Hellbinder

by Don Pendleton

  "Mr. Ambassador," his aide called after him. "Don't forget that you have that ten-thirty meeting with a contact who is going to help set up a session with Jose Morales. Señor Morales thinks he can work out a face-to-face with the guerrillas."

  "Yes, yes, I'll be there."

  Johnson relaxed in the shower. This week, the water was hot. Next week, who knew? He let the hot water pour over him and tried to forget all the complications in this job he really never wanted. Martha would rather not have come down here, either, but they both had. Ronnie had talked them into it.

  An hour later the big Lincoln Continental stopped near the outskirts of the city. It was on a little-used road behind some squalid, dilapidated shacks. His aide said the lowest economic class lived here. The people were undoubtedly in the worst health, as well. Johnson sighed. He had been able to find absolutely no time to deal with the wretched situation here. There should be time for a clinic, something, but no, he was shunted from meeting to conference to talk to special appearance to goddamned everything.

  This Lincoln was the safe one. It had bulletproofing all the way around, glass and metal, and the engine was special. Even with the murderous amount of additional weight, the big tank would do 120 mph on an open highway. It even had a steel-plated undercarriage to protect against land mines.

  The ambassador would have liked to roll down the window, but since El Salvador had been deemed a "red" zone for danger, the windows, an inch and a half thick, were sealed shut. He sat in air-conditioned comfort and listened to a tape of The Nutcracker Suite. It made him homesick, remembering how his daughter had been in ballet school and at last had danced in the Christmas ballet on stage.

  There were three people in the car: the ambassador, the chauffeur, and the bodyguard, Willis, whom the ambassador felt wasn't needed. His aide was supposed to come along but had to cancel at the last minute.

  "Where are they?" Ambassador Johnson asked the man beside him, who was checking the operation of an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. It looked an evil killing device. As a medical man, the ambassador understood what those deadly slugs could do to a human body.

  "They're twenty minutes late," Willis said, shifting on the seat. "Think I'll get out and see what's going on."

  "Maybe we should just drive on. This isn't the best neighborhood."

  Willis frowned, twisting his mouth to one side the way he usually did. "Probably. But let me take a quick recon. I'll be right back."

  Willis tapped the glass separating the front from the rear and twisted his hand as if unlocking something. At once the door lock beside him popped up.

  "Be right back," Willis said, unlatching and opening the door. As he stood, the side of his face burst in a shower of blood and bone fragments as a 9mm parabellum smashed into his cheek and exited through his nose. The force of the round pushed him against the top of the limousine.

  Quickly, as though one explosion, six more deadly lead messengers slammed into Willis, two through his chest, one through his left eye, one into his stomach. He sagged against the open door, then slumped half into and half out of the car.

  "Move it! Move it!" Dr. Johnson shouted. The engine ground and the big car surged ahead. Willis's body was caught between the wildly swinging heavy door and the seat. As the car careened down the hard-packed earth path, Willis fell to the ground and rolled away.

  No more rounds came at the big car. But twenty feet down the roadway, a shoulder-held rocket launcher fired. The Russian-made missile flew fifty feet from a tumbled-in shack, hit the Lincoln's left front wheel and exploded, destroying the tire and flipping the heavy car onto its side. The driver's head slammed violently against the thick glass and split open like an overripe melon; the dead driver fell heavily to the passenger's side of the limo. The four wheels spun in the air as the big car rocked once more and remained on its side.

  In the back, Ambassador Johnson, who had been sitting on the right-hand side, now hung awkwardly, still pinned to the seat, still wearing his seat belt. The explosion had slammed him against the padded rear cushion, but he was alive and fully conscious.

  The guerrillas would be nearby. But how could he escape? Was the far door still unlocked?

  He heard voices outside. Shouts in Spanish. He couldn't understand all they were saying, but he got enough of it. They would tip the heavy rig back upright, then get out the "criminal diplomat" from America. The hated one would be in their hands and they would torture him and see how much pain he could stand before they executed him slowly. It would be a great victory for the Farabundo Marti Liberation Nacional. Long live the liberation!

