Type 69 frontal. We have the mortar but only three rounds for it. We have the grenade launcher. I suggest dismounting it. We have two antitank hand grenades from the Falcons, but someone is going to have to stand up and throw it, and I don’t think they crack a tank. Finally we have two SA-18 shoulder-launched SAMs with nothing but vultures for targets.”
“I brought twenty pounds of C-4,” Bolan said. “Make two satchel charges out of it.” “Copy that.” “You find any bottles like I asked?” Lkhümbengarav grinned again. “The good people here are all Christians and pagans. I have ten empty whiskey, brandy and gin bottles.” “Draw fuel, fill the bottles three-quarters full and top it with motor oil and liquid soap from the relief supplies Dr. Boswerth brought.” “I have made a Molotov cocktail before, Striker.” “You do it Mongol-style, Lucky. I don’t mind.” Ceallach piped up. “You know those bloody tanks, Striker?” “I do.” “Know what concerns me more, then?” the Briton asked. “That technical with the quad-mounted 23s?” Bolan returned. “They outrange everything. Minute we pop up to shoot, they can bloody scour the canyon walls from range.” “I’ve been thinking about that.” “Thoughts, hell, Striker. They haunt my bloody dreams.” “Well, they’re antiaircraft guns,” Bolan stated. Ceallach stared blankly. “And?” “Well, if Mnan has the bad taste to use antiaircraft weapons on ground targets, I say we fight fire with fire.” “Come again?” Ceallach inquired. “The SA-18s, Scotty.” Everyone looked at the two Chinese shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles. The Mongolian lost his grin. “You want to fire them at ground targets?” “Why not?” “A diesel truck doesn’t generate enough heat. The infrared seeker can’t lock.” “It has iron sights, doesn’t it? So theoretically you could just fire it ballistically.” “The sights are for leading the target, but technically—” “And it has a proximity fuse, so technically you don’t actually have to hit the target.” Lkhümbengarav considered this new weird and wonderful line of thought. “And technically,” Bolan continued, “it has a range of 4,000 meters. That’s, what? Three miles and some change, right, Lucky?” “About that.” “And since it has a rocket motor, it’s going to fly in a straight line so you don’t have to adjust for drop.” “You’re insane,” the Mongolian said, but he was smiling again. “In the eighties the Afghanis successfully used British Blowpipe surface-to-air missiles against Soviet BMP and BTR-series APCs.” Onopkov nodded and lit a cigarette. “This is true.” “You’re going to trade a quad-mounted 23 with a SAM at over a mile?” Lkhümbengarav regarded Bolan with a mixture of horror and respect. “No, I’m just going to grease that quad-mounted 23 tomorrow so Scotty can get the sleep he needs tonight. And you’re coming with me.” The Mongolian’s face went blank. Bolan turned to Ceallach. “You happy?” “Well, I’m bloody well intrigued.” Bolan looked to Shaq. “How many people do you have under arms?” Shaq stopped short of thrusting out his chest proudly. “Twenty youths and women, ready and willing to fight, Striker.” “Lucky, issue every volunteer a rifle and put them through their paces. They can each have three magazines of practice ammo, and then put their weapons on semiauto and keep them there.” “Copy that.” “Rad, I am going to need you sniping all day long,” Bolan told him. The Serb grimaced. “I can barely hobble.” “That’s why you and T-Lo are going to mount double on a bike. He’s going to ferry you and carry you from position to position. When it hits the fan, it’ll be a rolling shoot and scoot,” Bolan stated. You could see Mrda doing the math on his perforated posterior. “I am going to need drugs.” “I’ve got stuff that will blow your mind.” “Pain free, and shooting sharp, from dawn until dusk.” Mrda nodded as he accepted the mission. “I can worry about the damage later.” Bolan looked around his little army. “We have only one shot at this. We break their assault or we don’t. No backup is coming. There’s a lot to do before dawn tomorrow. There’s going to be a lot of team and assignment changes, so listen up.” 18 “You are insane,” Lkhümbengarav said again. Bolan shouldered his SA-18 surface-to-air missile and pushed the arming switch. “Tell me this isn’t fun.” “Like Scotty said, GI.” Lkhümbengarav raised his range-finding binoculars. “I’m bloody well intrigued.” Bolan and the Mongolian knelt on the rim of the canyon. The sun rose in all of its glory, painting the scrub below pink. Some distance north and below, Chinese, Sudanese and Janjaweed were arrayed in battle order for the assault on the oasis. Diesel smoke rose in thin plumes as the tanks warmed up their engines. Eight tanks, three trucks, three technicals, six armored SUVs and about a hundred horsemen stood ready to invade. The scout lowered his range-finding binoculars. “Almost exactly one kilometer. Figure that missile is averaging six hundred meters per second? You got a good eight seconds of flight time. Lot of a hang time, GI.” Lkhümbengarav was right, Bolan knew. A lot could happen in eight seconds. He eyed Ceallach’s technical nemesis. The Russian ZIL truck was the equivalent of an old American military two-and-one-half-ton flatbed. The quad-mounted 23 mm automatic cannon squatted on the flatbed like a huge, horrible and definitely hostile four-armed insect. Bolan laid the eye of his wrath upon the technical and activated his seeker. The Chinese-made missile gave off a hollow tone. “Told you.” The Mongolian sighed. “The technical is too cold. The seeker doesn’t recognize any viable heat signatures. It wants a jet engine.” “Then we’re just going to have to go ballistic.” “As far as I can tell, you went ballistic the second you hit the Sudan.” Bolan peered long and hard through the crude ring and post-backup sights hanging off the side of the missile tube. “Talk like that will get you a date to the prom, Lucky.” The Mongolian’s eyebrows bunched. “What does prom mean?” “It means, let’s dance.” Bolan pressed his firing button. There was almost no recoil. The Executioner felt a shudder as the missile sizzled out of the tube. The infrared seeker emitted another noise as it failed to pick up a target and continued on a straight course. Bolan lowered his launcher and watched his missile draw its smoking line through the dawn. Firing a missile like this was kind of like playing pool. The faster you hit the ball the more you magnified any mistake. By the same token the longer the shot was, the bigger your mistakes grew. At five seconds Bolan could tell he was slightly off. Down below people had noticed the smoke