Line of Honor

by Don Pendleton

  West Kurdufan

  CAPTAIN OSMANI LAUGHED out loud. Rao nodded. “You are pleased?” Osmani watched the Liebao, or Cheetah, commander vehicles roll up outside his tent in a convoy. To the untrained eye the vehicles looked like Mitsubishi Pajero SUVs. The trained eye would notice the cargo racks on the hood, the roof and the back-bed doors. Beneath the luggage racks on the roof the military man would notice highly modified central sunroofs with ring mounts for weapons. Behind the Cheetahs a pair of Chinese NJ2046 high-mobility 4x4 trucks pulled up the rear. What pleased Osmani the most was the vehicles’ white paint and the large UN letters emblazoned on the sides and hoods. “I am well pleased, Mr. Rao.” “Did I mention that once this operation is over my superiors would like you to accept these vehicles as token of their respect?” Captain Osmani just barely kept the surge of cupidity off his face. “That is very kind.” The driver’s doors of the six vehicles flung open simultaneously. The drivers all wore khaki cargo pants and vests and matching sunglasses. They stepped up to Osmani and Rao in formation and saluted smartly. Their leader barked out in English for Osmani’s benefit, “Tsu, reporting as ordered! All equipment and personnel present and accounted for!” “Very good, Tsu. Captain, my men do not speak Arabic, but all are fluent in English. I propose we keep this our communications language.” “Very well.” “Would you like my men to drive for yours? Or would you prefer to designate your own drivers?” Osmani suspected all of Rao’s men spoke Arabic fluently, and that these men would be keeping tabs on the conversational trends of each of Osmani’s fire teams and reporting directly to Rao in Mandarin. “Your drivers are more familiar with the vehicles.” “Very good.” Rao motioned to one of the truck drivers. “Ting, break out the weapons.” Osmani leaned over and whispered to Corporal Kiir in the language of his birth. “Kiir, spread the word. If our men need to communicate anything among themselves or to me that the Chinese should not hear, speak in Beja.” “Yes, Captain.” Rao’s men went to one of the trucks and began unloading wooden crates. Tsu and Ting came back with a crate between them and opened it in front of Osmani. The Kalashnikov was the worldwide symbol of the freedom fighter, the revolutionary, the terrorist and Third World armies who belonged to the spray-and-pray school of marksmanship. Colt’s M-16 rifle was the penultimate symbol of the American soldier. The Americans had spent the past four decades kicking the living hell out of any and all that opposed them. Any derivation of the M-16, particularly the M-4 carbine, was a highly prized status symbol. Osmani reached into the crate and pulled out a Colt carbine. Despite the lack of markings or serial numbers on the weapon, he suspected it was a product of Norinco Industries. The weapon mounted an optical sight on the top rail. Rao nodded. “The reflex sight is instinctive, however, with your permission I would like my men to give yours the weapon’s basic manual of arms immediately and a few hundreds rounds of practice fire.” “I concur.” Osmani looked up at the sun. “How far behind the invaders do you believe we are?” “According to my last intelligence report, we are approximately three days behind them.” Osmani frowned. “I saw their vehicles. They have Land Rovers and a Unimog. Your vehicles are slightly more modern, but do you truly believe we can catch them?” “My men have night-vision equipment. Where the terrain is safe we will drive at night. That should help make up time.” Rao gave Osmani a smile that was genuinely inscrutable. “And should it become necessary, I believe I have the means to delay them.” * * * GOOSE AND TSHABALALA rode back on the cycles. There was no place to hide the Unimog, and it was too big to bury. Bolan had ordered the South Africans to drive it out of visual range and to return on the bikes. It rankled everyone to leave the truck and the overwhelming majority of their supplies unattended, but it was better than having their matériel blown to smithereens. The South Africans brought their bikes to a halt in front of Bolan. Pienaar pulled down his goggles and grinned at the excavations and field fortifications. “We miss anything, Striker?” Ceallach