Whipsaw te-144

by Don Pendleton

  A thin plume of smoke, almost white and vanishing no more than fifty feet in the air, was the only thing moving in the open space ahead.

  Bolan shifted the rifle, spinning it to use the butt to push branches aside. He still couldn't see anything on the ground, and he strained his ears for the slightest sound. Behind him, its pulse nearly inaudible, he heard the jeep engine.

  Ten yards from the edge of the trees, he saw the first evidence. The tents were gone, reduced to crumpled heaps, except for the one still burning. A thick black cloud hung almost motionless above it. Too low to be seen over the trees, the cloud spread out as if pressing against an invisible ceiling, trailing off to grey wisps at its edges.

  Bolan shinnied up a tree, digging his toes into the rough bark. He could survey the whole camp from twenty feet in the air. Stinging ants scurried over his hands and down into his shirtsleeves, but he ignored them. The campsite, its grass long since trampled net and yellowed, looked like a moonscape. Craters, probably from aerial rockets and grenades, some interlocking into figure as scooped out of the dark soil, pitted the clearing.

  The scene was littered with debris, and he could count more than two dozen bodies without even looking carefully. The bodies were in various states of dress, as if whatever had happened had happened early and quickly. From the looks of things, the people had been hit with no warning. They hadn't even had time to grab their weapons. Two tangles of stacked rifles, like broken Tinker-toys, lay in the center of the clearing.

  Bolan slipped down the tree and sprinted the last thirty feet to the open ground. Moving cautiously, he scanned the edge of the jungle forty yards across the clearing. He spotted two jeeps that were almost hidden on the far side. One of them had to be Colgan's, but he couldn't explain the other. As he moved toward the center of the camp, he stared in disbelief at the carnage. Men, women and children lay sprawled in the undignified postures of sudden death. Bloodstained clothing, still only half on, trailed away from the bodies, and the buzzing of flies sawed at the air. As he neared a body, the flies would rise up for an instant, then settle back down like a glistening shroud.

  He knelt beside the body of a child not more than four.

  Naked, it lay facedown, a gaping exit wound almost dead center in its back. Bolan shook his head and reached for a tattered blanket lying halfway between the dead child and a woman, possibly the child's mother. A corner of the blanket was curled in her fist, and her hand and arm moved grotesquely as Bolan pulled it free then spread the blanket over the child's body.

  Swallowing hard, he moved from body to body, looking for signs of life. Most of the wounds he saw were clearly fatal. The camp was deathly still and silent. The stench of voided bowels hung in the air, mingling with the sharp smell of burning cloth.

  An engine exploded into life, and Bolan turned instantly toward the two jeeps. One lurched drunkenly for a second, then snarled toward him.

  Its tires kicked up clots of mud as the jeep raced straight across the clearing. It bounced once over a broken body, and the driver, bent low behind the wheel, bore down on Bolan as if he wanted to run him over. Bolan swung the M-16 up and fired three quick shots. The jeep's windshield disappeared, but the driver's face was still there, just visible above the wheel, his knuckles white on the black plastic.

  Bolan dove to the left, and the driver spun the wheel. He reached through the windshield frame, a .45 in one fist, and emptied the clip at Bolan's rolling body.

  The jeep thundered past, and Bolan rolled over once more, bringing the M-16 around and cutting loose. He aimed low, just above ground level.

  He wanted the bastard alive, if possible.

  Somebody had to tell him what the hell had happened there. The left rear tire blew out, then the right, but the jeep churned on, dragged by its four-wheel drive and the good front tires. The clip emptied, and Bolan pulled the AutoMag as the jeep spun into the trees.

  Getting to his feet, Bolan started after it when something caught his eyes against the green. Stark white, it hovered like a ghost just beyond the clearing, hovering among the trees. Bolan raced toward it, letting the image sharpen in his vision like a growing crystal. He already knew what it was, but he plunged on.

  Bolan drew to within ten feet when he stopped.