and back blast of the launched missile and began wildly jumping up and down, pointing or running for cover. The technical blew diesel smoke as the driver noticed his dilemma and rammed the truck into gear. The heat seeker continued to whine about its inability to find anything of interest in the 3–5 micrometer infrared spectrum range. The delayed impact, however, found the diesel truck and its four 23 mm automatic cannons to be a satisfyingly large source of ferrous metal and detonated when it came within thirty meters. The detonation wasn’t particularly spectacular, but the expanding fragmentation cloud riddled the cab, and thousands of ricochets winked pleasingly across the cannons like fireflies. The Mongolian stopped just short of jumping up and down and clapping his hands. “I want a date to the prom!” “Hand me the spare,” Bolan said. He shouldered the launcher Lkhümbengarav gave him. The truck’s engine was still running, and there was no guarantee the shrapnel had damaged the cannons sufficiently. They would push the thing into the canyon by hand if they had to to bring that kind of firepower to bear. A brave soul ran forward and pulled the dead man out of the cab and leaped in. Bolan lined up his sights with the truck as smoke began to curl up from under the hood. The seeker peeped happily as the burning engine spiked into targeting wavelength. Bolan fired and his missile streaked unerring toward its target. At the same time, eight 100 mm tank cannon rose to point at their position on the ridgeline. The SA-18 had target lock and it slammed straight into the technical’s grille with a much more exciting detonation. The hood rose on a column of fire and the cab blew out. The crumpled ruin dropped on its burning nose as both tires blasted out in different directions and the axle snapped. Bolan tossed aside the spent launcher. “Time to go!” The Executioner dropped and took a sleigh ride on his rear end down the steep gravelly slope that lead to the ridge. Cannon shells slammed into
the ridgeline behind them. Bolan got his feet underneath him and ran to the bottom of the slope as rock and dirt began to rain down. He clicked his com link as he ran. “Goose! Target neutralized! We are engaged!” “Copy that,” Pienaar replied. “All units in position.” As the thunder of the cannonade died, Bolan could hear the rumble of diesels in the distance. “Here they come!” * * * “HERE THEY COME,” Mrda reported. Bolan squatted behind a boulder with a Chinese stick grenade in his hand and listened to the sound of advancing armor echo in the canyons. “Copy that. Disposition?” “They split up their forces. You have one platoon of tanks coming down directly on your position. They have three SUVs with them and a mixed force of infantry at platoon strength. Tanks are not buttoned down. All have their top hatch open and the heavy machine gun manned. SUVs are similarly deployed. Two have machine guns and two have grenade launchers.” Bolan thought he knew his enemies’ minds. The dawn attack on the technical with the SAMs had been good for a little shock and awe, but even if Bolan had more missiles they would be useless against tanks. Rao would be well versed on how Bolan had brought the Falcons’ AFV to heel with his sniper. That had been a one-trick pony, as well. Rao knew the only thing Bolan had for a stand-up fight was Rover 1 and its recoilless antitank gun. Bolan knew Rao would be willing to sacrifice an entire platoon of tanks to engage and destroy it. Rao’s problem was that Bolan had no plan whatsoever to give him a stand-up fight. “What about horsemen, Rad?” “Negative, Striker. None in sight.” Bolan frowned. “The tanks have scouts out front?” “Three-man team. Approximately fifty meters ahead of the lead tank. Dressed like Sudanese regulars.” “You have a line of fire?” “Copy that.” “Take them.” Mrda’s rifle cracked three times in rapid succession. The heavy antiaircraft machine guns on the tank’s turret tops ripped into life. “Scouts down!” Mrda called. “Tanks surging forward! Coming straight at you!” “Where’s the infantry?” “Hanging back! Waiting for the tanks to punch through the suspected ambush!” Bolan had been betting his life on that. He heard the whine of the treadlinks as the armored behemoths bore down on his position. “Thirty meters…twenty…ten…” Mrda reported. “Five—” Bolan leaped out from behind his rock. The canyon was only wide enough for one tank at a time. The man behind the heavy machine gun in the turret gaped in shock as Bolan charged forward and vaulted onto the bow of the tank. The tanker tried to bring his ponderous AA gun to bear. The Executioner shoved the barrel aside and swung the Chinese stick grenade in his hand like a steel-balled blackjack. The gunner flopped backward in his hatch with a broken jaw. Bolan pulled the string fuse igniter in the handle and dropped the grenade down between the gunner’s knees. The machine gunner in the second tank’s turret stared at Bolan in horror and brought his weapon down from covering the ridgeline. Slapping leather for his Beretta, the big American put a three-round burst through the man’s chest. The gunner collapsed over his weapon. Bolan dropped behind the turret as the second tank’s coaxial gun tore into life to try to hose him off the hull. Men screamed below his boots as the grenade within detonated and the steel compartment of the tank became a shrapnel containment coffin. The tank slowed to a halt as the driver was shredded. Bolan leaped from the prow and ran for his rock for dear life. The second tank rammed the lead tank. Metal screamed as the stricken tank was shoved forward. The second tank’s coax scoured Bolan’s rock to pin him down, but without a man in the turret, what the commander of the second tank didn’t see through his periscope was Ching emerging from a cleft of rock on his flank. Ching pulled the rip cord on one of the two satchel charges Lkhümbengarav had cooked up and flung it beneath the second tank’s prow. The second tank plowed on, shoving the lead tank forward and spraying bullets for Bolan. The satchel charge disappeared beneath its hull. Smoke blasted out from beneath the second tank and fire funneled up out of her turret hatch like a volcano as ten pounds of C-4 tore her belly open and turned her insides into a blast furnace. The enemy now had a two-tank pileup. “Now, Lucky!” Bolan roared. The Mongolian charged around the next bend in the canyon carrying the dismounted grenade launcher from the Rover. He ran up and slammed its bipod across Bolan’s rock and began firing. The launcher sent a string of grenades arcing over the two