Bolan gave their guide a reassuring nod but Mirza only hugged closer to the rocks. He wished he had left as soon as he'd introduced the cameramen to Abdur Jahan. Let Jahan take them to meet Tarik Khan.
""Any moment now," said McCarter, who had not taken his eyes off the trucks below.
Bolan used those last few seconds to film a close-up of the man crouching immediately next to him. Shapur Rhaman was a respected marksman. Carefully he balanced the long barrel of his ancient jezail across the top of a covering boulder and took a bead on the caravan track below.
All the effort and determination of their cause was mirrored in his face — the assurance that he was fulfilling the will of Allah and an unremitting hatred for the infidel invaders.
Those men below were strangers from farms on the shores of the Caspian and the slushy streets of Irkutsk. But Shapur Rhaman knew these barren mountains like the back of his careworn hands.
He nestled the brass-bound stock snug against his shoulder. He would make certain that a number of the Russian soldiers would not be going home again.
The six-wheeler scout was slowing as it approached the wreckage of the tank.
One of the deserters who had joined the mujahedeen took aim with his missile launcher. The RPG-7V percussion-fired its projectile, then in midflight a rocket motor kicked in and sent the five-pound grenade on a streaking trajectory toward the armored car.
It smashed through the right front wheel well and erupted.
The lead vehicle spun out of control and slithered straight into the charred wreckage already littering the road.
The guerrillas, spread out in an uneven crescent behind folds of rock in the cliff face, opened fire with an assortment of weapons: Lee-Enfields, Chinese Type 56s, traditional muskets and captured AK-47s.
Bolan and McCarter watched through the drifting smoke as the Soviet troop carriers and supply trucks were abandoned or driven into the scant cover of the ditch on the right side of the track.
"What I'd give to get my hands on a Number 4 right now," said McCarter.
"I know how you feel," agreed Bolan. There was no point in taking up arms. They must do nothing that would blow their cover before they reached the camp of Tarik Khan.
Bolan kept filming as one of the local militia, trapped on the open road, was hit. He staggered blindly over the edge of the ravine.
Abdur Jahan gave a fierce yell of exultation and encouraged his men to keep up the pressure.
In an effort to escape the ambush, the driver of the second to last truck had thrown his vehicle into reverse so suddenly that he'd rammed the supply carrier behind him. Now the road was blocked at front and rear. Finding what shelter they could in the ditch, the Soviets and their Afghan comrades began returning fire up the steep slopes at a hidden enemy.
Another grenade went hissing toward the convoy. It hit the smaller of the fuel carriers. The carrier exploded in an angry twisting fireball.
The rocket man dropped the RPG and leaped to his feet, brandishing a victorious fist in the air. Then, with a small grunt of surprise, he buckled as if punched in the stomach. The deserter collapsed to his knees, blood and mucus hanging in strands from his mouth.
Shapur Rhaman fired back in reply. Through the camera lens, Bolan saw a spurt of grit puff up just above the head of a blond Russian officer. At this range it was too high and slightly to the left. Bolan shouted a correction but Rhaman only grinned. He did not understand English.
"Hey, look there!" McCarter shouted, pointing. "Next to that clump of pink flowers, a radio operator. See him?"
Abdur Jahan trained his telescope on the Soviet operator and spat out a curse.
Rhaman had reloaded. Bolan reached across and took the ancient firearm from his hands. The guerrilla watched as the American carefully took aim.
Hunched awkwardly over the camera equipment, Bolan sighted down the length of the barrel. The radioman was in the middle of a transmission.
Bolan judged the appropriate compensation and held his breath. In that eternal instant sniper, rifle and unwitting target became one as The Executioner squeezed the trigger.
The thin curved butt kicked back with an unaccustomed ferocity. Bolan never did see the precise point of impact. The force of the hit blew the man sideways. He was still clutching the microphone as he sprawled on a broken rock, staining its rough surface red.
Abdur Jahan slapped his thigh, expelling a sigh of respect tinged with awe. "You were a soldier once, perhaps?"