leaned on his shovel and spit to one side. “Just the bloody hard bits, mate.” Bolan examined his two main fighting positions. Central Kurdufan wasn’t quite a Martian landscape. In fact it looked a lot like the bastard lovechild of the Australian Outback and one of the harsher corners of Texas. Bolan had taken a dried riverbed and dug himself two very quick and dirty revetments fifty yards apart. Rover 1 and 2 were hidden from sight, but when the enemy came down their trail they could move up the dirt ramps just enough to expose their weapons; and if they were taking heavy fire they could roll back down. Both Ochoa and Ceallach new their way around a recoilless antitank gun. The Briton would be loading and Ochoa firing. Haitham would be in the driver’s seat either bringing Rover 1 up or down the revetment. Shartai would be driving Rover 2, and Onopkov would be firing and Nelsonne assisting on the Russian .50-caliber gun. If the enemy had mortars of any size, the revetments would be about as useful as sand castles at high tide. That brought the second half of the plan to bear. The gun jeeps were going to be the knockout punch. It was going to be the men in the fighting holes a hundred yards ahead who were going to be lead blow. Ching and Lkhümbengarav would be in one hole. Tshabalala and Pienaar another. Bolan had a hide directly behind a pile of tombstone-size rocks to himself. Mrda was off to one side at two hundred yards with his Dragunov. Bolan gazed eastward across the empty terrain toward the Unimog’s position. He tapped his phone. “How close are they, Bear?” “By last estimate they should closing, Striker,” Kurtzman replied. “Twenty minutes to visual if they are making time as of last sat window.” Bolan nodded at Pienaar. “Pop smoke.” The South African hit his remote detonator. Out by the Unimog a white phosphorus grenade detonated. The team watched and waited. A plume of smoke rising in the distance rewarded them. That was the bait. Mnan and his men would see the smoke on the horizon and head straight for it and right into the jaws of the trap. Bolan went over the plan one more time. “We left a nice trail for Mnan and his men to follow. With any luck they’re going to come straight down it. You all wait on my move. Once me, T.C. and Lucky, and T-Lo and Goose are engaged, Haitham and Shartai will bring the Rovers to the lip of the revetment and Rover teams engage with the support weapons. We need to make this quick.” Mrda lit a final cigarette before battle. “And I?” “Wait for the first bullet or explosion. After that, no one will spot you off to the side except by sheer dumb luck. Fire at will, but focus on the weapons operators on the technicals rather than the drivers or gunmen.” “Okay.” “Any questions?” Ceallach raised his hand. “Scotty?” “Yeah, not to be dick, Striker, but what about that bloody quad-mounted 23?” “We’re currently out of satellite window. I don’t know whether it’s still with the main force or if the lighter technicals are jumping ahead. If it makes an appearance, drop down. Both you and Rover 2. My hope is that they come rolling in and Rad shoots the operators and we take that flatbed at will. If it’s hanging back, we wipe out the main force and the entire team retreats to the riverbed and see what kind of move he makes. If he wants to sit back and think he has us pinned down while the horse cavalry catches up, we let him, and when night falls we creep in and take him. If he wants to take to his heels instead, we’ll let him do that, too. Anything else?” Bolan looked around at his team. No one looked particularly nervous or displeased with the plan. Haitham and Shartai looked positively giddy. As far as the Kong brothers were concerned, greasing the Janjaweed was a mission perk. Bolan nodded. “Rad, you’re our spotter. You let me know when they’re within a hundred yards of the ground teams.” “Okay.” Bolan took up his weapon and fighting vest. “Let’s do this.” His gun crews broke for the Land Rovers. Ching and Lkhümbengarav and Pienaar and Tshabalala broke off into their fighting pairs and moved out into the scrub toward their prepared pits. Mrda jogged off to snipe from the flank. Bolan walked to his lone fighting position at the tip of the spear. His crown of rocks was large enough to crouch behind, but he had dug himself a shallow grave in case Mnan sent scouts ahead. He had inundated a blanket with the red dust of the Sudan and stretched it between tent poles. A c
