12.2 X magnification Day/Night weapon sight. The big Lapua round was accurate out to 1,500 meters. If they could spot the enemy first, they could stop them from range.
Ochoa sighed happily at the sight of the weapon. “Now we’re talking the real shit!” Bolan checked the battery and the functions on his sight. “Lucky, get Rover 2 reconfigured. Val and Shartai are your team. My people will sync with your GPS and vector you if it comes down to it.” “Copy that, hot rod.” “Goose, you’re in charge of the convoy. Don’t advance Rover 1 or the Mog unless given the signal or something is coming up behind you.” “Affirmative, Striker.” “Speaking of behind, T-Lo?” “Yes, Striker?” “Take some high ground and keep an eye on our six.” “Right!” The sun was sinking fast behind them. Bolan racked his bolt on a live round and nodded to his team. “Let’s go hunting.” * * * EVEN BY NIGHT VISION four motorcycles left a clear trail. Just as clearly one Chinese sniper team had split off. Four sniper teams were doing a slow circling, flanking dance of death. Bolan swept his night-vision-goggled gaze across the flat, broken hills of the Sudan. The question was, which Chinese team had taken fighting point and which was off in the counterpunch position. “T.C.?” “Yes, Striker?” “You’re Chinese, right?” “A number of responses come to mind.” “Pair of PRC sniper teams. What do you think?” Ching calculated. “It is only recently that PRC units, even special forces, have been encouraged to show initiative. By all appearances you took out their commanding officer. It is very likely they will fall back on orders and doctrine. Their best team will take lead, as a matter of seniority, and the second team act as flanker. I wonder why we have done the same?” “We’re the best team, and we took lead because we have a better chance of spotting the enemy first. Rad is experienced, but like Russo, all his instincts were developed in urban fighting. Scotty is a marksman, not a sniper. They put their best forward out of pride.” “You put us forward because you think you and I outclass our opponents.” “Correct.” “Interesting,” Ching stated. “Do me a favor.” “What is that?” Bolan looked around the ring of hills. His instincts told him they were getting very close to the enemy. “Load a grenade on the end of your rifle.” “Very well.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Scotty, load a rifle grenade.” “Roger that, Striker.” Mrda came back across the line. “You think we are close?” “What do you think?” “Yes, I agree,” Mrda replied. “Rad, I want you and Scotty to—” Ceallach’s voice snarled over the com link. “Shit!” A second later a rifle shot echoed through the low hills. The enemy hadn’t gone far. “Scotty!” Bolan hissed. “Sitrep!” Mrda’s Dragunov cracked twice in quick succession. Ceallach groaned across the link. “I’m bloody well shot!” The Briton followed that statement with a stream of arcane cockney epithets. Bolan swept the hills with his optics. “Rad, you got a position on the shooter? Sitrep on Scotty.” “Time from hit to sound of discharged implies long range. Bullet has passed through left arm. I do not know if bone is broken. Wound slants down. They are above. Using north as twelve, estimate shot came from our nine or ten o’clock.” Bolan scanned through his optics. By Mrda’s estimate, the Chinese shooter had put one through Ceallach at slightly over six hundred meters at night. Ching gazed through his Day/Night laser range-finding binoculars. “I agree with the Serb’s estimate. I do not see them, but they are there.” Bolan agreed. Mrda spoke in his ear. “Scotty’s bleeding is controlled. He cannot shoot. I am putting his arm in—” Ceallach’s voice came through Mrda’s line. The Englishman’s accent got thicker by the second. “Fuckin’ ’ell ya ’eathen, socialist savage!” “Scotty is now ineffective,” Mrda concluded. “Oh, you right bloody son—” Bolan clicked his com link. “Lucky! You have GPS on my position?” “Copy that, Striker!” “Advance Rover 1 one klick from my present position!” “Copy that, Striker! Inbound! ETA five minutes!” “Copy that,” Bolan said. “Rad?” “Striker?” “Do something stupid.” Mrda contemplated his orders. “Very well.” His Dragunov suddenly cracked eight times in rapid succession, the muzzle-blasts erupting like little poppy-colored fireworks. The echoes of the thunder bounced around the hills and died. “No response, Striker.” Ching shook his head. “I do not like this. They should have been willing to risk the sacrifice. They are up to something.” Bolan kept scanning Mrda’s nine and ten o’clock hilltops. Ching was right. The enemy had put a hole in the Briton. The chance to put a bullet through Mrda was priceless. Even if it came with lethal payback, it meant that Bolan and Ching would have exposed themselves. And that meant putting the hurt on the second team, as well. Instead the Chinese were standing pat. Ching was right. The Chinese People’s Liberation Army was up to something. “Fuckin’ ’ell, Striker!” Ceallach shouted. Bolan’s voice went cold. “Com discipline, Scotty.” “No! No! No, Striker!” Ceallach shouted. “Ten o’clock high!” Bolan raised his rifle and scanned the night sky through his 12.5 power optics. His lips skinned back from his teeth. Bad guys were falling like rain. “T.C., range.” Ching shook his head. “Two thousand meters. They will fall behind the hills.” Shooting airborne troops as they floated down and watching them go slack in their straps was one of the most sickening of enemy engagements. Part of Bolan was relieved that they were well out of range of his rifle, but that only meant that he would have to shoot them on the ground when they got close enough and were firing back. “They’re Chengdu Military Region Special Forces Unit,” Ching muttered. “Falcons.” Bolan had fought the Falcons before. They specialized in target locating, indicating, airborne insertion and sabotage. They were also the Chinese spec op unit that always got the new toys first. That went a long way in explaining the hole in Ceallach. “T.C.?” “Yes, Striker?” “What’s on their mind?” “The PRC, like far too many nations, is often lulled into using their special forces as shock troops rather than operators. They will send the airborne forward. We will be forced to fire. The sniper teams will maintain position and take us out. Failing that they will pin us down, and while they do that the Falcons will overwhelm our positions.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Lucky!” “Yeah!” “We have enemy airborne, platoon strength and dropping behind Rad’s nine and ten. Bring up Rover 1!” “Range?” “Half a klick.” “Copy that. Inbound. Will advise when in position.” “Copy that.” Bolan rounded the horn on the link. “T-Lo, link up Rover 2 and the Mog. Goose, start bringing the convoy forward. The Mog hangs back a good klick. Bring up Rover 2. I want Rover 2 to support Rover 1 with the .50-cal if the enemy attempts to flank.” “Clear as crystal, Striker!” Pienaar responded. “Inbound!” Mrda spoke from his position on the hilltop. “Here they come.” 10 Stony Man Farm, Virginia “Bear!” Bolan called across the link. “You got eyes?” Kurtzman looked at his screen. The imaging satellite had a good eye on Bolan and his two teams, and the small army massing against them at half a klick and closing. “I have eyes, Striker! But only for the next ten minutes. Next satellite window will be…” The computer expert furrowed his brow at another screen that showed myriad dotted lines arcing around a three-dimensional view of planet Earth from space. The current satellite track had been green and was now turning yellow. In moments it would turn to orange and then go red as it lost sight of Bolan’s little corner of the Sudan. The next closest satellite was far too many dots away, and there was nothing even vaguely orange about it much less yellow or green. “ETA two hours, eleven minutes.” “I need you to coordinate a fire mission, Bear, and I need it now or not at all.” Kurtzman spent a lot more time crunching data than in coordinating a fire mission, but the words “now or not at all” meant Aaron Kurtzman would give it the old college try. “Go ahead, Striker.” “You have eyes on me, the enemy and Rover 2?” “Hold on, Striker. Adjusting view.” Kurtzman pulled his view of the world up the slightest fraction and Rover 1 came into view. “I have the complete scene, Striker. Rover 1 is half a klick behind the hill line on your six. He has stopped.” “Send me what the satellite feed shows.” “Copy that, Striker. I can—” “Send the same feed to Lucky in Rover 2, and then lay a GPS Coordinates Map a
cross the feed. Down to the meter.” “Um…” Kurtzman’s fingers flew across his keyboard. “Feed established. You see it on your phone?” “Copy that, Bear.” “Lucky, do you have satellite feed?” Lkhümbengarav had one of Bolan’s tablets in Rover 1 with him. The Mongolian came back in the affirmative. “Copy that, Bear. Feed established. I have eyes.” Kurtzman nodded as he came to the tricky part. “Overlaying GPS grid… Hold on…hold on…hold on…” Kurtzman hit Return. Bolan came back immediately. “I have grid.” The Mongolian laughed out loud. “Copy that, Rover 2 has grid!” Kurtzman allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. “Window! Eight minutes, thirty-six seconds and counting!” “Rover 2!” Bolan ordered. “Fire mission!” “On your mark, Striker!” Lkhümbengarav confirmed. “You have eyes, Rover 2?” “Copy that, Striker!” “Fire at will, Rover 2.” Lkhümbengarav chuckled happily across the link. “You got it, hot rod!” The Mongolian’s voice broke out in command mode. “Fire mission! On my coordinates!” * * * MEN PINWHEELED BROKENLY through the air. Lkhümbengarav’s primary mission as a United Nations peacekeeper, and in coordination with the U.S. involvements in Iraq and Afghanistan, had been the training of native contingents with the ocean of ComBloc weapons that were available. He knew a lot about antitank weapons. Bolan watched as Chinese Falcons paid the price as they charged across the open terrain between the hills. It was as if Lkhümbengarav was playing some terrible arcade game of Whac-A-Mole, except that the moles weren’t mechanical rodents, they were men, and they had no holes to drop down through and no cabinet of safety. Lkhümbengarav dropped the hammer, and Falcons took wing or slam-danced with high explosive and crumpled. “Running low on bombs, Striker!” “Keep two in reserve! Bear, any eyes on the sniper teams?” “No,” Kurtzman replied. “Looks like they’re waiting to counter snipe on you.” The enemy knew where Mrda and Ceallach were. Bolan decided to play a card. “Lucky! Be ready! I’m going to try to draw fire from one of the enemy sniper teams!” “Eyes on, Striker! Bomb ready!” Bolan nodded at his spotter. “T.C.?” T.C. popped up and ruthlessly cut down the nearest three Falcons. He dropped down and a split second later a bullet whined off the rocks above his head. Lkhümbengarav shouted across the line. “I have him!” Bolan had seen the brief flare of the enemy shot on the opposite hillside. Kurtzman spoke quickly. “Highlighting!” Bolan looked at the GPS image overlay. The satellite zoomed, and the two suspicious man-shaped lumps appeared where the shot had come from. A small green x overlaid them along with exact GPS coordinates. “Already have it!” Lkhümbengarav called. “Firing!” Bolan heard the tube noise. Seconds later the green x overlaid a smoking hole. “Pull back the view, Bear.” The view rose in altitude. From the godlike vista Bolan saw about eight Falcons scattering wide into the hills. “Rad, Scotty.” Mrda came back. “We are all right. Scotty is stable.” “Can he walk?” Ceallach bawled out in indignation. “Bloody fu—” “Rad, get Scotty to the bottom of the hill. Scotty, walk back to Rover 2 if you feel able, or wait for them to come up.” The Briton came back grudgingly. “Copy that— Oh, ’ell. Oh, bloody ’ell.” Bolan grimaced and looked skyward once more. “They have a bleedin’ tank, don’t they?” A huge covered pallet drifted down between the hills suspended by multiple parachutes. The outline of a vehicle with a main gun was fairly obvious even at distance. The Chinese were dropping armor. “Lucky, how many bombs you have left?” “Two, Striker.” “Save them. Do not fire without permission.” “Copy that.” “Bear?” “Vehicle has landed. Be advised it is outside of mortar range. Falcons are stretched out individually in the hills. I have no eyes on the second sniper team.” “Bear, give me eyes on the armor.” The image on Bolan’s phone swerved and dropped down onto a vehicle. The Executioner held out his phone. “T.C., what is that thing?” “ZLC2000 airborne fighting vehicle. The PLA’s latest.” Bolan watched as it began to rumble forward through the defile between the hills. He didn’t like the long thin barrel of its cannon. He cared even less for the rail-mounted antitank missile on top of the turret. “What’s he got and how do we crack him open?” “He has a 30 mm cannon and a .30-caliber coax. That’s an HJ-73C missile on top. There will be five troopers riding in the back. They have two firing ports to either side and one through the rear hatch.” “Armor?” Bolan inquired. Ching watched the vehicle on Bolan’s phone. “That is the good news. The ZLC2000 was designed to be dropped from a plane without a pallet. The vehicle’s armor is quite thin. The frontal arc is rated to stop a Western .50-caliber machine gun. The sides and top to stop .30-caliber and shell splinters.” Technically Bolan’s rifle was .30 caliber, but his weapon fired a bullet half again as heavy as a normal NATO rifle round and did it at 3,000 feet per second. Bolan stripped out the magazine of ammo that was designed to kill men and clicked in one loaded with steel-cored armor-piercing incendiary. The problem was, to get the most out of his round’s weight and speed he was going to have to let the AFV get close. Close enough so that its cannon and missile armament would be within spitting distance. Ching was reading Bolan’s mind. “Rover 1?” Rover 1’s recoilless antitank gun would blow the Chinese AFV to hell, but like everyone else in the equation it would have to get far too close for comfort to do it, and be blown to pieces in the process. Ching sighed. “Tell T-Lo to get on one of the motorcycles and bring up the antiarmor rifle grenades. I will try to get in close.” Bolan regarded the Chinese operative. It took a lot of guts to try to sneak up on an armored vehicle that had weapons pointing in every direction. “Let’s keep that as Plan B.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Sancho.” “Yes, Striker?” “You got eyes?” “Copy that. The Bear has Rover 1 patched through.” “Bring up Rover 1,” Bolan ordered. “Oh man, antitank, Jefe?” Ochoa grumbled. “You kidding me? In this rig?” “Chinese airborne fighting vehicle. I’m going to try to hand him to you on a platter. Do not engage unless ordered.” “Copy that.” “Watch out for their infantry,” Bolan stated. “Copy that.” “Bring up some antiarmor rifle grenades. If I am KIA, T.C. will provide you with a diversion. Engage on his go.” “Copy that, Striker. Inbound.” Bolan turned to his spotter. “T.C., if I get greased, you’re the man. If you can’t get close enough to take the shot on the AFV, throw a Willie Pete in his way. He’ll most likely rumble right through it. Have Sancho on the trigger waiting on the other side. He’ll only have one shot before Rover 1 gets shredded.” “I understand.” Bolan looked through his scope and saw the AFV rumbling along the defile. “You wouldn’t happen to know the layout, would you?” Ching smiled slyly. “In fact, I have ridden in one. The power pack is in the right front of the hull. The driver’s position is on the left. The commander sits slightly elevated directly behind him in tandem. The driver and commander both have their own hatch and periscopes.” “How many men in the turret?” “Just the one.” That gave Bolan something to work with. “Go.” Ching scrambled down the hill to link up with the Land Rovers. Mrda passed him as he made his way up the hill. The Serb flopped down beside Bolan breathlessly. “Scotty is in decent condition and walking back. Rover 2 will pick him up. I will spot for you. The AFV will have men in back. You may need backup.” Bolan lay down behind his rifle. “Glad for the company.” The AFV ground forward into view. Bolan heard the telltale whine of advancing treads and the rumble of diesel. The fighting turret swiveled slowly back and forth, observing the hills around it. The vehicle was buttoned up. Bolan scanned for the weak points. Behind the missile-launch rail and slightly to the left squatted a suspicious-looking cylinder about the size of a five-gallon bucket. The suspicious, inverted, bucket-looking projection sported a dark glass panel about the size of a tablet personal computer. It wasn’t the way the U.S. armored corps did it, but Bolan had a feeling that the projection was the turret gunner’s observation station. “Range me.” “Two hundred meters.” Bolan put his crosshairs on the armor-glass observation port and fired. He was rewarded by a textbook bullet hole through the little windshield. “Nice shot,” Mrda declared. For a small, moving target at night, it wasn’t bad. Bolan flicked his bolt. The turre
