Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  He cut the channel just as they rounded the turn and saw the garbage truck in the middle of the road. Firke’s driver pulled to a stop about ten meters away. The back door was up and they could smell the stench of rotten garbage. There were no signs of life in or around the battered vehicle.

  “We’ll both take it on my mark, DiMera.” Firke made sure his bulletproof vest was secure, then nodded at his partner. “You take the left side, I’ll take the right. Go right for the cab. And don’t forget your keys. Now!”

  He caught DiMera’s eye roll, but didn’t care as he got out and ran toward the cab, staying low and looking around for anyone to try to come at him. The only sound he heard was the crunch of his combat boots on the dirt road and his rapid breathing.

  At the side of the cab he put his back to the truck for a moment, ready to shoot anyone who stuck his or her head or a gun out. When there was no movement, he reached up, grabbed the door and opened it. When no gunfire or movement came from inside, he leaped up on the step and covered the interior.

  There was no one inside. A moment later the passenger door opened and Firke’s partner appeared framed in the entrance, his gun covering his side of the cab. “Clear,” he said.

  “Clear,” Firke answered just as he heard a gunshot from behind him and felt an impact on the back of his vest. Immediately he dropped to the ground, rolled onto his stomach and aimed at where the shot had come from, letting off three 3-round bursts. He could hear his other gunner firing from the cab itself.

  “Get out of there!” Firke shouted as he rolled away from his original position and stopped moving and firing, waiting to see if the gunman would shoot again. A moment later he heard a crack of gunfire again, a bit farther away this time, and sent a dozen bullets toward where he thought the shot had come from.

  “What the hell are they doing?” DiMera asked from underneath the truck.

  It was a good question, one that was answered a moment later when Firke heard breaking glass, followed by a whoosh of flame. He turned in time to see another flaming bottle crash against the windshield of his SUV, enveloping the vehicle’s front in flames.

  “He’s on top of the goddamn truck!” Firke shouted. “Cut him off on the other side!” He was already up and climbing, not caring if he got shot again. Scrambling onto the roof of the cab, he leaped on top of the garbage truck and found—no one.

  “You got him?” Firke shouted down.

  “No!”

  Firke ran over to the side and saw DiMera looking up at him with a shrug. Pointing to the rear, Firke stepped as quietly as he could over to the top, stuck his gun over the side and sprayed the rest of his magazine inside the interior. Slugs pinged and whined off the thick metal. He reloaded, then jumped down, rolling on his shoulder, and came up covering the back next to DiMera, who was already there with his submachine gun pointed at the refuse container.

  There was no one inside. Firke walked all the way around the truck, looking for any sign that someone had been there, but came up with nothing. The scrub grass didn’t hold any tracks, and there were no footprints on the road to indicate where the Molotov cocktail thrower might have gone. It was as if they had been ambushed by a ghost.

  “Teams Two and Three, regroup on my signal, on the main road one-point-five klicks from the main gate,” Firke said. “Team Four, continue with your additional mission, then evac and blow the place.”

  There was a muffled whump as the gas tank under the SUV detonated.

  His gaze icy, Firke stared at the burning wreck, thinking about what a pleasure it would be when he caught up with whoever did this, and killed the bastards.

  * * *

  “I STILL CAN’T believe you made that shot!” Alcaster said as he led the group over the hills toward where Bolan said the airfield was. “With a .32-caliber revolver, I mean—it was one in a thousand!”

  Finigian shrugged. “My grandfather and father both hunted all their lives. They taught me how to estimate range and wind. I took my best guess, and it paid off. What sucks is that I didn’t hurt him.”

  Scott glanced back where a greasy column of black smoke rose into the sky. “You think Cooper made it out of there?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who’s more likely to,” Alcaster said. “Besides, even if he didn’t, our marching orders were clear—get to the airfield and tell this pilot guy who we are and have him get us the hell out of here.”

  Scott looked at Finigian next. “You sure you’re okay? Your wound looks pretty bloody.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She glanced at the blood-covered rags. “It hurts—a lot, but I’ll go as far as I have to be clear of that place.

  “Yeah, still...no sweating or fever?” He peered closely at her face. “No red around your eyes?”

  “Will, for God’s sake—” Alcaster began.

  “No, it’s all right. I’d be asking the same questions if I were in his shoes,” the policewoman said. “He’s got every right to be suspicious. If this disease or—whatever it is—is transmitted by bodily fluids, then I’m infected. But honestly, I feel fine. Well, other than being tired, and every time I take a step, the chunk missing from my leg throbs.”

  The young men chuckled and even Sevan managed a thin smile. “I bet—” Scott’s reply was drowned out by a series of loud explosions from the village. Everybody stopped where they were and listened to the blasts echo off the hills around them. “Jesus... Cooper wasn’t kidding. They blew up the whole place.”

  “Covering their tracks,” Sevan, who was marching ahead of Finigian and Aram, said. “Whoever was behind this was organized and well-armed. It makes me think of a certain foreign government who was probably behind all of this.”

  “If they were, I wasn’t informed,” a familiar voice said behind them.