ursory glance would show nothing but a patch of dirt. Bolan shoved a 60 mm Norinco rifle grenade over the muzzle of his rifle and clicked it down over the launching rings. He had two of them. The old-style Chinese rifle grenades had one strategic weakness. Unlike modern bullet-trap grenades, you couldn’t just shoot the grenade off the muzzle with standard ammo. It took a special ballistite cartridge to launch the grenade. The first bullet in Bolan’s mag was a launcher round and the rest standard ammo. His first reload was the same way. There was going to be a critical moment when he would have to change magazines to fire his second grenade. His comrades all shared the same tactical problem. Bolan lay down in his slit trench. Dust sifted onto his chest as he pulled the camouflaged blanket over the hole. Mrda spoke across the com link. “Dust, in the distance.” “Copy that.” The big American’s dirt bathtub began to vibrate and more dust sifted down through the blanket. Bolan felt more than heard the thunder of engines in the distance. Mrda spoke across the link. “They come. I have visual.” Bolan pushed his selector to semiauto. “All units, wait for my signal.” All units came back in the affirmative. “Copy that, Striker.” “Rover 1, Rover 2, start your engines.” “Copy that, Striker.” “Rad, you have eyes on that 23?” “Negative, Striker.” The Serb made a disgusted noise. “Too much dust.” “Range?” “One thousand meters and closing. They approach at speed in a skirmish line. Following our trail. Eyes on Goose’s smoke to the east.” “Copy that, Rad,” Bolan stated. He loosened the pistol in its thigh holster and took a few deep breaths. His team would either achieve total victory in the first few seconds or else it would turn into a slugfest. Bolan could clearly hear the roar of engines. “Five hundred meters! Four hundred! Two vehicles will pass very close on either side of your position, Striker! Two hundred!” “Copy that! Ground teams A and B! On my go! Rover 1 and 2! Take fighting positions! Striker is go!” Bolan erupted out of his trench. NASCAR-worthy thunder greeted him. The technicals roared forward rooster-tailing a tsunami wall of red dust in their wake. The range was fifty yards and closing. A primer gray pickup sporting dual-mounted general-purpose machine guns in the back came dead-on. Bolan put the nose of his rifle grenade on the grille of the oncoming pickup and fired. The rifle slammed against his shoulder as the one-and-a-half-pound grenade thudded through the air. The front of the pickup disappeared in a blast of smoke and fire. Bolan flicked his selector lever as the pickup stood on its nose and somersaulted. The scream of the man sitting behind the machine guns was lost as he was smeared away. Bolan swung his muzzle onto the next-closest vehicle and burned the rest of his magazine into it on full-auto. He dropped back behind his rocks and stripped out his spent mag. Slapping in a reload, he clicked his second grenade down over his smoking muzzle. Bullets started hitting his position in swarms. Bolan suddenly had the technical swarm’s full attention. “A Team! Now!” A and B Team both had dug themselves genuine foxholes they could stand in. Ching and Lkhümbengarav threw off their camouflage. Ching fired, and his comrade’s grenade launched a heartbeat later. The grenade hit a technical broadside. The truck went sky-high as the grenade detonated the spare shells in a string of spectacular secondary explosions. Lkhümbengarav’s munition hit low and detonated beneath his target’s chassis. The technical spun out as its guts were ripped out rather than rolling or exploding. Men jumped out of the cab and dived off the back. “B Team!” Bolan ordered. “Go!” Pienaar and Tshabalala popped and up and the brothers-in-law fired simultaneously. Pienaar’s grenade took his target in the cab. The windows and the roof blew off, and the gunner in the bed screamed as superheated smoke and fire washed over him. Tshabalala’s shot slammed against the side of his target and rolled the pickup over like it had been slapped by a fiery hand. A burst of machine-gun fire chipped rock inches from Bolan’s head. The