Rogue Force

by Don Pendleton

  Katz prayed that they could bring it off without unnecessary loss of friendly lives. There were so many unknown variables that he couldn't even start to estimate their odds. If the strike force should divide en route and catch them in a pincer movement, they could be annihilated on the spot. If the guerrillas opted for a secondary target, or the Executioner had been deliberately misinformed, their effort would be wasted. So many things could still go wrong…

  But Katzenelenbogen was a man of faith. Despite the cynicism beaten into him by years of covert battlefields around the world, he still believed in good and evil, in the proposition that it mattered to the universe which side prevailed. There was no guarantee that good would triumph, certainly — he could have cited countless contradictory examples — but he believed that right and decency must hold the upper hand. If there was any justice in the world, his enemies would find him here, today, as scheduled. From that point on, the Phoenix warrior thought that he could take it for himself.

  * * *

  The jeep ride from Tegucigalpa to the forest clearing took an hour. Mack Bolan rode with Rafferty, Di-Salvo at the wheel. Behind them in the second vehicle, Tim Broderick drove, with Steiner riding shotgun and Captain Fletcher Crane behind them, stoic as a mannequin throughout the trip.

  The Executioner had been surprised when Crane had arrived to see them off that morning; his surprise had bordered on astonishment when he had learned that Crane was coming with them to command the strike force personally. Somehow Bolan had imagined Rafferty in charge, perhaps a Contra officer or two, but now he saw the depth of General McNerney's personal commitment to the operation. Crane didn't seem delighted with his mission, but he wasn't bitching, either. Like a hundred other officers in Bolan's own experience from Vietnam, he seemed to look on combat as the province of the grunts, a territory that commissioned officers invaded at their peril, only during times of absolute necessity.

  Today, apparently, was such a time.

  The man-made clearing was approximately sixty yards across, a careless oval etched out of the forest with machetes, axes, sweat and muscle. Something like a hundred Hispanics were waiting for them when they got there, dressed in olive drab fatigues that bore the insignia of Daniel Ortega's Sandinista Front, divided into squads before a line of helicopters, rigged and painted to simulate a Soviet design. They wouldn't pass inspection by an expert, but Crane was clearly not expecting to encounter any aircraft engineering types in San Felipe.

  Bolan scanned the somber faces and recognized Luis Machado from his photos in the press, the mug shots still on file at Stony Man. Crane's "mercenary" troops were Contras, then — or, at the very least, included soldiers from Machado's camp. McNerney had enlisted them somehow, with dreams of liberation for their homeland, promises of cash and arms, whatever. With his basic admiration for the Contra freedom fighters, Bolan wished Machado had remained aloof and independent, but the die was cast, and there could be no turning back.

  Another too-familiar face, and Bolan frowned as Blancanales fell in step behind Machado, moving out to greet the new arrivals. Politician carried folded uniforms, while two men behind him labored beneath the load of boots and weapons as they moved toward the jeeps.

  "Our gear," Crane told them after wrapping up the small talk with Machado. "Spetsnaz issue, guaranteed. You've got five minutes to exchange your uniforms and weapons, gentlemen."

  They changed in silence, Blancanales smiling grimly at the Executioner when no one else was watching. In the tiger-stripe fatigues and heavy leather boots, an AK-47 in his hands, Mack Bolan almost felt the part. When Crane had passed the hat, collecting GI dog tags and substituting simulated Soviet ID, the transformation was complete.

  "One man inside each chopper with the Contras," Crane informed them, angling a thumb back toward the line of waiting aircraft. "Rafferty will ride with me."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right, let's saddle up."

  Machado's troops began boarding, twenty soldiers to a chopper. Bolan tried to catch Pol's flight, but Steiner beat him to it, and he shuffled on past Broderick to board the last one in line. He knew it wouldn't matter in the end; they would be going in together, and a moment more or less should make no difference to the outcome of the strike.

  If Calvin James had been successful in delivering his message to the others, someone should be waiting for them when they landed. He couldn't anticipate the character of their reception, but he hoped that Katz and company were able to evacuate civilians from the line of fire. In any case, it would be a bloodbath.

  Pol's presence in the strike force was a plus, but without a hot reception on the ground, the odds would still be more than fifty guns to one against them. Alone, they had no reasonable expectation of survival, but they still might have an opportunity to spoil the afternoon for Crane and his commandos. And regardless of the outcome, Bolan knew that Mike McNerney wouldn't walk away from this one. Somehow, someone would be waiting to punch the general's ticket, no matter what went down in San Felipe. Bolan would have liked the job himself, but he was otherwise engaged.

  They lifted off in tandem, one aircraft from each end of the line, so that his chopper was the second one aloft. Below them, backwash from the cargo copter's rotors whipped the trees into a dancing frenzy. When all five whirlybirds were airborne, number one stopped circling and chose its course, running low and arrow-straight above the dancing treetops. Bolan felt his stomach start to roll and double-checked the morning sun's position, feeling sudden agitation as he realized that there was no mistake.

  The raiding force was heading south.

  Toward Nicaragua.