  He couldn't come any closer. He dropped to his knees. The apparition, all too real now, floated above him.

  Five feet off the ground.

  A rough board had been fixed to a tree at right angles. And there, on the makeshift cross, hung the body of a man, his hands pinned to the board by a pair of survival knives. His ankles and arms were bound to the wood with thick wire, one foot almost severed. Someone had crucified him, then used him for target practice. A glitter in the bright sun caught Bolan's eye. It took him a moment to realize what had been tugging so anxiously at his attention. It was the knife through the man's heart, its ivory inlay made even whiter by the sun.

  There, like all would-be messiahs before him, his clothing scarlet and sagging with the weight of blood, hung Thomas Colgan.

  20

  They found the compound a little before sundown. Bolan left Carlos and Marisa in the jeep to take a closer look. After the primitive ruins of the NPA camp, the headquarters of the Leyte Brigade looked like a Pentagon prize-winning design.

  From a hundred yards away, Bolan could see the floodlights glinting on the lavish coils of razor wire. As the night chill moved in, a slight breeze fluttered reluctantly and the tight coils trembled. Shimmering under the harsh halogen glare, they looked as if they were spun of light itself by some mysterious spider.

  Bolan pushed deep into the trees to make a wide recon circuit. He placed every step as carefully as a choreographer. He knew Harding by type, and the high-tech wizardry of modern warfare brought a thankful tear to every Charles Harding's eye. What a joy it was to see science, for once, in the service of something useful. That was the mentality, and the Charles Hardings of the world were all the same in their childlike fascination.

  Using a small light and shielding it with his palm, Bolan quickly found the first strip of sensing wire half-buried in the leaves. He was pleased to have found it, and worried, too. Where there was one, there were bound to be others. Looking carefully, he quickly spotted four more, strung at odd distances one from another to pick up any stride, regardless of its length.

  For a moment he wondered whether they might even have seismic sensors. It was a distinct possibility, but there was just so much caution even a paranoid could take. Bolan was anything but paranoid, but he wasn't reckless, either. He was a man who knew his abilities and, more importantly, their limits. Once past the pressure net, he would have to take his chances.

  He still used the light, worried more now about trip wires than detection gear. If they knew he was there, that was one thing. If he triggered a claymore and blew himself to hell, that was another matter. Seen once, it was something you didn't forget. Ever. And he'd seen it more times than he could count.

  In tight, the razor wire stopped shimmering. It lost its neutral beauty and he could see it for the ugly stuff it was. He didn't have anything to cut it, and it was more than likely wired, in any case.

  There would be no surreptitious entry by simply climbing over the fence. That was clear enough. If he was going to get in, he was going to have to work at it.

  While he debated what to do, the floods went out, and Bolan heaved a deep sigh of relief. Something was going his way at last.

  After the circuit he dropped back to consider his options. The camp itself nagged him. It struck a resonant chord, but it took him a while to place it. Something about the layout seemed familiar. Using the light, he did a quick sketch. As he scratched the last couple of buildings in place, it hit him: it was the same as Colgan's camp.

  At first blush, that made no sense until the common link jumped out and bit him McRae. The bastard must have laid them both out. He must have been in Harding's pocket for a long time, maybe from the very beginning. Hell, he might even hav
e done a little judicious prodding here and there, steering the hapless do-gooder without Colgan even realizing it. That would be typical of outsize egos. They had a tendency to follow while thinking they were leading. And they usually ended up just like Colgan. Che did it, and so did Lumumba. It was the fashionable thing.

  And every single nearsighted fool told himself the same thing it won't happen to me, brother.

  Bolan couldn't be sure, but he'd seen no evidence the razor coils had been electrified.

  If they weren't plugged in, and it looked like he'd have to chance it, he just might be able to go up and over. The fence itself was sturdy cyclone web. The posts had been anchored in concrete, the bottom of the cyclone itself trenched and cemented. There would be no going under, not without a half-dozen hard hats and a backhoe. That meant up and over, while avoiding wire as voracious as a hungry shark.