wrecked tanks and into the SUVs and infantry in a six-round mix of frags and white phosphorus. The screams of the seared and shredded filled the canyon. Lkhümbengarav ejected his spent drum and clicked in a fresh one. “Another salvo?” “No.” Bolan took a Willie Pete grenade out of his load-bearing vest, aimed the bomb and threw it against the lead tank to block any surviving infantry from sneaking through for a little while. He clicked his com link. “Goose, any eyes on Mnan and his cavalry?” “No sign of them, Striker.” Bolan was starting to get a bad feeling. He knew Yellow Mnan was up to something, and it would be two hours before he had satellite imaging of the oasis. He nodded at Ching and Lkhümbengarav. “Fall back to the next position. Let’s find that other tank platoon.” * * * “TWO OF MY TANKS!” Major Rahim Akeel was shrieking in a very undignified fashion. The fact that he was short, fat, chinless and sported a disastrous comb-over wasn’t helping. “They have destroyed two of my tanks! Fifteen of my men are dead! How am I to explain this?” Osmani grunted. “The victorious need explain nothing.” Rao nodded at Osmani’s unexpected wisdom. The Falcon command sergeant watched the two hulks burn. Their store of cannon shells had all exploded in a string of secondary explosions, distorting the lines of their hulls in rippling blackened bulges and ragged blown-out holes. Machine-gun ammunition continued to cook off intermittently. Some of it spalled out the open hatches and torn holes. “Do not bother trying to push through, Major Akeel. Back up your surviving tanks.” Rao had lost one of his SUVs and all hands within to a direct hit from a white-phosphorus grenade with the top hatch open. “Where in the Nine Hells is Mnan!” Akeel roared. Rao regarded the little major frostily. “What if I told you I gave him the opportunity to leave and he did?” “What!” Rao ignored Akeel and sent forth his orders across the communication web. “Send second platoon full forward,” Rao ordered. “Drive on the oasis and engage the enemy. Let nothing stop you.” * * * AGENT LACOSTE WASN’T HAPPY. “They come! Tanks! Two abreast down the northwest arm!” Bolan had been expecting that. The ability to send two tanks forward side by side was just too good an advantage to give up. “Composition?” “Four tanks! Two abreast in the lead, the two behind singly making a T formation. Three SUVs behind! Single file! Infantry trotting alongside! I count thirty!” “Copy that, LaCoste! Range to kill zone?” “Two hundred meters and closing!” “You hear that, Goose?” “Clear as crystal, Striker! Awaiting fire mission!” It had nearly broken Lkhümbengarav’s heart but the previous day Bolan had wasted one of three remaining confiscated mortar shells and told him to drop it in the northwest arm of the canyon complex where tanks could move two at a time. The Mongolian had dropped his bomb with aplomb while Bolan had timed its flight. Afterward Shaq, Mesach and Abendengo had scrupulously filled in the bomb crater and erased all signs of the hit. Bolan clambered up the low crag to LaCoste’s observation post. He saw the enemy armor column moving forward with purpose. “LaCoste, give me their speed.” The agent scanned through the range-finding binoculars Bolan had issued her. “Approximately ten kilometers per hour.” Bolan nodded to himself and set the stopwatch function on his phone and pulled up a window to type in a timing ratio based on the previous day’s mortar-firing flight time. The average human jogging speed was about six miles per hour, and the armor didn’t want to outstrip the infantry. “Fifty meters!” LaCoste reported. Bolan stared at his stopwatch and his algorithm. “Start ranging by fives, LaCoste.” “Copy that! Forty-five…forty…thirty-five…thirty…twenty-five…” “Fire!” Bolan ordered. Back in the oasis he heard the dim thumps as Pienaar sent the two remaining mortar rounds arcing into the air. Bolan watched his stopwatch tick off seconds and his firing algorithm crunch numbers. Given the two rounds being fired about a second apart and the tanks’ rate of speed, he’d counted on a five- to ten-meter round dispers
al. LaCoste looked up into the sky. “What has—” The first mortar bomb hit the ground in front of the two tanks and nearly directly between them. Both tank drivers predictably slammed on their brakes, but thirty-six-ton tanks didn’t stop on a dime. A second later the back deck of the right-hand tank disappeared in a blast of black smoke. Spare ammunition was stored in the back of a Type 69 tank. A second later the turret of the tank popped like a champagne cork and rose skyward on a pillar of orange pulsing smoke. LaCoste howled like a banshee in victory. “Good work, LaCoste. Goose, direct hit. Tank destroyed.” “Magic!” the South African shouted. “Mortar is dry, Striker.” “Copy that.” Ochoa called across the link. “You want Rover 1 to come forward?” Bolan watched as the smoke cleared. The turret man in the left-hand tank lay collapsed over his cover hatch. The blast and burning metal spewing from his platoon partner had left his flesh a smoking ruin. The tank driver beneath him ground gears and started forward. One of the two tanks behind skirted the smoldering hulk and pulled up alongside to reestablish the Chinese wall of steel. “Negative, Sancho. Enemy still has five tanks. We’re going to do a little more damage if we can before we fall back. Be ready, when it happens it’s going to happen fast.” “Copy that. Holding position.” “Lucky, T.C.? I hate to do this to you.” “Ready, Striker,” they both confirmed. Bolan unlimbered his rifle and took aim at the machine gunner in the turret of the new right-hand tank. He waited as they approached the bend in the canyon. Once the Executioner fired he would announce his and LaCoste’s aerie to the world. “LaCoste, get out of here. Link up with Russo and Val at Rover 2’s position.” “But I can range you and—” “Go!” LaCoste scooped up her rifle and scrambled down the back slope. The third tank in the platoon skirted the tank Pienaar’s mortar had totaled and fell back into T formation. The SUVs filled in from behind. Bolan’s rifle cracked and the machine gunner in the turret hatch flopped. “T.C.! Lucky! Now! Now! Now!” Lkhümbengarav came out of cover with an RPG shouldered. He took a heart-stopping extra second to aim as the turrets of both tanks turned on him and fired. His rocket-propelled grenade hurtled down the canyon and slammed into the left-hand tank dead-on. The shaped-charge warhead exploded spectacularly against the vehicle’s frontal glacis armor. The tank rumbled out of the smoke with a spectacular but apparently