Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  The 4x4 careered down the long slope, bouncing and lurching from side to side, only its generous wheelbase keeping it from rolling over. Bolan was thrown back and forth, his body pounded by the solid impact each time the vehicle struck a hard patch. The careering, downward run seemed to go on forever. Bolan felt the impact underneath the vehicle as it struck a ridge and lifted, felt the sideways crunch as it sideswiped a boulder the size of a small car before it hit the slope again. Windows shattered and glass filled the interior. The roaring engine gave out, oily smoke seeping from under the hood. The squeal of tortured metal filled his ears. Bolan saw the windshield splinter and shatter and threw his arms up to protect his face. Hot air blew inside the cab. The 4x4 made a final lurch, clearing the slope for long seconds before it crashed back with a stunning thump. Bolan’s head struck something and all went black.

  HE HEARD THEM COMING out of the rocks above him, calling to one another, some even laughing as they closed in for the kill. They were filled with bloodlust, driven by hatred and an anger at the damage he had inflicted on them. That need to destroy him drove them down the rocky slope, circling to hold him in their midst, sure of their impending success, confident they had him trapped in the tumbled wreckage of his 4x4 where it lay at the base of the dusty trail.

  In the wake of the crash Bolan hung loosely from his seat belt, sucking air into his battered lungs, feeling the ache around his ribs where the strap had been forced into his body. He raised his head, staring out through the shattered windshield at the fog of dust still swirling around the stalled vehicle. He was disorientated, struggling to make cohesive sense out of his situation. It took long seconds, rationality returning with agonizing slowness, and as he struggled to bring himself back he became aware of the creaking metal around him, the cooling ping of the engine beneath the crumpled hood. There was a dampness on his face, and when he touched it, his fingers came away sticky. A pulse of pain registered after that and he knew he had struck his head against something, opening a gash that was streaming blood.

  Par for the course, he admitted. Then he moved, checking out his arms and legs, and apart from various aches and pains nothing seemed to be badly damaged. Even while he was making this physical examination his mind was moving back on track, telling him he needed to think ahead. He was aware of his situation now. Armed men were in pursuit, and he knew they would be coming for him.

  He needed to get out of the vehicle, prepare to face his enemy. They already knew his combat skills, so they would try to overwhelm him, take him down before he had a chance to gain the advantage. Bolan freed himself from the harness, reaching to pick up his M-16 from where it had fallen into the foot well. He booted open the stiff door, swinging out of the vehicle and snatching up the backpack that held his spare ordnance.

  THE VOICES BECAME LOUDER, accompanied by the rattle of loosened stones as the pack closed in. Bolan moved to the rear of the vehicle, leaning against its body as he checked out the enemy. He made a quick count—eight. No, nine. Three of them were eager. Too eager. They moved well ahead of the rest, urging one another on as they moved rapidly in the direction of the 4x4, and leaving themselves fully exposed as they came. They were all armed with SMGs, but in Bolan’s eyes they might have been weaponless. They were moving too fast to offer anything like accurate fire and on the wide span of the slope there was no cover for them.

  Bolan raised the M-16 and tracked in on the closest. His finger stroked the trigger, and he put a 3-round burst into the guy. The target lost traction, his feet going from under him, and he pitched facedown on the rocky slope. His limp body tumbled for yards before coming to a graceless stop, arms and legs splayed out in an awkward sprawl. His face and head were bloody from the fall, his chest punctured from Bolan’s volley. While the first one was falling the Executioner altered his aim, hitting the second guy with a burst to the chest, knocking him flat on his back. Gunner number three dragged himself to a clumsy stop, fumbling with his weapon as he tried to return fire. He managed a short burst that shattered one of the 4x4’s remaining unbroken windows before Bolan stopped him with a hard burst that blew into his lungs and out through his back.

  The rest of the pack stopped abruptly, dropping into smaller crouches, and began to fire on the 4x4. It was all they could do. Bolan stayed behind its cover, checking distance and angle before he began to return fire, moving the M-16’s fire selector to single-shot.