  He had seen some bamboo that looked fairly sturdy. Dropping back away from the fence, he searched it out. Appraising it with the small torch, he shook his head uncertainly. As he hacked away at the most likely looking trunk, he found it hard to believe bamboo was in the grass family. The serrated edge of the survival knife scraped and scratched on the tough fiber, but eventually cut all the way through.

  It had taken considerable effort to cut the one piece, and that meant a ladder was out of the question. He didn't have time. Fallback was an Olympic nightmare. But when you had to pole vault, you ran like hell and hoped your behind didn't end up like a stack of cold cuts somewhere in the middle of the shiny wire.

  A single light burned in one of the huts, and Bolan paced while he waited for it to go out. He checked his watch and set the timer. Ten minutes that was all he was prepared to wait.

  Then, come hell or high wire, he was going up and over. He knew that kind of setup well enough to know that most of the men were already asleep. The few who were awake were probably lying on their cots, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering why they had come to such a godforsaken hellhole in the first place. They ticked off the credits, subtracted the debits and wondered just how close they were to breaking even.

  He looked at his watch, and the timer read ten minutes while the seconds and tenths whizzed on like cars on a freeway.

  It was time.

  The approach wasn't that long, but the fence wasn't that high, and he wouldn't be setting a world record. He measured the run and cleared a spot to plant the hole. He had only one chance, and it had better work. Tamping the damp earth to solidify it, he tried the short sprint without the pole. When he was convinced he had a shot, he tossed the M-16 over the fence, then slipped the magazines through the wire. Making sure the AutoMag and Beretta were secure, he hefted the pole, then took a deep breath.

  His first approach was all wrong, and he stopped just short of slamming into the fence. Bolan backed up for another go. On there next try, he altered his stride just enough, planted the sturdy bamboo and hurled himself toward the sky. The bamboo wasn't as flexible as he would have liked, and his shoulder sockets felt as if they'd been filled with hot lead, but the pole held and he clung fast. As he sailed over the wire, he closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact.

  Bolan landed heavily. He lay there, listening to the bamboo still rattling the wire while he caught his breath. He got to his knees, rubbing his left shoulder. It burned a little, but the arm moved, and he shrugged off the pain. Gathering his ammunition and the rifle, he moved along the fence until he was right behind the middle building. If he was right about McRae, this would house the arsenal.

  It was the only windowless building, and the front door was locked. He realized there was something to be said for arrogance as long as it was the enemy's as he slipped around to the front door.

  Relying on technology instead of humanity, Harding or whoever passed for a honcho at the moment had chosen not to post sentries. That was his second big plus, and Bolan was not unappreciative.

  Keeping his ears open, he used the survival knife to carve through the wood around the padlocked latch. It took several tries, but he managed to loosen the lag bolts enough to pry the latch free.

  Inside he closed the door with relief.

  For a few minutes he'd be safe from discovery.

  Using the small light again, he took inventory of the large room. Just as he'd suspected, it contained nothing but munitions. But how was he to take on an unknown number of men, even if he had control of their backup firepower?

  A crate of LAW rockets was part of the answer, but only part. He pulled the crate over near the door. An M-60 was another part, if he could find the ammo. It took a few minutes.

  The quartermaster was anything but systematic. The stuff was piled haphazardly, without regard to any rational order he could discover. The search paid off, though, in something better: a spare M-134 Minigun for one of the choppers, a folding mount already attached. It sat in a dolly with a 3000 round canister. He didn't need the M-60 now, or its ammo. His first inclination was to blow the arsenal first, but he might need something when this was all over. The LAW's were eleven pounds apiece, and the crate weighed a ton. He pried it open and removed six of the drab-looking tubes.

  Bolan worked quickly, wanting to do as much as he could inside. Once the fireworks started, there would be no time for second thoughts and should haves. He got a dozen LAW'S fire-ready, then checked the magazine of the minigun. It was loaded for more than bear, chock full of 7.62 mm killers.