gunner in the back of Lkhümbengarav’s first target was still alive, had an angle on Bolan and was looking for payback. The Executioner threw himself flat and brought his weapon to bear. The machine gunner in the back of the technical suddenly flinched forward as though he had been kicked in the back. He jerked twice more and sagged over his weapon. Mrda and his sniper rifle were in the game. “Rovers! Go!” Rover 1 and 2 lurched to the lip of the riverbed. Ochoa squatted beneath the recoilless antitank gun like he had giant bazooka over his shoulder. He took a second to aim at a Toyota Tacoma with the cab roof sawed off. It carried a Russian .50-caliber rifle and half a squad of Janjaweed in the back. Fire belched from both ends of Ochoa’s weapon. The 82 mm artillery round sent man and machine gun cartwheeling through the air in shattered ruins. Ceallach had already slammed open the smoking breech and was loading a fresh shell. A Russian .50-caliber gun tore into life. Val Onopkov stood in the back of Rover 2. One of the technicals had foolishly slammed on his brakes. The Russian walked his fire up the hood and into the cab. The driver shuddered and flailed and painted the interior red with arterial spray. Onopkov kept walking his fire higher, and the two men in the back manning a mortar tube came apart like straw men. The Russian lowered his aim once more and put a burst through the grille to destroy the engine. The two remaining technicals had made hard turns and were running for their lives. Bolan lowered his rifle. His rifle grenade had a short range, and he decided to save it. Onopkov’s machine gun stitched one of the fleeing vehicles until it slowed to a stop. A and B teams poured fire into the other vehicle from their rifles. A moment later the Russian’s weapon joined the fusillade and the last vehicle slowed to a stop, manned only by the dead. The Sudanese plain became eerily silent. Nothing moved except plumes of smoke rising from the wreckage Bolan removed his rifle grenade and loaded a magazine without a launching cartridge. “Rad, any movement?” “None visible.” “Right, A and B teams, we sweep the vehicles. Rover 1 and 2 hold position. Haitham, Shartai come forward. Rad, keep an eye on our six.” Haitham and Shartai trotted up as A and B teams climbed out of their foxholes and fell in to form a loose line with Bolan. The air stank of burning gasoline, high explosive and roasting flesh. Five of the nine enemy vehicles were burning. The rest were filled with perforated humans. Tshabalala was grinning. “Aces, Striker! Textbook ambush, ’cept you threw away the textbook!” Bolan nodded in acknowledgment, then clicked his com link. “We’re clear. Lucky, pick up the weapons. Haitham, Shartai, give him a hand. Everyone who shot, top off your magazines. See if a few belts of their fifties survived for Val. We pile and burn everything else. T.C., Russo, check the bodies for anything of interest, then torch the rest of the vehicles.” Bolan shot Tshabalala a look. “Yes, you can loot the bodies, but spread the wealth around.” “Aw, Striker, I wasn’t even—” “Sancho,” Bolan continued, “grab the siphon. I want to top off our vehicles with their gas and fill our empty cans.” Lkhümbengarav had clambered up into one of the vehicles Onopkov had stitched. He patted the tube of the mortar in the back. “Nice 81 here. Twenty-four rounds of ammo. We want it?” “We definitely want that. Break it down and put it in the truck when it gets back. Speaking of the Mog, Goose, once we have the area policed up you and T-Lo bring it back.” Bolan’s team swiftly went about their jobs. He peered back along their trail. It had gone nearly exactly as he’d hoped. The enemy had been annihilated and his men and machines hadn’t taken a scratch. The only problem was that Mnan had operated to expectations. He had sent his lighter vehicles ahead to waylay the caravan. That meant there were still nearly a hundred horsemen and four 23 mm automatic cannons still on their trail; and Bolan wasn’t sure whether this action would finally warn Mnan off or put him on a mission from God. 8 Nelsonne was having a bath. Ochoa, Ceallach and several other members of the team kept developing errands that would take them into the vicinity. The woman had rigged two shelter halves to form a shower stall, but Mrda stood guard against unwanted spectators. Bolan walked up to him. “How’s it hanging?” Mrda started to say something as Bolan walked past him. The soldier rapped on the fender of the Unimog. “You decent?” “You tell me!” Bolan came around the corner. A pair of camouflage tarps stretched between the Unimog and Rover 1. They art