"This is the front line," explained Bolan, handing the rifle back to its owner. "We are all soldiers here."
"Now you will meet Tarik Khan. I will see to that." The mujahedeen commander was still shaking his head at the foreigner's marksmanship. "I will vouch for you myself."
Darul Mirza was already scrambling back through the rocks when Jahan signaled for his men to retreat. The convoy troops increased their fire at the weaving, bobbing backs of the fleeing fighters. They were shooting up the incline and into the sun with little success.
"Come on!" urged Mirza. "Up to that next ledge. We'll be safe in the caves."
The men scurried up the steep cleft that led to some caverns above. This network of subterranean grottoes riddling the edge of the escarpment was their getaway route. The two observers, lugging their bulky equipment, followed the others.
Bolan heard it first. He levered himself up onto the ledge and turned to look back across the valley. The throbbing of a rotor echoed between the crumpled rock faces.
"Over there!" Bolan pointed to the small blob that was growing larger with every second.
"It can't have made it all the way here from Sharuf," said McCarter.
"Must have been operating close by," said Bolan. "Or just waiting for us to strike."
The shadowy entrances to half a dozen caves peppered the stone wall at the back of the ledge. Most of the mujahedeen had already vanished. Bolan reached the safety of the nearest dark recess and turned his camera on the approaching chopper.
"No, come this way!" shouted Mirza. "It is not safe!"
Bolan continued filming as the helicopter seemed to slide down a track in the sky. A rocket barrage from the chopper hit the far end of the ledge. The image in the viewfinder shuddered.
The M-36 hovered over the side of the escarpment. Then the deadly machine slowly swung around and tilted its nose to face the caves.
"Let's go!" insisted McCarter.
Suddenly the menacing aircraft unleashed a jet of flame. And Bolan quickly realized why its manufacturers had designated this reptilian gunship as Plamya drakovna — the Dragonfire!
5
Accompanied by a terrible roar, another blazing red tongue snaked out from the Dragonfire. Bolan could hear the screams of the freedom fighters still trapped in the cave entrances at the far end of the ledge. The stone tunnels amplified their agonized death cries until they pierced the steady beat of the chopper's rotor.
He continued filming the helicopter even though he could smell the scorching chemicals that had splashed across the nearby rock face.
"Mack!" shouted McCarter, more concerned for his friend's life than with security. "Mack, come on, for God's sake!"
The nose of the chopper swung a few degrees to starboard. The M-36 was aligned with the center of the ledge now. The Dragonfire spewed another long tendril of acrid, hissing flame.
The swirling eddies of liquid fire formed golden yellow flowers that seared Bolan's memory. April Rose's eyes flickered with catlike brilliance amid those burning blossoms. And the smell of napalm was mingled with the sickly rotten scent of jungle foliage.
No! Bolan's brain screamed in silent denial. No, not Nam. The enemy seemed to taunt The Executioner, impervious in its armored battle machine. Bolan had never hated anything more than that flame-spitting deathship.
"Mack, this way!" McCarter grabbed Bolan's arm and pulled him away from the cave opening. He shoved the American up the uneven steps at the rear of the tunnel, stumbling toward the safety of the upper
chamber.
A hot draft at their backs was followed by the wind rush of oxygen racing back toward the flaming puddles that lathered the entrance to their hiding place.
Every muscle was strained to the limit as they pounded up the natural staircase. The Englishman cursed the heavy film equipment tugging awkwardly at his shoulders.
Shapur Rhaman was waiting at the top. It was he who escorted the foreigners through the final shaft to safety.
A film of sweat covered Bolan's forehead. And it was not from the exertion of the long climb up through the caverns. He shook his head impatiently, as if he could shake off the images that haunted him.
McCarter was looking at him strangely, not wanting to put his own concern into words. Bolan fingered the gold ring on his dog-tag chain as he turned away to watch the lookout clambering swiftly up the ridge at their backs. Had he frozen down there?
"I'm all right," Bolan reassured his partner.
"Never doubted it, mate," said McCarter. But his voice didn't sound quite so confident when he added quietly, "We've got to get that bloody chopper, Mack."