  * * *

  Lane Travers took the pistol from his desk drawer, pulled the magazine and checked its load, then replaced it in the Browning's grip. Never fond of guns, as were so many cowboys in the Agency, he realized the fact of their necessity and knew an empty gun was no damned good to anyone. If he was forced to kill, as he had been on two occasions in the past, the man from Langley meant to be prepared.

  The paranoia that was eating at him was McNerney's fault. Some small degree of it was occupational, but he was generally immune to the neuroses that had plagued so many of his comrades through the years. He had good reason now to be afraid — for his career, and for his life. If the McNerney plan fell apart, and there was every possibility it might, his ass was on the line with all of those who played a much more active role in the arrangements. Someone with a hard-on for McNerney might not pause to differentiate between the bosses and the peons when the shit came down, and Travers was prepared to make his break at the first sign of trouble.

  He had had no luck in tracking down Rosario Briones or his shadows, and Travers privately admitted to himself that he had blown it. He would never find them now, and that was fine. The man from the CIA was satisfied with that as long as they made no attempt to locate him. The last thing he needed was a vendetta on his doorstep, just when he was making ready to evacuate the premises.

  He might be wrong about McNerney's strike. There was a chance that it would go on schedule with a minimum of interference. Travers thought the Sandinista casualties might be a problem: if the populace of San Felipe was unarmed, how could they hope to kill the necessary number of attackers? He had no doubt whatsoever that McNerney's troopers would arrange strategic "accidents" for several of their comrades, but if anybody from the networks or the major dailies looked too close, well, it might seem peculiar that half a dozen Sandinistas had been shot by their own men and left behind to point the finger at Ortega's team.

  No matter. They were in the middle of it now, with choppers in the frigging air already, and it was a bit late to change the game plan. Travers closed his eyes and wished a storm might blow up out of nowhere, bring the strike force down in Nicaragua and be done with it. From the beginning he had favored a direct approach against Ortega rather than the convoluted scheme devised by Mike McNerney and his backers in the Pentagon. He understood their methodology, of course, and as a leadin
g troubleshooter for the Company, he had no qualms about deception, but McNerney still seemed to be going at it in the most roundabout way. With equal effort they could have tagged Ortega in Managua, landing counterrevolutionaries on his fucking doorstep as a birthday present. They could be achieving something instead of circling the jungle, homing in on several hundred unarmed peasants in Honduras.

  Travers checked his watch and slipped the pistol back inside his desk drawer. There was still time left before he had to pack. And if the news was good, he might not have to run at all. The Company's man was unaccustomed to the luxury of optimism, and the recent series of events hadn't encouraged him to see the world through rosy lenses, but things might not be as bad as he had first suspected. He had missed Briones and his backup. But so what? If he had scared them off while the operation rolled ahead, then he had done his job. His dead hitters were untraceable to any contact with the Agency. As far as the police or anybody else suspected, he was personally clean.

  Unless, of course, they had been following Ruiz the past few days and he had been observed by someone in his last meetings with the "martyred" Contra officer. Someone might know, and that mere thought was all it took to bring the throbbing headache back, a pulse of stabbing pain behind his eyes.

  Too old. He must be getting too damned old for this intrigue, Lane Travers thought. Today would be as good a time as any for the break, while he still had the strength and courage to pursue another life, while there was still another life to be pursued.

  Tomorrow might be too late, and Travers wasn't even banking on this evening. He could wait another hour or two until he got the first reports from San Felipe, making up his mind when all the evidence was in his hand. But it felt sour, even now, and Travers knew instinctively that he was sitting in his office for the final time.

  A savvy agent knew when it was time to cut and run, and Travers was among the best at what he did. When all else failed, survival was his specialty, and he intended to survive McNerney's mess at any cost. God help the bastards who were sent to take him out.

  * * *

  "You sure you're up to this?" Schwarz asked again.

  "I'm sure," Carl Lyons told him, slipping one arm, then the other, into shoulder rigging and stooping to lift his Python from the bed. He checked the load and snugged the cannon in its holster, grateful for the comforting, familiar weight beneath his arm. He felt a stab of pain when he began to pull his jacket on, but ignored it.

  He would have rather gone with Katzenelenbogen and the others to prepare a hot reception for McNerney's raiding force at San Felipe. Lyons knew his wound had given Katz some second thoughts, but in the last analysis they needed someone in Tegucigalpa, tying up loose ends. It was important that the raiding party be destroyed, but if the brains behind the operation got away…

  Stateside, Brognola and his pals in Justice would be waiting to coordinate their move against McNerney's backers in the Pentagon and the CIA. The Ironman wished them luck, immediately thankful that he didn't have to play the diplomat in all of this. The game was so much easier when it was open season on your enemies, when they were bought and paid for in advance, like General McNerney and his contact in the local office of the CIA.

  Once Hal had wired the photos, Katz required no more than thirty seconds to pick out the agent who had been in touch with Anastasio Ruiz. The bastard's name was Travers, and his closest friends at Langley had been on the White House hit list as participants in the attempted coup. They would be taken care of at the other end, by other operatives, but Travers was henceforth the private property of Schwarz and Lyons. Smiling at the thought, the Ironman was already looking forward to their meeting. He could hardly wait to introduce himself… and put a bullet through the traitor's smiling face.

