Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  Although the Jadur patrols didn’t come out this far, Bolan couldn’t take a chance on a shepherd or farmer stumbling across his base of operations. His low-slung, camouflaged tent was covered by the native grasses so artfully so that an intruder would have had to step on it to discover it. When the flap was closed, it was just another grass-covered hillock among a cluster of them scattered on the mountainside. Bolan had been living on cold MREs—meals ready to eat—and doing anything outside the tent under the cover of darkness, using night-vision goggles to see if the moon was obscured. He hadn’t lit a fire, awakening on the brisk autumn morning to heavy frost and a chilly tent, nor showered in the past two days, as well.

  Despite the uncertainly and rough conditions, Bolan lived for situations like this, pitting himself against both the elements and his enemy. Unlike just about anyone else who found themselves in this situation, he thrived on the challenges of remaining undetected while completing his mission, no matter what obstacles might be thrown in his path.

  All of which brought him back to the moment at hand, and the two men walking just a few paces away from his hidden lair. The odds were good that they might be part of Aleksandr Sevan’s mob. On the other hand, they might be two farmers, perhaps a father and his eldest son from a nearby farm, out hunting game birds. Either way, if they found Bolan, the odds were very good that they were both going to die. While he tried to avoid civilian casualties—that was the kindest term he could use to refer to any of the population of the area—these tough, hardy mountain people had compromised themselves by accepting deals with the devil that lived in the walled city.

  Sevan’s control of the region was ironclad, and Bolan couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing him and telling the mobsters. His mission was too important to risk because of a chance encounter. Therefore, he waited; every sense locked on what he could hear and smell of the two men, and stood ready to execute both of them, even while hoping they would simply keep walking.

  “Doesn’t look like they’ve spotted you, Striker,” a voice said in his ear. Bolan didn’t reply. The voice came from Akira Tokaido, about six thousand miles away in the Stony Man Farm Computer Room, watching the two men through the 1.8 gigapixel eye of an ARGUS camera mounted on the underbelly of a Predator Hawk drone flying overhead at 15,000 feet. “Hunting rifles are confirmed. I think they’re old Mosin-Nagants. Anyway, they’ve passed your site, and are moving south-southeast, still walking and talking. Looks like they’re headed down the mountain. We’ll keep tabs on them in case they come back your way.”

  Even with the all-clear sounded, Bolan waited until the men’s conversation faded from hearing before he uncurled his fingers from his pistol and replied. “Copy that.”

  “That was way too close for my comfort,” Kurtzman grumbled. Bolan imagined him watching several monitors at once from his wheelchair while drinking from a cup of his abominable coffee that was always brewed 24/7 at the Farm. “Far be it from me to second-guess you, Striker. We’ve backed you on a lot of high-risk missions before, but even before the delay, this one seems a bit, well—”

  “Suicidal?” Akira offered.

  “I was going to say high-risk, but if the combat boot fits...” Kurtzman’s voice trailed off

  Slowly, cautiously, Bolan unzipped his observation port and stuck out his camouflaged high-powered binoculars. First he spotted the two hunters, watching them for a few seconds as they trudged away from him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tokaido or the incredible technology watching over him; it was just that, when out in the field, Bolan preferred to always verify what information came his way with his own eyes whenever possible.

  “Duly noted, Bear.” After the hunters had disappeared from view, Bolan turned his attention to the walled city below him.

  There was a pause from Stony Man and Bolan imagined the two men, Kurtzman grizzled and older, Tokaido younger, with his ever-present earbuds pressed into his ears, exchanging puzzled glances. “You’ve seen the plans,” Tokaido said. “It’s a fortress, and I’m not talking about one from the Middle Ages, either.”

  As he studied the high stone walls, with lookout towers cleverly built in so they seemed to be a part of the medieval defenses, not to mention the small army of alert guards and attack dogs backing up a twenty-first-century web of high-tech surveillance equipment, Bolan had to admit that Tokaido was correct. Even so, his mouth curved into a sardonic grin.

  “Yeah, but if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any fun sneaking in, now would it?” he replied. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but we’ve been over all this before.” Bolan didn’t drop his field glasses while talking, just continued scanning the city on the plateau beneath him. “It’s a complete stealth op. Infiltrate, acquire the target, exfiltrate, all without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Yes, and that all sounds great,” Kurtzman replied. “The part that concerns me is our intelligence showing that more than sixty percent of the town’s inhabitants are members of the Jadur clan mafia. It’s one thing if you were sneaking into a village of civilians, but about two-thirds of the people in this place are some kind of criminal, and we know the Armenians don’t mess around. It’d be one thing if we had Phoenix Force on hand to back you up—”

  “But they’re busy in Australia right now, so, I’ll just have to do it real quiet...” Bolan trailed off as he spotted a caravan of black SUVs coming up the lone dirt road to the main gates of the village. Sleek and squat, they boasted tinted windows and were undoubtedly armored.

  “Akira, you see what I see?”