  Everyone turned to see a filthy Bolan walk toward them. All except Sevan crowded around him for a moment, until he held up his hands. “All right, everyone did great. But we got a long way to go and no time for a stop. Those men are still out there, and since they know we escaped, they’ll be searching for us, so let’s get moving.”

  “Yeah, but the plan worked!” Scott said.

  Bolan nodded. “It required split-second timing, but yeah, I used the last three bottles to disable their SUV, then slid out and underneath the truck while they were going topside. When they went to the back, I scooted out under the engine and made it to the ditch right before the leader came back around. It was close—if he’d walked a few more paces out, he might have spotted me. Once they headed back to the burning SUV, I slipped away and circled around to find you.”

  He nodded at the policewoman. “Great job on the distraction, by the way.”

  She smiled. “Just glad to help.”

  Bolan looked around the sparse, steep hills. “However, we’ve still got at least twenty klicks to go, and the terrain isn’t easy. I hope everyone’s up for a long walk in the countryside.”

  He glanced at Finigian, who looked at him defiantly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep up.”

  “All right, let’s move out.”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER they reached Bolan’s bivouac site and rested for a few minutes while he changed into cleaner clothes and distributed the last of his food and water among the group. Aram was flagging by now, and with a little encouragement from Finigian, Bolan was able to convince him to climb onto his back and clamp his arms around his neck. Supporting his legs, they set out again, with Bolan estimating that they were about halfway there.

  Thirty minutes later, as the group was picking its way down the side of a ravine, the soldier heard a faint, familiar buzzing noise overhead.

  “Everyone move as fast as you can to the bottom of the ravine,” he said, still holding on to Aram. “Once there, crouch down or lie on the ground.”

  He joined them a fe
w moments later, set the boy down and scanned the sky for the source of the noise. “There.” Bolan didn’t point to the small black speck overhead. “They’ve got a drone.”

  “Think they spotted us?” Alcaster asked.

  “There’s no way to know for sure right now,” Bolan replied, turning to look along the winding ravine. “It’s more luck than anything that we ended up in here. However, if they did, we’ll find out the moment we come out of the ravine. Everyone take five and give them a few minutes to chase their tails, then keep moving. They’d have to be right on top of us to see us in here.”

  They all sat and caught their breath for a few minutes, and sure enough, the sound of the drone faded. Bolan rose and picked up the sleeping Aram. “Time to go.”

  They followed the ravine for another few hundred meters, until it tapered off into a crack. The sides were steep, but climbable, even for Sevan.

  “You know, I could move faster if you would free my hands,” he said, puffing as he labored up the hillside. “If I fall and hurt myself, we’ll move that much slower.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not going to happen, is it, Sevan?” Bolan asked. “You don’t want to be stuck out here. Besides, you’re a fit guy. You’re doing fine. Save all that breath for walking instead of complaining.”

  * * *

  ANOTHER TWO HOURS of hard walking brought them to the edge of the small airfield. It wasn’t much—just a straight, two-kilometer-long dirt strip carved out of the landscape. A small hangar that looked ready to fall in the next storm stood off to one side. The entire place looked forlorn and deserted.

  All of which made the brand-new Cessna Caravan turboprop airplane sitting near the hangar a bit incongruous at best.

  “Sure glad we brought the bigger plane,” Bolan said as he tapped his earpiece. “Flyboy, this is Striker, do you read?”

  “Striker, this is Flyboy, about time you got here. I was almost starting to get worried.”

  “We thought we’d take the scenic route back. When can you be ready for takeoff?”

  “Ready? Hell, I’ve been ready for the past two days,” Grimaldi replied. “Come on in and get situated, and we’ll get out of this godforsaken country.”

  Bolan frowned at the pilot’s bluntness. “Roger that. Striker out.” He turned to Finigian and shrugged. “I’m sure he didn’t meant it quite that way.”

  She smiled. “I’ve spent enough time in the north country. He’s not too far off.”

  “All right, we’re heading in,” Bolan said. “Sevan, you’re with near me. Everyone get aboard and find a seat as soon as you can, and we’ll be out of here in no time. Let’s go.”

  He got up and led the way across the runway to the aircraft, whose turboprop was already started. Grimaldi stood with the main door open, waving them in.

  Bolan stopped at the door and shoved Sevan ahead of him. “Get in and head back.”

  The rest followed, the small parade making the Stony Man pilot whistle. “Did you forget we only sent you after one guy?”

  “Long story,” Bolan replied, turning to scan the hills one last time. A cloud of dust in the distance made his brow furrow. “Company’s coming, Jack, and they aren’t friendly.”

  “All the more reason to get into the air. Come on.” The pilot waited for Bolan to climb into the copilot’s seat, then got in and closed the door. “Everyone buckle up and hang on.”

  The Stony Man pilot taxied onto the runway and drove to the far end. “This tarmac is just long enough for this baby to get airborne,” he said as he ran through his final preflight check.

  Bolan’s eyes were on the approaching vehicles that were getting closer and closer. “Time to go, Jack.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” The pilot hit the throttle and the turboprop began picking up speed, faster and faster until the ground blurred underneath them, and before Bolan knew it, they were in the air.