nonlethal blackened dent in its prow. Ching took the opportunity to step out from behind a rock and sling a satchel charge beneath the treads of the right-hand tank. The vehicle rolled forward in blissful ignorance and then shuddered as fire and smoke blasted out from beneath her hull. She took an out-of-control right turn and slammed into the canyon wall. The Mongolian shoved a fresh rocket into his tube. “Lucky, get out of there!” Bolan ordered. The surviving tank’s turret turned on the Mongolian, who stood his ground and aimed. “Move!” Bolan roared. Lkhümbengarav’s RPG round ripped from his tube. In the two seconds of flight time, the tank’s coaxial machine gun shredded the Mongolian mercenary like confetti. The rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the tank’s compromised glacis plate, and this time the shaped-charge warhead pierced the rolled-steel armor. The tank came to a smoldering stop as the incinerated occupants ceased all functions. A cold wind blew through Bolan clicked his com link. “Two tanks down. Lucky is gone. All units fall back to your next position.” 19 Bolan drew up his battle plan. Ching, Tshabalala and LaCoste made up his forward line. Ochoa was in command of Rover 1 and Onopkov had Rover 2. The Kong brothers were driving and loading for Ochoa. Nelsonne was driving for the Russian. Pienaar and Mrda were back at the oasis with Boswerth and the refugees. Bolan coordinated the battle with his phone and his com. “Listen up, they have three tanks, three technicals and five of those Chinese SUVs.” Ceallach wandered over and thrust the two Chinese antitank grenades through his belt like a pirate. He popped the bicep on his good arm. “And I can throw a grenade farther than anyone else in this bloody outfit!” He began loading his pockets and his sling with grenades of every description. “Striker!” Kurtzman called. “I have movement! Looks like they’re putting their technicals in front.” “Show me.” Bolan eyed his phone. There was definitely movement on the satellite image. The enemy had gathered at the northwest arm of the canyon. “They’re reversing strategy. They’re going to send the light vehicles forward as skirmishers. When we’re fully engaged, the tanks will come in firing over them.” Bolan frowned. “Bear, show me the west arm of the canyon.” The satellite swept westward and down. Bolan made out the two smoldering tank wrecks. “Hold image!” He watched a pair of men scamper across the scant open ground and disappear under the canyon shelf. They were swiftly followed by another pair and then another. “Show me the west canyon entrance.” Bolan observed three empty Sudanese military trucks. “All right, everyone listen up. We have infantry massing in the west canyon arm. I’m thinking it’s this Major Akeel’s men backed up by as many as Osmani can spare. In fact I’m betting Osmani is leading them. Once we’re engaged with the armor, they’ll attack our flank. Shaq, its time for you and your volunteers to step up. Rad, you’re going to back them up. Take the .30. That canyon is only wide enough for one tank. My advice is once they attack, fill the whole place with white phosphorus and frags and shoot anything that comes staggering out.” The Serb nodded. “T.C.? You’re my RPG man.” “I saw what happened to your last one.” Bolan ignored the remark. “T-Lo, I’m taking one of the antitank rifle grenades. You’re taking the other. LaCoste, I’m issuing you two of the rifle grenades. They’re frags. They may or may not stop the Chinese trucks, and they’ll be useless against the tanks. If you use them on a vehicle, try to do it at close range, or if the SUVs deploy men. Scotty?” Bolan shook his head at the Briton, who was festooned with grenades like they were Christmas-tree ornaments. “You’re bowling googlies at the tanks, SUVs or whatever the hell else strikes your fancy.” A few laughs broke out among the team. Ceallach snorted. “I’ve got a question. Where the bloody hell is Mnan and his bloody hundred Huns, then?” Bolan spoke into his phone. “Bear, any sign of Mnan?” “Negative, Striker, and a hundred horses aren’t very easy to conceal. Even in the canyons.” “Go to a wider field. Look outside the canyons.” “Which direction? “First scan west.” “Striker!” Kurtzman suddenly sounded excited. “Eyes on Mnan and his horsemen. They’re heading due west at the gallop.” “All of them?” “Looks like the entire horde has pulled up stakes.” “Show me.” The satellite image on Bolan’s screen shifted. He saw the outline of a horde of horsemen about the size of ants moving at speed and heading west. “Cowardly booger,” Ceallach commented. “Bear, keep an eye on them when you can. This may be a feint.” “Copy that, Striker.” Bolan slung his sniper rifle and took up a rifle. He topped it with his last frag grenade and stuck the antitank round into a pouch on his load-bearing vest. “Let’s do this.” * * * THE TECHNICAN WENT UP on two wheels and nearly crashed as it threaded the needle between the two ruined tanks. Bolan noted with interest that men in Sudanese army uniforms occupied it. Mnan might just have bugged out after all. The gunner in the back had a twin-mounted pair of .30-caliber machine guns and he sprayed them wildly in all directions. “LaCoste! Take him!” Agent LaCoste popped up out of her spider hole. Her grenade blew off her rifle, and the recoil nearly knocked her over. The bomb sailed through the windshield of the Toyota’s sawed-off cab and detonated. Driver, gunner and loader were shredded. The pickup went up on two wheels again and this time it rolled. SUVs began threading the needle. Men in Falcon uniforms stood in the sunroofs behind general-purpose machine guns searching for targets. Bolan took aim with his rifle. Behind the SUVs he heard the slap-slap-slap of an automatic grenade launcher. “Grenades!” Bolan shouted. His team hunkered down in their fighting holes or behind rocks as grenades rained down at random. “Val! Rover 2!” Rover 2 tore around the bend in the canyon behind them with Nelsonne behind the wheel and Onopkov behind the big .50. The heavy machine gun cycled into life and tore through the lead SUV’s grille. The Russian raised his aim and hammered off another burst through the windshield. Bolan rose from