  Mack Bolan’s skill as a sniper of extreme ability came to the fore as he fixed his first target and took the guy down with a single shot to the head. While the action was still registering in the minds of the rest of the militiamen, the M-16 had moved on, the sights acquiring the next target. It took a few seconds longer but the result was the same.

  Scratch five, Bolan mentally calculated.

  On the slope the four remaining Brethren thugs were realizing their fragile positions. Frantic visual searches only confirmed what they suspected.

  They had nowhere to go.

  Whichever way they moved, they were vulnerable.

  One of the pack moved, leaning across the top of the rock slab concealing him. He began to fire on Bolan’s position, laying down a protracted volley of shots that struck the grounded 4x4. It was meant as covering fire, intended to keep Bolan from taking any offensive action. After the first shots there was movement from the other Brethren hardmen as they broke their own cover and started back up the long slope.

  Bolan had already moved, easing along the 4x4 and crouching at the far end, bringing his M-16 back into play. He dropped the first of the retreating men with a single shot, then picked his second target. It took two shots before he caught the guy, pitching him facedown on the rocky surface of the slope with a 5.56 mm slug embedded in the back of his skull.

  The distraction shooter lost time readjusting to Bolan’s move. The two men were down before he picked up his target again, and in the short span Bolan had moved. He cleared the front of the vehicle and sprinted the ten feet to take up a fresh vantage point behind a slab of flaking rock. His new position brought him farther around to the shooter’s left, and he was able to see the guy. The man’s weapon was probing the air, searching for Bolan. The guy fired fast, laying down hard shots that peppered the soft stone, filling the air with splinters and fine dust. Bolan edged around the rock, coming to the far side. Now he was able to view the shooter without restriction. He raised the M-16 and sighted in. The shooter’s stance altered as he realized what was happening and he pushed upright from his squatting position in readiness to take better cover.

  He was too slow and too late.

  The M-16 crackled as Bolan jacked out two close shots. They took the shooter in the chest, spinning him off his feet to hit the hard ground on his back, his weapon flying from nerveless fingers.

  And that left one.

  He broke cover, scrambling and slipping as he made an attempt to distance himself from the deadly rifle in the hands of the unrelenting individual who had brought death and destruction to the isolated Brethren compound. Panic fueled his steps; terror choked out of his lungs. Sweat clogged his pores as he put everything he had in his attempted escape.

  Bolan’s M-16 took it all from him. Two shots, seconds apart, and the panic ceased. Terror faded to darkness, and the Brethren believer was dead before the sweat dried on his flesh.

  In the silence Mack Bolan exchanged the partly used magazine for a fresh one. He dropped the magazine into the pack at his feet and slung it from his shoulder. He checked out the area, satisfying himself he was alone, and started to climb back up the long slope to where the two Brethren vehicles sat waiting.

  Bolan only needed one vehicle, so he dropped an HE round into the abandoned vehicle from a safe distance and watched it blow, then burn fiercely, sending thick black smoke into the sky. He climbed into the surviving 4x4 and moved off, continuing his withdrawal from the battleground. He wondered if they would be able to spot the smoke from the compound. Or would they still be too busy trying to put out their ow
n fires? He didn’t dwell on the problem for too long. He was content that he had dealt the Brethren a hard blow. Anything that hurt them and slowed their overall plans was a plus as far as he was concerned.

  As he eased the vehicle down the final grade, emerging onto lower, less harsh terrain, Bolan began to experience an uncomfortable feeling. It began as a needling sensation that quickly grew until it became a full-blown concern.

  Had the Brethren given up too easily? His strike at the compound had been hard, leaving the place a burning wreck. Something spoke quietly in his mind, telling him to stay alert because maybe, perhaps, it wasn’t over yet. The Brethren had demonstrated its callous disregard for others by the bombings. Any organization capable of carrying out such attacks would not quit if the going got rough. Bolan imagined them as holding a grudge strongly, and if they were seeking nationwide domination after demoralizing the public and even the government, they would not bow out because of the actions of a single opponent.