"With Tarik Khan's help we will," said Bolan. From the very top of the escarpment the Afghan sentry signaled the all-clear. The Dragonfire was pulling out, heading back to its base.
"The village is hidden behind those hills," Abdur Jahan told them, pointing to a series of steep serrated hillocks about six or seven miles away. "We'll be safe there."
* * *
They had covered about four miles when they first saw the pall of smoke hanging over Mukna.
Three of the men, all with families there, began to run on ahead. The rest of the mujahedeen kept up their grueling pace. They already knew what they would find. They had been fighting this war for years and knew only too well what they could expect from the Russians.
Russia had invaded Afghanistan during Christmas, 1979, with hopes of a quick victory, but mujahedeen resistance had soon disabused them of that notion.
The war dragged on and the Soviets, backed by a puppet militia, seized control of the few key population centers — control by day, at least. But the mountainous terrain remained in the hands of the freedom fighters. Tanks and armored cars were useless in that region. And few men, including the Afghan regulars, would venture far into the hills that sheltered the guerrillas.
Soviet policy now dictated a war of sudden terror and indiscriminate destruction aimed at the civilian population. The M-36 was the perfect strategic solution.
Like no weapons system before it, the Dragonfire could fly right into the mujahedeen redoubts, literally smoking out the warriors who had caused the occupying forces so much trouble. And it could just as easily rain death on an innocent settlement, driving out the survivors to join the endless flood of refugees.
"No wonder he reached the valley so quickly," said McCarter. "He was already hard at work here!"
Ashes were slowly swirling in the air and pale strands of bitter, pungent smoke drifted above the rocky slopes that had failed to protect Mukna.
Jahan's column broke ranks as the rest of the men ran forward to find out what had happened to their relatives and friends.
By the side of the narrow track that wound into Mukna, nothing was left of some nomadic tents except powdery circles of gray ash. Farther along the path, ancient stone cottages were scorched by the Dragonfire's surprise attack.
"Their battle plan seems to be working," Bolan said, nodding toward two women who were packing the few things they could salvage onto the back of a scrawny donkey. Darul Mirza would not be crossing over the border alone.
"Over here!" Abdur Jahan signaled to the two observers. Several of the wounded had been laid out in the shelter of a low stone wall. "Things do not look good for us. You have come at a bad time."
A wizened old man, his face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, was daubing some rancid grease on the burned leg of a child. Then he covered the raw flesh with a page torn from the Koran.
McCarter nudged Bolan's arm. "That must be Tarik Khan over there."
The guerrilla leader was dressed a little better than most of his followers. He wore a handsomely embroidered vest, stout riding boots, with two bandoliers crossing his chest and a third wrapped round his waist. He was crouching beside a young boy. The youngster was burned on at least three-fifths of his body.
Tarik Khan stood up and glanced across at the foreigners as Abdur Jahan reported on what had happened at the ambush site. Other villagers were watching Bolan, too. Shapur Rhaman had quickly spread the story of the American's uncanny marksmanship.
The village elder, who appeared to be the local equivalent of a doctor, took advantage of Tarik Khan's distraction to bring his bowl of dubious ointment over to the boy.
"Treating him with that stuff could give the lad a secondary infection," McCarter commented.
Bolan made no reply. He had locked eyes with the mujahedeen leader, who tugged at the corner of his thick mustache as Jahan completed his account.
"American, I will talk with you later," Tarik Khan announced in passable English, "but for now I must attend to my son. Abdur, make sure everyone is packed and ready to leave. We move out by tomorrow night. We must pull back farther into the hills."
The two Westerners simply stood there. It was not the time or the place to intervene.
Bolan's thoughts were interrupted by the sudden brilliance of a flash. He whirled, ready for anything, but was still shocked to recognize the man standing behind them.
"Hi! I'm Robert Hutton." Unlike Bolan and McCarter, he was clean-shaven and wore a bush shirt and blue denims. "I'm on assignment for the INS wire service."
