Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  “They can describe us,” Maia protested.

  “So much the better,” Bolan answered. “If the word gets back to Jin, there’ll be no doubt of who he’s dealing with.”

  Frowning, Maia issued rapid-fire commands and Bolan watched the meth-lab drones bolt toward the hallway, still afraid to speak as they rushed out and toward the nearest exit to the street. Bolan and Maia double-checked the other rooms for stragglers, finding none, and went back to the lab. They stood in its doorway, facing ranks of bottles filled with liquid neatly shelved along one wall, more lined up on the floor against the room’s north wall.

  “You get a head start,” Bolan said. “Don’t dawdle. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Are you sure?” Maia asked.

  “Positive. Get moving.”

  Maia moved, stepped off into a sprint back toward the kitchen where they’d entered. Bolan turned and aimed his pistol at a shelf of bottles nearest to one of the hissing Bunsen burners. His first shot was all it took, a jet of clear fluid igniting in midair, and then it was a race for life along the hallway, with the sound of multiplying thunderclaps behind him and the house in flames. A fireball chased him through the kitchen, out into the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bohol Sea

  Carrier Strike Group Eleven of the United States Pacific Fleet steamed westward through the Bohol Sea between the Philippine islands of Mindanao and Visayas. Dead ahead lay the Sulu Sea and Borneo, with the South China Sea beyond them. Leading the force of three ships was the USS Carl Vinson, a Nimitz-class supercarrier displacing one hundred thousand tons, powered by two Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactors. The great ship carried 90 aircraft and 5,680 personnel on board as it prowled the ocean.

  Hunting.

  No supercarrier was put out to sea alone. This day, the Carl Vinson was accompanied by two flankers. One, the USS Princeton, was a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser capable of dealing death to any enemy afloat, on land or in the air at ranges up to fifteen hundred miles with its Tomahawk missiles. The Vinson’s other escort ship, the USS Pinckney, was an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer equipped with both missiles and artillery, the latter ranging in size from five-inch Mark 45 “lightweight” guns down to 25 mm M242 Bushmaster chain-fed cannons and 20 mm Phalanx CIWS antiship missile-defense guns. Six launching tubes for Mark 46 torpedoes completed the Pinckney’s arsenal, all of it on tap to protect the Carl Vinson.

  On the Vinson’s flag bridge, Rear Admiral Harlan Bishop surveyed the vast expanse of blue-gray water surrounding his strike force, frowning at the islands off to north and south. He knew that any bay or inlet might conceal a ship armed with a missile capable of taking down his carrier or either of its escorts, manned by fanatics who lived for the sole purpose of obliterating their perceived enemies.

  And Bishop was their enemy, no doubt about it. As a U.S. naval officer, he tried to carry out his duties without letting politics—much less race or religion—color his decisions, but there came a time when battle lines were drawn and warriors were forced to choose sides. Over the past decade and more, his homeland had been targeted for sneak attacks by groups and individuals whose version of religious fervor drove them to commit atrocities in the name of their chosen deity. Thousands of lives had been sacrificed worldwide, from Manhattan’s twin towers to the backwaters of Africa and Asia. All for what? A vision of religious piety at odds with leading scholars of the faith in every corner of the world.

  Such questions were beyond Bishop’s pay grade, matters left to politicians. On the military cutting edge where steel met flesh, practical matters ruled the day. Bishop’s orders were simple: find and destroy the persons who had hijacked the two Chinese missiles then used one to commit mass murder while threatening still worse to come. He knew the Hsiung Feng III missile’s reputation as a “carrier killer,” and Bishop was supremely conscious of the fact that nearly six thousand lives hung in the balance, dependent on his skill and wisdom to preserve them.

  That was the name of the game, and there could be no turning back unless the strike force was recalled by the Pacific Fleet’s commander. Until that happened, if it happened, they were on the hunt and Bishop wouldn’t rest until he made the kill.

