Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  He asked for the operations supervisor, and was directed to a harried-looking man who was still impeccably dressed. He was surrounded by three people, each demanding his attention. He handled each issue with polite alacrity, then turned to Panshin. “Yes?”

  He held out his hand. “Samantha George. I’m here to take care of the lighting for tomorrow’s event.”

  He shook “her” hand once even as he pulled out a computer tablet and began scrolling through it. “George... George... George... Ah, here we are. So, you’re one of the new additions to our family here. Welcome, welcome. I’m Javier Toset, general operations manager for the center. To be honest, we didn’t expect you to come in until this evening.”

  Panshin smiled. “I prefer to familiarize myself with the setup and board well ahead of time, in the event of any issues that might arise.”

  “Smart thinking.” He looked around. “Did you bring any gear in with you?”

  “I believe my supply truck is out back in the loading area,” he replied.

  Toset scrolled some more. “Um...yes, it arrived this morning. We had it parked off to the side, due to the larger trucks coming in after it. I hope that won’t be an issue.”

  “Not at all. As long as I have access to carts and electronic lifts, I think I’ll be fine.”

  “All right, then, I’ll leave you to it. The sound room is up there.” He pointed to the wall of windows high up at the back of the room. “And access to the staging area is through the doors at the front of the room. Also, the room coordinator is Sara Alves, in the yellow blouse on the far side of the room. See her if you need anything. Otherwise, again, welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, I look forward to working with you and everyone here,” Panshin said with a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have plenty to do, as no doubt you do, as well.”

  Despite being distracted already, Toset managed to return a game smile. “You have no idea. Good luck,” he said before turning on his heel and trotting off.

  Panshin headed toward the set of double doors at the back of the room, pushing through them to find himself in a stark, concrete loading dock that spanned the entire rear of the building. Here again, trucks were backed up to loading docks, unloading food, furniture, equipment and other items.

  He walked by the bustling, straining, shouting men running back and forth to the far end of the loading area, where there was a door to the outside of the building. Locating an empty dolly, he grabbed it and pulled it behind him while stepping through the door. He scanned the crowded lot until he located the small white panel truck parked off to the side, almost like an afterthought.

  Walking to the back of it, he consulted his phone and punched in the twelve-digit code that changed hourly on the keypad. The light next to it changed from red to green. If he’d entered the wrong code, the truck would have exploded. Opening the rear door, he stepped inside, hauling the dolly in after him.

  The interior looked like a standard light rigger’s van, with frames, lights, bulbs, gels and other tools of the trade on shelves and in cabinets lining both walls. In the center of the cargo area were two large black plastic boxes labeled Light Board Sensors—Fragile—Handle With Care.

  Panshin keyed in a second code on the first of these boxes, which was booby-trapped similarly to the truck, and opened it to reveal a series of plain black ceramic cubes set in gray foam rubber cutouts, about four inches on a side. Small recessed arrows detectable by touch alone marked one side, indicating which one should be placed toward what the demolition person wanted to destroy.

  If anyone asked him what the cubes were, he would say they were wireless sensors to monitor the status of the lights. There were maybe two or three people on the center’s staff who might question that answer, and he doubted they’d even be bothering him as long as he looked like he knew what he was doing, and kept working. As with most places, fitting in was 90 percent of any infiltration job.

  In reality, there was enough Semtex in one of these cubes to level a two-story house, and it was completely sealed from detection by chemical sniffers or bomb dogs. With the dozen cubes Panshin planned to place at key points around the roof, the resulting blast—timed by a mechanical timer to fire the detonator, so no wireless signals or electronics to disable—should be more than enough to bring the whole roof down on not only the American President, but the audience, as well.

  The resulting deaths, ideally including several heads of state from various countries, should throw the EU into chaos, to say nothing of the death of the sitting US President. Amid all of the strife, it would be foolish for Russia to not move to consolidate some of the countries it had lost in the breakup of the USSR. At the very least, the resulting elections might enable more pro-Russian candidates to emerge on ballots and possibly get elected, smoothing the way for future relations and improved trade.

  No matter what the results, this action would shake up the European Union, reminding it that it was still vulnerable, that just because the countries had joined together didn’t mean they were more secure. It would also put the fear of Russia back into Europe, rather than the current state of affairs, where the nation was still seen as a crippled bear, hobbled by falling oil prices, rampant corruption and weak infrastructure.

  Well, after today, they won’t think we are so weak anymore, he thought. And if they wish to exact revenge for this action, they will soon find out that our claws are still as sharp as ever.

  Another foam cutout contained a flat, narrow box that was also protected from X-rays and other detection methods, appearing to be simply electronic components when scanned. Panshin opened it and removed the compact, matte-black PSS pistol, designed for reconnaissance and assassination. Unlike sound-suppressed weapons, which only muffled each shot and still created noise, the PSS was a truly silent weapon, as each round of the special ammunition it used contained its own internal piston and propelling charge that fired the bullet. After the bullet left the chamber, the piston also sealed the neck of the cartridge, preventing any noise, smoke or flame from escaping the barrel, as well. Although its range was most effective out to twenty-five yards, it was still a nearly perfect weapon for a silent kill.