t of the AFV spun and the barrel of the 30 mm cannon swept the hill like a divining rod looking for water. Bolan put his sights on the exposed HongJian 73 antitank missile sitting on its launch rail. The squat little missile was about three feet long and bore a pleasing resemblance to a 1950s B-movie rocket ship. It was a misnomer that shooting high explosive sent it sky-high. Modern HE was extremely shock resistant and required an electrical, chemical or high-heat trigger to set it off. The HongJian’s solid propellant rocket motor, on the other hand, was distinctly susceptible to armor-piercing incendiary rifle rounds. Rocket fuel was contrary that way. Bolan put his crosshairs between two of the missile’s control fins and fired. The missile shuddered on its launch rail as the bullet struck. A black bullet hole appeared in the rocket’s rear hull and smoke oozed out of it. The 30 mm cannon swung toward their position accusingly. Mrda’s normally low rumble rose slightly. “He has seen our muzzle-flash!” Bolan put his sights back on the turret’s observation port. The rocket motor blew up in a beautiful orange pulse of fire. That was enough to coerce the missile’s warhead into detonating. The white-hot plasma pulse of the shaped charge sheeted across the AFV’s top deck. Mrda sighed. “You are wonderful.” “Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’ve worked very hard to become wonderful.” The Executioner and Mrda went flat and slid down to put the hill between themselves and the target as the 30 mm cannon slammed into life in blind retribution. Geysers of rock and soil erupted into the air above them. “Second position!” Bolan ordered. Mrda followed as the big American ran thirty yards along the hill line. Bolan clambered back to the top and peered over the rocks. Mrda ran his night-vision binoculars over the AFV. Black smoke rose off the turret and the top deck. “I believe the turret observation station is still functional,” the Serb stated. Bolan put his crosshairs on the bullet-punched observation glass and fired. The port screen collapsed and sparks shot as the night-vision camera behind it shattered. Bolan and Mrda went flat again as the coax gun opened up and drew a line of bullets across the hilltop. The usually surly Serb gave Bolan a grin. “With permission?” “Be my guest.” Mrda popped up and dropped to one knee. His Dragunov cracked, and the spotlight on top of the turret shattered. His body turned with the same mechanical efficiency of the AFV turret below, and he shot out both of the vehicle’s headlights. The triple smoke dischargers on both sides of the turret pop-pop-popped! Six smoke grenades detonated in the defile between the hills, and the AFV disappeared in the fog of war. “We have him,” Mrda declared. “He’ll be deploying his men.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Sancho! Bring it up quick! Enemy has deployed a smoke screen! Be advised he is probably deploying five troopers from the back! Possible support weapon!” “Copy that!” Kurtzman came on the line. “Striker! Be advised, remaining Falcons are moving forward to link up with the AFV! Location of second sniper team still unknown!” Between them and the troopers in the back, the enemy still had a squad. “Copy that!” Bolan flicked his bolt and put a round where he knew the AFV should be. He was rewarded by the spark and whine of a ricochet. Mrda put five quick rounds in the same area to keep the AFV’s attention on them. The coax gun opened up again and the obscuring smoke lit up with stuttering yellow flashes. “Striker!” Ochoa called. “In position!” Bolan glanced at his screen. The defile took a nice bend and Rover 1 could pop out from behind and then pop back, assuming Rover 1 survived the initial exchange. “Wait for it, Rover 1. On my signal!” “Holding position, Striker!” “AFV is moving,” Kurtzman announced. “Infantry behind, moving from cover to cover!” Bolan was pretty sure they intended to punch out of the defile and move on to take on the convoy directly while their remaining sniper team played games with Bolan. The Executioner watched as the AFV left its obscuring smoke cloud behind. It wasn’t a bad plan. It was just that Bolan had a better one. Ching spoke quietly across the link. “AFV is within range. I have the shot.” “Hold that thought…” The AFV was just about to pass beneath Bolan and Mrda’s position. “Rad.” The Serb popped up and fired his 10-round magazine dry as fast as he could pull the trigger. The turret swung toward their position. Rifles cracked in the defile as the Falcons took aim. “Rover 1! Go! Go! Go!” The AFV unleashed a storm of 30 mm rounds at the hilltop. Rover 1 pulled around the bend and screeched to a halt. Ochoa crouched beneath the recoilless antitank gun. Nelsonne was driving, and Onopkov was behind a light machine gun. Either the AFV’s driver or commander saw the danger. The turret spun to bring its cannon to bear on Rover 1. Ochoa took a stomach-dropping extra second to align his sights. The AFV turret came into line. Sancho fired. The AFV’s turret disappeared for a split second in the flash and smoke and then erupted like a volcano. A barrage of 30 mm cannon shells cooked off like giant firecrackers and the spare antitank missiles went up in great slams that shuddered the hull. Bolan ignored the fireworks. “T.C., you got eyes on the infantry?” “They are in a pairs, holding position. One fire team is in range.” Bolan slid a magazine of antipersonnel ammunition into his rifle. “Hit them.” Ching’s weapon thumped. The detonation of the rifle grenade seemed anticlimactic after the death of the AFV, but it elicited screams from the men it hit. The other fire teams poured fire into Ching’s position in the rocks below. Bolan took out a Falcon, while Mrda took three more in rapid fire. The enemy ceased fire and hugged rock against the plunging sniper fire from below. “T.C., you all right?” “I am fine.” “Call on them to surrender.” Ching spent a moment contemplating this. “Very well…” He shouted out in Mandarin. Angry shouts met the suggestion. “Tell them to throw down their weapons and come forward of the AFV. They won’t be harmed. If they don’t, I’ll use the recoilless to blast them out of their positions.” Bolan decided to try a lie. “Tell them we have their second sniper team pinpointed. If they don’t surrender, I’ll bring up my mortar and annihilate them, as well.” This news was met with silent but palpable consternation. The Falcons were some of China’s best. In their public operational history they had never lost, much less surrendered, to anyone. Kurtzman burst onto the link. “Striker! Second sniper team has broken cover. They have split up and are moving eastward at a dead run!” “Keep an eye on them.” “Striker, be advised I will lose sat window in sixty seconds.” “Copy that.” Bolan knew where the sniper team was going. They were heading for their motorcycles, and they were going to set up shop again somewhere down the road. That would have to be dealt with later. Bolan kept his attention on the Falcons in the defile below. “T.C., tell them this is their last chance. If they don’t surrender now, we’re coming through and we aren’t taking prisoners.” Ching shouted once more. Ochoa spoke from his post behind the recoilless gun. “I have beehive loaded, Striker.” “Copy that. If one of them makes a false move, eliminate all.” A rifle spun through the air and clattered into the defile. Three more followed it. The Falcons came out of cover, arms raised in surrender and shoulders hunched against the expected bullet. Bolan rose. “Rad, hold position. We may have missed one. I want eyes from the heights.” “I understand.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Goose, bring the Mog forward. Lucky, bring up Rover 2.” He shouted down to Ching. “Tell them to get on their knees!” 11 “You are going to let them live?” Nelsonne was slightly incredulous. Most of the team seemed against the idea. The four prisoners knelt miserably in the dust with forlorn looks on their faces as the sun rose. Bolan had allowed them some water and a disgusting meal of gooey rice and reconstituted mystery meat out of their ration packs while the team had gone over the battlefield. There had been little of worth to strip from the burned-out AFV. They had gathered the Falcon’s fallen weapons and gear. Bolan was interested to note they were using M-16 A-4 clones. He was much more interested in the support weapons that had been left behind and the hand grenades. Lkhümbengarav had gathered them, inspected them and loaded those still functional into the Mog. Bolan regarded his captives. They wore no insignia. “T.C.?” “They are Falcons, on a black operation in the Sudan. Nearly all Falcons speak English. If this team specialized in North Africa, some of them will speak Ar
abic or French, as well.” One of the prisoner’s eyes went wide with alarm at this declaration. “For example, this one understands English.” The prisoner spit on Ching and snarled something. Ching sighed and started to turn away. He blurred back around and literally slapped the teeth out of the prisoner’s mouth. “T.C… .” The prisoner collapsed to the dust. Ochoa whooped from the bed of Rover 1. “Whoa, snap! Bitch-slap on the Hal-con, mari-con!” “Sancho, shut it. T.C.?” “He implied that I was a traitor.” Bolan raised a quizzical eyebrow. “To the Republic of China?” Ching smiled. “No.” “You think they’ll talk?” “I do not know.” Ching suddenly cracked his knuckles. “You could try asking them nicely, and then I can try asking not so nicely.” One of the prisoners turned and looked Bolan in the eye. “You guaranteed my men would not be mistreated.” “What’s your rank?” Bolan asked. The Falcon regarded the Executioner frostily. “Your nearest equivalent would be staff sergeant.” “Well, Staff Sergeant,” Bolan said with a shrug, “you’re free to go.” The staff sergeant blinked. Onopkov loomed over Bolan. “That is it? You let them go?” Bolan ignored him. “Lucky, let each have two canteens back and their packs with rations and shelter halves.” Lkhümbengarav looked close to open revolt. Bolan didn’t blink. “That’s an order.” He was fairly certain this was the first time he had been sworn at in Mongolian, but the men went to the pile of Chinese supplies and broke out rations. Ching shook his head. “You are making a terrible mistake,” he said bitterly. “It’s mine to make,” Bolan replied. Ceallach looked back and forth between the prisoners and Bolan. The Brit’s left arm was in a slightly bloody sling. He had confiscated the staff sergeant’s Type 80 machine pistol. The weapon hung loose in his hand. “Striker?” “Scotty?” “Not that I’m questioning orders.” “Glad to hear it.” Ceallach waved the machine pistol at the prisoners. “But they’re elite troops.” “And?” “And you let them go? We’re going to have to bloody fight them all over again, aren’t we?” “That could happen,” Bolan said. “But a deal’s a deal.” Onopkov drew his pistol. “You are American. I understand. Go for walk. I do it.” “Stand down, Val.” The Russian’s normally cold demeanor moved toward an icy sort of anger. Bolan’s hand rested loosely on the butt of his Beretta. “I said stand down.” Bolan noted with a small amount of satisfaction that Ochoa had silently taken up his rifle and was pointing it at the Russian’s head. Onopkov holstered his pistol and shook his head without looking back. “And do not think I do not know, little man.” Ochoa shrugged. “Val’s got, like, ESP or something.” The Falcons shrugged into their packs. The staff sergeant stared at Bolan expressionlessly for a moment, then turned without a word and began marching westward. His men fell into line behind them. The stiff way they walked said they were still expecting the bullet in the back. Bolan watched as they disappeared behind a bend in the hills. Bolan turned to the little Mongolian. “Lucky, do you still have the tablet I gave you?” “Of course.” The merc reached into the tactical pack he was wearing. “Right here.” “Hit the GPS function.” “Why should—” Lkhümbengarav’s smile shone like the sun. “Oh, you are one foxy GI!” He tapped an icon and then another. The team suddenly realized the plan and gathered around. Bolan nodded. “Tell me we have four signals.” “Hell, yes, hot rod!” Onopkov looked at Bolan with renewed respect. “You placed tracer.” “I placed four tracers, Val,” Bolan said. “Their packs are double-bottomed. Russo and I put radio-frequency IDs along the pack-strap anchor points. Two of the packs are wired for sound. “The wires are good for about forty-eight hours,” he continued. “But they won’t go active until my people beam down the right radio signal via satellite. T.C., when I do that, I need you and Lucky switching shifts to monitor 24/7.” Both men nodded. “The enemy still has a sniper team ahead of us on motorcycles. I’m having my people do a grid-by-grid search for them, but as you know our satellite coverage is spotty. T-Lo, I want you to go ahead and find their tracks. That will at least give my