behind his boulder and put a bullet through the machine gunner. The vehicle slowed to a halt, and two Sudanese soldiers leaped out of the back doors. Two more SUVs swerved around either side of their stricken fellow. Onopkov opened up again. “Taking the shot!” Tshabalala called. “Go!” Bolan replied. The South African rose and fired his frag. The rifle grenade spiraled through the air and hit the closest SUV broadside. The vehicle slewed in the sand but kept coming. “Taking the shot!” LaCoste called. “Go!” LaCoste fired straight-on. Bolan drilled two bullets through the armored windshield as the French agent rose and fired her second grenade. The frag hit the compromised armor glass, and the rest of the windows lit up as most of the blast and shrapnel funneled into the interior. Ceallach squatted in the shadow of one of the stricken tanks forming the bottleneck. It was good cover except for the fact that it absolutely depended on no one looking backward at any time. Bolan saw him peer through a gap between the tank hulk and the canyon wall. Ceallach clicked his com link. “Here come the tanks, Striker.” “Status?” “Buttoned up, lighter vehicles leading.” “Copy that! Sancho! Be ready!” “Locked and loaded, Striker!” Ochoa replied. Bolan did the math. Three tanks, three SUVs and a technical remained. He raised his head at the sound of massed gunfire in the distance. Mrda reported in. “Striker! We have Sudanese infantry engaging!” “Copy that! Keep me advised!” Bolan grimaced as a second salvo of grenades came across the tank hulks. The Chinese frags hit the sand with soft thuds and detonated like whips cracking. Nelsonne screamed. Bolan looked over his boulder and saw smoke rising from LaCoste’s spider hole. “Russo! Report! Russo!” The SUVs threaded the hulks in a serpentine wave. Onopkov opened up with the heavy gun and chewed the front end of the lead one to bits. The machine gun fell silent as the Russian racked it open and slapped a new belt of ammo into the smoking action. The second SUV plowed through. Ceallach bowled a concussion grenade beneath its wheels in passing. The grenade detonated beneath its chassis, snapping its axle. The bumper dropped and shoveled up dirt. The Briton pulled his machine pistol and shot the roof gunner. As the tanks blasted through the barricade of their dead brethren, Ceallach avoided being crushed by inches. He heaved himself on top of the shattered tank and hugged the turret. The lead tank simply saw a fallen SUV and rolled right over it. The screams of the men inside were lost as the thirty-six-ton tank flattened the Chinese truck like a beer can. “Now, Sancho! Bring her up!” Bolan ordered. “T.C.! Take the shot!” Ching had a slope of slick rock fifty yards from the bottleneck. He rose, laid his launch tube and fired. The RPG rocket hit the turret of the lead tank dead-on. The tank rolled on through the smoke with a blackened dent in its turret. Ching dropped flat as the 100 mm cannon fired and tore away a tombstone-size slab of slick rock from over his head. “T.C.!” “I am okay!” Ching hunched, then loaded his last rocket as a second cannon shell tore another giant divot from his cover. Onopkov poured fire into the last SUV, which shuddered to a stop as he shot it to pieces. “Rover 2! Fall back!” Bolan ordered. Nelsonne ground gears and put the Rover into Reverse. A third salvo of grenades soared into Bolan’s team’s territory. Nelsonne yelled something in French. Bolan looked back to see the front of Rover 2 blackened and the Frenchwoman clutching her face. Rover 1 slid around the bend into view. The tube of the recoilless antitank gun pivoted smoothly under Ochoa’s steady hand and the weapon belched fire from both ends. His round hit the lead tank dead-on in the turret. The turret hatch blasted upward, and the cannon barrel sagged down as the vehicle ground to a halt. Shartai slammed open the breech and plucked out the smoking shell. Haitham shoved the Rover into gear to present a moving target. “Val! Get Russo out of there!” Onopkov shouted at Nelsonne but stayed behind his weapon. He poured rounds into the next tank to keep it occupied. The Frenchwoman managed to grab her rifle and flop from behind the wheel. Bolan leveled his rifle with the antitank grenade attached. The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder and a second later the bomb detonated below the cannon barrel. The tank ignored Bolan’s grenade and fired its cannon. Onopkov disappeared as Rover 2 went sky-high. The two remaining tanks ground forward. A coaxial gun stitched the sand, seeking Nelsonne. The French agent just managed to flop behind a rock that resembled a filing cabinet laid on its side. Ching rose with his RPG and fired. His rocket streaked into the tank he and Bolan had both hit before. The detonation smeared around the hemisphere of the turret in a blanket of smoke and fire. The tank rumbled on, unstoppable. Rover 1 slammed to a halt and Ochoa aimed his reloaded recoilless antitank gun. The weapon roared, and his round struck the tank just below the turret on the diagonal. Orange fire flashed as the round penetrated, and a second later the tank went up as all steel tanks would when they took a round through the magazine. The last tank rumbled forward, and a technical emerged from the tank hulks behind it. The technical sported a Russian 30 mm automatic grenade launcher. The launcher began thumping in a grenade sweep across Bolan’s line. The tank rolled forward, immune to any friendly grenade fragments, and its turret turned on Rover 1. Ochoa and Haitham desperately slammed a fresh round into the recoilless gun. The driver ground gears to put Rover 1 in Reverse. The weren’t going to make it. Tshabalala rose and fired the last antitank rifle grenade. The munition spun straight and true into the tank’s starboard side. The tank ignored the blow and fired its main gun at Rover 1, which was a yard away from cover as the cannon shell blew through her front grille. “Sancho!” Tshabalala screamed. “Sancho!” He fired his magazine dry and dropped into his spider hole as the tank turned its attention on him. The tank fired its cannon, and rock and dirt geysered skyward. “T-Lo!” Bolan knew it was useless but prayed for a miracle. “T-Lo!” His team was being cut to pieces. Ching rose and hurled a hand grenade at the tank. The concussion grenade did little more than blacken the dull green paint. “Striker!” Ching pulled the pin on a second grenade. “Get out of there!” Bolan pulled the pins on a pair of his own grenades and charged instead. The technical began to fire another salvo of grenades, which suddenly ended as Ceallach walked up behind it and tossed a frag in the back bed. The bomb detonated and killed the gunner and loader. The Briton tossed a second lethal orb through the open window of the cab and ducked behind the rear bumper as it blew out the windows and the life of the man driving. “T.C.!” Bolan yelled. “Diversion for Scotty!” Ching hurled another grenade