolan said, keeping the words simple. “Perhaps you should check with your superiors in Colombo.”

  “Colombo? I am the law here!” the sergeant declared, drawing the Beretta. “Now get out of truck, or die!”

  In response, Bolan fired the .50-caliber Desert Eagle through the gunport in the door, and the sergeant staggered backward minus his face.

  “Incoming!” Montenegro bellowed, as the trees and bushes around the vehicle came to life with machine-gun fire. Bullets musically ricocheted off the armored side of the vehicle and slapped deep into the thick Plexiglas windows.

  Throwing open the rear canvas flap, Kirkland stepped into view with the XM-214 at waist level. “Showtime!” he shouted, clenching a fist on the firing bar.

  Already spinning at operational speed, the six barrels erupted into a stuttering stream of high-velocity lead that swept through the jungle plants. Birds filled the sky as a hurricane of leaves and torn pieces of bark exploded into the air and several men cried out in shock, then went silent forever.

  Swinging open the door, Bolan fired the Desert Eagle four times at the group of hijackers, the big-bore rounds removing their lives in bloody sprays. The rest of the hijackers dove for cover, rolling underneath the Saracens before sporadically returning fire. Bolan was nearly hit twice before he got behind their armored vehicle.

  As the cupola on top of a Saracen started to rotate, Montenegro jumped onto the road and cut loose with a double blast from the Neostead. The barrage of stainless-steel fléchettes peppered the top of the enemy vehicle, a lot of them going through the tiny view slot and gunport. A man inside the APC shrieked in pain and the Bren discharged randomly, blowing up a bush alongside the dirt road. Howling monkeys scattered into the trees, a few of them boldly scampering past the armed men and over the military vehicles.

  Now the Browning machine gun on the other Saracen chattered into life, the stream of bullets chewing a path along the road and across the angular front of the Humvee. The headlights shattered and a tire blew, but the barrage of .30-caliber rounds failed to penetrate the windshield, merely leaving behind a crazy quilt of radiating cracks.

  Using the flat tire as cover, Bolan crawled under the vehicle and unleashed the Beretta 93-R. The machine gun yammered a stream of 9 mm rounds that riddled two more hijackers. One of them fell to the ground, but the other began howling as he clutched the ruin of his left arm. Hastily slapping a fresh magazine into the Beretta, Bolan tracked after the mortally wounded criminal to finally end his pain with a single shot into the left temple.

  Sweeping a path of destruction through the opposite side of the jungle, Kirkland got two more death screams, then hosed both of the Saracens with the XM-214, the hundreds of 5.56 mm bullets zinging off the armored hulls to ricochet back and forth, tearing the rest of the hijackers into crimson shreds.

  Emptying the Neostead at the second Saracen, Montenegro killed the man in the cupola, blood gushing out the view port. That was when the APC suddenly revved its engine and jerked forward, charging directly for the M-1114 armored vehicle.

  Unleashing both of their weapons, Kirkland and Montenegro hammered the APC, trying for the driver.

  Meanwhile, Bolan rolled onto the road and came up in a kneeling position, the Desert Eagle held steady in a two-handed grip. As the Saracen zoomed toward him, the Executioner paused for a full second, then stroked the trigger. The .50 Desert Eagle boomed, the driver inside the Saracen cried out, and the APC lurched to the side. Scraping past the Humvee, it went into the jungle, careened off a tree and disappeared from sight.

  “I think it’s headed for the cliff,” Montenegro said, thumbing fresh cartridges into the Neostead.

  “Good riddance,” Kirkland snorted, turning off the power to the microgun.

  As the barrels slowed to a halt, there came a distant crash, and a few seconds later a black plume of smoke rose above the trees.

  Holding up a fist, Bolan signaled for silence, and everybody listened intently for the sound of movement in the jungle or whimpers of pain. But there was only the low murmur of the Humvee’s V8 engine and the gentle murmur of the multiple waterfalls.

  “Okay, Heather stands guard!” Bolan said, turning away from the array of corpses. “Bill and I will swap out the flat. We need to get moving. That army platoon we passed must have heard the fight, and they will be on the way here double-time.”

  “Or we could take the remaining Saracen,” Kirkland suggested. “That way, if we get spotted by the White Tigers, they’ll think it’s only these morons.”

  “Plus, we get a little extra firepower,” Montenegro added, resting the Neostead on a shoulder.

  “Sounds good,” Bolan said, holstering his weapons. “Okay, people. You know the drill. Let’s move those motorcycles inside the APC and get rolling!”

  In only a few minutes, the bodies inside the APC were removed and the supplies transferred.

  “We better leave the road and travel through the jungle,” Bolan announced, strapping into the driver seat. “That’ll slow down the army if they decide to follow.”