people a starting point.” “Right.” Tshabalala slung his rifle and threw a leg over his bike. “Lucky, reconfigure Rover 2 for the gun-jeep role and stow the mortar. Val, give him a hand. Sancho?” “Striker?” Bolan stared eastward toward his objective and where the snipers would be waiting. “Breakfast detail, and get some coffee going.” * * * “IT’S LIKE THE BLOODY Outback,” Ceallach grumbled. He watched from the shotgun position in the Mog while Bolan drove. It was currently 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Team members were swiftly becoming ready to kill for cab time in the air-conditioned Unimog. Ceallach was working his wounded arm for every extra second. “Except worse.” Bolan had to agree. The Sudan was huge. It was unfortunately placed below the magnificence of the Sahara but well above the fertile belt of sub-Saharan and Equatorial Africa. What the Sudan was, was almost endless, arid scrub; and Ceallach was right, there were no kangaroos bounding across the plain or truck stops manned by friendly Aussies handing out lagers in oil-can-size containers to relieve the burning, sere monotony. Bolan had been to more places on Earth than most people, and despite the usually heinous circumstances that brought him to the most dangerous corners of the globe, he could usually find something to admire about most localities. The Sudan always tested that resolve. “So, Striker…” Bolan refrained from sighing. “Yeah, Scotty?” “Listen, pay is good, and I don’t mind getting shot now and again, then, do I?” “You were actually pretty cool about the whole thing,” Bolan admitted. “But bloody hell, Striker. The bleeding great People’s Republic of China?” “Would it make you feel any better if I told you I wasn’t expecting their involvement?” Bolan asked. “Oh, well.” Ceallach made a noise. “That’s a comfort.” Bolan cracked himself a bottle of water and waited for it. “Striker?” “Scotty.” “Bloody hell, then.” The truth was going to come out sooner or later, and Ochoa, despite his checkered past, and Ceallach were the two men he trusted most on the team. “What do you know about smallpox?” “Had it as a tot.” “No, Scotty—” Bolan restrained himself from rolling his eyes “—you had chicken pox.” “Right, chicken pox. I got all spotty, then.” “Smallpox is the same except you go all spotty and then die.” Ceallach’s brows bunched. “Been eradicated, hasn’t it?” “That’s true, except that a few countries keep some stockpiles of the virus. The U.S. is one, Russia is another.” “And the Chinese?” “It’s rumored.” “And the bloody Black Plague is here? In the Sudan? And we’re driving toward it, then?” “The Black Death was bubonic plague.” “Oh, well, sorry, Striker. We’re driving toward smallpox. Don’t know if I had my injections for that.” “Given your age you probably did.” “Oh, well, bloody fucking—” “But the point is, it’s been eradicated. There’s a whole generation of humans who haven’t been inoculated against it. If you want to build a biological weapon, smallpox is your dream virus. Ninety-plus percent lethal and easily communicable. Since it’s been eradicated, the vaccine is in extremely short supply. For an afflicted population the only treatment is supportive. You survive it or you don’t.” “Yeah, we were educated about biologicals a bit in the service. But it’s bloody suicide, isn’t it? How do you keep it out of your population? No place on the bloody planet is more than twenty-four hours from any other,” Ceallach pointed out. “That’s right, but what if you could weaponize it? What if you could tailor it?” Ceallach grew distinctly unhappy. “We had a black bloke in my squad, back in the day. He swore the U.S. government invented AIDS to kill his people.” “From everything I know, AIDS came from Africa, Scotty. But imagine a virus that only attacked those with certain genetic markers. Like your squad mate said, one that only killed people with a preponderance of African gene markers. Or one that killed people with a preponderance of Japanese gene markers and not Chinese. Or one that you could introduce into London and it only killed East Enders like you.” “So…someone in the Sudan has weaponized it?” “The one person on Earth at the moment who knows how to, is.” Ceallach nodded. “Like Russo said, an extraction, willing or not.” “That’s pretty much it.” “Right, then, who is this bloke?” Ceallach probed. �
�It’s a bird.” “Pretty bird, then?” “Yeah, she’s easy on the eyes,” Bolan said. The Briton grinned. “Bob’s your uncle!” “Yeah, well, while you’re bobbing and uncling, I have a favor to ask.” “Name it, Striker.” “Right now I trust you and Sancho implicitly.” “’Preciate that, Striker.” “So you have a busted wing,” Bolan stated. Ceallach tapped the machine pistol at his side. “Right, babysitting detail. Got it. Guard the package.” “Yeah, and one other thing.” “And what’s that, then?” “If I go down, and the mission goes FUBAR?” He gave Bolan a leery look. “Right…?” “Terminate the package.” Ceallach bowed his head and spent long moments contemplating the tips of his boots in the Mog’s footwell. “All right.” “One other thing?” “Aw, hell…” “If I go down, and Russo and her team get hinky, kill them, too. I’m going to put Sancho in the know with the same orders.” Ceallach sighed heavily and raised his head. “Right, then.” * * * “THAT’S MESSED UP.” Ochoa wasn’t happy. Bolan passed the canteen of powdered sports drink they were sharing as they did maintenance on Rover 1. “Sancho?” Ochoa’s tattooed Adam’s apple bobbed as he took three long pulls and passed it back. “Yeah?” “You can say no. You’re still my recoilless man. You’re still one of two people I implicitly trust on this one. It’s an ugly job and I only want volunteers.” “Listen, Jefe. This Señorita of the Apocalypse we’re looking for? I’d cap her in a second. But Russo? We’ve fought together. She’s pulled her weight. She’s part of the team.” “I know,” Bolan replied. “Dude, I’ve had thoughts about that woman.” “I know, it’s been noted. You need to stop that. I can’t have my support-weapon man degrading his eyesight.” Ochoa raised his hands to heaven. “You’re killing me.” Bolan’s phone vibrated. “Glad we had this talk, Sancho.” Bolan walked a little ways away while Ochoa went back to wrenching. “Bear, tell me we have a location.” “We have a very strong candidate, though it took one hell of a grid search to find it. The Sudan is huge.” Bolan glanced around the broken horizon. “Yeah, it is.” “It’s a large encampment and, given the availability of water, it is most likely at least semipermanent. Given her pattern of moving from camp to camp, it’s the most likely choice, and given the size, she’s likely to stay for a while. I’m sending you the coordinates and the satellite images now.” Bolan considered his fuel. “How far?” “At your current pace? I’d say between 48 to 72 hours, but where you’re going the closest thing to a road is a herding route. It’s going to be some rough terrain. I can’t advise traveling at night unless it’s an emergency.” The whole situation was an emergency, but a snapped axle would leave Bolan at the mercy of his enemies. “I’m getting a real strong feeling that Russo and the DGSE know the nature of the mission.” Kurtzman was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, me, too.” “Any way you can connect the French in all this?” “One link, but it’s tenuous, and we’re having problems getting any verification.” “What’s that?” Bolan asked. “One of the target’s assistants is Canadian.” “Let me guess. Quebec.” “That’s right.” French Intelligence had a presence in Canada. Mostly they engaged in industrial espionage against North America, but Bolan knew from firsthand experience they kept some genuine field agents and reaction teams on hand, and Quebec was their HQ. “Good to know.” “So what are you going to do now?” Kurtzman asked. “We’ve got an advantage in that we don’t know where we’re going. Neither does the enemy, so they’re following us. The Chinese must have eyes on with satellites, but if my satellite windows have gaps theirs must be a lot worse. I want to make a real serious attempt to break contact with these assholes once and for all.” “I suppose we could help you arrange something,” Kurtzman offered. “But before we do that I need a grid-by-grid map of the territory a hundred klicks ahead and fifty klicks wide.” “The snipers.” “If I’m going to turn and fight,” Bolan said, “I can’t have them on my six. The enemy doesn’t know where we’re going, so the snipers ahead of us won’t have gone far.” “I’ll have your grid-by-grid cordon within the hour.” “Thanks, Bear.” “Striker, good hunting.” “Thanks.” 12 Bolan and Mrda hunted. The Sudanese scrub wasn’t flat. The landscape rolled and dipped. It rarely rained. When it did, it came in torrents and flood-carved ravines scored the landscape like raddled, unhealed scars. Sand-scoured rock formations thrust forth from the scrub, and inexplicable piles of boulders littered the landscape. It wasn’t quite a sniper’s paradise, but it was bad enough. The shot could come from anywhere. With Kurtzman’s help they had found the spot where the Chinese sniper team had remounted its bikes. Their mission hadn’t changed. The job would be to slow the convoy, or better yet, pin it down, ideally disabling one or more vehicles and disabling a team member or two in the process. It was a simple mission, but it also gave clues to their location. They were on off-road motorcycles and the convoy was in trucks. The Chinese would position themselves where they knew the convoy would have to pass, and would stay fairly close to prevent the convoy having multiple options. Bolan had taken the satellite mapping that Kurtzman had sent him and picked the most likely sites. The Chinese had tried to throw them off by taking their bikes across an expanse of slick rock, but the tires had scuffed the surface, leaving an open trail. Bolan skirted the shingled expanse of rock and moved into the gullies and hills. The land was slowly and steadily rising. Mrda glanced back and pointed. “From here the enemy had good shot.” “I know.” Bolan pointed ahead. “There.” The Serb’s brows bunched mightily and he made some sort of Slavic noise that was half derisive and half concerned. Bolan shared Mrda’s concern. The enemy position was a rock formation erupting out of the side of a low hill, looking vaguely like a castle, right down to three almost symmetrical crevices in the rocks like firing slits. The position was frontally impregnable. It was also the most incredibly obvious strong point for two klicks. “Range me.” “Three hundred and fifty meters,” Mrda stated. He turned back and ranged the likely path the convoy would take through the hills. “Seven hundred fifty.” The Serb scowled from behind his binoculars as he looked at the strong point again. “It is a stupid hide.” The position would allow both sniper team members to shoot into the convoy when it passed, and at well under their weapons’ effective ranges. It would also leave them invulnerable even to Ochoa’s return fire with the recoilless rifle. The problem was they might as well have put up a sign that read Chinese Sniper Ambush 750 Meters To Your Right. “They’re not waiting for the convoy. They know they’re being hunted. They’re waiting for us.” “Even more stupid,” Mrda muttered. “And I do not believe these Chinese are stupid.” “No,” Bolan agreed. “They’re up to something.” “What could they be up to? We have their number. Two men on motorcycles with rifles. Perhaps a few hand grenades.” Mrda glowered at the rock formation. “I say we flank them.” “They’ll be expecting that.” Mrda put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. “You fear a booby trap?” “We took a few mines off the Falcons.” Bolan slid out his phone. “Bear, you got eyes?” “Currently two klicks ahead of your position, sweeping grid by grid.” Bolan punched the satellite app. “Bear, come back to my position.” The Sudan slid beneath the watchful eye of the NSA satellite and Bolan found himself looking at himself and Mrda. He brushed his fingers together to raise the image and tapped the offending rock formation. “You see anything?” Bolan waited while Kurtzman did his own adjustments on his end. “No, Striker. No movement. Nothing visible.” The Serbian sniper took the cigarette out his mouth, stared at it and put it back. “You wish me to volunteer for what you are thinking?” Bolan raised a bemused eyebrow. “What am I thinking?” “I will pop up and put a round through each crevice. You will wait for return fire. Whether it comes from the strong point or elsewhere.” Bolan smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind.” Mrda put his binoculars back in their case and took up his rifle. “I am ready.” “You get that, Bear?” Kurtzman sighed over the link. “I heard.” Bolan shouldered his rifle and nodded to Mrda. “Go!” Mrda popped up. His Dragunov cracked three times in rapid succession and he dropped back down. Fire pulse