  “The small fleet of sport-utes at the gate? Roger that.” Bolan heard the faint click of keys as the whiz kid accessed information. He kept his eyes glued to the four-vehicle procession, which was swept underneath with mirrors for bombs, as well as what looked like electronic sniffers.

  After a minute Tokaido came back on. “They originated from Erebuni Airport, south of the capital city of Yerevan. Left there at 10:30 a.m. and traveled straight through until they reached their destination.”

  “Aleksandr Sevan is in one of those SUVs.” Bolan watched as the caravan was allowed inside the walled village, then lowered his binoculars. “And tonight, I’m going in and bringing him back out with me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Seventy-two hours earlier

  Dennis Kuhn struggled out of unconsciousness to find his head pounding, his dry mouth tasting like sandpaper, and his arms and legs feeling like he was moving them through thick syrup.

  Raising his head from the cot he was laying on, he looked around in confusion. The white walls of the bare, windowless room were completely unfamiliar. Kuhn pushed himself up onto his elbows and paused, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up...

  After a minute his queasiness subsided enough for him to carefully sit up and look around. Other than a white table on the other side of the room and a sturdy-looking white door to his right, the room was empty. Blinking in confusion, Kuhn looked down to find himself wearing the same clothes—an indigo Hugo Boss button-down and gray slacks, both wrinkled from being slept in—that he had worn to the office...yesterday? Patting his pockets, he found that his smartphone and wallet were both missing.

  Where the hell am I? Mind whirling, Kuhn pushed himself to his stockinged feet, swayed unsteadily, and glanced over to find his wingtip shoes set neatly at the foot of the bed. He walked to the table, which was stocked with bottles of spring water in an ice bucket and a variety of energy bars. Removing the bottles, he opened one, swished a huge gulp of ice-cold water around in his mouth, then spit it out in the bucket. After draining the rest of the bottle, he found himself ravenously hungry and tore one of the bars open and devoured it. Selecting a second, he was peeling it open when he was interrupted by a click near the door and a familiar voice emanating from a concealed speaker somewhere over there.

  “Greetings, Mr. Kuhn. I am
glad to see that you are awake and recovered from your recent journey.”

  Kuhn looked up from his protein bar in surprise. “Mr. Stengrave?” The water he’d just drank seemed to coalesce into a ball of ice in his stomach. He doesn’t know—he can’t know— “What’s going on here? Where am I?”

  “You are a guest at my winter home, Stengrave Castle, on the north end of the Gulf of Bothnia.”

  Kuhn knew the place his boss was talking about: a modern update of a medieval castle, built to Kristian Stengrave’s exacting specifications. He’d even visited the place once before, three years ago, a reward for certain top-level executives for surpassing their lofty sales goals, even during the recession that had been sweeping Europe at the time. But last night, he had been in Stuttgart—more than 1,500 miles away. Not only had he been kidnapped by the very company he worked for, but someone had brought him to this forlorn place near the top of the world—all without anyone being the wiser.

  “Where is my family?”

  “They are safe and sound at your home. They have been told that you were called away to a top-level emergency conference, so suddenly that you didn’t have time to contact them.”

  “Okay... Why am I here?”

  “You have been brought here to discuss a very serious matter—your attempted theft of proprietary research and materials for one of our rivals.”

  Kuhn’s stomach lurched so hard he thought he was going to throw up, but he maintained his poker face while opening another bottle of water. “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  But of course he did; in fact, Kuhn was as guilty as hell. He worked as a computer programmer and analyst at one of Stengrave Industries’ facilities in Germany, producing top-of-the-line medical equipment for sale throughout the rest of the world. Hired straight from graduation at the top of his class at Heidelberg University, with a double major in computer science and business, he’d spent the past decade with the company, rising steadily through the ranks.

  And yet it had never seemed to be enough. Although he was paid well, his wife had expensive tastes combined with a desire to keep up with their well-to-do neighbors, and when their children had arrived, the pressure to maintain their lifestyle had only increased.

  So when a rival bio-manufacturing firm had offered him ten years’ salary to deliver test data on one of Stengrave’s most propriety lines of gene research, he had agreed, seeing a way out of his increasingly pressure-filled life. What he hadn’t counted on was how much more pressure he was under now; not only from his wife, but also from both masters, keeping appearances normal at his regular job while satisfying the increasingly strident demands of his new boss.

  “Do not bother protesting your innocence, Mr. Kuhn, it will not help you. All of the evidence has been collected and presented to me, and I have already made my decision.”

  Even though the room was perfectly comfortable, sweat appeared on Kuhn’s brow and the back of his neck. He gulped more water even as his gaze flicked to the door, which he knew was locked. “Okay, then why have you brought me here?”

  “To offer you a chance to reclaim your lost honor.”

  Of all the things his boss might have said, that was the last thing he expected. “Wha—what are you talking about?”

  “Finish eating and we will discuss what will happen next,” Stengrave replied.

  Kuhn tossed the bar on the table—there was no way he could stomach any more. “I’m ready now.”