  Moments later a stern, sharp voice shouted instructions that the ambassador couldn't make out. At once someone bounded to the top side of the car and tried the door, which opened upward with much tugging and pulling. A face looked inside. The mouth was thin, eyes narrowly set and dark. The man wore a soft green fatigue cap common among guerrillas.

  "Pardon our abrupt halting of your vehicle, Mr. Ambassador, but we wish to speak with you, and this seemed the only way. You will kindly unfasten your seat belt so we can assist you from the limousine."

  The man spoke in perfect English. Dr. Johnson answered him in perfect colloquial Spanish.

  "I will be pleased to do that. May I have your name and the name of whoever you are representing?"

  "That won't be necessary. Names are of no real importance. Please, we'll help you out."

  A few moments later he stepped on the side of the jump seat and was lifted out the door, then helped to the ground.

  The spokesman was a thin man with a black mustache and penetrating eyes. He pushed the fatigue cap back slightly and nodded.

  "Mr. Ambassador, we have heard that you are an honorable man, a good man. We have heard that you speak our language, understand our problems and want to help us to make our nation whole again. We hope all this is true. Come, we have a long trip."

  "I'm a prisoner, then?"

  "You are our honored guest for the next few days while we talk with others of your nation."

  Johnson looked at the leader and frowned. "How long have you had that wound on your arm?" the ambassador asked. "It needs medical attention. My medical bag is in the front seat."

  The leader nodded and a man jumped to the car to find the bag. He returned with it. One of the black handles had been blown off and there was a gash in the side, but otherwise it was intact.

  "Come here and take that filthy bandage off," Johnson said, feeling secure in his medical authority.

  "We have to be moving. You can treat it where we must stay tonight as the search for you begins. We will not inform the embassy until tomorrow that you are our guest. We apologize to your lady, who will worry, but we must protect ourselves."

  An ancient produce truck wheezed into sight and stopped nearby. Six men jumped on board and reached down to aid Dr. Johnson and the leader into the truck. Then the large doors were closed and the truck began rolling.

  A battery powered lantern came on, breaking up the nearly total darkness inside the truck.

  "Now I will treat you, Captain," Ambassador Dr. Johnson said. "If you aren't a captain, I just promoted you. If you are a general, my apologies. Now let's look at that arm."

  There were some murmurs of approval that he had spoken in Spanish. The men clustered around in the bouncing truck to watch.

  When the dirty bandage came off, Johnson saw a bullet wound, the lead buried half an inch into the arm.

  "You're lucky it missed the bone," Dr. Johnson said. He cleaned the wound with alcohol and heard only a quick gasp as the alcohol burned a hundred raw nerve endings. "This wound is a week old. It should have started to heal better by now." He looked up. "That would have been the fight between the rebels and the government forces near the old bridge. As with any battle, it was one that nobody won."

  "They know we are here. We grow stronger every day."

  "I listen to Radio Venceremos, too, Captain," the doctor said. He dusted the wound with emerg
ency sulfa, still the best survival medicine a soldier can carry that will not spoil over a long period. "You should have some antibiotics, but your pharmacy has closed. The next time you're near the embassy, stop by and I'll give you a shot of penicillin. It has to be refrigerated, or otherwise I'd have some." He spread Neosporin ointment over the wounds, then wrapped them with a two-inch roller bandage and taped the ends tightly.

  "Good as new in two weeks if you don't get shot again. And make an appointment in two days to have that dressing changed."

  The soldiers laughed at the appointment idea.

  "Thanks," the leader said, holding out his good right hand. "They said you are a fine man."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I can't tell you that, but as you guessed, it is out of the city and toward the north. But you already know where the FMNL strength is."

  "Do you know this man Ungo, Guillermo Ungo? I have never met him and perhaps never will. Is he an honorable man?"

  "Tell him, Captain!" one of the soldiers said. It was a tease.