  Bolan opened the door and jammed a sliver of crating under it to keep it open. He sprinted straight across the compound, over near the gate, and stacked an armful of LAW's. A second trip put the rest of the dozen in place.

  One more turn, this time waddling under the dolly weight of the minigun, and he was ready, except for the lights. He couldn't leave them intact. He had little enough edge as it was. If he sat there under the sudden siege of illumination, he'd be a sitting duck. As it was, after the first startling seconds of his onslaught, somebody was bound to figure out where he was. The LAW's would give him away, or the flashes from the Minigun. But at least he'd be a shadow in a sea of other shadows, no more substantial than a wave in an ocean full of them. And no less elusive.

  Grabbing his rifle, Bolan moved quickly to the mess hut, following the fence. If he was right about the layout, that's where the main power supply was. The generator was the key. Disable it, and he would have the night and its friendly darkness as an ally. At the back of the mess hut, he pried the screen loose and crawled in through the open window.

  In a corner of the modified field kitchen, the generator sat like a hulking dinosaur crouched on stubby legs. He played the flashlight across its surface until he found the main cable. Socketed and screwed in, it was just a simple matter to unscrew the sleeve and pull the plug. Just to be sure, he slashed at the cable and severed the end. They could pull an the switches and throw all the levers they wanted. With the main cable down, the camp would stay black.

  After slipping back out the window, Bolan retraced his steps along the fence. One final adjustment occurred to him. He strung the LAW's along the fence, about ten feet apart. Now he could fire one and move. Let them scorch the air behind him all they wanted he'd be long gone.

  For a second he thought about Marisa and Carlos, sitting there in the dark. He wondered what they would think at the first explosion. There was no way he could have told them, because he hadn't known what he was going to do, and the time for warning them was long past.

  It was time to go to work.

  21

  The first rocket left the tube with a throaty growl. It streaked across the compound, a thin stream of smoke trailing behind it, and slammed into the nearest hut. Dead on target, it punched through a screen and crashed out a window. A single mushrooming flame speared up through the ruptured roof. Pieces of the tarpaper shearing and long slivers of wood cartwheeled through the air, starkly outlined by the brilliant yellow flash. A fraction of a second later the baritone crump of the detonation rolled across the yard.

&
nbsp; Gouts of flame spouted up through the broken roof. By the time the ball of smoke gave way to a slender column, Bolan was already on the move.

  The second rocket went off with the same result, and added its lights to the growing illumination.

  The first shouts started, little more than confused bellowing, as the third LAW found its target. Bolan chucked the empty and useless tube away and moved to the fourth.

  Zeroing in through the bluntly utilitarian sight, he saw a door fly open two huts down from his target and shifted his aim. The rocket homed in and knocked a string bean of a man off his feet as it grazed him before entering through the open doorway. It took out the back wall, and the slender man, wearing nothing but khaki shorts, spun out through the door, carried along by the force of the explosion.

  In quick succession, Bolan let fly with three more before the first sporadic fire cracked. None of the slugs came near him, and even the noise of the gunfire seemed tame under the deepening roar of the burning buildings. As nearly as he could tell, the men still had no idea of Bolan's firing location.

  Stunned by the suddenness of the attack and the terrible destruction already inflicted, the surviving members of the Leyte Brigade started to stretch a ragged blanket of fire across the compound.

  Several of them sprinted into the shadows between the undamaged huts. They would be coming for him, Bolan knew, but there was still time to take out the rest of the buildings.

  Staying close to the ground, he rolled from rocket launcher to rocket launcher. Bolan took out two more buildings, catching the supply shed as well as another barrack hut. Secondary explosions, probably gasoline or kerosene, tore the supply dump to pieces as easily as if it had been made of cheap cardboard. Great slabs of the wall pinwheeled away from the huge balloon of liquid flame and tumbled to the ground. It looked as if a house of cards had been set on fire. The flammable liquid in drums kept exploding, and every blast spewed scorching flame, spreading the blaze and setting fire to the hut on either side.