  Jagorawi Toll Road

  “SO, WHAT’S THE PLAN?” Bolan asked, as they motored eastward through the wilds of Banten Province, toward Jakarta.

  “No plan,” Maia answered. “I will meet Fann Lieu and find out what he wants.”

  “Assuming he wants anything.”

  “You think he’s simply bait?” she asked.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Perhaps. Yes, probably,” she granted. “But if I refuse to meet him, I have burned my bridges, as you say. The ministry will see it as rebellion.”

  Bolan understood Maia’s predicament. Their difference in viewpoint, he surmised, came from her willingness—or wish—to trust the people who had sent her to Malaysia in the first place.

  “You know,” he said, “the odds are good that someone in your government back home set up the missile hijacking. It doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing a gang of local thugs could pull off on their own.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” she said, not quite resentfully.

  “It wouldn’t be a stretch to think there may be ties between the triads and your government,” he said. “I’ve seen the same thing in the States, in Russia, South America and Africa.”

  “Of course there is corruption,” Maia said. “In spite of all the propaganda, everyone in China knows the truth. Or some of it, at least.”

  “That doesn’t mean your friend is part of it,” Bolan said, treading lightly. “Let’s assume that he’s as straight and honest as the day is long. The brass can still use him against you, and he wouldn’t even know it till the hammer drops.”

  “You think I will be careless?” Maia asked him.

  “What I think,” he answered, “is that you could stand to see a friendly face from home right now. They know that, at the ministry. And they can use it as a weapon, if you let them.”

  “I’ll be ready when I meet Fann Lieu,” she said. “Assuming that he’s even there.”

  “Another possibility,” Bolan added. “They could use his name alone to draw you in. The ministry must have your photograph on file. Whoever shows up at the park would recognize you in a second.”

  “You may be right,” Maia replied. “But I believe Fann Lieu will be there.”

  “Has he narrowed down the field at all?” Bolan asked.

  “Dunia Fantasi,” Maia said. “Within that complex, the Fantasi Hikayat.”

  “A toga party,” Bolan said, vaguely aware that the theme park’s Legendary Fantasy section featured mock-ups of ancient Greek and Egyptian architecture.

  “I won’t be dressing up for the occasion,” Maia told him. “But I will be armed.”

  “And I’ll be covering your back,” he said. “They may know your face, but they don’t have mine on file.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “Trust me,” he said. “It’s not a problem.”

  Once, his face had been well-known around the world, his profile topping the Most Wanted lists of Interpol and countless other law-enforcement agencies on two continents. That was before the orchestrated death scene and Mack Bolan’s disappearance from the public eye. The face he wore today was altogether different, and he could count the living enemies who’d seen it on the fingers of one hand. Security cameras and cell phones could cause grief, but he had people who deleted his likeness from databases if there was one on file.

  “I have no cause to worry, then,” Maia Lee said.

  “There’s always something,” Bolan answered. “Nothing kills you quicker than a dose of overconfidence.”

  “In that case,” Maia answered, with a small, sad smile, “I sh
ould be all right. Because I don’t feel confident at all.”

  Banten Province, West Java

  “THE METH LAB this time,” Jin Au-Yo said, handing the sat phone back to Ma Mingxia. “Destroyed.”

  “The same two people?”

  Jin expelled a long, slow breath, willing himself into a calm, deliberative state. “I can’t be sure,” he said at last. “One of the neighbors told police he saw a man and woman running from the scene. The woman was Chinese, he said. The man, perhaps American.”

  “They should be dead by now,” Ma said. “Sir, let me take a group of soldiers and destroy them now, before they cause you any further aggravation.”

  “Old friend, your offer is appreciated, but I cannot spare you in my time of need.”

  Jin didn’t tell Ma that he doubted whether anyone could track and kill his enemies at this point. They had proved, if not invincible, at least elusive to the point that Jin despaired of catching them through any effort of his own devising. His best hope now was that the agent from the Ministry of State Security would walk into the trap her own superiors had set for her at Ancol Dreamland, on Jakarta’s waterfront. Jin’s troops would be there, waiting, ready to annihilate her and the damned American on sight.

