He heard the rifle slugs spanging off the jeep, saw one front tire blow out and then the jeep rise. Only then did Bolan hear the land mine explode and see the jeep tumble on its side and roll three times away from him. He slid on his belly through the dense growth away from the vehicle, then stopped and listened.
Heavier fire came from behind, where men surged from the trucks, vanishing into the jungle on both sides and moving forward in a skirmish line.
For just a moment he heard more firing ahead of him. Bolan still had the AK, and he hammered off a 5-round burst straight into the air, then rolled a dozen feet away. There was no counterfire.
He saw no sign of Blackie. The driver would be the first target, which meant Blackie probably was hit. The land mine could have caught him as well.
Now he saw shadowy forms, four or five, moving toward him through the jungle. They wore uniforms, camouflaged green, and soft hats. They moved carefully.
Bolan lay where he was, and five minutes later a scout from his own rebel band came up near him. He gave a thumbs-up motion and pointed straight ahead. Then he pointed to his weapon. The scout nodded, and he and Bolan laid down a barrage of fire that riddled the forest.
They stopped and heard a wail of pain and sounds of retreat. By the time the rest of the detail had worked up to Bolan's position, the enemy had run. The scout moved ahead cautiously and soon was back. There was one government man dead, and one badly wounded who was now also dead. He proudly carried two M-16 U.S. military automatic rifles.
The scout brought one to Bolan, along with three full magazines.
"This one is yours, California. You earned it."
They moved out to the roadway and the scout whistled. A moment later a whistle sounded from across the road. There had been no weapons fire for ten minutes. The troops assembled on the road and looked at the jeep. Blackie lay in the road. He had taken three rifle slugs, one in his forehead and two in his chest. They dragged his body into the brush. Quick and simple. Goodbye, Blackie. Goodbye, Detroit. Goodbye, ribs place.
Captain Valderez motioned for them to move out. Bolan and the scout took the point now, jogging ahead of the trucks for two miles. Then they were replaced by two more men as they moved along the narrow forest trail at ten miles an hour.
Bolan sat in the lead vehicle with the captain.
"You have gained the respect of my men," the rebel said. "They tell me you slipped the ambush, killed one of the enemy and drove them into retreat almost singlehandedly."
"I was lucky in the ambush," Bolan said. "The rest was simply good combat work. I'll miss Blackie. He was a good man."
"Well, you will not ride the point again. Instead you will be given a command if you want one."
"Sounds interesting," Bolan said. "That means the pay would be better?"
"Much better."
Some fifteen miles up the rugged trail of a road they came to a crude roadblock. It was a guerrilla strongpoint and they passed through and were given a guide who rode in the lead rig. Bolan was taken to the last truck and put in the cab beside a dark-haired man. Bolan was not introduced to him, but there was a vague familiarity about his profile.
The man was pleasant but not talkative. He was two inches under six feet tall and about forty years old. He also was at least thirty pounds overweight. Bolan talked with the driver about the firefight, and the driver said they were lucky. It was a small band of government forces, no more than ten or twelve.
At last the third man spoke, and to Bolan's surprise it was in Russian.
"Do either of you speak Russian?" the man asked.
Bolan switched easily to his tentative Russian.
"I do somewhat, but poorly," Bolan said.
"That is wonderful! I've had no one to talk to for three days. My Spanish is bad." He held out his hand. "My name is Aleksandr Galkin."
The Executioner smiled at the KGB agent.
"So you are the big reason we are coming way up here," Bolan said. "You must have a prize package you are bringing to the rebels?"
"Yes, a special prize. One that is going to make half the world enraged and the other half joyous." He hesitated. "They say you are American, and that you routed the government forces all by yourself."
"War stories. Right now I'm a merc, I work for the highest bidder. I guess that makes me an ex-American."
Aleksandr laughed. "Then you won't be too surprised when the U.S. gets angry about my small package." He gazed for a moment at Bolan, then smiled. "You'll see."
10
The ride into the mountains lasted four more hours, then they passed three well-manned roadblock checkpoints and came to the rebel base camp. It was a permanent installation with frame buildings, an old rancho of some sort and more coffee trees. Bolan and the Russian had said little the rest of the trip. The Executioner had taken a nap and was fresh and ready when the truck stopped.
The Russian laughed, watching Bolan.
"I have never seen a combat soldier relax so completely after an action, nor one come awake so instantly," Aleksandr said. "I would assume you have been in this line of work for some time."
"That's true, friend," Bolan replied. "Whoever pays the best buys my services. You in the market?"
Aleksandr hesitated, then shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not, but the idea is interesting."
The camp commander came up with an entourage of a half-dozen officers, all in crisply pressed fatigues with blocked soft hats like those that Castro made known worldwide.
The head man seemed to be the one with the general's stars on his collar. He threw out his arms and hugged Galkin, then kissed both his cheeks. Galkin returned the traditional greeting.
"My friend! It is good to have you here. The people's party of El Salvador welcomes you. You are our comrade in arms, our loyal and total ally."
The Russian caught some of it, but he looked quickly at Bolan. The Executioner translated the message and Galkin launched into a wordy speech.
