Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  “Who’s the speaker?” Price asked.

  “It matches the radio transmissions from the team leader at Artakar. The speaker is still unknown. We’re cross-referencing the voice pattern with other possible matches, but haven’t come up with a positive ID yet. What I can’t figure out is how they knew about the involvement of AMRIID?”

  “Tell me you’ve contacted Striker about this,” Brognola growled.

  “I tried every way I could think of. We’ve called three times on his red line, emailed him, texted him, everything but smoke signals, but so far there’s been no answer.”

  “Damn it! Bear, get back in there and retrace Striker’s steps out of the airport—” Brognola began.

  “With all due respect, Hal, I’ve already got it.” Tokaido tapped another screen and a picture appeared of the airport with a time-date stamp indicating it was thirty-three minutes old. The analyst zoomed in on Striker with two smaller figures, one in front and one behind him, as they headed to a Land Rover, got in and drove off. “So, that satellite continued in its orbit, and the next one picked up this...”

  The picture changed to a nondescript four-lane highway. The same SUV was now parked by the side of the road, with another SUV with flashing blue lights on top pulling to a stop behind it.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “It’s a common trick played on lone drivers at night—men pretending to be police pull a victim over, take him into the jungle, rob him and leave him there,” Kurtzman replied. “Something’s seriously wrong if they’re hitting a group in broad daylight.”

  “It actually looks like they’re legitimate—at least, at first,” Tokaido said. “Keep watching.”

  Price, Brognola and Kurtzman watched as the government contact got out of the first SUV and headed to the driver’s door of the second. There was about a minute of conversation, then he and another man headed back to the first vehicle and both got in. There was a few seconds’ pause, then both vehicles started up and got back on the road again.

  “Two minutes after that, Striker’s smartphone signaled that it was being tampered with before it suddenly stopped broadcasting. All attempts to raise him have been, as I mentioned, unsuccessful.”

  Price nodded, her voice calm even though her heartbeat had sudden sped up. She knew Bolan had been in tight spots before, and had the devil’s own luck in getting out of them. Hopefully this time would be no different—and neither was her reaction to the news of him being in harm’s way.

  “Keep trying, and tell me the moment you find out where those vehicles are going.” Her eyes never leaving the screen, Price opened a channel to Grimaldi. “Jack, Striker has gone off the grid, and we have reason to believe he is in enemy hands. I’m expediting air assistance, along with Charlie Mott, down to the Congo... Yes, I have every expectation that you’ll need both before you’re through there...”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bolan regained consciousness slowly enough to keep looking as though he was still out cold. He gathered his wits, replaying what he knew in his mind. The last thing he remembered was being shot with a dart, but he’d still tried to draw his pistol while going for that smiling bastard Kayembe’s throat. Their betrayer’s eyes had gone as wide as saucers as he’d beat at Bolan’s steel-hard grip, but then the tranquilizer had taken hold and everything had gone black afterward.

  Now, his eyes still closed, Bolan extended his other senses, taking stock of the situation as much as he could.

  They were still in a vehicle, but the soft leather seat had been replaced by bare, hard wood. The purr of the Land Rover was also gone, traded for the thunderous rattle of a diesel engine. Sweat soaked his body and he felt hot, damp wind swirl around him as they moved, but not blowing directly into his face. The back of an open transport truck. Also, his feet were bound together, and each hand was lashed to what felt like a chair arm on each side of him.

  Catching flashes of sunlight, even through his closed eyelids, Bolan cracked an eye as he swayed with the jouncing truck. His impressions were correct—he and Cheryl Briggs, sitting with her head slumped forward beside him, were both lashed to seats on a bench in the back of what appeared to be a secondhand military transport truck. Although they were both tied, there were no guards in the back, which meant their captors were confident or careless. Judging by how they had captured both of them, as well as when he realized that just about everything he could have used as an improvised weapon had been taken from him—right down to his shoelaces—Bolan wasn’t betting on the latter.

  Opening his eyes fully, he looked around, trying to figure out anything else he could about their predicament. It was dusk, but he couldn’t be sure it was still the same day, although it probably was. Administering continuous doses of tranquilizer to an unconscious victim increased the risk of something going wrong. Plus, his internal clock just felt as if no more than a few, maybe several, hours had passed at the most.

  The setting sun threw his shadow onto the back wall of the truck cab, so they were heading roughly due east. The real question is where? Bolan wondered.

  A low moan from his right made him turn to see Briggs coming out of her drug-induced unconsciousness. “My head...” Her voice trailed off when she tried to move her hands, then her feet. Only then did she look up to see the back of the truck around them, and Bolan sitting next to her. “Where do you think we are?” Her voice was surprisingly calm.

  “At least five or six hours away from Kinshasa,” Bolan replied. “We’re in the deep jungle, heading east. Obviously we were transferred during some part of this whole operation.” He glanced at her, as much to see how she was handling this news as in assurance. “How do you feel?”

  “Like someone stuffed my head full of cotton, then pulled it all out through my nose and mouth,” she replied.