d in two of the crevices and sent chips of stone spattering over Mrda’s head. Bolan touched off a shot through the center crevice hoping his steel-cored bullet might get a lucky ricochet. “I have firing signatures,” Kurtzman reported. “No shit,” the Serb muttered. “But no visible movement,” Kurtzman continued. “They’re dug in or have covered the top of their position.” “They are there! Both of them!” Mrda was disgusted. “The idiots have given themselves away!” “No.” Bolan shook his head. “We did.” “Striker, I have motion! Two hostiles breaking cover! They’re doing…something!” Bolan snapped his gaze skyward at the sound of a strange, rattling hiss. “Fuck’s sake!” Mrda snarled. “What the hell?” A small, smoking, dark green object wobbled through the air toward them in a looping arc. The object’s flashlight-size rocket motor fell away as a second object hissed up into the air. “Rocket-assisted hand grenade!” Bolan snarled. “Take cover!” The Executioner grimaced. He’d been foxed. The Chinese Type 79 rocket-assisted grenade was a gimmick, and one that most armies had rejected and something even Bolan himself had never expected. It was a stick grenade that happened to have a rocket motor in the stick. Issued to the average soldier, aim and trajectory was a Kentucky-windage affair at best. Then again these men were Falcons, and there was every chance they had practiced with their Type 79 grenades like NFL quarterbacks zinging footballs through swinging tires during spring training. Bolan clicked his com link. “Goose! We’re taking fire! Be advised enemy has grenades that can hit the convoy at four hundred meters!” “Copy that, Striker! Holding position! Do you want Lucky to bring up the mortar?” “Goose! Hold that thought!” Bolan hugged rock. The first grenade thudded into the baked mud of the gully five yards ahead and detonated with an incredibly loud pop! Shrapnel shrieked off the rocks. The second grenade fell behind them, and Bolan dived over his cover. Mrda followed suit as the second grenade whip-cracked. Serbian curses filled the ravine as the echoes of the detonation died. “Rad! Are you—” Bolan snarled as the sound of two more superduty bottle rockets hissed into the blue. “Incoming!” The third grenade landed next to the second and both Bolan and Mrda were shielded from the blast. The fourth landed wide on the lip of the ravine and sent a fountain of dirt skyward. Bolan yawned to clear the ringing in his ears. “Rad!” “Motherfucker!” Rad replied. Bolan kneed and elbowed his way over to the Serb. The sniper was gingerly propping himself up on one elbow and hip. His right hand clamped his right buttock. Blood oozed from between his fingers, staining through his pant leg down the hamstring. “Goose,” Bolan said over his com link. “Rad is hit.” “Copy that. Advise.” “They’re hoping you bring up the convoy so they can take their shots. If I don’t request the convoy within the hour, you’ll contact Bear and he will advise.” “Copy that, Striker. Holding position.” Ching spoke on the link. “Striker, request permission to come forward and assist.” “Negative, T.C. They’re coming for Rad and me hard and quick. I either win in the next twenty minutes or you’ll be walking into the cross fire alone. If I go down, you’re the team’s last sharpshooter. Pick a fight with them later with Bear’s help.” “Copy that, Striker.” Bolan clicked off and sighed at the Serb. “Didn’t I tell you to watch your ass?” The Serb grimaced as he clutched his bleeding buttock. “You are not as funny as you think you are.” “Assume the position.” “Bastard…” Bolan ripped open a field dressing. Mrda’s starboard butt cheek was full of fragments, but none seemed to have gone too deep. The back of his leg was mostly scored rather than mulched. The Serb’s posterior looked like he’d sat on a carton of lightbulbs. Bolan pressed a dressing against the wound and taped it in place. “Listen, they’re coming. The opportunity to kill two of us is too good to give up. They also know we have a mortar we can bring up, so they want to do this fast. They have our position, but they know we’re better than they are. They don’t want a sniper fight. They gambled on drawing us in and surprising us with the bottle rocket routine and they got half-lucky. I’m betting they’re out of rocket grenades, but I’m also betting they have a few hand grenades left.” “They will creep in to finish us.” “That’s right.” “What is the plan?” Mrda asked. “We finish them.” The Serb nodded. “I like this plan.” “You think you can move?” “I can do whatever is required.” “Good.” Bolan took up his rifle. “Bear, where are they?” “Pincer movement. Approximately two hundred yards and closing.” Bolan secured his phone to his left forearm with a Velcro strip and examined the image. The enemy had picked its killing ground well. Endless years of flash floods had curved around the rock formation and given the two Chinese snipers nearly parallel courses to Bolan and Mrda’s position. The Serb groaned as Bolan threw him into a fireman’s carry and slogged through the shattering mud crusts to put a bend in the gully between him and his pursuers. “Striker!” Kurtzman warned. “You better look at this!” Bolan kept trudging as he looked at his phone. Kurtzman had a black-and-white dual screen on the Chinese. One was fiddling with something the size of a police flashlight. The other was crouching and appeared to be looking at something the size of a tablet. Bolan stopped. The Falcon looking at his tablet suddenly hunched a little closer to his screen. “One hundred meters and closing, Striker!” Bolan stared straight up into the heavens and waved. The Falcon jerked. “Bear! They have eyes on!” “Copy that, Striker!” The second Falcon hurled his grenade. The munition sizzled into the sky. At that range he had to heave it at a high trajectory. Bolan slid Mrda off his shoulders. “Down!” The Serb stifled a scream as he sat hard. Bolan dropped his rifle in Mrda’s lap and slapped leather for his Beretta machine pistol. He flicked the selector with his thumb to 3-round-burst mode and waited several seconds for the tumbling grenade to come within range. When the rocket motor fell away Bolan began touching off 3-round bursts as if he was shooting skeet. “Maniac!” Mrda screamed. Bolan touched off a second and a third burst as the grenade plummeted toward their position. The big American suppressed a self-congratulatory smile as the grenade sparked and skipped wildly off course. He slapped in a fresh magazine. “Rad, the grenadier has no shot for another fifty meters! Cover me!” The Executioner scrambled over the lip of the gully and charged. He stabbed out the Beretta and kept one eye on his front sight and one eye on the phone strapped to his forearm. The Falcon was trying to manage his tablet and unsling his rifle. Bolan bounded over the rocks, taking a moment to pull a fragmentation grenade from his vest and pull the pin. Kurtzman’s voice rose. “He’s popping up—” Bolan took his eye off the screen and focused his front sight on the lip of the Falcon’s ravine. A long barrel slid upward and slammed down. Bolan touched off a burst and sand flew. He touched off a second and a third. The Falcon’s rifle spoke, and Bolan heard the supersonic crack as the round passed. Mrda’s rifle began slamming out rounds in slow precise fire. Bolan touched off two more bursts and hurled his grenade. He dropped flat as a rifle bullet plucked at his cargo pants. The grenade detonated and the Falcon screamed. Bolan slapped in a fresh magazine and clicked his com link. “T.C., use one of the commandeered Falcon radios. Tell this guy to surrender. He knows we let his buddies live. He knows we have him on satellite. Tell him to surrender or I’ll bring up the convoy and mortar him to hell like I did his assault platoon.” “Copy that, Striker.” Bolan heard Ching speak Mandarin across the Falcon tactical link. The sniper sounded close to tears. Ching’s voice was only slightly smug. “He surrenders.” “Goose, bring up the convoy.” Bolan rose and moved to the ravine. The Falcon sniper lay with one hand on his throat and one on his thigh. He was torn by shrapnel, and had bled out through the carotid and the femoral artery. Bolan strode over to the remaining Falcon’s position. He was still clutching his rifle. “T.C., tell him to lose the rifle and assume the position.” Ching roared in Mandarin. The Falcon sniper suddenly cast away his weapon. He dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head. Bolan leaped from the top of the gully and landed behind the sniper. He put a boot between his shoulder blades, knocked him flat then swiftly stripped the Falcon of his weapons and hog-tied him.
Mrda called from where the gully branched. “Striker!” “Clear!” The Serb tottered across the crust. Bolan nodded at the unlit cigarette that seemed to be glued to the man’s lip. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.” The Serb looked at Bolan helplessly as he tried to perch himself on rock with just his left buttock. With vast effort he positioned himself and lit his cigarette. Bolan sighed sympathetically and clicked his com link again. “Russo, prep for surgery.” 13 Mrda glared into some terrible middle distance. The Serb lay draped over the hood of Rover 1 in about as undignified a position as a soldier could assume. A sleeping bag beneath his hips elevated his wounded posterior to Nelsonne’s ministrations. Facial tics pulsed across Mrda’s face as the French agent tweezed shrapnel out of his posterior without the benefit of anesthetic. The audience was remarkably bereft of sympathy. “She’s got him over a barrel then, doesn’t she?” Ceallach remarked. Ching folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” “Oh, I’ve seen this in lockup plenty of times,” Ochoa volunteered. “Don’t worry, Rad! It only hurts the first time! After that I hear you get to like it!” “And when was your last prostate exam, Rad?” Tshabalala inquired. The Kong brothers stared at Mrda’s rear contact point in a mixture of awe and horror. Haitham turned to Bolan incredulously. “Are all white men so hairy?” “No, Haitham.” Bolan shook his head. “Just Serbs.” Onopkov nodded and contemplated his cigarette. “This is true.” The Kong brothers nodded in unison. “Ah.” “Sure you’re not Greek then, Rad?” Ceallach asked. “Looks like he might swing that way,” Tshabalala observed. “He looks awfully comfortable in that position.” “I…will…kill…you…all… .” Rad promised. Russo looked up from her work and regarded Bolan drily. “Would the comedian in chief care to break this up?” Bolan nodded. “You heard the lady. Show’s over, gentlemen.” “Aw, Striker,” Ceallach bemoaned. “It was just getting good.” “As soon as Russo is done here have her check your arm and change the bandages.” Bolan clicked his com link. “Goose, how’s our six look?” “A lot better than Rad’s,” Pienaar reported. Fresh laughter broke out among the assembled soldiers. Bolan suppressed a smile. Despite multiple attempts on them, his team was still salty and ready for anything. “Thank you, Goose.” “Welcome, Striker.” Bolan had a strong suspicion that “anything” was coming, and coming soon. He walked over to Lkhümbengarav. The Mongolian sat on a rock watching the prisoner. The Falcon sniper sat miserably with his hands bound to the Unimog’s bumper. He flinched when he suddenly found himself in Bolan’s shadow. Lkhümbengarav grinned. “How is the show?” “Hirsute.” Bolan nodded at the Chinese sniper. “Did you get enough to eat?” The Chinese sniper gave Bolan a wary nod. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me who your commanding officer is?” The sniper gave Bolan the stone face. Bolan held up the sniper’s radio. “Listen, I think you know that I let the survivors of the night assault go free. All I want to do is parley with whoever is in charge. If you won’t tell me your commander’s name, just dial the radio to your communications frequency.” The sniper seemed torn. “I’ll let you listen to the conversation.” Bolan tilted his head encouragingly. “Afterward, I’ll let you go with two canteens of water and two days’ worth of your ration packs. Though, I admit that reconstituted cat meat and freeze-dried rice they foist on you boys is pretty heinous. I’ll give you two days of our stuff. It’s mostly French, not bad.” “My commander will wish to parley with you,” the sniper admitted. “Excellent. Lucky?” Lkhümbengarav pulled his knife and cut the Falcon’s hands free. Bolan held out the radio unit and the sniper adjusted the radio band. The Executioner rose. “Lucky, tie him back up and then set him up a survival pack. T.C.!” Bolan called. “With me!” The Falcon stiffened where he sat. “You said I could listen!” Bolan shrugged. “I lied.” Ching trotted up and the two warriors walked over to Rover 2 and took a seat beneath the tarp that was stretched over the roll bars. “Listen and advise?” Ching asked. “You got it.” Bolan clicked to transmit. “Calling Falcon Commander. Repeat. Calling Falcon Commander.” The radio crackled. “This is Falcon Commander. Who is this?” “Your opponent.” “And?” “I eliminated your remaining sniper team.” Bolan let that sink in for a moment. “The lead sniper was killed. His spotter is alive and unharmed. I intend to release him later in the afternoon when the heat abates. I assume your survivors from the night assault rejoined you?” “Yes. Your professionalism has been noted. What is it you want?” “I’m getting tired of kicking your ass. I recommend you turn around and go home. If you try to interfere with me again, I’ll be forced to consider a direct counterattack. I told Mnan that if he came any farther south or west I would kill him and every single one of his men. If you and your men are with him, I’ll annihilate you.” “You have two options,” the Falcon commander stated. “Surrender immediately, and I will see to it that you and your men are not subject to any reprisals from Captain Osmani or Mnan. You will direct me to the objective. Once I have accomplished my mission, I will allow you and your team to take your truck and head for the South Sudanese border. “Your alternative is to run south as fast as you can. I will not pursue you. You might make it across the South Sudan border. You might even successfully counterattack Mnan and Osmani. This is of no consequence to me. “However, know this. My government considers the Sudan part of its political, economic and military sphere in Africa. You are not welcome here. If you continue on your present course of action, I cannot guarantee the safety of yourself or any of your surviving men, including the woman. In fact I may be forced to make examples of you.” The Falcon commander paused for effect. “Did you know Mnan has a truckload of hyenas with him? He tells stories about them that are almost beyond belief. Yet my intelligence sources can confirm most of them. I suspect yours can, as well. If at any time you wish to surrender, use this radio frequency.” The radio went dead in Bolan’s hand. Ching shook his head. “He’s coming. He won’t stop.” “I know.” “What do you suggest?” Ching asked. “Gather the team,” Bolan said. “It’s time we had a talk.” * * * BOLAN PASSED HIS TABLET around. Ceallach whistled at the image of a woman grinning into the camera. “Her name is Dr. Gretchen Boswerth, and she’s one of the world’s foremost virologists. She used to work for the United States government.” “Used to?” Tshabalala sighed. “Don’t much care for the sound of that.” “Uncle Sam helped pay for her graduate studies. She owed him. As a specialist in virology, they put her to work in biowarfare.” Pienaar gave Bolan a suspicious look. “I thought the United States didn’t have a biological warfare program.” “We don’t. Strictly speaking, our biowarfare research is defensive, working to counter new biological threats that are man-made or that have been lurking in out-of-the-way corners of the world.” “So what’s her problem?” Tshabalala asked. “And why is she here?” Ching spoke quietly. “One of the best ways to find counters to unknown viruses or altered ones that are already known is to invent them yourself.” Bolan nodded. “That’s true.” Ochoa spat. “Well…just…shit.” “But like Lucky asked,” Ching continued. “Why is she here?” “She didn’t like the program she was on or the direction it was taking. She wanted to work on curing things like AIDS and Ebola instead of concocting end-of-the-world scenarios in her test tubes. When she figured out a way to weaponize smallpox she quit. She was sworn to secrecy on a stack of Bibles and forced to pay back her government loans. The government gave her a new name and a new identity. About two years ago she went AWOL. The CIA got reports that she was working with Doctors Without Borders. The CIA picked up chatter a few weeks ago that some very bad people were circulating Dr. Boswerth’s description in some very bad places. They wanted her alive and were willing to pay large for her. We tracked her down to the Sudan. She’s changed her name again and is working with volunteer medical teams that move through the refugee camps dispensing aid. We know for a fact that the Russians want her.” Several team members glared at Onopkov. The former Foreign Legionnaire lit a cigarette. “I am a citizen of France.” Bolan smiled at Nelsonne. “We know t