and dropped down as the tank’s main gun fired. His ramp of slick rock was swiftly becoming rubble. Bolan sprinted into range. His progress was noted and the tank’s turret spun to put its gun on him. The big American threw his grenade. The white phosphorus bomb hit the tank square on the slanted frontal arc of its armor. The vehicle was buttoned up, and the burning metal had no chance of inflicting damage on any part of the tank except its paint job. However, the prow of the tank disappeared in the ensuing white smoke and skyrocketing burning metal streamers. Bolan jinked hard left and threw himself down as the tank fired blindly at him. The sonic crack of a tank shell passing two feet overhead tried to make Bolan’s eardrums meet in the middle of his head. Coax fire followed, but it was scything in the wrong direction. Bolan rose and ran forward. Ceallach walked up behind the tank, then tossed one of his antitank grenades on top of the vehicle’s bow deck. Like all tanks, its top armor was thinnest. The grenade detonated with a thunderclap. The tank commander noted the blast and turned his turret on the new threat. The Briton ran in recklessly close, he took an extra second to judge his toss and laid his second grenade next to the first. The blast slapped him back like an invisible hand and sat him in the sand. The tank bucked and came to a stop. Russian tanks kept their engines in the back, and it looked as though Ceallach had dealt the V-12 diesel a blow. The turret kept turning. Bolan charged the tank. Heat rolled off the prow in a wave from the front deck coated in burning phosphorus. He ignored the heat and burning smoke and jumped. Hooking an arm over the 100 mm barrel, he let it carry him toward the bow, ignoring the searing heat coming off the barrel. The turret continued to turn and deposited him onto the tank’s blackened back deck. A scor
ched dent the size of a trash can lid cratered the steel, and a smoking hole the size of a fist marked where Ceallach’s second grenade had penetrated. Bolan could hear men shouting below and a squirt of chemical fire extinguisher puffed up out of the hole. The Executioner opened his hand and his grenade’s cotter lever pinged away. He dropped his concussion grenade down the hole. The lethal radius of the grenade blast was five yards. The steel hull of the tank left the concussion wave with nowhere to go. The tank shuddered as its interior became an echo chamber of death. Bolan slid off the tank. Ceallach made an effort to stand and failed. The big American dropped to a knee. “You all right?” Ceallach blinked. “What?” “Are you all right?” He blinked again. “What?” Bolan peered into the Briton’s eyes. Both pupils were still the same size, and he wasn’t leaking blood from any opening in his head. He took Ceallach’s machine pistol out of its holster and pressed it into his hand. “Hold on to this.” “What?” Bolan spoke slowly and exaggerated his mouth motions. “Hold…on…to…this!” Ceallach looked at the weapon for the first time. “Right!” Bolan unslung his sniper rifle. He could feel his left inner arm blistering. He walked over to Ching, who was taking deep breaths. “I had read about Panzer Fever, now I know what it means.” Panzer Fever was a World War II term. It described the infectious terror of men facing oncoming tanks with nothing that could stop them. Bolan nodded. “You did good.” “I have read about men charging tanks.” Ching stared long and hard. “In books.” The Executioner looked back. “Russo!” “I’m a mess!” Bolan walked over to LaCoste’s position. The agent’s spider hole had become her grave. Ching stood over Tshabalala’s position, shaking his head. The 100 mm shell had doubled the size of the South African’s fighting position. A mangled rifle and a boot were about all that were recognizable. Nelsonne joined him. The only thing keeping the beautiful French agent’s left eyebrow attached to her face were her fingers. The eye was swollen and the flesh of her cheek below a raccoon patch of bruising. “How many did we lose?” “You, T.C., Scotty and me are alive.” Ceallach joined his teammates. Bolan eyed the Englishman once more and spoke slowly. “You okay?” The Briton shouted at the top his lungs like the newly deaf on the battlefield often did. “Well, I’m bloody deaf, then, aren’t I?” He flapped his blood-dotted sling. “Bleeding again!” Bolan clicked his com link. “Rad, report.” Static greeted him. “Rad, report.” The com link clicked and crackled. Shaq answered. “Striker?” “Shaq, report.” “Mr. Rad is dead.” Shaq’s voice broke. “My brother Mesach is dead. He died fighting. We put the enemy in a cross fire like you said. We killed many of them. We threw grenades and firebombs like you said. We stopped them. But they fired grenades back in retreat. Mr. Rad told us to take cover, but he was injured. He was slow. I should have—” “You won, Shaq. Your brother died to save your people. So did Rad. Remember that.” Shaq sobbed. “I will, Striker.” “Hold position.” Iron came back into Shaq’s voice. “I will, Striker.” “Goose, looks like we stopped them. Enemy armor destroyed. Falcons destroyed. Sudanese regulars in retreat.” Bolan waited but Pienaar didn’t respond. “Goose, report.” Ching spoke low. “I have a bad feeling.” “Bear!” Bolan called. “Show me Mnan’s cavalry.” Kurtzman came back instantly. “Do you—” “Do it!” Bolan watched his screen. Once more he saw the shifting shape of the horsemen heading west. “Give me higher resolution, Bear.” “How close do you want to get?” “Put me in the saddle.” “One second.” The view narrowed as the satellite peered ever more closely at the Janjaweed cavalry. Bolan’s blood went cold as the satellite swept the retreating cavalry from about a hundred feet overhead. By Bolan’s count about every third saddle was empty. Bolan’s com link crackled. Rao’s voice spoke. “I thought soldiers like you only existed in movies. It has been a singular honor to have been your opponent.” The Executioner said nothing. “But you have lost,” Rao continued. “Surrender now. If you do not, I will shoot the South African. Then I will shoot every doctor except Boswerth. Then I will begin shooting the refugees in groups of five every five minutes.” Bolan said nothing. “Let me add that Dr. Boswerth can be useful to us without legs and many other body parts,” Rao added. “Do you doubt me?” Bolan took a long breath and steeled himself for what was to come. “No.” “You have twenty minutes before I start killing.” 