  “Yeah, the tranquilizer will do that do you,” he said.

  She regarded her zip-tied hands and then looked up at him. “So, what now?”

  “Well, they obviously want us alive for a reason, but I’ve been trying to figure out what that is, and haven’t come up with anything yet,” Bolan replied. “Best thing we can do is to go along for now, figure out where we are and what’s going on, and wait for an opportunity to escape. They obviously have vehicles, so if the right opportunity arises, we can commandeer one, get back on the trail and go as far as we can before either finding someone or running out of gas. The important thing will be to put as much distance between us and them. That way they’ll have to waste more time searching for us. Then we figure out how to contact your people or my people, and they come in and pick us up.”

  All through his instructions, Briggs had been staring at him with a befuddled expression on her face that had slowly changed into disbelief at his matter-of-fact tone. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

  He looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve been in some tight spots, yeah. You’d be surprised at what you can accomplish if you stay alert, keep your wits about you and are willing to exploit any opportunity that may arise.” He watched her steadily.

  Briggs didn’t get what he was referring to at first, then she dropped her gaze to her trim, lithe body, covered but not hidden by her blouse and slacks. “You don’t mean...”

  “All I’m saying is that if the opportunity arises and your choice is between using your wiles enough to get an edge and death, I know the one I’d choose.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet that scenario comes up for you all the time,” she muttered.

  “You’d be surprised,” came the quick reply. “Look, I’m not saying it will, but it’s best to keep as many of your options open as possible. That reminds me, if the situation is that one of us gets free and can’t get to the other, the free one has to leave, no hesitation, no going back. Whatever they’re doing out here can’t be allowed to continue. It’s vital that one
of us gest back to our superiors and report. You understand?”

  “Perfectly,” she replied.

  The engine’s tone changed and the truck began slowing as it turned right. “Looks like we’re going to see what’s behind the curtain. Be ready.”

  “I am.” As she replied, they drove into darkness lit by electric lights. “What the—”

  “I don’t know,” Bolan replied as what looked like a large section of rock wall slid over the opening they had driven through. Their truck turned again, and he could see several other vehicles parked in the large, rock-walled garage, along with several people moving around. “Wherever we are, they’ve been here a while, in order to do all of this.”

  “Should we feign being unconscious?” Briggs asked.

  “I don’t see the point,” Bolan replied. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned anyway. Best to meet them on the best terms we can and make a later strike.”

  The truck stopped and two men holding FN P-90 submachine guns walked up to the rear and covered both of them. Bolan heard the truck doors open and close, and footsteps come around to the back.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake,” their captor, a trim, slim man in pressed fatigues and flanked by two more men, said in a precise English accent. “It would have been most annoying to have to carry you both inside. I assume that you both know the drill, so don’t be stupid, and you won’t force us to be, as well.”

  He nodded and the other two men jumped into the back of the truck and drew combat knives. They cut Briggs’s hands free, but not her feet, then made her kneel on the truck bed while they zip-tied her hands behind her back. Only then did they cut her legs loose and allow her to stand, bracing her so she didn’t fall over as the circulation returned to her aching feet.

  Then they turned to Bolan and repeated the procedure. He noted their professionalism and efficiency, one of them always staying far enough away to not be easily attacked. Even so, he considered the odds against him and knew a better opportunity would arise later.

  “You were the guys in Armenia,” Bolan said as they hauled him to his feet. He didn’t react as the blood rushed back into his toes, making them tingle painfully.

  “We were indeed,” the leader replied. “Apparently we passed each other in the night at some point. I must say, it was quite engaging watching you get out of there. You’re very good.” His tone left the second part of his statement unspoken: but not good enough to avoid capture.

  So, they knew about me after the village, Bolan thought as the two men marched him to the edge of the truck and he jumped down. Makes sense, since they were able to grab me so easily.

  “It is a pity you got as far as you did, however.” The man shook his head. “If you had simply died back in the village, you and the young lady wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

  Bolan and Briggs were led into what had appeared to be a tunnel carved into the side of a small mountain. They walked past stone walls for several yards, until they were replaced by stainless-steel panels on the wall and floor that led to a set of thick metal-and-glass double doors that slid open at their approach.

  “Keep moving.” One of the guards prodded Briggs in the back with the muzzle of his rifle, earning him a glare from Bolan.

  The second guard noticed his scowl and poked him in the back. “Knock it off, asshole.”

  “Cut the zip tie off and I’ll be happy to.”

  Crushing agony exploded in Bolan’s kidney, sending him staggering into the airlock door. The pain radiated through his back, making black spots dance in front of his eyes. It was so intense he couldn’t breathe for a moment, but was reduced to vainly trying to suck in air, his lungs wheezing with the effort.

  “Stop it, all of you!” Briggs ran to Bolan, but bound as she was, there was nothing she could do.

  “I’m...okay,” Bolan gasped. He straightened with an effort, fighting to keep the wince from appearing on his face. He looked back at the guard, noting his face, but said nothing.