  The leader switched to English. "The men make fun of me since I am only a lieutenant." He went back to Spanish. "Yes, of course, I will tell you he is honorable. He is my leader — I must believe that. He also is a Marxist, which by definition I must believe is beyond reproach, above any suspicion and meriting only the highest praises."

  "And, Captain, are you a Marxist?"

  "Yes, until the day I die. I believe."

  "Are all of your men?" Dr. Johnson looked at them, staring into the eyes of each.

  "Ask them," the leader said.

  They were still talking when the truck stopped.

  The door was opened from the outside and the soldiers rushed out, anxious to get into the open air again. Dr. Johnson pushed away their helping hands and jumped from the truck with his black bag.

  They were at a coffee plantation, but not near any buildings. The truck was parked on a sharp incline and everywhere he looked, Dr. Johnson saw coffee trees. The trees extended up and down the hills in every direction.

  "Where are the people who pick the coffee beans?" Dr. Johnson asked.

  "In the village a mile down the road," the leader said.

  "Then we must go there. As long as I can't help your nation as an ambassador, I must help the people as a doctor. Come, come, do you think I will run away? Where is this place? I will walk. You can save your petrol."

  They walked.

  That night Dr. Johnson fell on a mattress in a shack under a coffee tree at the edge of the village. He had talked to thirty-four patients, and had done everything from lancing a boil to informing a young wife she was pregnant.

  He couldn't remember a more rewarding day since he had come to El Salvador two years ago. He lay on the pallet for only a moment, then nodded into sleep.

  9

  The kamikaze taxi driver delivered Bolan and Blackie well north of the capital. They waited by the side of the road for ten minutes before a bus came by. They boarded it and rode north, disembarking an hour later at a small village surrounded by coffee trees.

  "Assembly point," Blackie said, dropping into his service talk. "We form up here and move out like we mean it. Should be our jeep and three or four other vehicles, all civilian, naturally. At least there'll be some firepower behind us."

  They walked into the orchard of small coffee trees, most less than eight feet high, all topped and pruned for easy work around them. Some of the coffee beans were bright red, others still green.

  A half mile up a dirt road they passed a sentry. Another half mile and they found the camp.

  It looked more like a Sunday picnic than an army. Rebels, mercs and guerrillas would always look like lost and abandoned children, Bolan decided.

  They were met by a noncommissioned officer without stripes who took them to a dour-faced little man wearing combat-green pants and a white shirt. He smiled past his drooping mustache and spoke in Spanish.

  "Welcome, American. One more good man helps us a little, and a little bit helps." He tossed both men AK-47 automatic rifles. Each had a 30-round magazine, and from its weight, Bolan knew the magazine was loaded.

  "Your weapon for the mission. Take care of it or you'll be charged for it. Scott," he said, using the name for Bolan given to him by Fortuna. "I am Captain Valderez. I'm in command of the convoy. You will go with Blackie in the forward jeep. You can draw three hand grenades each. Our main body will be a quarter mile behind you and there will be no connecting file. Questions?"

  "Any fire control?" Bolan asked in Spanish.

  "Only that you are not to fire until fired upon. We do not want to advertise that we're coming."

  Blackie nodded. "Where do we pick up the fraggers?" he asked.

  They were pointed toward a small two-man pup tent.

  "We will move out at 1300 hours. If you haven't eaten there will be chow at 1230." The dour little man spoke more quietly. "Blackie. This is the most important one that we've been on yet."

  "Hey man, we do good," Blackie said, mangling the jive talk as it came out in Spanish.

  They drew their three hand grenades. Two were the old U.S. Army style, the pineapple type, the other four the newer kind, also American made, rounder and with a smooth casing. All could kill.

  Lunch turned out to be beans, beef and some hard biscuits along with coffee. At 1250 hours, someone brought the jeep around and Blackie at once turned off the engine and quickly checked plugs, points, the gas supply and then the brakes. He started the engine, adjusted the air and gas mixture and when he was happy he put down the windshield and locked it in place.

  "I don't want no damn glass splinters rammed up my nose when we take the first wild rounds," he said.

  "Maybe we won't be hit this time," Bolan said.