  But for the trap to work, Jin realized, his enemies must both be in Jakarta when the fated hour struck. If they ignored the summons and continued targeting his operations in the rural provinces, all of that preparation would be wasted. In which case, how would he end the bloody stalemate?

  How else, but by serving as bait?

  Wherever they went, his foes left the same message. They wanted Jin, no doubt to question him concerning his involvement in the theft of Chinese missiles—more specifically, the whereabouts of those who took possession of the missiles from his underlings. Jin could have spared them all much time and energy by speaking the simple truth: he neither knew nor cared where Nasir al-Jarrah and his band of fanatics had taken the weapons, or where they would use the one missile remaining.

  Jin’s only interest in politics concerned enrichment of his triad and himself. Whichever party, office holder or potential candidate offered the best accommodation for the Flying Ax, that group or person had Jin’s full support. He cared not whether they were Communist or Kuomintang, Democrat or Republican, Christian or Muslim. In Jin’s world, ideology was just another mask concealing ravenous self-interest from the public eye.

  The mask Jin wore at present was an air of confidence he didn’t feel, in fact. To hold his place within the Flying Ax Triad, to keep his troops in line, Jin knew that he had to always come across as strong and self-assured. He may have suffered setbacks, but he wouldn’t be defeated.

  Not while he was still alive.

  And if he wasn’t, well, what did it matter? Jin didn’t believe his ancestors were watching him, much less depending on him to preserve their reputation. All that mattered was the present, with an option on tomorrow held by those with strength and nerve enough to seize it. Weaklings suffered, as they should, and they deserved no sympathy.

  “Is all in readiness for the surprise?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. It shall be as you wished. Your orders were delivered and confirmed.”

  Jin nodded, speaking through a frown. “Then let us hope they will be carried out. If not—” he turned to Ma, allowed his frown to shift, become a wistful smile “—we may be living in the end of days.”

  Jakarta Outer Ring Road

  APPROACHING THE CAPITAL, Maia Lee imagined she could feel her nerves begin to tighten like piano wires. A part of her was anxious for the meeting with Fann Lieu, but common sense told her Matt Cooper was right. It had to be a trap of some kind, whether planned by her superiors, the Flying Ax Triad or an unholy collusion of both.

  And she meant to be ready.

  She supposed that Cooper misunderstood her past relationship with Fann. Perhaps he thought they had been lovers while they studied at the University of International Relations. Nothing of the sort had happened, though she thought Fann might have been attracted to her in that way. But he had lacked the courage to proceed with what Americans would call “a pass.” If forced to hazard an opinion, Maia might have blamed that very weakness for Fann’s failure to become a ministry field agent. The recruiters had to have seen that he was better suited to a desk, where his decisions wouldn’t impact life and death.

  What if he had plucked up the courage to assert himself more forcefully? Would Maia have succumbed to his peculiar charm? And might their lives be any different today?

  No matter, she told herself. None of that had happened, and their lives were intersecting now because Fann had been sent by their superiors to speak with her—or to arrange her death. It never crossed her mind that he would be the trigger man. He simply didn’t have the stomach for it.

  People change, Maia acknowledged, but she couldn’t see the shy boy she had known at school transformed into a killer. Possibly, in self-defense, Fann Lieu might strike a lethal blow. But calculated murder was beyond him, in her personal opinion.

  Still, she thought, she could be wrong.

  And in the situation she would soon be facing, one mistake could be her last.

  Fann’s flight from Beijing should be landing within the half hour, if it was on time. Air China was renowned for punctuality, recognized as the world’s single largest carrier by market value and most profitable airline. She had no reason to think that Fann Lieu would be late, although some lag time would occur between his landing and his arrival at their meeting place.