  “All right, stand still and breathe normally.” The other guard hit the door button, sealing them all in the airlock. A white vapor plumed from jets in the ceiling and walls, bathing the group in a slightly acrid mist.

  “Vaporized disinfectant?” Briggs asked.

  “Someone likes their James Bond toys, that’s for sure.” Adding after Briggs’s frown, “Well, what else would you call this?”

  “A concealed laboratory designed to continue its research without suffering the ridiculous oversight of ignorant governments and regulatory organizations?”

  Bolan and Briggs turned at the new voice behind them. Out of the cloud of antiseptic appeared a tall man dressed in a white lab coat, with a wrinkled, button-down Oxford shirt and shapeless brown slacks underneath. His face was v-shaped, long and lean, with a small, almost snub nose, high, hollow cheekbones and a jutting jaw. His black hair tapered to a widow’s peak on his broad forehead, and below that were bright-blue eyes glittering with dispassionate intelligence.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Dr. Gerhardt Richter, and you—” he indicated Bolan with a nod of his chin “—are Matt Cooper, and the lady is Cheryl Briggs. I expect your names are probably both aliases, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. I don’t offer either of you any regrets for what has happened, or how you have been treated so far. I assume that both of you were both poking your noses where they didn’t belong, which is why you ended up here.”

  “Yeah, and where exactly is that?” Bolan asked while massaging his lower back.

  “This is a small copper mine that was excavated twenty-five years ago and abandoned during the local civil war of the early twenty-first century. Its location was suitable for our research and, with the proper modifications, has served our purposes well for the past three years.”

  “But the power grid required...the energy... Where does that all come from?” Briggs glanced at the other set of doors that slid open, revealing more of the complex. “How do you supply it?”

  “That’s a long story, and one I won’t bore you with, since we have much to accomplish. Come along.” His request was punctuated by more prodding from the two guards. Bolan and Briggs were escorted down a large, low-ceilinged hall with side corridors every few meters. At one point they came to a large T-intersection with several people walking to different destinations, including a young black man escorted by two guards.

  Richter stopped them and briefly examined their captive. “Good, he’s recovered nicely. Have him ready to go in two hours.” Nodding at Bolan and Briggs’s guards, he directed, “Take these two to holding and get them prepared.”

  Bolan and Briggs exchanged quizzical glances, but Richter was already walking away. They were led to a small room that was little more than a hollow cube hewed from the rock of the mountain, with a very sturdy steel door as the only exit.

  “Up against the wall.” One of the guards held his submachine gun on them while the other expertly frisked Bolan, then Briggs, even removing and examining their shoes and socks. He searched Briggs’s hair for pins or picks and even took a look in Bolan’s mouth, after warning him that any attempt to bite would cost him teeth. After a glance at the second guard, who already had the butt of his subgun poised, Bolan submitted without any protest.

  Afterward, they cut the zip ties, letting Bolan and Briggs massage life back into their aching joints. “New clothes are on the bench. Food will also be coming, and don’t worry, it’s not drugged. The doc prefers you both to be fully alert and ready for the tests.” They both chuckled at that.

  Bolan turned to ask what they were talking about, but the guards prodded them inside and then closed the door. He immediately turned to examine the barrier, checking its seams along the frame and the door. “No luck getting through this without a few ounces of C-4, which would blow us to pieces, as well, unfortunately. I imagine the rest of the cell is
just as impregnable, unless you know how to tunnel through a few hundred yards of solid rock.”

  Briggs walked to the metal bench bolted to the floor along one side of the room, picking up a T-shirt and looking at it, then letting it drop. “I can’t believe you’re so calm about all of this. We have no idea who these people are, or what they’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere, yet you’re acting like we’re taking a tour of the place, as if our lives aren’t at stake here.”

  “We’re still breathing, aren’t we?” Bolan walked over to her and gently took her by the shoulders, his back to the door. “Look, they obviously want us alive for some reason, we just have to play along—”

  “Shh.” Her eyes flicked to the wall above the door, where the unblinking eye of a camera lens was watching them.

  Bolan lowered his voice. “I know, that’s why I’m standing here. I’m sure the room’s wired for sound, as well. My point is that we’re being kept in one piece for a reason, and we have to play along until we can figure a way out of here.”

  With a disgusted snort, Briggs twisted out of his grip. “I’m not sure what kind of ridiculous games you play at, but this is real life—real guards, real guns, real bullets. I don’t see any possible way out of this except our deaths. I mean, really, why do you think he was so quick to introduce himself to us?”

  Although her words weren’t lost on Bolan, he kept his tone light as he replied. “Who knows? Maybe he’s lonely out here. Perhaps months out here looking at research charts and the other lab coats made him friendlier than your average mad scientist. Just keep your chin up. Don’t give them a reason to come after you, but you can’t go catatonic on me, either. You’re stronger than that. I can see it in you. Keep your eyes and ears open, and watch for opportunities. Something will come along, and I’ll need your help to take advantage of it.”