Yes, thought Bolan, that always was your cover, as he and McCarter introduced themselves by their assumed names.
"He brought me over, too," said Hutton, indicating Darul Mirza, the guide. "Been off on my own for a few days. Just getting some background color for my next piece."
Bolan forced himself to give a noncommittal nod. It had been almost fifteen years since the one and only time he had crossed paths with Robert Hutton. Mack Bolan had been wearing a different face then. A uniform. And a different rank.
Hutton had not changed much. His chestnut hair was thinner, and there was now a band of flab bulging over his belt. But even the beat-up Pentax looked the same.
He took a step closer, squinting slightly as he stared at Bolan. "Heard about that shot you made! Rhaman is telling everyone. Only knew one other man who could shoot like that."
"I was just lucky," replied Bolan, deliberately turning away to watch Jahan moving from group to group, issuing orders to prepare for the withdrawal.
"Were you in Nam?" persisted Hutton.
"Nope, I missed out on that one," Bolan lied. "I was covering the troubles at home."
"Hell of a shot from what I heard," said Hutton. "Still, it was too late for these beggars."
"Where were you?" asked McCarter.
"Just on my way back to the village. Saw the whole thing from up there." Hutton patted his camera. "Got the attack all on film."
"Yeah, well, we'd better get some coverage, too," said Bolan. "C'mon, David, we need some footage of the village."
McCarter shouldered his equipment and headed up Mukna's solitary street. Debris littered the hard-packed track.
"Watch out for that bastard," warned Bolan, as soon as they were out of earshot of the other newsman. "He's a snake. Canadian, I think. He sold out our side in Nam and then was one of the first to report from Hanoi."
McCarter pretended to concentrate on taking close-up shots of a shattered cottage at the end of the street. He dismissed Mack's misgivings over Hutton. He was more concerned about how they would get into Sharuf now that Tarik Khan's men were being forced to retreat.
They didn't get a chance to speak to the guerrilla chieftain until a meal was served later that evening. It was just a makeshift supper eaten hastily between securing packs on the donkeys and arguing whether it was better to pull back to the northeast or retreat ove
r the border again. Parties were heading in both directions.
"Taking a risk going around dressed like that, aren't you?" McCarter asked Hutton.
"When you've been in this game as long as I have there's no need to play at being Lawrence of Arabia," answered the journalist with a patronizing sneer. "I know what I'm doing."
"I guess you must," said the young Englishman, scratching himself under his dirty cloak. "So tell me about it..."
McCarter kept Hutton talking while Bolan made his case to Tarik Khan.
"We must get close-up pictures of that new helicopter back to the West. Would you help us get into the airfield at Sharuf?"
"Why should I risk more of my men?" Tarik Khan said bitterly. "What would it profit us?"
"It would demonstrate the need you have for more support if Western audiences saw what you were fighting against." Bolan pushed the point. "It could mean more guns, more ammunition, more rockets."
"In that case show them the results of the Russian attacks! Film a close-up of Tolfi's arm. Show the burns. Show your people what it looks like to lose a hand. Wouldn't that be enough to win their sympathy? Take back pictures of my son, Kasim. Even now we do not know if he will live or die."
"We need close-range footage of the Dragonfire," insisted Bolan. "Indisputable evidence of how the Russians are waging war."
"Evidence!" Tarik Khan leaped to his feet so suddenly he knocked over a bowl by the fire. He threw his arms out to encompass the village. "What do you call this if it is not evidence? Take your pictures here like Mr. Hutton. He has photographs of the attack."
The Canadian newsman looked up at Tarik Khan's angry outburst and nodded. "Yes, and I'll make sure they get back to the right people."
Bolan checked his temper. But he could not give away the true purpose of their mission — not with Hutton sitting there.
"Tomorrow you can come with us. We shall withdraw toward the Kajhak Mountains," said the chieftain. "Or you can return to Pakistan with Mirza. In which case I will ask you to escort my son. Tomorrow night I'm sending Kasim out with four bearers. He needs better medical attention than he can get here."
Terminal Velocity Page 4