  So, the compound had been hit hard. Bolan had taken down the crew that had pursued him.

  Why was he expecting more?

  One answer could have been that Bolan always expected more. He never trusted dumb luck, because he didn’t ascribe to the thought. His reasoning came from past experience in similar situations. His combat sense.

  Bolan glanced around. Nothing.

  He still didn’t feel secure.

  Bolan picked up the sound. It was familiar, something he had heard so many times before—the rising volume of a helicopter’s rotors beating the air as it came directly for his position. He slowed the SUV, leaning out the window to pinpoint the aircraft as it powered in fast, closing on him.

  It was the helicopter he had spotted under its camouflage netting back at the compound. The one he should have dropped one of his grenades on.

  They had chosen their spot well. The landscape here was open, the long slopes undulating with only a few scattered boulders to break the emptiness. There seemed little chance for Bolan to make cover within the next few minutes, and he knew for sure the occupants of the chopper were not about to allow him those minutes.

  Accepting the conditions, Bolan mentally moved on, seeking further options.

  The descending chopper dropped to within ten feet of the ground, the downdraft from the rotors causing strong air movement that rocked the SUV and dragged up dead grass and detritus from the ground. It swirled around Bolan’s vehicle, enveloping it in a misty cloud. He spun the wheel, sending the SUV on a new heading. It was only going to be a short-lived maneuver. The chopper turned in unison, the capable hands of the pilot tailing Bolan closely.

  The soldier realized it was going to be more than difficult to lose the helicopter. Out here in the open the chopper pilot would have no problem keeping Bolan close as he tried to reach sanctuary. He realized his only clear option lay in taking the battle to the aircraft itself.

  The question was, how?

  Bolan kept driving as he swung the wheel back and forth. He did it even though he accepted it was pointless, wanting the chopper pilot to see it as a panic move.

  The stark rattle of autofire broke through and Bolan saw gouts of earth erupt as a line of .50-caliber shells hammered into the ground, close but not damaging. Not yet. Once the gunner got his line of fire under control those bursts would be hammering at the SUV itself.

  Bolan glanced at the M-16. It had a full magazine in place and he carried a couple more in pouches. And the M-203 launcher held the last of his HE rounds. A maneuver was forming in his mind. It was one of those thoughts that presented itself in moments of crisis. Half formed, totally illogical, but he was running out of anything else to work on, and if he didn’t do something in short order those .50-caliber shells would remove any need for resistance.

  A second burst from the gunner convinced Bolan it was time to take action. With his decision made he acted.

  The soldier slammed on the brakes, bringing the SUV to a shaky stop. His action caused the chopper to overshoot, the pilot swinging his craft around to compensate. In that short time, with the rotor wash still dragging up dusty debris, Bolan picked up the M-16, jerked the handle of his door and rolled out of the vehicle, coming to his feet in a crouch and staying alongside the SUV as it rolled on a few yards before the stalling engine forced it to stop. Bolan was still crouching alongside the vehicle, able to watch as the chopper banked swiftly, turning to position itself at the side of the SUV again. Bolan could see the gunner hanging out of the open side door, his big .50-caliber machine gun jutting clear as he swung it around on its lintel. Knowing he had to act quickly, before the pilot became suspicious and pulled the chopper back, Bolan stood, raised the M-16, and braced himself across the hood. His muzzle drew down on the hatch opening and the dark outline of the door gunner. The M-16 began to jack out 5.56 mm slugs that found their target, aided by Bolan’s sound accuracy. The gunner jerked back under the impact, his body twisting as the shots hammered his chest. Secured on a safety harness, he slumped forward, hanging out of the hatch, his trigger finger squeezing back. The .50-caliber machine gun pumped out a stream of shells that flew harmlessly skyward. Bolan heard the chopper’s power increase as the pilot worked at getting out of harm’s way as fast as he could, but despite his quick response there was no evading the consequences of making a direct attack on Mack Bolan.