  Blackie laughed and picked his teeth with a knife-sharpened kitchen match. "And maybe you won't shit for a week, but the odds ain't very good. We'll get hit, the only question is how hard and how close to the mountains."

  "I thought we were in the mountains," Bolan said.

  "Hell, these ain't even hills. We got to get back into the tall ones, and the volcanoes. We got at least a dozen active volcanoes in this little chunk of country, you know that? Mount up, soldier. The CO just waved his magic riding crop."

  Ahead, Bolan saw the small officer in charge pulling the units into line. The jeep went around two twenty-foot trucks. Each held about fifteen fully armed and combat-ready men. All had good weapons, but almost no uniforms. It looked like a ragtag outfit. But anybody can pull the trigger on an AK-47 or a machine gun. No training required. Those untrained bullets kill just as well as ones fired by a master combat veteran.

  At the head of the trucks they paused. Captain Valderez stepped up to the jeep. Now he had an MP-40 German-made submachine gun slung over his shoulder. It had what looked like a 40-round magazine in it for the 9mm parabellum rounds. He checked his watch.

  "You move out in exactly one minute, Blackie. Usual precautions, and keep your speed to no more than twenty to twenty-five mph on these trails. If we get more than a half mile behind, pull up and wait for us. These trucks are in good condition, so we should be able to keep up today." The little guy tried smiling, and his white teeth gleamed. "My friends, good luck." Captain Valderez looked at his watch and waved them on.

  "Watch out, adventure, here we come one more goddamned time!" Blackie said. His eyes were wide, and there was a strange smile on his face. Blackie was high on something.

  "Coke, man? Blackie, you on coke?" Bolan asked him.

  Blackie looked at Bolan and laughed. He goosed the accelerator, then let the speed drop back to twenty. "Hey, you do what you got to and I do what I got to."

  "Is that why you do this, for the kicks? Damn hard way to make a living, Blackie."

  "So far, so good. Hey, don't bitch at me until you've made a few runs down here. This ain't the usual kind of war. Anyway, who gives a damn? Two more trips and I'll have enough to start my own ribs joint back in Detroit. I got som
e connections back there, man. No sweat. In two years I'll be dragging in the money, profits to one hundred thousand dollars a year."

  For the first ten miles the dirt road snaked through a long valley, went over a low pass and into another valley. The narrow tracks all worked upward toward the high Sierra Madre. Bolan saw coffee plantations wherever there was tillable land. The small trees marched up and down the slopes and across the valleys. He commented that there weren't as many people as he expected to see in this agricultural area. Blackie laughed.

  "Shit, man, the word goes out that a convoy is going uphill, and all the natives lie low in a ditch. Too many times they been caught in the middle, and a 9mm son of a bitch doesn't care who it digs into."

  The road kept rising. They paused for a moment on a small hill and saw that the other trucks were back almost a mile. The jeep idled as they waited. Both men watched the downslopes, looking for some kind of an ambush. It was not to be here.

  "Christ, maybe we will get through this time," Blackie said. "No sweat! Them muthas show up, I'll blast them into Kingdom Come with my trusty forty-seven here. We got plenty of loaded magazines. I got three. You got three?"

  Bolan nodded. "The convoy's closing. We can take off. We'd better keep it under twenty for a while on the hills."

  "Yeah, yeah. I done it before, remember?"

  They cruised along, The Executioner with the AK up, ready and set on automatic fire. They entered a stretch where the rain forest came right up to the sides of the road. There was no room for coffee trees here. Bolan tensed, expecting that this would be the type of place where an ambush might occur.

  Blackie laughed. "Not yet, California. Another five miles at least before they'll hit us. Never caught us so close to the valley before."

  The trucks behind closed up to a hundred yards as the road turned rough. They hit a particularly big rut and before Bolan came back down on the hard cushion, rifle and automatic fire erupted on both sides of the road. The Executioner dived headfirst out of the jeep. Blackie had slowed it to less than five miles an hour. Bolan did a front roll and tumbled sideways into the brush.