he French are interested in her, too. Though I would like to believe it’s more to keep her out of the wrong hands.” Nelsonne smiled back. Bolan glanced west. “We definitely know the PRC wants her.” Tshabalala looked at Pienaar. “It just gets better and better, brother.” “I don’t know how many Falcons are behind us,” Bolan said. “At least a reinforced squad’s worth, plus extras. I figure Osmani has brought about half a platoon and Mnan’s got about a hundred men on horses and technicals. Any way you look at it, we have a small army after us, and as I see it we have three choices. “One, we can surrender. Their commander has said we’ll be released once he has Dr. Boswerth. I don’t believe him. He’ll want to take myself, Russo and definitely T.C. back to Beijing for strenuous, long-term interrogation. My gut tells me that after a short and strenuous on-the-scene interrogation the rest of you will be summarily shot. Though anyone who wants to surrender can stay here and wait for him.” Ceallach raised his good hand. “And the second choice?” “We cut and run for the south. I’m not doing that, but anyone who wants out can take his or her weapon and food and water. It’s bad bush, but you’re all soldiers. You’ve all been in it. You should make it, and with luck most of the bad guys will be following me.” Ching cracked his knuckles. “The third choice, we finish the mission as planned.” “That’s the long and short of it. Anyone who wants to surrender or scamper, take the option now.” Bolan regarded his team seriously. “Beyond this point all deserters will be shot.” A few nervous laughs met this announcement. Bolan wasn’t laughing. No one applied for the first or second choice. “So, Striker,” Ching said. “What about this counterattack you were talking about?” “How about that strongpoint of theirs?” Ceallach suggested. “Booby-trap the back door and we could hold it against a bleeding army. We tear them up until the Janjaweed and Osmani’s lads get tired and leave. Then counterattack the Chinamen.” He suddenly looked at Ching. “No offense, T.C.” “None taken. Mrda sat with his undamaged buttock precariously perched on the bumper of Rover 1. “The mission is to extract the woman, not turn the Sudan into Sarajevo.” “Or those rocks into the Alamo.” Ochoa nodded toward Mrda. “I’m with pizza butt. I say we grab the bitch and go.” “Pizza butt…” “Show of hands,” Bolan said. “Who’s with pizza butt?” The vote was unanimous. “Good enough. Scotty, you can’t load with one arm. You’re riding shotgun in the Mog. Haitham, you’re with me, Lucky and Sancho in Rover 1. Sancho, teach him how to load the recoilless. Rad, rig yourself a hammock in the back of Mog. Val, help him. Take all the padding you need. It’s going to be a rough ride. If it comes to a fight, Rad, you’re fighting the Mog’s machine gun. T-Lo, refuel the bike and mount up.” The team broke up. “Russo, walk with me.” Bolan headed away from the caravan. A few jealous looks followed him as Russo skipped up beside him. “Anything you want to say to me, Russo?” “You give good briefing.” The French agent grinned. Bolan snorted. “Anything else?” “Yes, I do not wish to wait until Bruges.” “I already scrubbed your back.” “Well, bath time is fun time, but you are the kind of man who leaves a woman wanting more,” Nelsonne stated. “So my father taught me. What’s your interest in Dr. Boswerth?” “Whatever do you mean?” “Why does France want a U.S. biological-warfare expert?” Bolan queried. “You are aware that the nation of France ratified the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention of 1984?” Nelsonne countered. “The nation of France acceded to the BWC. They didn’t sign or ratify it.” Nelsonne did a remarkable imitation of a kitten cocking its head and blinking at a sound it didn’t recognize. “You’re very good at that,” Bolan admitted. “Thank you, I have spent years perfecting it.” Bolan didn’t smile. “Oh, very well. Could it not be we are aiding our American allies?” “If that was the case, you would have informed us immediately of everything you knew, rather than signing up for a road trip. You’ve lost contact with your spy, and you want me to find her for you.” Nelsonne stopped flirting. “But you want more than just your field agent. Once again, what is the DGSE’s interest?” “I will say this. My government will not allow Dr. Boswerth to fall into the hands of the PRC or the Sudanese. I am authorized to terminate her before that happens.” “And?” Nelsonne sighed. “Since joining your team, I have been authorized to allow her to fall into your hands.” “Good to know.” “Is that enough?” she asked. “It’ll have to be.” * * * RAO, OSMANI AND MNAN got together for a meeting. Rao peered at his surviving sniper while Osmani and Mnan bickered. Private 1st Class Hongbo squatted on his heels eating something that was definitely not PRC issue and smelled suspiciously like lamb. Part of Rao wanted to slap it out of the private’s mouth. Another part wanted to confiscate it for himself. A third part was suddenly suspicious as to why the enemy had given sniper-spotter Hongbo better rations than the other released prisoners. Rao’s first instinct was that the American dog was trying to mess with his mind. However, Rao wasn’t the sort of soldier who left these sorts of things to chance. “Tsu!” Tsu leaped to Rao’s side and responded in Mandarin. “Yes, Command Sergeant!” Rao jerked his head at the unsuspecting sniper and replied in kind. “Debrief Private Hongbo again! With vigor!” Tsu’s brow furrowed as he saw what Hongbo was eating. Tsu strode over and slapped Hongbo off his haunches. Tsu’s boots and fresh questions fell on Hongbo like rain. Rao turned back to the war council. It was odd that Mnan was the voice of moderation and Osmani the voice of urgency. Mnan squinted at the beating Hongbo was receiving. “Do you wish me to interrogate him? I assure you, no one can lie to a hyena.” Rao considered the barking, laughing creatures in the truck bed. He had never seen a viler animal in his life. “I will keep your kind offer in mind.” “Anytime.” Mnan grinned. “We need an air strike,” Osmani snarled. Rao reined in his temper. “My government has already lost a helicopter, an airborne fighting vehicle and nearly a platoon of men. I have been informed that I must complete the mission with the assets I have or that I can muster on my own. Even if my government arranges another strike team it will be days, perhaps a week, before it can be put in place. Your air force has lost two Su-25 fighter jets. They were understandably very upset about this. It has cost my government a great deal in both capital and favors to smooth their feathers. It cost far more to cover up the situation. Unless you have your own contacts in the Sudanese air force that I do not know about, then we shall be without air assets for the duration of the mission.” “I am concerned about where they are going.” Mnan traced a gloved finger across the map covering the hood of the Cheetah. “They are heading deeper into the hard country. It really does make one wonder what they’re after, and by extension, what it is you are after, Mr. Rao.” Rao scowled and prepared a scathing remark. Makur suddenly bolted upright. “I think I know where they are going!” The announcement was met with varying degrees of incredulity. “Oh? Where is that?” Rao asked. Makur frowned at the map. He was no good at reading them. The Janjaweed were overwhelmingly tribesmen rather than professionally trained soldiers. They navigated by the sun, the stars and the signs of the land as their ancestors had done since ancient times. “I do not know exactly where.” Makur sought for the right words. “But I think know what they seek.” Mnan nodded encouragingly. Makur was usually a man of few words. He seemed to be clearly excited by something. “Go on, brother.” “My grandfather told me stories of an oasis, in the hard lands. A place of flowing water and green trees. It was said to be a hidden place, a rest stop for the camel caravans that came out of the Sahara. Of course it has been generations since the time of the caravans. Since the time of the British.” Osmani made a grudging noise. “One hears of such things, but why would he go there?” “To meet someone,” Mnan said, sneering. “Obviously.” “Tsu!” Rao ordered. Tsu ceased his berating of Private Hongbo and ran to Rao’s side. “Yes, Command Sergeant!” “Contact Control, tell them I request satellite imaging of—” Rao calculated time, distance and fuel, and drew a square on the map to the east of their position with a blue pencil “—this area. I am specifically interested in signs of water, anomalous vegetation and signs of habitatio
n.” “Yes, Command Sergeant!” “Tell them it is Golden Dragon priority.” “Yes, Command Sergeant!” 14 Bolan took Nelsonne aside for a heart-to-heart. “How long ago did you lose contact with your agent tasked to Boswerth?” “About a week and a half ago. We believe that Dr. Boswerth suspected she was being tracked and decided to go dark. Our first guess is that the doctor confiscated cell phones and laptops. As of our agent’s last contact, Dr. Boswerth had six people in her medical team, including our agent.” “Six.” The last information Bolan had was Boswerth had been traveling with a single assistant. Four extra doctors could seriously screw up the extraction. “Your agent, as of last contact, her orders are to terminate Boswerth if it looks like she is going to fall into the wrong hands.” “That is correct.” “If you could contact her, can you call her off?” Bolan asked. “My superiors could. I do not have the authority. However, once I have made contact I assume command of the mission and take the doctor into my custody.” “Interesting that your agent didn’t whack her the moment she lost contact.” “What makes you think she hasn’t?” Nelsonne asked. “Because you’ve deployed with your team. Her priority is to deliver her into your hands and the nation of France, not the United States. I’m still wondering about your nation’s interest.” Nelsonne stiffened. “You and I are in the same business. We don’t get to pick and choose our missions.” “You and I aren’t in the same business, and I choose all my missions.” Nelsonne was quiet for a moment. “That is good work if you can get it.” Bolan had to admit she had him there. “If it makes you feel any better, as they say in American parlance, ‘the jig is up.’ I was not lying. Now that an American team—” she smirked at the word team “—is on the ground, I am not only authorized to deliver Dr. Boswerth into your custody, but my team and I are ordered to assist in that regard in all ways possible.” “No one in America says ‘the jig is up.’” Nelsonne made a derisive noise. Bolan believed the French agent was telling half the truth. He also believed she was authorized to act in other capacities if opportunities presented themselves, as well as manufacture such opportunities if she could do so without jeopardizing the mission. “What’s your agent’s name?” Bolan asked. Nelsonne smirked again. “Should you ever have the opportunity to speak with her, she will currently answer to the name Pauline LaCoste.” “Thank you.” “You are welcome.” Nelsonne glanced at the green glow of her watch. “Time for my shift. Thanks for the talk,” she said before sauntering off. * * * “STRIKER!” TSHABALALA CALLED across the link from his position on point. “Contact!” Bolan rode shotgun in Rover 1. He clicked his com link. “Convoy, hold position. What have you got, T-Lo?” “Looks like civilians, Striker, refugees. Scattered like roaches when they saw me. I’m holding off.” “Good work, T-Lo. Hold position. Wave in a friendly fashion but don’t approach. I’m coming up.” “Copy that.” “Russo, with me.” Nelsonne slid out of the Mog. She ran up to Rover 1 and Haitham hauled her up into the back. “Rover 2, Mog. Stay half a klick back.” Bolan craned around his seat. “Sancho, load beehive.” Ochoa grinned at Haitham. “You heard the man, Haitham!” Haitham switched out loads in the recoilless attack gun with alacrity and clapped Ochoa on the shoulder. “Ready, Sancho!” Bolan nodded to Lkhümbengarav. “Take us forward, slow.” Rover 1 rumbled forward. Tshabalala came across the link again. “Striker, be advised of…goats.” “Copy that, T-Lo. Sitrep on refugees.” “Hiding in the rocks and shrubs. Two kids waved back at me. Their mother snatched them fast.” “Goats?” “The humans bolted one way. The goats went the other.” Bolan brought up his binoculars. Up ahead a black-and-white kid stood shivering and bleating for its mother. “Copy that, T-Lo.” Lkhümbengarav made a noise as though he had come to a decision. “Striker?” “Yeah, Lucky?” “I know goats.” “I thought Mongolians knew horses.” “We know horses. We eat goats.” Bolan slid over as the Mongolian hopped out of the Rover. He reached into a bundle of the tenting and pulled out a twenty-six-inch section of fiberglass tent pole. He put a foot on the fender and grabbed some roll bar. The kid stared at the oncoming Land Rover in trembling terror. Lkhümbengarav jumped down and started making shook-shook noises. The kid approached in hopeful hesitation. The Mongolian nodded Bolan onward. Bolan continued ahead. The trail the refugees and their animals left was clear to see. The Executioner came upon Tshabalala sitting astride his bike. A jumble of rocks and scrub thorn lay in front of him. Bolan pulled to a halt next to his scout. “How many?” “Two score maybe, Striker.” Bolan hopped out of the Rover. “Haitham, Russo, with me.” The big American walked to within fifty yards. He detected some furtive movement behind the hedges of thorn brush. “Haitham, call out.” Haitham waved and shouted a greeting. “Tell them I’m an American and she’s French.” Haitham shouted again. The Sudanese government despised most Western powers. However the citizens in the south and west of the Sudan knew that white people almost always meant food, water and medicine. Lkhümbengarav wandered up, making his Mongolian goat-herding noises. He drove a herd of about twenty goats. His section of tent pole made a reassuring shushing noise in the air above them. “Haitham,” Bolan ordered, “tell them to please come and retrieve their goats.” Haitham called out and waved his arms in mild impatience. A young man came cautiously out of the rocks. He was rail-thin and as dark as the Kong brothers. He looked to be around sixteen or seventeen and wore what appeared to be the tattered remnants of what had once been a school uniform, right down to his ragged shorts and neatly knotted necktie. Incongruously he wore a handmade hat of woven reeds and his feet were wrapped in rags and plastic. “Haitham, tell him—” “I speak English,” the young man said. “What’s your name?” Bolan asked. “Shadrach.” “Christian?” Shadrach gave Bolan a sarcastic look. “How can you tell?” “Shadrach what?” “Salva.” “Listen, Mr. Salva—” “Only my teachers called me Mr. Salva, and they only did it when they were grossly displeased with me.” The young man lifted eyes that had held back tears for a long time. “They are all dead.” “Where’re you headed, Shaq?” “Shaq?” Salva brightened. “Like the basketball player?” “Yeah.” “I am very good at basketball.” “I can tell. Listen, where’re you headed, Shaq?” Salva stifled his pleasure and became reticent. “Sanctuary is south or west across the border. You’re heading due east.” Salva might or might not have been very good at basketball, but he wasn’t very good at hiding his thoughts. Bolan decided to go with the truth. He nodded at Nelsonne. “You see the white lady?” Salva eyed her. “Quite clearly.” “We’re looking for another white lady, like her. One who helps refugees.” Bolan read Salva’s body language. The young man knew exactly who the subject of conversation was. “She is in terrible danger,” Bolan finished. Salva turned and shouted out. “Mesach! Abendengo!” Two boys of about fourteen and twelve came out of the rocks. The elder wore even more ragged school finery than Salva. The younger wore native homespun. They both carried switches and they warily reclaimed their goats from Tshabalala, who smiled at them benevolently. The two Sudanese lads stared at the Mongolian as if he were sporting horns and a tail. Bolan clicked his com link. “Goose, bring up the convoy.” He turned his attention back to Salva. “How many are in your group besides your little brothers?” “All told, we are forty-two.” “Can you tell us where the lady is?” “I could.” “You know we could just follow you,” Bolan stated. “You know we could just squat here and eat goats for the next two weeks,” Salva countered. Bolan nodded. “You could do that, but you don’t want to meet the people we have behind us.” “Whom do you have behind you?” “Yellow Mnan.” Salva’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Yeah,” Bolan agreed. “It isn’t good. He wants the lady. So does the Sudanese army and some very unreasonable Chinese special forces operatives.” Salva gulped. “Who are you again?” “Striker.” The youth’s eyes widened again. “Do you always bring shit raining down everywhere you go?” “Usually,” Bolan admitted. “But I usually clean up after.” “Fine, I will take you.” “What if you just tell me where she is and I’ll pay you,” Bolan suggested. “You are going