  With any luck, he wouldn't have a crew around him when they met. The Able warrior wouldn't be deterred by reinforcements, but he hoped to keep it nice and simple, with time to spare for their unscheduled appointment with the brigadier.

  How many other officers on-base had been involved? The open question haunted Lyons, but he had no way to pin the numbers down. When Bolan finished mopping up at San Felipe, he might have some idea who the other players were.

  McNerney was the key, from Lyons's point of view. If one or two of his subordinates slipped through the net right now, they would be running for their lives, exposed for what they were and powerless to resurrect the operation. Someone else could tag them later, though Lyons was still hoping for a perfect score. It would be nice to wrap the mission up today.

  Frowning, Lyons realized that he was jumbling priorities, forgetting the necessity of taking matters as they came. First, they had to wait for word from Katz at San Felipe to be certain that McNerney's raiders kept their date. From there, while Katz and company were fighting for their lives, they would be free to deal with Travers, saving Mike McNerney and his cronies for dessert.

  Soon, now.

  But for the Ironman it couldn't be soon enough.

  26

  Ninety minutes from Tegucigalpa, the lead chopper circled wide, doubling back onto a northwesterly course, and Bolan let himself relax a little. They would come at San Felipe from the south to simulate a Nicaraguan point of origin, in case survivors should escape to tell the tale. Whatever happened now, at least they were headed for the proper target.

  Bolan ran through his limited options once more. He could attempt to seize the chopper he was riding in and slaughter twenty Contras — and the pilots, too, if they wouldn't cooperate at gunpoint. Having done that, if he could pull it off in such cramped quarters and without disabling the ship, propelling all of them to fiery death among the trees below… what then? The choppers were strictly for transport; none of them were armed as far as Bolan had been able to tell. Once in control, he would be forced to trail the others to their target zone, or play the role of kamikaze, picking one of the remaining whirly-birds for a collision that would shatter both.

  Bolan cleared his head of futile speculation. He was aboard for the duration, and he would have to play it cautiously on touchdown. Minimizing the civilian casualties was a priority, of course, but if he fumbled or showed his hand too quickly, he might be cut down without the chance to rescue anyone at all.

  At least he had Politician handy. Blancanales would be worth a dozen guns in any close encounter… if he lived. The landing zone was one more unknown variable at present: if his message had reached Phoenix Force in time, there might be a reception waiting for them on the ground; if not… then Pol and Bolan would be on their own.

  He scanned the trees below and caught glimpses of muddy river winding through the jungle. Bolan had a general idea of where they were, but he couldn't have put his finger on a map with any certainty. It had been ninety minutes out, but San Felipe was some twenty klicks south of Tegucigalpa, which would mean a shorter backtrack. In the meantime, there was little he could do but wait.

  To occupy his mind, he double-checked the AK-47 that he had been issued for the raid. It was a standard paratrooper's model, unremarkable, with half a dozen backup magazines. That gave him two hundred and ten rounds in all — or two rounds per enemy if he was forced somehow to tough it out alone.

  There was no way on earth that Bolan could surprise a hundred men at once when he was virtually surrounded. It was patently ridiculous, but there was every possibility that he might have to try.

  Another twenty minutes, and the copilot peered around the bulkhead, flashing Bolan and his Contra team the thumbs-up signal, grinning. "ETA five minutes," he announced, voice barely audible before the rotors whipped his words away through open doors on either side.

  Five minutes left, and it would be time to do or die. The warrior knew that he might have no options when they hit the ground at San Felipe.

  It might damned well be do and die, regardless of the course of action Bolan chose. It might already be too late to salvage anything from a horrendous situation. Braced for anything, he snapped the AK-47's safety off and slipped his i
ndex finger through the trigger guard. Whatever happened on the ground, he meant to take a number of the hostiles with him. Beyond that, it was anybody's game.

  A flash of open ground below, and Bolan craned his neck to see the village drawing closer. Hacked out of a jungle clearing, it was larger than he had imagined… but the crowd collected in the central plaza was considerably smaller. Had they been forewarned? Had Bolan's message gotten through to Katz in time? What else was there about the villagers below that struck a sour chord in Bolan's mind?

  All men.

  He saw it as his chopper settled slowly into contact with the earth. And he was ready when a storm of small-arms fire erupted in the plaza, angry hornets peppering the aircraft, whispering among the members of the strike force. In place of an idyllic shooting gallery, McNerney's team was looking at a hot LZ, and they were taking hits as they scrambled to unload.

  The warrior braced himself to leap for daylight, conscious of the fact that San Felipe's riflemen wouldn't know him from Adam. He was just another enemy within the free-fire zone, and if he made it out alive the Executioner would have to make it on his own.

  * * *

  McNerney's choppers came in with the sun behind them, rotors whipping at the humid air. From his position on the south side of the plaza, Yakov Katzenelenbogen watched them hover briefly, fanning out, descending. His Honduran troops were instructed to let the whirlybirds touch down before they opened fire; if any of the troops got trigger-happy and opened up while the enemy was still airborne, they might escape, and Katz didn't intend to let his quarry slip away this time.