  There was some reason, she supposed, why he hadn’t asked her to meet with him at his hotel, instead of Ancol Dreamland. Granting that the setup was a trap, Maia supposed the theme park made a better killing ground than some hotel, particularly one where Fann was registered and might be questioned by police.

  A crowd of thousands, with the rides and other park distractions, made convenient cover for a killing if it was conducted properly. However, Fann and those who pulled his strings might not have reckoned with Matt Cooper—or Maia’s own will to survive.

  Watching the sun set on Jakarta, Maia hoped that she would have a chance to speak with Fann before the trouble started. She had missed him, in a way, although her daily life distracted her from memories of friends who’d fallen by the wayside. Maia hoped there would be time to ask Fann why he had betrayed her. Was he simply following an order? Was it payback for his unrequited lust at school? Did he even understand the game that he was playing?

  Maia wondered whether she could kill him if it came to that, for his betrayal.

  And decided that she could.

  Lesser Sunda Islands, Indonesia

  NASIR AL-JARRAH SURVEYED the launcher with its missile and was satisfied. Camouflage netting concealed it from airborne surveillance and could be removed within moments when he gave the order. Infrared was still a problem. He was aware that spy planes—even satellites in space—could note the presence of his people on the unnamed island, but the missile shouldn’t register until its engine roared to life.

  By which time, it would be too late.

  Discovery, at this point, didn’t trouble him. With eighteen thousand islands in the Indonesian archipelago, a thousand of them first discovered in the last decade, no comprehensive search was possible. An overflight with infrared would show the major cities first—Jakarta with nine million bodies, Surabaya and Bandung with over two million, Depok and Semarang with more than a million each—and then move on to smaller towns and villages. No eye in the sky could distinguish Nasir al-Jarrah’s small encampment from any other unless they could lock on the missile.

  And just in case, his own technicians had gone over it in detail, seeking any kind of sensor, transmitter or homing device that might have been installed as a precaution. Just in case the end user was careless, even simple-minded, and couldn’t recall where he had left a
twenty-foot missile weighing a ton and a half.

  They had found nothing. Al-Jarrah wasn’t concerned.

  His worries now included timing, accuracy and escape.

  When al-Jarrah received word that the U.S. fleet was close enough, he’d bait the trap with automated broadcasts from the Thunderbolt, offshore. That would increase his risk, of course, as carrier-based aircraft were dispatched to find their prey. Once he had locked onto his target, al-Jarrah would say a prayer for Allah’s help to speed the missile past their target’s various defenses and deliver a death blow.

  Then, the escape.

  He had two speedboats standing by on the south side of the small island. A Jeep was waiting to convey him there, with Usmar Malik and two others, when the Brave Wind missile launched. Malik and his chosen pilot would depart in one boat, al-Jarrah and his driver in the other, breaking off in opposite directions, east and west. Unknown to Malik, there was a transmitter in the boat assigned to him that would, with any luck, draw fighter planes to him while al-Jarrah escaped.

  For all his piety, the Sword of Allah’s field marshal thought it better to survive and fight again another day than to lay down his life unnecessarily and leave the holy war to other, less capable hands. No intelligent person would mistake that dedication for cowardice.

  No sane man would suggest it to his face.

  Jakarta Inner Ring Road

  BOLAN FOLLOWED the flow of traffic toward downtown Jakarta, listening while Maia read her guidebook’s description of Fantasy World at the Ancol Dreamland waterfront park. It sounded like a nightmare for logistics, worse for the civilians who would flock there, unaware of peril to themselves.

  “‘The theme park is divided into separate regions,’” Maia read, reciting from the text in front of her. “‘They include Jakarta, Asia, Africa, America, Europe and Legendary Fantasy. Features include innumerable restaurants, nightclubs, steam bath and massage parlors, a marina, a golf course, a drive-in theater, an artificial lagoon for fishing, swimming pools and sea and freshwater aquariums. Browse through the art market and linger through collections of paintings, Indonesian handicraft and souvenirs.’”