to pay me anyway, but you are going to take me and my people with you. You do not leave us behind for Mnan.” “I never intended to. How about I pay you, handsomely, and you break south for the South Sudan border. I guarantee you Mnan and his new friends are far more interested in me.” “You cannot guarantee that. You take us with you,” Salva argued. “I can’t transport forty people.” Salva pointed at the Mog as it rolled up. “Then you will put the sick and injured in your truck and you will continue at a marching pace.” “You know, Mnan and his friends just might catch up.” “You know, to be honest, I would prefer to have Yellow Mnan and his friends catch up with us with you at our side.” Salva lifted his chin defiantly. “And I want twenty thousand U.S. dollars.” “Do I look like I have twenty thousand dollars?” “Yes.” “You’re a hard man, Shaq.” “These are hard times. Do we have a deal?” “I pay you when you get me to the lady,” Bolan stated. “Until then, you and your people will have my protection.” “One other thing.” “What’s that?” “I want a rifle,” Salva said. Bolan turned back to the convoy. “Russo, give Shaq’s people a quick medical once-over. Do what you can. Lucky?” “Yes, Striker?” “Issue rifles to anyone who applies. Teach them which end is which at our next stop.” * * * “RIDE HARD, BROTHER,” Mnan ordered. “Yes, brother.” Makur strung his two remounts behind him. The twenty-man raiding force Mnan had given Makur did the same. Giving each rider two remounts had left the majority of Mnan’s men riding on top or in back of the technicals and the Chinese trucks. The horsemen had stripped down for a very hard ride. Besides water, each man carried his rifle, spare magazines and little else. Rao had issued each man two days’ worth of his own soldiers’ freeze-dried rations to lighten their load. Sergeant Tsu mounted his horse. He was one of the Falcon strike team’s ablest riders. In a strange twist of fate so was Private Hongbo. Tsu and the sniper would accompany Makur’s raiding force as both intelligence officers and to see to the execution of the PRC’s interests. Rao went over the plan a final time. “Satellite imaging has confirmed three possible target areas. We believe the canyon land is the most likely. It is also the farthest. You will proceed there at all speed.” “Yes, Command Sergeant.” Rao switched to Mandarin. “Mnan has given his men strict orders.” Rao rolled his eyes. “But dogs such as these cannot be trusted. All Westerners found are to be protected until you are ordered otherwise. The target is to be protected at all costs. You are authorized to kill any or all of Mnan’s men if you believe they are endangering the mission.” Rao had issued both Tsu and Hongbo pistols with sound suppressors. Tsu nodded. “Understood.” “You may allow Makur and his men whatever depredations their appetites require among the local inhabitants.” Tsu scowled in disgust but nodded. “Understood, Command Sergeant.” “If you sight the enemy convoy, do not make contact. If you are sighted in return, the only vehicles they have that can follow you are their motorcycles. If they deploy them, pick your spot and have Private Hongbo take them from range.” “Understood.” “I cannot stress it strongly enough that this mission is of national strategic interest to the People’s Republic of China.” “Understood.” Rao broke into a rare smile. “Good luck, Comrade Sergeant.” Tsu grunted in amusement. The Chinese military had mostly given up putting the word comrade in front of every military ranking. The Communist honorific had been relegated to very formal occasions, though its use rose in frequency the closer one got to Beijing; in corollary, it was also used in black-humor moments the farther one got away from the capital. Rao and Tsu were old-school Falcons. In the past decade they had inserted into some very nasty situations that spanned the PRC’s Asian sphere interests from Vietnam to India. “I will, Comrade Command Sergeant.” “Comrade Sergeant?” “Yes, Comrade Command Sergeant?” “Ride hard.” Tsu saluted and looked at Makur, who nodded and spurred his horse. Sergeant Tsu and the Janjaweed rode west. 15 The brothers Shadrach, Mesach and Abendengo turned out to be the refugee band’s sole fighting force, and they were armed with sticks. The rest were women and children. All the males over the age of fourteen had been killed. The boys and girls between the ages of ten and thirteen had been enlisted as child soldiers and concubines. Slavery was the destination of the women of childbearing age. Shadrach and Mesach had survived the destruction of their school and returned to their village to find Abendengo huddled with the survivors who had escaped the carnage. Among the refugees, the Lady of the Oasis was a desperate survival dream. Lkhümbengarav stood over the brothers as they shot. During the food and refueling break, he had given the three young men an intensive course in firing and maintaining an assault rifle. He had retained his tent-pole section like a baton of office. The Mongolian wasn’t above lashing out with it when unforgivable failures of the manual of arms manifested themselves. It wasn’t a school of firearms instruction Bolan subscribed to, but it seemed to be working. The stubby, Chinese QBZ-95 bullpup assault rifles the team had looted from the Falcon airborne assault each mounted a 4-power scope. It was thirty minutes since the lesson had begun, and the Salva brothers were all reliably putting rounds into an empty fuel drum at fifty yards. Bolan nodded to himself. It would do. It would have to. “Lucky!” Bolan called. “Cease fire!” the Mongolian bawled. “Yes, Striker?” “Let them eat and then let’s get on the road!” “You heard the man!” Lkhümbengarav shouted. “Strip your weapons like I showed you! Clean your weapons like I showed you! Lock and load and get your chow!” He tapped his fiberglass wand into his palm. “You have twenty minutes!” Shaq gaped in shock. “Sergeant Lucky, we—” “Fifteen minutes!” the man snarled. The Salva brothers gasped and sucked their fingers as they fieldstripped their smoking-hot rifles. The Mongolian stomped past. “Lucky,” Bolan said. “What!” “Little rough?” He glared up at Bolan. “You’re giving me just enough time to teach those boys to die fighting and going forward. You don’t like my methods? Fuck you, hot rod.” “We came on Shaq and his people by chance, Lucky. Should I have had Val torture the doctor’s location from them and moved on, leaving them for Mnan?” Lkhümbengarav glared but had no prepared response. “You had your chance to bug out yesterday. But what the hell, Lucky. I’ll give you a second chance. Take one of the Chinese motorcycles out of the back of the Mog and go. Go now.” The Mongolian ground his teeth. “Is there anything else?” “Yeah, one more thing.” “What’s that?” “The next time you say ‘fuck you’ to me in public, I will publicly kick your teeth down your throat.” Lkhümbengarav’s features slowly relaxed, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I would like to publicly say that I’m excited about this plan. I’m thankful to be a part of it. Let’s do this.” Bolan nodded. “Drill them again at our next stop. Meantime, I want Shaq in Rover 1 with me, and you, Mesach and Abendengo walking with their people.” “Copy that, Striker.” Bolan walked over to the Mog and stepped up on the back bumper to peer in the back. Old women, the injured and sick and children sat spread around between supplies and ordnance. Mrda lay in his hammock. Three Sudanese children were piled on top of him. He met Bolan’s gaze and sighed like a male lion beset by cubs. “How you doing, Rad?” “My ass hurts,” he replied. “And for famine victims, these children weigh like lead.” “You’re a good man, Rad.” “Fuck you, Striker. I heard what you said to Lucky. Go ahead, do your worst.” “You’re wounded, Rad. You have privileges. Say anything you want. Of course I’m the only one who has access to the codeine.” “We have codeine?” “And morphine, but in short supply and saved for the polite and the deserving.” The little girl wadded up on Mrda’s chest tugged at his week-old beard and looked at Bolan. “He is very hairy.” “He’s a Serb.” The little Sudanese girl nodded in acceptance of that fact and curled back up. Mrda glared at the metal roof of the Mog’s cargo container. “Is there anything else, Striker?” “Yeah, I think the fight is coming soon. You think you can fight?” “Give me my rifle, put me in the position you think best. I will fight. I will shoot. We will win.” Bolan nodded as he hopped off the Mog’s back bumper. Ochoa handed Bolan a cup of coffee. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” Bol
an gulped the coffee gratefully. He realized he was more tired than he thought. “How you doing, Sancho?” “I’m cool.” Ochoa leaned close. “Shit’s coming down, ain’t it, Striker?” “Yeah, it’s all coming to a head.” Bolan’s phone buzzed on cue. “What do you have, Bear?” “I have a possible location.” The Executioner watched as his phone’s screen turned into a satellite map. A tiny green x marked the position of the convoy in another stretch of scrub and thorn. To the east and north a similar red x marked a maze of canyon land. “Not too far,” Bolan said. “But not where I would have suspected. Can you get me higher resolution?” “Not until tomorrow, but there are anomalies. The satellite that mapped the area couldn’t look down into the section of canyons.” Kurtzman increased the gain. “What does it look like to you?” What Bolan saw in the satellite picture looked vaguely like a starfish. The hard rocks of the low hills and canyons were cut by a five-armed mass that defied description and barely filled a square kilometer. Bolan had seen satellite similar photos but not in this configuration. “It’s an oasis,” Ochoa said. “Very good,” Bolan acknowledged. “I’m from Mexico, Jefe.” Ochoa grinned. “We know something about secret canyons.” “The canyons were cut by water aeons ago, but the water that’s still there is in wells and water table,” Bolan said. “They’ve strung camouflage netting through the palm trees. It’s a camp.” “That’s the way we figure it on our end,” Kurtzman said. “We picked up the anomaly from yesterday’s grid-by-grid. Most observers, well, hell, most observers wouldn’t have a satellite looking at that little nook of the Sudan, and most wouldn’t have thought twice about it much less had the satellite gain to give it a closer look. I’m juggling satellites, but I’ll bet you anything if I can get eyes on tonight I’ll have the heat signatures of campfires.” “I’ll take that bet, Bear.” “Figured you’d say that. By tomorrow we should—” “I’m putting eyes on it tonight, Bear.” Kurtzman heaved a sigh. “I figured you were going to say that, too.” “And if the target is there, I intend to lay my hands on it. Bear, once the target is acquired, I’m going to break hard south for the border. If we hit trouble, it’s going to be a hundred-mile fighting retreat. Have Jack ready to go. He takes Boswerth and her team first. If the LZ becomes hot or the Sudanese air force reacts, my team and I will escape and evade, and then advise.” “Does your team know that?” Kurtzman asked. Bolan glanced at Ochoa. The Ranger grinned back. “They suspect.” “Very well, Striker. Positioning Dragonslayer to a refugee camp within range behind the South Sudanese border. She will be fueled, fully armed and hot on the pad within four hours.” Bolan looked at the swiftly sinking sun. “That’ll do just fine, Bear. Striker out.” Ochoa shook his head. “You said it was coming down. Looks like it’s coming down tonight.” Bolan called out. “T-Lo! Got a job for you!” Tshabalala finished the last of his coffee, scooped up his rifle and trotted over. “Striker?” Bolan pulled his tablet out of his hip sack and synced it. He held out the tablet and the satellite image on it to his best scout. “I need you to go here, tonight, as fast as you can and give me a recon.” Tshabalala looked at the satellite map and gauged it like a pro. “I’ll go by bike for the first twenty klicks. Last ten I’ll run.” Bolan nodded. “Go now.” The scout grabbed two canteens from the supply table and threw a leg over his bike. The rest of the team watched as the South African tore out of camp with the sun setting behind him. It said something about the professionalism of Bolan’s team that no one asked any questions. The team finished its coffee and chow, then began moving toward their personal pile of weapons and gear for the final check of their equipment. Bolan looked at the satellite image on his tablet again. He knew tonight was the night. * * * BOLAN STARED UPWARD. If the Sudan had a saving grace, it was that there was so little light pollution that the cloudless night sky was nothing short of spectacular. He looked down at his watch and gauged the time and distance of Tshabalala’s journey. The bike ride could be measured in minutes. The canyon creep Bolan had ordered would take hours. He wasn’t surprised as the Mongolian’s voice came across the link in a hiss. The