Bolan coughed and Galkin looked at him and stopped. Bolan summarized in Spanish what Galkin had said.
As he finished the translation, another man came around the group. He was not as dark as the others, wore a thin mustache and a goatee. He spoke rapidly in Russian, and Galkin moved toward him and hugs ensued.
Bolan caught the introduction. The man's name was Ahmed Hassan. He said he was from Damascus, Syria. The two spoke a moment more, then Aleksandr turned back to the general. Now he let Ahmed translate for him and Bolan edged away. They must talk at once, Aleksandr said to the general. The three went off to the largest building.
Bolan chatted with the men he had come with as they stood around the trucks waiting for orders. The Executioner walked around and peered into both trucks. In one of them he found a curious long box. It was made of heavy wood and had air-shipment tags still on it. A tag in English read Vancouver. He looked closer. The box was eight feet long, nearly three feet square, and open at one end. It was not solid, but rather a frame used for protection during shipments.
He saw a bright shiny steel surface inside the open end. It was a metal cylinder — a canister. The printed matter on the metal was shielded. Bolan jumped up on the tailgate of the truck and sat down, swinging his legs, then reached back and brushed aside some of the soft packing. The letters and numbers glared at him.
PD69CC-HA-DXY-198.
He looked away, slumped against the front of the box, and dropped his head to his chest, pretending to sleep.
It was one of the canisters stolen from the Binder Depository in Idaho… in El Salvador, way up here in the hills.
"Hello there, American," someone said to him in English.
Bolan stretched and opened his eyes.
The man was dressed like the others, but was snapping pictures with a 35mm camera. Two telephoto lenses of different focal lengths hung around his neck on black cords.
"I understand you're the hero of the run. Took on the government forces singlehandedly."
Bolan jumped down from
the tailgate. "Just earning my pay. You're not an American."
"I'll have to work on my accent more." He held out his hand. "Davidov, Kusan Davidov. I'm a correspondent for Tass. I want to do a story on you."
"Story is fine, but no pictures. Mercenaries don't like that kind of publicity."
"I understand," Davidov said. "No pictures. I've been talking with the others. How did you get out of that jeep so fast?"
"Lucky," Bolan said. He went over the events, telling it the way it happened. The journalist looked disappointed. "Sorry, Davidov, nothing dramatic or wild. Just another day at the war."
Davidov laughed. "Maybe you'd like to tag along with me on my next little run. Something interesting is happening. That's really why I am here."
"You making the news now?" The Executioner asked.
"I don't make it. But if someone else is going to do something unusual, different, drastic, then I want to be along and record the whole thing for my millions of readers."
"Is it true you Tass guys never get by-lines?"
"Not true at all. But we must have an outstanding story, and the party does not believe in the cult of the individual. So I'll never be a star and be asked to work for the New York Times. But I can live with that."
Bolan nodded at the crate. "Would your big story have anything to do with this little gadget in the truck?"
"Well now, you sound like a reporter yourself. I think the chow line is forming. Let's eat. We may be leaving shortly."
Bolan ate. He was hungry, but he was preoccupied with the canister. Would they pick it up with a helicopter and take it back to the capital? That was the only situation he could think of that would rate a special Tass correspondent. And the newsman had been here when the rest of them arrived. So had the Syrian who was on such good terms with the KGB agent. Something big was coming.
Bolan tried to come up with some ideas how to detox the nerve gas, but he could think of no sure way. If it was released into the atmosphere it would vaporize and dissipate — but he had no idea how long it would remain potent.
The food was army style in mess kits. There were even cans of hot soapy water at the far end of the area where everyone washed his own mess gear. They ate a thick bean soup, heavy dark bread, bananas and lots of coffee.
Bolan sat under a tree and watched the troops. They were much like the men in any army. Doing as they were told, waiting for orders, eating and resting while they could, their hands never far from loaded weapons even in a secure situation. These men had lived with death and danger for a long time.
The door on the biggest building opened and the camp commander came out. His nickname was El Cuchillo, the Knife. The general, Aleksandr and the Syrian talked for a moment at the front of the building, then the general gave a curt hand signal and a squad of six men stood and jogged to the truck that carried the canister.
The journalist Davidov, who had risen as soon as they came out, now walked to the general and talked with the three for a moment. Bolan saw all of them look in his direction and the KGB man made a mild protest and was overruled. Davidov came jogging back to where Bolan lay.
"We're ready, Scott. You're going to see some news made. I said I wanted you along as my personal bodyguard. I won. You want to go?"
Bolan stood and grinned, slung his M-16 over his shoulder and made sure he had the other three magazines inside his shirt.
"Be crazy not to go on a jaunt like this. We going the whole way by truck or do we get an airlift?"
Davidov chuckled, his double chin bouncing. "I see you have been thinking what the target might be. That's good. I could make you into a fine journalist. But remember the party line. Come, let's get in that first truck."
He and Davidov walked to the first truck and jumped in the back. They found the six troopers opening the crating on the end of the canister. The men removed the one-by-four boards carefully, one at a time, but they seemed to have no fear of the canister.