20 It was a hostage situation of biblical proportions. Bolan knelt on the crag with his sniper rifle. His lungs burned from his canyon run. His seared left arm was an agony. The soldier had debated whether painkillers or the pain would be more distractive to good shooting. He had chosen his old friend pain. Sometimes it could be remarkably clarifying. The refugees had been placed kneeling in the execution position 5x5 just as Rao had threatened. Bolan scanned from his position and counted thirty Janjaweed along with Mnan, Rao and one of his Falcons. Bolan had about thirty refugees back in the canyons with Ching to lead them, but they had seen their first battle only an hour ago. Nelsonne and Ceallach were with them, but the Briton and the French agent were in bad shape. They would attack if he called for it, but the battle would entail horrific casualties, and nothing would stop Mnan and his men from hosing down the hostages left, right and sideways. The Executioner checked his watch. He had picked out a sniper spot overlooking the oasis. He had arrived with about a minute to spare out of the twenty Rao had given him. Rao raised Pienaar’s commandeered com link. The Falcon beside the South African held a pistol pointed at the back of Pienaar’s head. Boswerth knelt beside him. They had forced her to her knees despite the fact that she had a hole in her leg. Rao scanned the canyon rims and held the com link slightly away as he raised his voice to bounce it off the canyon walls. “I believe you can hear me, American! I believe you can see me!” Bolan spoke through the com link. “I hear you.” “I will make you a deal. I care nothing for the refugees or the other doctors, or even your surviving teammates. I am taking Dr. Boswerth, you and the Chinese traitor Tien Ching with me. I will let everyone else live. I give you my word. I will pay Mr. Mnan good money to let them flee south unmolested.” “He’s lying.” Ching’s voice came low and steely across the backup channel. “We attack now, Striker. Say the word. Shaq and his people are down with this. We have bayonets fixed.” Bolan acknowledged on the same channel. “T.C.?” “Yes, Striker.” “Hold that thought.” “Copy that, Striker. Holding thought. Holding position.” Rao shouted out. “American! Your time is up!” Bolan took a long breath and let it out. Rao spoke quietly, but clicked his com so Bolan could hear. “Mnan, tell your men to kill the first five—” The Chinese operative staggered backward like a man who had taken a surprise claw hammer to the chest and fell down dead. Bolan flicked his bolt and shot the Falcon standing behind Pienaar. The Falcon did both Bolan and Pienaar a favor as he dropped his pistol, clutched his chest and fell to the ground next to his sergeant commander. Bolan swung his rifle onto Mnan, but Boswerth gasped in Bolan’s optic as Yellow Mnan’s arm cinched beneath her chin and compressed her throat. He pressed a pistol to her head. The Executioner had known he would have to kill Rao. The sergeant commander had been a man on a mission. On the other hand Bolan had met a lot of scumbags in his life. In certain circumstances they could be made to see reason. His voice boomed over the canyon land. “Do you know what my mission is, Mnan?” The assembled Janjaweed looked at Mnan and around at one another nervously. Mnan waved his pistol gleefully around the warriors surrounding him as he hugged the doctor half to death. “Your mission is to rescue this white bitch! Try it! You come down here and try it! I have thirty men! You have no chance! Attack with whatever you have! Shoot one more man! Shoot one more man and watch what happens! Surrender!” Mnan was right. There was no way Bolan could fight his way down to the hostages. Open battle would get most of them killed. If he surrendered, it would end in torture and horror for all. Running wasn’t an option. “Go ahead!” Mnan’s voice was sick with victory. “You shoot me and—” Bolan shot Mnan. The .338 Lapua Magnum round tore away Yellow Mnan’s sunglasses, his cowboy hat and the top of his head. Dr. Boswerth flinched and hugg
ed herself as the dead albino slithered off her shoulders like a husk. Yellow Mnan’s men stared for a shocked moment at the terrible six inches off the top Bolan had taken. “My mission?” Bolan thundered. “Dr. Boswerth does not fall into enemy hands! Guess where she is right now! Go ahead! Go ahead and kill her! I’ll kill her before I let you have her! Go ahead and kill my man Goose! I’ll kill him before I let you feed them to the hyenas!” The South African grinned savagely. “Go ahead and kill your own people!” Bolan roared. “You watch what happens! You have no vehicles! No horses! Go ahead! Try to take my truck! Step behind the wheel and watch what happens. “Surrender now!” Bolan’s voice rose to godlike anger. “Or I kill anything that moves!” The Janjaweed thugs hunched and flinched despite themselves and looked back and forth for a way out. “Go ahead! Scatter like rabbits! You are walking out of these canyons!” Bolan bellowed. “And I am your thousand-yard shadow! Every step of the way! No one gets out alive except me!” A Janjaweed terrorist shook his rifle in defiance. “He is bluffing! He will not—” Bolan’s .338 Magnum round punched through the man’s pineal gland and took out the entire frontal lobe on the way. The rabble-rouser dropped skull-capped to the sand. “And you had better pray to the God of your forefathers if you haven’t surrendered by nightfall! Because then I’m hunting with a knife! And by Allah I am taking testicles!” A Janjaweed thug threw down his rifle. The man next to him slapped him. Bolan shot Slappy through the chest. “Live or die!” The Executioner’s voice echoed across the canyon lands like God on High. “Choose!” The Janjaweed gunners wept and cursed and shouted epithets and defiance. Then the next one threw down his weapon and chose life. Rifles clattered to the ground in a cascade of despair. Pienaar rose and picked up Mnan’s pistol. He gave Boswerth a shoulder to lean on, shoved a rifle into her hands and then took back his com device from Rao. “Striker?” “Goose, you all right?” Bolan asked. Pienaar had other concerns. “How’s my brother-in-law?” “T-Lo died going forward, Goose. He died fighting tanks.” Pienaar cleared his throat. “Boswerth and I are bleeding rivers. We can’t hold down the oasis. God knows how long the Janjaweed will stay cowed. We need backup now.” “Copy that,” Bolan acknowledged. “T.C., bring your team forward. Leave Abendengo and a man to watch the back door. Keep a leash on Shaq and his people. No reprisals, and no killing unless you meet resistance. Secure the oasis. Free the doctors and get them to work on the wounded. I’m holding position until you give me the all clear.” “Copy that, Striker. Shaq