South African scout didn’t sound happy. “Contact, Striker.” “Sitrep.” “It’s bad.” A cold feeling in Bolan’s guts had told him it would be. “Target area has been compromised. Target compromised. Jesus…I have between…fifteen and twenty hostiles.” “I need a number, T-Lo. Count the horses.” “Right!” He came back in about three heartbeats. “I have twenty-two horses being minded by two hostiles. Hostiles seem to be mostly Janjaweed. I see two Falcons.” “Target status?” “I see the target and peripherals. They’ve lined everyone up including the locals…” His voice sounded strained. “I think things are going to be done.” Bolan’s blood went cold. “Copy that, T-Lo. Putting you on speaker phone.” The Executioner walked over to the equipment table. His team was formed up and ready to go whatever the mission. Bolan picked up his sound-suppressor tube and spun it onto the end of his Beretta 93-R machine pistol. He swapped out his magazine of hollowpoint rounds for one of subsonic ammunition. He had already snapped down the folding foregrip and installed the laser designator. The high-frequency infrared laser was invisible to the human eye but would paint a star-bright point of brilliance onto his target in the view of his night-vision goggles. Bolan clicked the detachable metal stock into the grip and turned his pistol into a carbine. “I want to go in surgical. T.C., Lucky, you’re coming with me. We’re Team 1.” Ching gazed at the Beretta admiringly. “We only have one silenced weapon, Striker.” Bolan cocked his head. “I thought you were a silenced weapon.” Laughter broke out among the warriors. Ching smiled and held up a well-callused right hand with his fingers in the tiger-claw formation. “In all modesty, it is not the first time that has been said.” Bolan let the cheers and comments about what Ching’s right hand was capable of run their course. “Our first and foremost is to secure Dr. Boswerth. If possible, our secondary objective is to secure Russo’s agent and the rest of the medical staff. My pistol is quiet but it’s not silent. T.C., you’re taking out the closest sentry on our vector. Lucky and I are going straight for the hostages. While we do that, you clean the perimeter of the rest of the sentries. If we run into trouble you come in hard, fast and firing.” “Copy that.” “Russo and Val are Team 2. Goose, you’re going to link up with T-Lo and be Team 3. You’re fire support from above, only come in if I call. You copy that, T-Lo?” Tshabalala came back over the speaker. “Copy that, Striker.” “Sancho, you’re Team 4 with Haitham and Shartai. Hang back on the extraction route. If we come on the run, you three are defending the extraction. Load rifle grenades. Scotty and Rad are going to defend the convoy with the Salva brothers while we’re gone, but Scotty I want you to keep Rover 2 warmed up. If I call for it, I want you to advance and take out enemy pursuit with the fifty.” Bolan looked around his team. “Everyone know their job?” Everyone did. “Let’s do it.” 16 Bolan heard moans and wails of desolation as he approached Tshabalala’s position. He was grateful that it hadn’t transitioned into the screams of the tortured and dying. Ching’s knuckles popped and crackled as he clenched his hand into a killing weapon. Bolan spoke softly into his com. “T-Lo, Team 1 on your six.” “Come ahead, Team 1,” the South African responded. Bolan and his men moved upslope to the lip of the canyon wall. It was as he had predicted. The starfish shape he had seen on satellite was an oasis, with three wells in the middle. The few ancient clay-brick buildings surrounding them were in disrepair but had been modified and reroofed with tarps, plastic sheeting and various pieces of flotsam and jetsam. Tents, lean-tos and shelter halves lay scattered beneath the canopy of the palm trees. Goats and chickens shell-shocked from the sudden attack by the raiders wandered aimlessly. The soldier counted about two hundred refugees, which had been divided into four groups. Old men and women made up one pool and perhaps they were the luckiest. Bolan suspected they had been culled out for death. Their silent, dead eyes spoke volumes. The next group consisted of women of childbearing age. They were roped together in a coffle. The next group was a small handful of able-bo
died men. Several were wounded and all badly beaten. They were individually bound, and wept and cursed in impotent rage and despair. The next group were the young ones ranging from teens to toddlers. They huddled among themselves moaning and crying. “Target is in the middle building,” Ching whispered. The ancient little brick house had rusted corrugated tin for a roof. In the firelight Bolan saw two men in Western garb sitting cross-legged and miserable against the wall with their hands tied behind them. One of the Falcons guarded the door. “You’ve seen the doctor?” Bolan asked. “Yeah, she and Russo’s friend were allowed out about half an hour ago to relieve themselves,” Ching replied. “I think the Falcons and the Janjaweed commander are trying to keep a lid on things until the Chinese commander arrives to pick up the doctor.” He jerked his chin at a huge individual who was clearly in authority. “The big one slapped around two of his men he caught dragging one of the women into the trees. I think they’re worried about the orgy getting out of hand.” Tshabalala scowled through his optics. “Looks like some of the boys are getting very tired of waiting.” Bolan scanned the captives’ dwelling again. A good section of the tin roof had rusted away and been replaced by plastic. “Any guards inside?” “The head Falcon, and a Janjaweed. It looked like they brought them some food a few minutes ago.” Bolan nodded and clicked his com link. “Scotty, sitrep on the convoy.” “All quiet, Striker. Refugees fed, rested and ready to move. Got Shaq up on the hill with a pair of night goggles.” “Shaq,” Bolan said over the com link. “How you doing?” The young man came back eagerly. His pride in being part of the team was infectious. “Watching our back trail, Striker. Nothing to see.” “Do me a favor, Shaq.” “What is that?” “Keep an eye north,” Bolan directed him. “I will, Striker!” “All units, Lucky and I are going behind the hostage building and in through the top. Team 2, sitrep.” “In position, northern canyon branch. Have eyes on objective.” “Copy that.” Bolan ran his optics past the dwelling the captives inhabited. Two very bored-looking Janjaweed thugs stood smoking cigarettes and frequently glancing back toward the campfires and the refugees. “Team 1, going in.” Bolan slipped away from Tshabalala and Pienaar’s position on the canyon lip. Ching and Lkhümbengarav followed as silent as shadows. The men threaded their way through the maze of rock guided by the images Kurtzman had sent. They doubled back along a ravine, following the sound of misery, and found themselves on the outskirts of the southern end of the oasis. The two guards stood as plain as day in Bolan’s night-vision gear. The guards kept doing Bolan a favor by staring back toward the campfire and ruining their eyes’ natural adaption to the dark. “T.C., you think you can take both?” “Can I take both…” Ching moved forward shaking his head. He took out the two sentries before they knew what hit them. His right hand hit the closer sentry between the eyes like the bolt from a cattle gun, and the man dropped to the ground. Ching’s fist opened into a knife-hand configuration and snapped into the second sentry’s throat. He instantly covered the sentry’s mouth and pinched his nose shut while easing him to dust. The sentry kicked feebly as he swallowed bits of his broken esophagus and lay still. Ching unslung his rifle and gave Bolan the thumbs-up. “Sentries eliminated,” Bolan reported. “Team 1 taking objective. All units stand ready.” He and Lkhümbengarav moved at a crouch through the dark. They linked up with Ching and took up position behind the dwelling. Ching assumed the position against the wall and Bolan clambered onto his shoulders. A gap in the plastic sheeting revealed the interior. Dr. Boswerth was sitting in the far corner. The doctors and assistants sat lined up along the wall. All were bound. The Janjaweed sentry wore homespun and an ancient-looking French flak jacket, and held a watery-looking bowl of some kind of gruel and goat’s milk. He had dropped to a knee in front of the French-Canadian agent and had tipped the bowl to her lips. Most of the prisoners had milk mustaches. He allowed the agent three swallows and moved down the line to an African man in khaki and let him have a few swallows. Bolan nodded to himself. From his vantage he saw that the woman had a razor blade in her hands, and had returned to very slowly sawing at her bonds the moment her captor had moved down the line. The Falcon sat in the corner opposite Dr. Boswerth with a clear line of fire on the open doorway. His assault rifle lay across his knees, and he was rapidly chopsticking some kind of glutinous mass out of a steaming foil pouch into his mouth. Bolan gave Lkhümbengarav a hand signal for a diversion, and the man palmed a small stone. The big American raised his Beretta. The Mongolian wound up and unerring beaned a billy goat. The animal rose on his back legs and bleated in outrage. The nannies and kids around it bleated and scattered. Bolan’s pistol coughed. The Falcon’s head jerked in answer to the subsonic bullet and he sagged, spilling his dinner in his lap. The Janjaweed guard looked up and Bolan’s pistol coughed twice in rapid succession. The guard flopped backward out of his squat and spilled the gruel all over himself. Bolan’s knife slid through the plastic like butter and he dropped down among the captives. “This is a rescue. I need silence. Stay out of view of the doorway.” He scooped up the dead Falcon’s rifle and held it out to the Canadian. “Agent LaCoste.” Pauline LaCoste brought her hands in front of her, trailing the severed rope. Dr. Boswerth glared at her erstwhile assistant but kept silent. Ching swiftly cut the prisoners’ bonds. He finished freeing Boswerth and pressed the fallen Janjaweed thug’s Kalashnikov into her hands. She looked at the rifle long and hard, then checked the weapon and held it at the ready. Bolan nodded at Ching. “Do it.” Ching moved to one side of the door and called out softly in Mandarin. A familiar face stepped around the doorjamb bearing a long-barreled Type 95 rifle in designated marksman configuration. Ching yanked the Falcon inside and put him into a stranglehold. As Lkhümbengarav took the Falcon’s weapon away from him, Bolan pointed his Beretta between the sniper’s eyes. “Private Hongbo, isn’t it? Blink once for yes and twice for no.” Hongbo blinked once. “Listen, I told your commander after our last dustup I wasn’t taking any prisoners.” Hongbo’s eyes bugged in response. “You want to live.” Hongbo blinked in the affirmative. Bolan nodded at Ching and the warrior eased his grip on Hongbo’s neck slightly. He shifted his hands from the stranglehold to the neck-snap position. Hongbo flinched helplessly. He tried to step backward as Bolan loomed in, but Ching left him nowhere to go. “What’s your commander’s name?” “Rao.” “You guys pulled an end run on horseback to get here ahead of us. How did you know the oasis was here?” “The large one, Makur. He said he had heard rumors of such a place. Knowing what we were looking for made satellite confirmation fairly easy.” “Where are the rest of your people?” Bolan asked. “They no longer follow your convoy.” “They’re sweeping north, taking the same trail the horses took?” Hongbo gulped. “Yes, the technicals cannot do it by night, but the SUVs using night-vision gear can follow the route through the bush and cut straight into the canyons. We have left markers.” “How long ago did you contact Rao?” Bolan prompted. “We took the oasis at sunset. We radioed in once it was secure. We check in on the half hour.” “When is the next half hour?” Hongbo hesitated. “I like you, Hongbo.” Bolan pushed his selector to 3-round-burst mode. “I like a marksman. I really want you to get this right.” Hongbo looked unhappily at his fellow Falcon slumped against the wall with subsonic hollowpoint rounds bisecting his brainpan. “Sergeant Tsu was in charge of this. But my best guess is within minutes.” “Hongbo, if you don’t screw this up, sniper to sniper, I’ll let you live.” Bolan turned to Lkhümbengarav. “Go over the top. T.C, help the civilians over the wall. We link up with the convoy and head hard south.” Bolan touched his phone. “Bear, targets acquired. We’re going to break hard south to get out of the canyons. Find me some kind of defensible LZ. It’s going to take two trips to bring out the civilians and the team.” “On it, Striker.” Dr. Boswerth sighed. “There’s a problem with that plan.” “Make it fast,” Bolan said. She pointed her rifle at Bolan’s chest. “I’m not going anywhere.” Bolan met the doctor’s eyes. They were as steady as the muzzle of her weapon. “Gre