  “We should wreck the Humvee first,” Kirkland said, clumsily feeding a fresh belt of ammunition to the Bren.

  “Not a problem,” Montenegro said, triggering the Bren. In yammering fury, the gun strafed the armored vehicle, the reaming tires blowing off the rims as the windows shattered, the doors buckled, the hood was ripped aside, and the engine burst into flames.

  “That’ll do it,” Bolan said, starting the engine.

  Driving off the road, the six big tires of the APC rolled over the former owners, audibly cracking the bones, and spraying out a grisly residue of tattered clothing, fecal matter and internal organs.

  “Damn, I thought it smelled bad in here before,” Montenegro muttered wrinkling her nose.

  “Better us inside smelling them, than them smelling us outside,” Kirkland stated with conviction.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said, starting to reload the Bren.

  As Bolan drove the vehicle into the
lush greenery, thick shadows reduced his visibility to only a few yards. He was forced to turn on the headlights. Then flowering vines, fat insects and green leaves began slapping against the Saracen’s armored prow. Soon, a juice spray covered the headlights until they were useless.

  “I better get the GPS operating before we drive off a cliff,” Kirkland said, rummaging in an equipment bag.

  “Give me a five-mile warning before we reach the target valley,” Bolan directed him, slowing their advance. “We’ll stop a mile away and finish the rest on foot.”

  “Any estimation on how many of them will be there?” Montenegro asked, closing the breech on the Bren.

  “Fifty or sixty,” Bolan said, struggling to shift gears. “But there could be more, so stay sharp.”

  “If the numbers are bad, what’s the backup plan?” Kirkland asked, sliding into the gunner seat and attaching the GPS to the control board.

  “There isn’t one,” Bolan stated, veering away from the mossy ruins of another crumbling temple. “This is our best chance to find the people behind the lightning strikes, so no matter what, we’re going in and blitzing the place.”

  “Just don’t shoot any of the buildings,” Montenegro reminded him, taking a jumpseat.

  “Agreed,” Bolan stated gruffly. “This mission is a total failure unless we capture the White Tigers’ computer intact and undamaged!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Indian Ocean

  Dark exhaust pouring from its main stack, the Red Rose steadily built speed as it headed toward Japan.

  Evening was starting to fall across the calm ocean, the running lights of the colossal ship like imprisoned stars. Armed sailors walked along the deck surrounded by the mountain of cargo containers, and soft music could be dimly heard playing from the bridge set on top of the aft cabins.

  Relieving himself over the edge of the ship, Major Armanjani could see the captain standing at the wheel, smoking a pipe and looking every inch a sailor. Born and raised in the desert, the major simply couldn’t understand the unnatural love that sailors felt for the sea. How could he? It was cold, unforgiving and tried to kill you in every way possible.

  Zipping his trousers closed, Armanjani was forced to admit that many people couldn’t comprehend an Arab’s love for the desert. The deep spiritual silence, and the endless peace. Sand was delightfully warm during the day, wonderfully cool at night, and filled with just as much hidden life as any ridiculous ocean.

  Walking along the edge of the great ship, Armanjani was lost in dark thoughts of distant home when a young soldier approached and threw a salute.

  “Sir, if I may interrupt?” he asked.

  For a brief moment, the major fumbled for a name. “Yes, what is it, Corporal Akhmed?” he asked tolerantly.

  At the use of his name, the youth preened. “The name of this ship, Red Rose, does that have some meaning to us, sir? I have thought about this for some time, but cannot see how it reflects our goals, or needs or…” His voice trailed away uncertainly.

  “That is a good question, Corporal,” Armanjani said. “The answer is no. The name has nothing to do with Ophiuchus, and that is the whole point.”

  “Sir?”

  “The name comes from a Scottish poem. That is where the ship is registered—Edinburgh, Scotland.”

  “That is in England?”

  “The United Kingdom, but very close.”

  The youth shifted uncomfortably. “If the name means nothing, then why do we use it, sir?”

  “Perhaps you think the vessel should be called the Secret Warriors Against America, or Saddam’s Revenge?” the major asked with a chuckle.

  “Yes, it should!” Akhmed answered defiantly, then lowered his voice. “But obviously that would not be very wise.”

  The major nodded. “No, it would not. When walking into a den of thieves, a policeman wears the robes of a criminal, not his uniform.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, you are correct,” the corporal muttered, then saluted. “Praise God!”

  “Praise God,” Armanjani repeated, then scowled. “Akhmed, is that a cell phone I see in your pocket?”

  His smile vanishing, the youth said, “Sir?”

  “I specifically ordered everybody to divest themselves of anything that could reveal our true identify,” Armanjani growled. “That included money, passports, letters from home and cell phones. Nothing! We are to carry nothing from our homeland until the great task is done!”