  The pilot spotted movement at the front of the SUV and saw the tall, black-clad vision of death moments before the M-16 was turned on his aircraft. The pilot was close enough to recognize the configuration of the M-16/M-203 and something told him that was not what he wanted to be looking at. He applied everything he had to the controls, felt the chopper start to sideslip, but he knew it was too late.

  Bolan locked on, touched the launcher’s trigger and felt the recoil as the grenade was fired. It curved in and cleared the edge of the open hatch, impacted against the compartment superstructure and exploded, blowing its charge within the confines of the fuselage. The fiery ball of the detonation and the power of the explosion tore open the aluminum carcass, sending jagged chunks of metal throughout the stricken aircraft. The pressure waves blew out the Plexiglas front canopy, and if he hadn’t been strapped in, the pilot would have been thrown through. Even so, the blast embedded shrapnel in his back and shoulders as he leaned away from his seat. At the rear more heat and metal pieces found their way to the fuel tank, ripping it open and causing a secondary burn that sheered off the tail array and sent the burning wreckage in a short fall to the ground where it disintegrated in a final boil of fire and smoke.

  Bolan rested his aching body against the hood of the SUV. The results of recent actions were catching up. Battered, bruised and a little bloody, he needed time out to recharge his batteries. The downside was combat situations made no allowances for such trivia. Combatants stayed in the battle as long as the situation required. And Bolan was starting to believe that the Brethren, now that he had engaged them, were unlikely to fall back. He had no regrets. His strikes against the group may have disturbed the nest and angered the swarm. If the need arose Bolan would continue no matter what they threw at him. It was the nature of the beast, and it had formed its habits over a long time.

  He picked up the M-16 from where he had placed it on the hood of the SUV and turned to climb back inside, taking a last look at the burning hulk of the helicopter. The SUV fired up and Bolan drove away, picking up his trail again, and knowing where the next confrontation would be.

  “MAKE IT FAST, make it clean,” Ribak said.

  “Fast and clean? That’s how we were hit,” Ron Kemp said. “Bad. Someone infiltrated the compound and set charges under the armory. Blew it all to hell, messed with our guys, then stole one of our 4x4s on his way out.”

  Ribak sank back in his chair, the words echoing inside his skull. “The ordnance?”

  “Scattered all over the damn place. Not a piece left in working order. Deke, whoever he was, the son of a bitch knew how to place his explosives.”

  That
assumption had already made itself known to Ribak. “A man that good at infiltration and demolition has to have a military background.”

  “So who does he work for?”

  “One of the agencies.”

  “Never met an agency man that good.”

  “Maybe the military lent the government on of their covert specialists. Navy SEAL. Delta.” Ribak laughed. “Hell, he could be one of those fuckin’ Rangers.”

  “Your old buddies?”

  “No way. We were never that close when I was in the service. I was never one of them. Made me puke, all that ‘do or die, we look after our own crap.”

  “Deke, what do we do?”

  “Priority is to replace the ordnance. No way we’re going to get far without weapons.”

  “Makes sense. Where do we get backup? We’ve lost the New Mexico and Chicago stashes. Now the compound supply. Hell, Deke, it isn’t getting any easier.”

  “I’ll organize something. Let me talk to Seeger. You get that bunch of lardasses set to cleaning up the compound and start reconstruction.”

  “Deke, we lost more men when they went after him. And the chopper that went hunting him.”

  “This gets fuckin’ better all the time. One man? Sounds like I’ve been hiring the wrong people. I’ll call you later.”

  Ribak ended the call. He shut down his cell phone and made his way to Seeger’s office. The door was open, and Seeger was lounging in his executive chair, staring out the window at the spectacular scenery that served as a backdrop. Ribak tapped on the door frame and waited until Seeger swung his chair around, then related what he had been told during the telephone conversation.

  “Deke, explain something to me,” Seeger said. “Explain how a numerically superior force can allow one man to walk into their compound, plant explosives that destroy valuable arms, then get away in one of their own vehicles, and then take down the men pursuing him and destroy a helicopter.”