tzky, we don’t have time for this.” The doctor blinked. “How did you—” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a file on me.” “I can pretty much get files on anyone I want.” Bolan shrugged. “I’m that guy.” Boswerth kept her rifle on Bolan but glared at Hongbo. “So this asshole’s friends, and an army of Janjaweed, are coming.” “And about two squads of Sudanese regulars,” Bolan confirmed. “And you expect me to leave nearly two hundred refugees, mostly women, children and seniors for them? You expect a doctor to abandon her patients?” Bolan locked eyes with the doctor. “Gretzky, I kid you not. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a situation like this. My heart is breaking.” “I believe you.” “But I only have one helicopter, and it’s got to make two trips just for your team and mine.” “So wipe these guys out.” “I don’t have the time or the ammo. Chinese special forces are on their way. Sudanese army is on its way. Yellow Mnan is on his way.” Boswerth started at the name. “All the more reason.” “Do you mind if I call you Gretzky?” “Not at all, all my friends do.” “You’re not going to shoot me.” Boswerth slowly nodded. “You’re right.” She slowly raised her muzzle toward the plastic over her head. “I’m counting to five. You’d better bring your people in.” Bolan grimaced. “T.C.?” Private Hongbo managed several guttural clicking sounds as he suddenly found himself being choked out. The big American shook his head at the woman. “Don’t do this.” “You know you want me to.” “Part of me, definitely, yeah. But if this is how it has to go down, let me do it my way.” “I would, but you and I just don’t have that reservoir of trust yet.” Boswerth squeezed her trigger and her AK blasted five rounds through the roof. Bolan snarled across the link. “All units! Engage!” Pienaar and Tshabalala’s rifles cracked into life instantly. Bolan stepped to the doorway. “Lucky! T.C.! Get them out of here! LaCoste! With me!” Two Janjaweed thugs were running straight for the house. Bolan drilled a 3-round burst into both of them center body mass. The South Africans had already dropped six hostiles. Bolan took a knee and shot two more. LaCoste leaned around the door and fired. A Janjaweed terrorist running toward the horses fell. Four hostiles had made it to the corral and mounted. Nelsonne and Onopkov opened up and bullet-riddled men sagged from their saddles as the horses screamed and bucked. “I’ve count seventeen down! I’m missing five!” “I have two running down the northern canyon branch,” Ching responded. “You want me to take them?” “Go!” A grenade landed on top of the plastic over their heads and its weight let it slide down the tarp toward the hole Bolan had cut. LaCoste snarled. “Merde!” Bolan shoulder-rolled across the floor and snapped up his weapon. His first burst lifted the grenade off the tarp and the second sent it skittering toward the southern side, away from refugees and hostages. The grenade detonated with a thud and dust oozed out of the ancient brick wall. The soldier slapped down his night-vision goggles and strode outside. Two men stood plainly beneath the palms a dozen yards away. Bolan printed a burst through the chest of one and then the other. He knelt and scanned. “All units! Cease fire! I count twenty down! Anyone hurt?” No one was. Ching’s voice came across the link. “Make that twenty-two.” “Copy that, Striker!” Pienaar replied. “Then I count twenty-two down.” “Roger,” Tshabalala confirmed. “Verified.” “Lucky?” “I have the doctors at the first bend in the ravine, holding position.” Bolan rose and walked back to the ruins. Hongbo lay gasping like a fish. The Executioner pointed his smoking machine pistol between his eyes again. “You came here with twenty-two. “ “Yes!” Hongbo gasped. “No one rode double? You don’t have a motorcycle or two parked out in the maze?” “No…” “I believe you.” Bolan took a long breath. “Lucky, bring Gretzky and her people back. T.C., join up. Sancho, bring up Rover 2 and take defensive position on the northern canyon branch.” Everyone came back in the affirmative. Ceallach came across the link. “And the convoy, Striker?” “Bring everybody in, Scotty.” Bolan braced himself for the storm to come and touched his phone. “Bear, this is Striker.” “Sitrep.” “Boswerth and her team secure. Refugees secure. Oasis secured.” “Copy that. Bring up the convoy and proceed to—” “Negative, Bear.” This wasn’t the first time Bolan had presented Kurtzman with this situation, and the computer expert recognized it immediately. “Tell me you’re not doing this, and then please tell me what we’re supposed to tell the President.” “It’s fluid. I’m going to have to get back to you. How soon do you have eyes on?” “Four hours to our next window, Striker.” Kurtzman sighed. “Should I send in Jack?” “No place for him to land.” “He could winch up Dr. Boswerth and her team. Then the mission would be accomplished, and you can play Magnificent Seven to your heart’s content.” “Don’t be that guy, Bear.” “I’m paid to be that guy!” “Yeah, well, I have to go talk to my team.” 17 Bolan finished his pitch. “So who’s in?” The small sea of faces arranged in front of him stared back with varying degrees of enraged wonder. Ceallach spoke first. “Didn’t I tell you I’ve seen this movie on the telly, Striker? Everyone bloody dies!” Murmurs and snarls of agreement met this statement. The larger arc of refugees behind cringed as the warriors heated up. Lkhümbengarav stabbed out a finger. “Did I mention you fascinate me, GI?” Mrda spit. “For fuck’s sake, Striker!” “Striker,” Onopkov said, shaking his head slowly. “No.” Ochoa began walking in circles and waving his arms. “Would someone please talk sense to him? Better yet, T.C., would you just hit him and pack him in the Mog so we can all get out of here and go home?” Ching seemed to be considering the prospect. Haitham raised his hand. Bolan nodded. “Haitham?” “We’re in.” Pienaar rolled his eyes. “Oh, for—” Shartai rose. The young scout’s jaw set determinedly. “Yellow Mnan must die.” The Kong brothers crossed an invisible line to stand beside Bolan. LaCoste looked at Nelsonne. “This is absolutely outside the mission profile.” “You know—” the doctor pointed a finger at LaCoste “—you need to sit down and have yourself a long tall glass of shut the fuck up, traitor bitch.” “Traitor?” LaCoste wrinkled her nose. “I am completely loyal to Quebec and the nation of France.” The three Salva brothers rose without a word and fell in behind Bolan. Tshabalala gestured to encompass Bolan and his five recruits. “You think you and your Sudanese teen commandoes are going to make a bit of difference? Here?” “Yeah, I do.” “Agent Nelsonne,” LaCoste repeated. “This is outside the mission profile.” “Our mission remains the same. Dr. Boswerth is now in American custody. As long as she is in the Sudan our mission is to protect her, or terminate her if it looks like she is going to fall into enemy hands,” Nelsonne concluded. “We are in.” Boswerth considered the assault rifles in the two agents’ hands. “Um…thanks?” LaCoste’s eyes narrowed at her superior. “I will allow you to explain this to the director.” Bolan raised his voice for all to hear. “LaCoste is right. This is totally outside the mission profile. I know what I said at the last stop, so just consider this checkpoint two. Anyone who wants to leave, go ahead. If there are enough of you who want to go, you can have the Mog, but you’re leaving the weapons and all the supplies, except for your personals and what you need to reach the South Sudan border, here with me. Once you are back in the world my people will contact you and give you the second half of your pay.” Glares and stony silence met the announcement. Nelsonne turned to her team. “You have my permission to leave.” LaCoste swore in French. Nelsonne ignored her. “Once you are in Bruges, you will be able to pick up your pay from the nation of France, as well.” Onopkov and Mrda looked at each other. The Russian shrugged. “Then I leave.” Mrda shook his head at the Russian. “I stay with Russo.” “I leave,” Onopkov repeated. Ceallach nodded. “Too bloody right, Val! And I will take you up on the Mog, Striker.” The Briton turned to the rest of the team. “Anyone who—” “Anyone who stays and fights, and survives?” Bolan interrupted. “I’ll triple your pay.” Angry stares went slack into simply staring. Ochoa’s jaw dropped. “Triple…” “Rao, Osmani and Mnan are on their way. I need you all to make your decision quick so I can start making plans for them based on who and what I have.”
Ochoa nodded. “I’m down.” “You sure?” “For triple? I’m down with you all day in every way, Jefe.” Onopkov stared at Bolan like a man considering drawing on an inside straight. He blew a long stream of smoke and sighed as temptation got the better of him. “Very well.” “The boys back in Ulan Bator—” Lkhümbengarav shook his head in wonder “—are never going to believe this.” The Mongolian turned to Ching. “T.C.?” Ching inclined his head in the affirmative. “I know of this Rao. I would like to see him dead.” Tshabalala looked at his brother-in-law. “My wife is never going to forgive me for this.” Pienaar gave him a wry look. “Mine, neither.” He turned to Bolan. “We’re in, china.” Everyone looked at Ceallach, who deflated before the peer pressure. “Aw, hell, then…” * * * MNAN AND OSMANI FROWNED mightily as they stood around the folding command table. Rao shook his head and put away his radio. “My men do not respond.” Mnan gazed eastward. “I fear Makur is dead. What do your eyes in the sky tell you, Rao?” “The Yankee and his team do not seem to have moved,” Rao said. “Nor have the refugees.” “The American commando and his team do not wish to be caught out in the open,” Mnan declared. “Much less with hundreds of refugees to defend.” “That is the way I see it,” Rao agreed. The veteran Falcon considered his options. They weren’t good. “Time is on their side. We are running low on fuel, as well as water. If we do not act soon, we will have to start cannibalizing fuel and abandoning vehicles. It is very likely that one or two of the American’s team are smuggling out Dr. Boswerth on foot or horseback undetected through the canyons, and every moment of our pursuit increases our risk of exposure.” Mnan let his breath out between his teeth as he looked at Rao’s map. The vast majority of the map was nearly featureless scrub with the rare bump of hills barely worth noting geographically. To the east was the red x that Rao had drawn to mark the oasis, and that mark sat in a furious set of squiggles that represented the canyon land. “I do not relish going into that maze and trying to dig the American and his team out. To be honest I believe it would be a battle we would stand a very good chance of losing.” Rao had to agree. The twisting, walled terrain would be one long string of ambushes that the SUV and technicals couldn’t survive. Snipers, booby traps and ambushes would eat up their numerical advantage in manpower. Rao looked back and forth between Osmani and Mnan. “My orders require me to try. I cannot compel you to join me. Should we win, I can increase you compensation dramatically.” “I want the blue-eyed devil dead more than anything I have desired in some time.” Mnan gazed eastward again. “But dead men do not reap vengeance, much less live to spend remuneration, no matter how dramatic.” Osmani gazed long and hard upon Rao’s map. “Kiir!” Osmani snapped his fingers. “Kiir! Bring me my map!” Kiir scampered forward and laid out Osmani’s military map of the area. The captain took a blue pencil and marked their current position and the oasis. “We are here, they are there.” “Thank you for reestablishing that, Captain,” Mnan said drily. The fact that Osmani didn’t react to the insult told Rao that the captain was on to something. “And?” A thin ugly smile crossed Osmani’s lips as he tapped a black dot on the map. The dot was north and nearly exactly equidistant between the two blue x’s. “Camp Abdel is here.” Rao shook his head. “I am very worried about increasing our exposure. You, yourself, are effectively AWOL from your station and your duties. Calling for assistance from your military very well might cause far more problems than it would solve. It would require explanations about very sensitive matters. In fact it could jeopardize the whole operation.” “In that regard we have an advantage.” “What advantage is that?” Rao inquired. “We have Major Akeel.” Mnan burst out laughing. Rao raised a wary eyebrow. “Is he good?” “Akeel? Rahim Akeel?” Mnan laughed again. “Akeel is a bumbling idiot!” Rao frowned. Osmani was undeterred. “Mnan is right. Major Akeel is an incompetent. He spent most of his time during the war embarrassing the government by slaughtering civilians. In his two major engagements with the southern rebels he was beaten decisively. Indeed he most likely would have been stripped of his rank and shot except for the importance of the Akeel family in Khartoum. He is currently stationed at Camp Abdel, out here, specifically as punishment and to keep him out of the way.” Rao looked at Osmani steadily. “This is to our advantage?” “It is exactly to our advantage. Major Akeel is a bumbling idiot, a laughingstock who would do anything to redeem himself and return to Khartoum and rise to the rank of general.” Rao saw it. “And you propose…?” “I propose that Major Akeel might take some of his forces out on maneuvers, which is his prerogative. He might just find evidence of rebel activity in the canyon lands and investigate. Rather than alerting the rebels with radio chatter and giving them the chance to escape, he cleverly seeks assistance from a militia leader who happens to be in range.” Mnan smiled. “That militia leader,” Osmani continued, “happens to be working with military advisers from our great ally the People’s Republic of China. Together, in a combined arms operation, they destroy the rebel base in a smashing victory.” Rao calculated. “The story is a bit long, and thin.” Osmani waved a dismissing hand. “We will have dozens of bodies, caches of weapons and, may I add, the bodies of genuine foreign mercenaries operating on Sudanese soil. That, and your government putting some money in the right hands, should solve any problems.” Mnan stared at Osmani grudgingly. “This could work.” “Do you know this Major Akeel?” “Yes, we went to military academy together. In fact he owes me some favors, and I believe he will jump at this opportunity,” Osmani replied. “Does he have any planes?” “No.” “Gunships?” “No,” the captain repeated. “Helicopters of any sort?” “None.” “What does he have?” Rao asked. Captain Osmani smiled. * * * “STRIKER, THEY HAVE TANKS,” Kurtzman said. “Define tank, Bear.” “Like tank-tanks, and they are definitely heading your way,” the computer wizard said. “They have bloody fucking tanks!” Ceallach bellowed. Bolan idly considered kneecapping the man. “Thank you, Scotty.” “Well, you’re welcome, I’m sure.” “How many and what kind, Bear?” “Two platoons, given the Sudanese inventory and where they rolled out of, I am calling them Chinese Type 69s supplied by a Major Akeel.” “Give me more,” Bolan demanded. “They’re your basic Soviet-era T-55 with some upgrades.” “Reactive armor? Night vision?” “I doubt it, given the godforsaken base they rolled out of, this is some of the Sudanese army’s second- or third-line stuff. I’m sending you specs.” “Copy that. How about infantry?” “Three truckloads.” “Trucks?” Bolan questioned. “No infantry fighting vehicles or armored personnel carriers?” “That’s the blessing if there is one. They have three flatbeds full of men, but I do mean full. The trucks are struggling to keep up with the tanks. I’d say you have a day, given that the Falcons are the only ones with any night-vision gear. You’re most likely looking at a daylight attack. Satellite imaging confirms that Rao, Osmani, Mnan and the boys are moving to link up with them.” “Thanks, Bear. Keep me advised. Striker out.” Ceallach glared. “Bloody fucking tanks.” “Yeah.” Bolan shrugged. “But they’re not very good tanks.” He called out across the camp. “Lucky! You know anything about Type 69 tanks?” The Mongolian looked up from his weapon inventory and grinned. “We use them!” “And?” “They suck!” Bolan held up his rifle. “Suck enough for rifle grenades?” “Type 69 is old-school, hot rod! Rolled-steel armor! An antiarmor grenade could take it from the top, maybe the sides.” “They have eight tanks, three trucks, six armored SUVs and three technicals. What do we have left in our larder?” Bolan asked as he joined him. “Well, the good news is after our loot and spoils from fighting Osmani, Mnan and then the Falcons, we have more rifles and ammo than we know what to do with.” Team members began gathering around and listening intently. “I need to bust up tanks, armored SUVs and technicals, Lucky.” “We have four standard rounds left for the recoilless. Those crack a Type 69 no sweat, but we cannot afford to exchange. We also have two beehive and two illumination rounds. We have two antiarmor rifle grenades left. The rest are frags. We have two RPGs each, with a reload. Those
may or may not crack a
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