  “Very good.” The door clicked. Kuhn walked over to it and tried the handle. The door swung open easily under his touch, and he walked into the next room.

  Lights came on as he did, revealing a long hallway lined on both sides with full suits of armor. As the door to the other room closed behind him, Kuhn blinked and stared at the at least two-dozen suits standing silently in the hall, ten on either side, each one on its own small dais; a warrior’s uniform from another time.

  In the middle of the room was a rack of swords, containing various blades from a typical medieval long sword to what looked like a Scottish claymore. Other than the armor and the swords, the room appeared to be empty. There was a door at the end of the room, but it had no knob or handle.

  “Mr. Stengrave?” Kuhn asked. “What is all this?”

  “As I said...” His boss’s voice came from somewhere in the room. “It is a place for you to reclaim your honor.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Choose your weapon.”

  Kuhn frowned. “What?”

  “Choose your weapon. There are twenty suits of armor in this room. I am in one of them. If you select the correct one and strike me, you will be free to go. If you do not select the correct one, then we will fight to the death.”

  Kuhn’s blood pounded in his ears as he heard the terms of his “exit interview.” He shook his head. “This is insane! You can’t just kidnap me and hold me hostage and set up this ridiculous contest like some James Bond villain!”

  “Yet you are here, and I am here. So it would seem that is exactly what is happening,” Stengrave replied in the same calm, measured voice.

  “I refuse— I refuse to participate in this madness,” Kuhn said. “Have me arrested, tried, thrown in jail, whatever, I’ll deal with it. But this...this is madness.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you chose to steal from my company—and me.”

  Kuhn squinted as Stengrave spoke, trying to figure out where his voice was coming from. He studied the metal suits of armor closest to him, thinking it would be easy to figure out which one his boss was wearing, but each one looked as if it held a mannequin filling out the clothes underneath the polished steel plates. Even as he did this, a part of his mind screamed that all this had to be in some kind of nightmare, and that if he could just wake up, he’d find himself back at home, in bed next to his sleeping wife, and all of this would simply be a bad dream...

  Except he felt his sweaty palms and his increased heartbeat, and the blood pounding in his ears, and knew—absolutely knew—that this was real, that it was happening to him right now.

  “Surely you are not such a craven man that you would prefer the ignominy of a public trial,” Stengrave continued. “With your name dragged through the mud as you are found guilty—and you will be—and sentenced to a very lengthy prison term. Your wife and children will be forced to fend for themselves, and they will probably have to sell their home and move out of that wonderful neighborhood you’ve been living in for the past three years.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Kuhn asked while edging closer to the rack of swords. He had fenced in college, even done some reenactment fighting of the German sword techniques, but all that had been more than a decade ago. Plus, he wasn’t in the best shape after ten years of sitting at a computer behind a desk. His wife, Helene, had been hounding him to take better care of himself, but he had always said there’d be time for that later. Now he found himself desperately wishing he had listened to her.

  “I am telling you this because if you face me and win, all record of your transgression will be erased. You will, of course, have to leave our employ, but no doubt a stellar recommendation from your immediate superiors will allow you to find employment elsewhere with ease...perhaps even with the company you’ve been moonlighting for.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me for finding it hard to believe that you would simply let me go after all this.”

  “Make no mistake, if you defeat me, you will have earned your freedom.”

  “Okay...” Kuhn nodded. “And if I lose?”

  “If you lose, you will be dead. Your family, however, will not suffer in your absence. As I said, they are not complicit in your crime, and I bear them no ill will. As a matter of fact, they would be eligible to receive the life insurance payout on your untimely death.”

 
“Sure—while you go to prison for murder.” Kuhn regarded the nearest few suits of armor, noticing that none had a weapon sheathed at its side. If he is truly in here somewhere, he’s unarmed right now...

  “Mr. Kuhn, do you really think that I have not planned this down to the last detail?” his boss asked. “Officially, you will have died in an unfortunate car accident. And yes, there will be a scenario created that will explain the injuries on your body. Stengrave Industries will mourn the loss of one of its own, and due to the life insurance policy, including double indemnity for your tragic but accidental death, your widow and children will be able to live lives of comfort, rather than being forced to fend for themselves— She does have a degree, I recall, but has not worked since your children were born, yes?”

  Kuhn’s head spun at the casual yet definitive way Stengrave has defined the two paths he faced, as if there were no other options at this point. He listened as Stengrave continued. “You have sullied the honor of your family name with your deception and insulted me, as well. All I am offering to you is a chance to make it right, for you to reclaim your honor and perhaps die with your integrity restored. And who knows, you may even win.”

  “And what if I sit on the floor and refuse to participate in your crazy game?”

  “Then eventually I will grow tired of waiting and come to kill you. But surely that is not how you wish to die, is it, Mr. Kuhn? Sitting passively on the floor, meekly accepting your fate? Your family forced to continue their lives knowing their father was a criminal—for I will definitely have to let them know of your misdeeds—”

  Kuhn’s brow furrowed. “So now you’re trying to blackmail me into playing, fighting for my life?”