  Panshin checked the pistol’s action, then loaded it with 7.62 mm ammo and used a miniclip holster to conceal it at the small of his back. He slipped another full magazine into his pocket, loaded one of the boxes full of cubes onto the dolly and began hauling it back into the center. He still had a lot of work to do before the President’s speech—his final one.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE COMING UP on them now,” Akira Tokaido said. “Just another half block to go. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the small plaza in the middle of that cluster of buildings on your left.”

  Bolan pulled to the side of the busy avenue and looked out his side window. The plaza was a flagstone-paved space about twenty yards on a side. A small fountain in the middle burbled into the air, the water glistening as it caught the sunlight. Modern stone benches were scattered around the area, many next to large, raised concrete platforms containing colorful flowers or small trees, lending a touch of greenery and shade to the area.

  “Great. There’s open ground, yet plenty of cover, and lots of people walking around. It’s the perfect place to set off explosives or open fire on bystanders,” Palomer said.

  “Also plenty of places to run inside for more cover and hostages, as well,” Rosnovich remarked. “If we’re not careful, we could have a slaughter in several places here.”

  “I suppose calling in a bomb threat wouldn’t help the situation any—you know, to evacuate the innocent,” Kepar offered.

  “Normally that might be an option, except they’d either lose themselves in the evacuating crowd or open fire on it, and we’d be screwed ether way,” Bolan said. “If they’re still there, waiting for us to arrive, we need to figure out a way to take them her
e and now, ideally without firing a shot.”

  “I don’t see how that’s going to be possible,” Palomer said as she leaned forward to study the area. “They got looks at all of us back in Paris, so we can’t approach them without tipping them off.”

  “Right, so we’ll just have to figure out another way.”

  He contacted Stony Man. “Akira, any change in either of them since they arrived here?”

  “The only thing that’s changed is that they are not carrying their bags anymore. Repeat, they do not have the shopping bags they entered the plaza with, but have placed them in or near the various trash receptacles around the plaza.”

  “Okay, but they did have them when they arrived?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Given the location they’ve chosen, I think the odds are very good that the bags contain improvised explosives that they planted,” Rosnovich said.

  “Clever. Do we try to apprehend them, or find and neutralize the bombs?” Palomer asked.

  “We did tell you they were good,” Rosnovich said from the backseat.

  Bolan was quiet for a few minutes. “Akira, have you had eyes on the secondary team since when you first spotted them?”

  “More or less, Striker, given what cameras I could find along their path,” the Stony Man hacker replied. “The Spanish financial folks do love to keep an eye on their buildings, however, so I’d estimate I’ve had overwatch on them 90 to 95 percent of the time.”

  “Good. So if we have to call in a bomb threat on those shopping bags, you can provide the exact locations?”

  “That is affirmative.”

  “All right.”

  Bolan turned to Rosnovich. “My guy said he can give the locations of where the bombs are,” Bolan told the others.

  “Akira, send me a top-down view of the plaza and the location of each target.”

  “Coming up.” A few moments later, Bolan’s smartphone chimed and he swiped at it to reveal the picture. Linking to the SUV’s onboard dash display, he put the picture up for all of them to see.

  “They’re not taking any chances,” Bolan pointed out. “Each one is situated so they can watch at least two entry points. The moment either one sees any of us, they’ll draw and start shooting, not to mention probably set off one or more of the IEDs. So how are we going to take them both down with a minimum of casualties?”

  Everyone fell quiet, thinking about the obstacles hampering their mission. “What we really need is a way to get close to at least one of them, preferably both, but I’d take one...” Palomer scanned the plaza again, then looked up and down the street. Her eyes widened, and she pointed down at the next block.

  “There—that’s our way in.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ten minutes later, Bolan shuffled toward the plaza, staring at the ground, occasionally muttering to himself. He now wore a stained, filthy, olive green overcoat and dirty striped pants with a large hole torn in the knee, along with ragged, falling-apart shoes, one of which was missing its heel. The stiff breeze ruffled his already mussed hair. Everything he wore stank, and the people around him gave him a wide berth as he approached.

  They’d bought the disguise for one hundred euros from a homeless man Palomer had spotted, and gave him Bolan’s spare clean clothes so he wouldn’t get arrested for running around in his underwear.

  There’d been a brief but intense argument over who was going to actually wear the disguise, but Bolan had overruled Rosnovich by the simple expedient of grabbing the clothes and putting them on. Then there had been another brief discussion about letting him go in alone, but he had quashed that too by saying the last thing they’d expect would be to see just one of them.

  As final touches, Bolan had mussed up his hair, rubbed dirt all over his face and hands and put on a pair of sunglasses he’d gotten from Rosnovich. He ambled into the plaza, rattling a stained coffee cup to beg for change.

  “So far, so good, Striker. They don’t seem to be taking any real notice of you,” Tokaido reported in his ear. “Just keep heading straight, and you’ll be able to see the man on your left, in about four yards.”