fully allowed a view of Nelsonne’s collarbones up top and calves below. She was bathing out of a bucket. The woman grinned at Bolan and squeezed her hands together. Her soap squirted up into the air in an arc and then fell with a plop in the bucket. “Mon dieu!” Nelsonne simpered. “I have dropped the soap!” Bolan laughed. The Frenchwoman bent to retrieve it. She winked at Bolan from beneath the edge of the tarp as she reached into the bucket. “You should come in. The water is fine.” “I think Lucky has dibs on the next bath, then Sancho.” “Well, I have always wanted to have a ménage à trois with a reasonable facsimile of Genghis Khan and a…” Nelsonne sought for the word. “Gangbanger?” Bolan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the Unimog while Nelsonne soaped. “So, what is a nice girl like you doing surrounded by men like us in a place like this?” “The last time I was in the United States I went to the Salinas rodeo in California. I developed an inexhaustible need for cowboy hats and boots. One hundred thousand euros will help put a dent in my desires.” “I don’t think you’re being completely frank with me.” “I suspect you already know that Frenchwomen like to maintain an aura of mystery, but you must admit you have not been perfectly frank with myself or the rest of the team. I will admit I truly enjoy beating up Sudanese soldiers and killing Janjaweed, except that we might be expecting Sukhois fighters at any time? I know nothing about our mission.” “What do you suspect?” “Despite brilliant successes against Captain Osmani and Yellow Mnan, this is clearly a rescue mission of some sort, or if not a rescue, an extraction. Willing or not.” “What is French Intelligence’s interest?” “You do not believe my story about needing one hundred thousand euros for hats and boots?” “I think it’s like the Kong brothers getting to kill Janjaweed. It’s a glorious perk of the job.” Nelsonne pouted. “Suspicion is your least attractive trait.” “You have great calves.” “Thank you!” Nelsonne bounced up and down on her toes. “I have worked very hard to make them so!” Bolan took in the woman’s gleaming calves and fresh-scrubbed face. He reminded himself that most intelligence agencies kept some drop-dead ringers around. A beautiful woman could take a man off his guard and off his game. They were never just bimbos. They were highly trained intelligence agents who also happened to be smoking-hot. “You’re just not going to give me anything, are you?” “What do you want?” Bolan deliberately bid low. “Val and Rad, Chechnya and the Congo?” “Yes, both Onopkov and Mrda served in those conflicts respectively, and I can see what you are thinking. I do not believe I endanger French national interests if I reveal that both men subsequently served in the French Foreign Legion and rose to the rank of Caporal de Chef and Sergent respectively.” Bolan knew all too well that the DGSE took the ready-made pool of already highly trained soldiers from all nations that the Foreign Legion provided and trained likely candidates to become field agents. It was very likely that Bolan had an active French Direct Action team on his roster. The question was whether her team and his were on the same mission and wanted the same outcome. “I could take Rad, Val and Rover 1 and split off, if you would prefer,” Nelsonne suggested. “Nah, I need every swinging dick on this one.” Nelsonne giggled. “And they say Americans have no poetry in their souls.” The French agent became serious. “And what will you do for me?” “Your back?” She smiled from ear to ear. * * * YELLOW MNAN TASTED ASHES. From Tripoli to Mogadishu the technical was the sign of a North African warlord’s wealth and power. Mnan’s fleet, indeed, what he liked to refer to as his armada, lay in twisted, crumpled, smoking ruins. Mnan had carefully built himself up from a penniless albino outcast. He had stolen a horse and slit a sleeping man’s throat for a Kalashnikov so he could join a raggedy band of Janjaweed. He