Force moving forward. They understand their orders.” “Copy that, T.C.” Bolan watched as Ching and his Sudanese refugee army came trotting out of the canyons and into the oasis with bayonets fixed. The Janjaweed fighters flinched and hunched, but none was foolhardy enough to go for his weapon. Ceallach and Nelsonne came walking in at a more sedate pace. The Englishman still had his machine pistol and a sling full of grenades. The Frenchwoman had wrapped her face with her torn shirtsleeve. It had already bled through. With her bayonet fixed and half her face wrapped in bloody rags, she definitely looked hostile. Bolan spoke into his phone wearily. “Bear, tell me the canyons are clear.” “I have the Janjaweed horse horde still heading due west with no sign of stopping. I have one truck from the west canyon arm heading hard north. The other two are still there. I think Rad and Team Shaq killed everyone else with a truck driver’s license. Nothing is smoking. I don’t think they took the time to disable them. They just ran.” Hard north told Bolan that it was Akeel’s forces fleeing for Fort Abdel, where he could once again explain another glorious retreat with honor to the high command in Khartoum. It also told him Osmani was dead or incapacitated. Osmani would have thought to destroy the remaining trucks and would have headed west. “Copy that, Bear.” Ching and Shaq Force took the oasis. There were a few gratuitous rifle butts applied to the cringing Janjaweed men, but Ching kept discipline. He put Pienaar back in command and swept the oasis from stem to stern with a picked band of Shaq’s people. Bolan allowed himself to relax as Ching clicked his com link and waved at Bolan’s sniper aerie. “Oasis secure, Striker.” “Copy that, T.C.” “Striker?” “T.C.?” “Why don’t you come down, get your arm looked at. Take a nap. I’ll spell you on lookout.” Stretching his hammock between two palm trees and going lights-out for twelve hours sounded like luxury beyond the dreams of avarice. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment. He would take up the first and second parts of T.C.’s offer. “Copy that.” * * * BOLAN WALKED INTO THE infirmary tent. Five doctors were in camp and one of them had a wounded leg. There had been a gun battle and health care was being triaged. Despite his nearly godlike status among the oasis residents, Bolan and his burned arm had gone to the back of the line. The good news was that he had gotten some chow and his nap. Pienaar and Ceallach had insisted on it, and Bolan had been too tired to resist. The soldier took a seat on a cot and stripped off his shirt. Boswerth and her people seemed to know what they were doing. They had come to fight famine and disease. Treating refugees in the Sudan had taught them all about burns, blast damage and bullet wounds. Boswerth hobbled over. Like Bolan she had responsibilities, and superficial leg wounds weren’t allowed to interfere with them. She gave Bolan a smile. “Stick out your arm.” He stuck out his arm. His left inner arm and side looked like an NFL fullback whose quarterback had handed him a red-hot football and he’d run for a touchdown. Boswerth began to clean the wound. “I’ve heard a few secondhand stories about your fight in the canyon.” “Oh?” “May I offer you a piece of advice?” “Sure.” “Burning tanks are not monkey bars, Striker. You shouldn’t climb on them.” Bolan sighed. “You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that.” “You know, I’m not surprised.” Boswerth wrapped his arm. “Mostly second-degree burns. You should heal in a couple of weeks. Infection while you’re in-country is your only real concern.” “Can I give you a piece of advice?” “Sure…” “I have a chopper coming. Get out of the Sudan.” Boswerth’s face went flat. “I have responsibilities here.” “Dr. Boswerth, the Chinese know who you are and where you are. The Sudanese have no idea what’s going on down here except that something is going on. They’ll be coming. You are a danger to these people.” “So what happens? After all we’ve done. After all the killing, we just abandon them?” “No, I’m going to load them into the Mog and the two trucks Major Akeel kindly left us and personally convoy them to the South Sudanese border.” Boswerth blinked. “You are, aren’t you?” “Some good people died to save them. This mission isn’t over yet.” Bolan’s voice hardened. “Now tell me you are getting on that damn helicopter.” Boswerth’s eyes were shiny. “I’m getting on the damn helicopter.” “Good, if we’re done here, go pack. There’s no place to land the chopper, so you and the worst of the wounded are being hoisted. Pack light.” Boswerth got her crutches under her and the waterworks turned on despite her best effort. “Striker?” He nodded. “You’re welcome.” Boswerth leaned in and kissed his cheek before leaving the tent. Nelsonne grinned at Bolan out of her mangled face. “Well, look at you.” He lifted his chin at the woman’s mangled face and grinned back. “Look at you.” She made a noise of disgust. “I do not wish to.” “Scars are sexy, and glory is forever.” Nelsonne giggled. Bolan grew serious. “I want you on that chopper.” “You need me.” “I do, but you have a concussion. You don’t want to be bouncing across the Sudan in a 4x4.” Bolan shrugged. “Besides, it might look good to the boys back in Paris when you personally deliver Dr. Boswerth safely to the American Embassy.” Nelsonne grew quiet. “That is very kind of you.” “It’s nothing. Besides, we have a date, and I hear Frenchwomen take a long time to get ready.” Nelsonne made a noise and circled her face with her finger. “You still want me? With my face like this?” “Well…” Bolan scratched his chin in thought. “You’d be a two-bagger, but sure. What the hell.” Nelsonne gave him a very suspicious look. “And just what is a…two-bagger?” “Well, a one-bagger is a girl who’s so ugly that you have to put a bag over her head to make love to her.” “And a two-bagger…” “A two-bag
ger is a girl who’s so ugly that not only do you put a bag over her head to make love to her, but you put a bag over your own head in shame.” “You…are…a…pig.” Bolan nodded and rose. He had an evacuation to manage and a refugee hell-run for the South Sudanese border to lead. “See you in Bruges.” * * * * * We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more! Subscribe to our newsletter: Harlequin.com/newsletters Visit Harlequin.com We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com ISBN: 9781459230750 Copyright © 2012 by Worldwide Library All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.Harlequin.com
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