  “Whoa!” Grimaldi banked left, still climbing, a frown on his face. “We just got shot at. Whoever was after you, they weren’t dropping by to wish you a fond goodbye.”

  “You got that right,” Bolan replied. “And I’m going to find out exactly who’s down there.”

  * * *

  FIRKE WATCHED THE plane disappear into the sky, tasting the bitter flavor of something he had never experienced before—defeat.

  He pulled out his cell phone and hit the first speed-dial number. “There’s been a problem...yes, at least four escaped... I do not have any idea where they are going at this time...yes, sir. Yes, sir, that was accomplished. And— I understand...it will be done.”

  He ended the call and turned to his team. “We’re heading to the Congo.”

  He looked past them at the wild-eyed woman sitting alone in the rearmost seat. She was bound and gagged in duct tape, and she stared at him when not whipping her head back and forth in a futile attempt to attack someone. “You’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “And that, along with the samples provided upon arrival, is all of the information I and the rest of the witnesses can provide at this time.”

  Mack Bolan leaned back in his chair and drained his water glass, feeling the events of the past day—and of the past several hours—catch up to even him.

  After securing Sevan to his seat, he’d sacked out for several hours of much-needed rest, and had awakened to find Jack Grimaldi bringing them down at L’viv Danylo Halytskyi International Airport in western Ukraine.

  Based on his conversation with Aaron Kurtzman and Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller and coordinator of the American response to what Bolan had found in Artakar, they’d all agreed that faster transportation was needed to the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control in Stockholm. A fueled and stocked Learjet 85 awaited them on the tarmac, and Bolan had wasted no time transferring the passengers and his grisly cargo onto the jet, which had been wheels-up in twelve minutes.

  They had touched down at Stockholm Arlanda Airport less than two hours later, where a contingent from the ECDPC had been waiting for them, along with several large container trucks. The jet had been guided into a warehouse, where the doors were closed behind them. Bolan had found out later that the entire building had been sealed off and placed under armed guard.

  The passengers and pilot had all been escorted off the airplane by hazmat-suited men and women and each one taken into a separate truck for medical examination. From there, they had all been chemically decontaminated and allowed to shower. There had been only one slight disagreement, when Bolan had said he would need to leave as soon as possible to pick up the trail of the professional soldiers who had unleashed the pathogen on the village and then destroyed it. The doctor in charge of the operation, a short, slender Frenchman named Jean-Pierre Bellamy, had said he could not be allowed to leave until it was confirmed that he was not a threat to the general populace.

  In a very polite tone, Bolan had told him what he could do with that suggestion, and also told him that when he did leave, Alexsandr Sevan would be leaving with him. It had taken a hurried conference of Barbara Price, Hal Brognola, the doctor and both his counterparts at the CDC in Atlanta, renowned epidemiologist Harriet Marks, as well as the lead scientist at the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, Colonel Marvin Gorman, to work out a solution to expedite the tests on Bolan’s blood work to clear him for departure ASAP. That had required a call from the U.S. President.

  The team was working on all of the samples, including the ones taken from the kitchen worker, as well as those drawn from the rest of the survivors. The samples from Sevan, Finigian and Aram were all of particularly high value, since they were taken from live exposed subjects. Meanwhile, all of the survivors were being interviewed separately—and exhaustively.

  Dr. Bellamy leaned back in his chair, rubbing a han
d over his bleary eyes. “I do not wish to alarm anyone here, but this could be the beginning of the epidemic we’ve been fearing ever since the SARS outbreak of 2002. I cannot overstate how important it is that we locate and lock down the source and contain it as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed, Doctor, which is why I need to be back in the field, tracking that team,” Bolan replied. “Other than the witnesses I brought here and whatever your people find in Artakar, they’re the only surviving link to this event, as well as who’s behind it. My people already have eyes on them, and we know where they’re headed—”

  “Matt, we have that intelligence, up to a point,” Price said, maintaining Bolan’s cover. “They also left the area right after you did, and headed west to Shirak International Airport, where they boarded a private jet that we’re currently tracking over the Mediterranean Sea. Preliminary indications are that they’re heading into Africa, but we’re not sure as to their final destination yet.”

  “Why would they be heading there?” Dr. Marks, teleconferenced in from the U.S. along with the Stony Man team, asked.

  Gorman grunted. “Besides the nonexistent oversight there, I would imagine that if you tossed one of those tin-pot dictators a few million dollars, they’d let you do whatever you want in their country, no questions asked.”

  Bellamy cleared his throat. “Believe me, I’m just as concerned about tracking the source as everyone else here is, but first we really must find out what we’re dealing with.”

  “No argument there, Doctor,” Marks said. I’ve cross-referenced the known symptoms with our database, but the hits are far too large to realistically narrow down the suspects until we have more data from your people—”

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Bellamy sprang up to get it, accepting a tablet computer from the woman outside. “This should get us closer to that answer. According to our preliminary tests...” He read quickly, his eyes widening. “That’s bloody ingenious.”