had taken over that band by force of will, religious fervor and a murderous hand. He had risen from Janjaweed scum to a tacitly recognized Sudanese militia commander. Mnan sighed as he looked across smoldering ruins and rotting, scavenger-torn flesh. Mnan knew it could have been worse. He could have been with the flying brigade of technicals he had sent ahead of him to stop the American crusader’s convoy while he had come up with the horsemen to close the trap. The fact was he still had nearly a hundred men in the saddle and under arms. He also had his pride and joy. Mnan looked back at his Russian KAMAZ flatbed utility truck and the quad-mounted 23 mm cannons in the back. The gunner gave him a wave. Poti had shot down a Chadian attack plane, a helicopter gunship and destroyed several armored cars. The waste he had laid on Christian and animist farming communities in Darfur with his cannons would best be described as Old Testament worthy. Clay walls and mud huts stood no chance against Poti’s cannons, and Mnan’s will was Poti’s hand. Mnan ran his eye across the carnage once more. He hated the American. He would stake him out naked upon the earth. He would hold the leash of his best hyena bitch and force her to selectively rip bits off the infidel devil. Mnan knew what he had to do. He’d produce the 23 mm cannons at a time of his choosing, when he had the Yankee and his mercenary scum exactly where he wanted them. To make that happen he would fight as his ancestors had fought from time out of mind; how North Africans had fought since the time of the English, the French, the Crusaders, the Romans and the Egyptians before them. Like his horse-nomad forebears before him, Mnan would shadow his enemy, probe for weakness, wait for his more heavily armored foe to exhaust himself, and then take his terrible revenge. Makur stalked forward. “Commander?” “Brother?” “The herders behind us, the ones we left money and phones to keep us informed.” “Yes?” “There is a United Nations convoy behind us.” Given current events Mnan found that very hard to believe, except that the United Nations was infinite in its foolishness. “Oh?” “Yes, but it is not a normal United Nations convoy.” “And how is it abnormal, my brother?” “The vehicles are painted white and bear the United Nations emblazon.” “But?” Mnan questioned. “Every vehicle is armed.” “Armed?” “Our contacts are surprised.” Makur grinned. “They have never seen the United Nations deploy technicals under UN auspices, much less ones driven by the Chinese.” * * * OCHOA RAN A RAG OVER the recoilless gun. He hadn’t gotten his bath. Lkhümbengarav was wrenching under the hood of the Mog. The Mongolian hadn’t gotten his bath, either. Everyone noticed Bolan’s dust-free and dewy appearance. Everyone noticed Nelsonne was glowing as she clambered into the Unimog’s cab. A few winks were exchanged. “How are we doing, Lucky?” Bolan asked. Lkhümbengarav stuck his head out. Like everyone else except Bolan and Nelsonne he was covered with dust and sweat. Now his hawk face was smeared with grease and assorted engine filth. He hawked and spit. “It’s the dust. I switched out the air filters. She should be fine now. Next stop I’ll do a preemptive oil and filter change on the Rovers.” “Thanks, Lucky.” “No problem, GI. Can I have a bath now?” Bolan looked at his watch, the sun and the rest of the team finishing their rations. “Make it quick.” Pienaar’s voice crackled across the radio. The South African was ten klicks back pulling picket duty at the entrance to the low series of hills the convoy was threading “Striker!” Bolan clicked his com link. “What have you got, Goose?” “Rotor noise, coming out of the west.” The entire team came to attention. Lkhümbengarav raised his eyebrows at Bolan in question. The big American jerked his head at the Unimog and the mechanic scrambled to deploy one of their two shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles from the back. Bolan’s gaze turned westward. “Can you give me a rotor count, Goose?” “Sounds like one, Striker, but a big one, and flying low. Sky is clear. He must be flying nap of the earth.” The Sudanese air force had between twenty and thirty Hind-24 helicopter gunships in an operational state at any given moment. Just one of the Soviet-era flying tanks would put an end to