Bolan suppressed a shiver and looked at Davidov. "You can tell me what's going down now. What the hell is this thing, an atomic bomb?"
Davidov laughed. "Not at all, but it could kill almost as many people if it were in the right spot. We have no such grandiose plans. Just a small experiment, and one that will put shame and humiliation on the U.S. government and cause a worldwide protest against the inhumane monsters who run your country. Just wait and watch."
The only thing that made sense in Bolan's mind was that the rebels were going to use the deadly gas on an innocent village. They would kill innocent women and children, and the Russian would take pictures and record it and send it all to Pravda and release it worldwide. At least he could stop it. But even as he thought, a thin wire dropped over his head, tightening around his neck, and another one looped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.
He was helpless.
Kusan Davidov smiled at Bolan.
"Scott, my friend. I couldn't take the chance. You might have some deep American loyalties after all, and we can't risk that. You will be restrained until the action is over. Then as soon as I'm out of the camp you will be released."
"I'm a professional mercenary. I don't fight against my employers."
"Mercs have been known to quit the job and change sides. We don't want that to happen. I had to promise this to both the general and our Russian friend, Aleksandr."
After half an hour of more driving, through a roadblock checkpoint and then high along a ridge, they arrived at their destination.
Bolan was taken from the truck and tied to a tree. He could only watch as the soldiers gently let the big crate out of the truck, using a block and tackle. Then they took the rest of the crating away until the canister lay naked on the ridge line.
As he looked at what he could see in the narrow ravine below, Bolan spotted smoke coming from a camp or a village. He had no idea why there would be so remote a village this deep in the mountains. The men moved the big canister with pry poles until it was at the very lip of the steep canyon, then blocked it with one key log. When the log was pulled, the canister would roll downward.
Davidov seemed to be in charge. He checked the light, then the wind and nodded. One guerrilla taped a hand grenade to the nozzle on the death tank. He put his fingers in the safety ring and looked at Davidov. The Russian journalist nodded, then the rebel pulled the safety pin from the grenade but held the activating handle down. Another man jiggled loose the key log holding the canister in place and it began to roll gently forward. The first man let go of the grenade, the arming handle flipped away and the big canister rolled over the side and down the sharp drop-off. The men rushed away from the lip. Four seconds after the handle spun away, the grenade blew.
Bolan knew it would be more than powerful enough to blast away the valve and the nozzle, allowing the deadly nerve gas to gush out of the tank. Kurtzman had said it killed in five seconds.
There was a cheer from one man brave enough to look over the edge.
"It blew it off, the gas comes out!" he shouted.
Davidov edged up to the ridge line. The wind was still strong away from them. He smiled and hooked up his 500mm telephoto lens and began taking pictures. They were all in living color and would be sent via TV satellite to Moscow.
Bolan struggled against the ropes. He loosened one but the man watching him tightened it again. The Executioner felt helpless. There was nothing he could do. But he would do everything to stop Davidov from getting his story and his pictures out.
Five minutes later Davidov came back to Bolan.
"What a story! Do you know what is down there? It is an advance camp of about fifty guerrillas. They were all men loyal to Colonel Alvarez. You probably don't know that the colonel has been plotting a coup. He wanted to take over the rebel army for himself and execute the general. We eliminated two problems at once!"
"The gas has killed them?"
"Marvelous! I just saw it. Five seconds after the cloud hit the camp, every man will have been dead. The cloud hung like a
dirty blanket over the camp. Now it has moved slowly down the canyon, but there are no civilians for fifteen miles. By then it will be so dissipated that the most it can do is make someone mildly ill."
"How many men did you just kill?"
"About fifty. And you should see the pictures I got. We were well upwind of the gas at all times. We reached within one hundred feet of the camp."
"You should get a Hero First Class medal, you butcher."
"You see, I was afraid you might have second thoughts. A conscience."
"I just like a fair fight. One on one. Or in your case, your six backup soldiers and you against me. Any time."
"Sorry, we won't be able to do that. We drive back to that last checkpoint, then I take the truck and head for town. I should have no problem getting through. They don't worry about rigs going the other way. I may have to hike around some of the government checkpoints, but I'll make it. I'll take three of the nonuniformed men with me. You, poor man, are going to have to walk back to the base camp. But you'll have three men to help guard you, so it should go all right. Oh, give my thanks to the general and to Aleksandr Galkin. Strange, I knew him in Moscow. We were both in a KGB school for a while, then I was transferred into journalism."
Bolan felt them untying him.
He would not resist. Not yet, not until he was back at the base camp.
He had done nothing yet to make them distrust him.
But his time would come.
11
The point where the rebel truck turned south was only four miles from the base camp. Bolan and the three men walked it quickly. The rebel soldiers saw no reason to distrust the Mack Scott who had fought for them at the ambush, and quickly returned his M-16 and the magazines. They even joked about his being tied up during the attack.
With the start that Davidov had, there was no way of catching him, unless Bolan could steal one of the trucks. The damage was done. Even if Davidov could be stopped, someone else would tell about the slaughter and that it was the result of American nerve gas. The only thing to do now was stick with Aleksandr Galkin and find the remaining five canisters.
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