  Palomer was on the sidewalk between the SUV and the plaza, pretending to talk quietly into her phone. In reality, she was connected to Bolan’s phone, and was hearing everything he was doing. The Russians were positioned near one of the other skyscrapers, using the foliage in the planters to get as close as they could to the woman without being seen. When the operation began, they’d be able to get on-site in about five seconds. It would be a long five seconds, however.

  Throwing his arm out like he was warding off an invisible assailant, Bolan next tucked it under his open jacket, as if he was scratching his stomach. In reality, he was making sure his pistol was easily available in his waistband.

  “All right, he should be visible out of the corner of your eye. Do you see him?” Tokaido asked.

  Bolan looked over to see a turbaned man sitting on the stone bench, leaning back against the stone planter, arms outstretched to either side. He casually watched people go by, although Bolan would have bet he was aware of everyone in the area, and was evaluating their potential threat level. Ideally, the Executioner would be seen as just another homeless person in the city, and therefore be overlooked.

  Just as Palomer’s plan intended.

  “I’m going to take him,” Bolan subvocalized to the others through his phone. “My shout will be the signal.”

  “Ready,” Palomer replied.

  “We’re ready here,” Rosnovich replied.

  * * *

  AS SEVARON WAITED for the go signal, Zimin was on the phone to their backup team, which had been tailing them from the moment they’d left the convention center.

  “Be ready,” she said. “Be advised, the trash containers may contain IEDs. Approach with caution.”

  “Understood,” Krivov replied. “We’re in position.”

  Depending on how the American’s initial takedown went, the plan, Sevaron knew, was that he and Zimin were either going to cut off the female assassin’s escape, or reinforce the American if the male assassin proved to be too strong for him. With her fluency in Spanish, Palomer was supposed to handle crowd control, leaving the two Russians as the backup. In the chaos that was sure to follow, if they saw a shot to take down both the operative and the American, any of the Russians were supposed to take it.

  Realizing Sevaron was looking at her questioningly, Zimin nodded at him.

  “We’re ready here,” he said into his phone, hand on the gun hidden under his jacket, fully loaded with the armor-piercing bullets the American agent had supplied.

  Zimin grinned as she readied her own pistol. The irony of the American being killed by the bullets he’d supplied was delicious.

  She only hoped she would be the one who got to pull the trigger on him...

  * * *

  BOLAN’S GENERAL PLAN had been to get as close as he could to the man, then draw his pistol and try to cover him at gunpoint, taking him alive if possible. He was fully prepared to put as many rounds as he needed into the operative if necessary, however.

  With the turbaned Russian only a few yards away, Bolan swayed on his feet, then staggered over to the corner of the large, square planter like he was going to throw up into it.

  “He’s ignoring you, Striker,” Tokaido said. “He even slid down to the far end of the bench.”

  From his vantage point, Bolan could now get a good look at his target as he dry-heaved into the bushes. The turbaned man glanced in his direction once, then looked back toward the other side of the plaza. The time was now—

  “Oh, shit, Striker, look out!” Tokaido said just as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

  Although Bolan’s first instinct would have been to spin, grab the offending hand and break either i
t, the arm, or both in one of six different ways, he remained in character and straightened as he was whirled to face a uniformed police officer.

  The man spoke to him in a burst of rapid-fire Spanish, then grabbed Bolan by the arm and began pulling him toward the street, obviously intending to eject him from the space.

  Bolan was in an even worse bind now. Taking down the cop would draw attention to himself, and possibly spook the two operatives, but if he allowed himself to be taken away, reappearing in the plaza again would be suspicious no matter what. And there was no way he’d be able to convince the policeman he was an undercover US agent, even with his credentials. He couldn’t risk the man saying something that might be overheard by Bolan’s target.

  Shaking his head and mumbling, Bolan planted his feet, hoping Palomer was hearing what was happening and would try to intercede, even if it meant blowing her cover.

  “Oficial, perdón, oficial,” a voice said in perfect Spanish.

  Bolan glanced up to see that Palomer had also transformed herself somehow. She now wore designer sunglasses and a large hat worn on the side of her head that hid her face when she stood next to someone. She trotted up, careful to keep the hat between her and the Russians. “Thank you for your assistance,” she continued, her tone a mixture of relief and exasperation. “This man is my uncle. He has chosen to live on the streets, and will not come home with us, no matter how I beg him to. I have been waiting for him here, and now you have found him, which I appreciate so much.”

  “This man is your uncle?” the officer asked in Spanish.

  “Yes. He is not well—mentally, you know,” she replied. “I think we should go now, but again, thank you for your help, Officer. I am so grateful.”

  Taking Bolan’s arm, Palomer began leading him out of the plaza. Bolan was thinking they were about to get away with it when the simplest thing happened.

  A gust of wind spun up and blew the hat off Palomer’s head before she could catch it.

  Bolan glanced back, as if checking on the cop, but in reality he was checking on the turbaned man, who had been watching them. His eyes widened in surprise.