  “It is just a cell phone, sir,” the youth whispered, sweat appearing on his brow. “I never use it! Never!”

  “Akhmed, Akhmed,” Armanjani said, shaking his head. “If I tell you not to step on any unusual lumps alongside a road, is that for my glory or to keep you from being blown up by a landmine?”

  “Sir? I… That is…”

  “Damn it, Corporal, have you made any calls to your family? Yes or no?” Armanjani demanded. “Calm down, son. You wouldn’t be in any trouble, if you tell me the truth. Have you made any calls?”

  “No, sir! Never! That is…just one,” the corporal replied in a small voice, pulling out a very expensive cell phone. His name was blazoned across the lid in diamonds. “It had been so long since I heard from my father, and I—”

  In a single motion, Armanjani pulled out the Tariq and fired at point-blank range. The range was so short that the muzzle-flash actually engulfed the hand of the youth. The 9 mm rounds exploded the cell phone into a million pieces, then continued onward to punch through the chest of the teenager, spraying the gunwale with hot blood.

  As the dying corporal staggered, his arms flailing, Armanjani turned sideways to lash out a boot and send the teenager tumbling over the gunwale. It seemed to take a very long time for the body to splash into the dark sea below.

  Only moments later, Hassan appeared with six more people behind him, their arms full of weapons.

  “White dog!” the sergeant snapped, his hands tight on an Atchisson auto-shotgun.

  “Brown dog,” Armanjani replied, lighting a cigarette.

  Everybody relaxed at the countersign, then scowled at the fresh blood pooled on the deck.

  “What happened, sir?” Hassan asked, quickly glancing around at the darkness for anything suspicious.

  “Sadly, Corporal Akhmed had a weapon malfunction and died,” the major said, drawing in the pungent smoke. “His family is still to receive his full share of the profits, and from now on list him as Sergeant Eljar Akhmed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hassan replied, barely moving his lips. “Should we attempt to recover the body?”

  “Any sharks in the area?”

  “No, but the crabs are abundant on the ocean floor. They will consume everything within a few minutes.”

  “Astonishing. Crabs live in this bay?”

  “Inedible, of course, sir. Their flesh stinks of chemicals and waste.”

  “Then let him be. Poor Akhmed with be a feast to them. Truly, manna from heaven.”

  “Such a shame,” a private muttered. “The corporal was a good man and a good friend.”

  “Just not a very good soldier,” Hassan added bluntly. “This is just another mistake in a long line of them.”

  “We all make mistakes,” the private added hesitantly, looking back and forth between the other men. Wisely, the other soldiers said nothing.

  “That is true,” Armanjani said, exhaling a long stream of dark smoke at the stars. “Just be sure to remember that while God forgives, I
do not.”

  Northern Sri Lanka

  FOLLOWING THE GPS COORDINATES, Bolan drove the Saracen north. The road snaked through the sloping jungle, meandering past boulders, the crumbling ruins of ancient temples, thick groves of clattering bamboo, the charred remains of a Volkswagen Beetle and along white-water rivers.

  “Heads up!” Bolan announced. “I see the waterfall!”

  “Thank God,” Kirkland growled with obvious relief.

  Fording a shallow creek, Bolan drove the APC up a hill and stopped on the crest. Spread out before them was a lush river valley thick with trees. On the opposite side were triple waterfalls, the low rumble of the diverging columns sounding oddly similar to distant thunder. A white mist rose from the catch basin.

  “That must be them,” Montenegro said, looking through a monocular. “I can’t find any animal life nearby. Birds or monkeys.”

  “The White Tigers probably chase the animals away so that they can hear an approaching APC or gunboat,” Bolan guessed, starting down the slope.

  “Idiots,” Kirkland said with a sneer. “Only people and monkeys sweat ammonia. Keeping some around would have been a great way to confuse any chemical sniffers.”

  Reaching the bottom of the hill, Bolan maneuvered the APC into a thick grove of bamboo. As he turned off the engine, the others opened the rear hatch to cool down the interior, then everybody took turns applying camouflage paint to each other’s face.

  Adding more rosin to their hands, they checked over their weapons, then proceeded on foot toward the campsite. The terrain was rough, and snakes were constantly underfoot. But the air was cool from the mist of the waterfalls and lightly scented with a sweet perfume coming from the thousands of flowering vines.

  Leading the way, Bolan zigzagged down a gentle incline, and suddenly raised a clenched fist.

  Everybody froze.

  Slinging the Black Arrow over a shoulder, Bolan eased forward carefully. He had almost missed the thin black wire stretched across the open field. Following it to the bushes, he found the wire connected to a French-made landmine. Anybody touching the tripwire would have set off an explosion that would have leveled a wide patch of the jungle.