Grogen wanted out of Colombia, back to the sanity of the States. He wanted to get as far away as possible from the eight drums. When they uncapped that poison, he knew the odor alone could knock a man off his feet.
The cargo was already rolled out of the gunship. Grogen caught the Colombian narcotrafficker throwing him funny looks as he kept backing away from the drums, his men removing the lead shields, getting ready for the Saudis to inspect.
While he waited on the Saudis to make their area, Grogen took in the landscape. They were north of Cali, in Quintero country, run by FARC rebels who, in turn, were owned by the cartel. Where llanos ended, rain forest took over, ringing what Grogen had heard was a three-hundred-acre estate. The drug lord’s second home here was used chiefly for business. Three mountain ranges rolled up from Ecuador like giant anacondas. It was green, all around, rolling hills swaddled in broccoli-shaped trees.
That, he thought, was a problem.
And Grogen had an itch between his shoulder blades, warning him they were being watched. Forget the army of FARC guerrillas, spread all over the estate. There were antiaircraft batteries and machine-gun nests hidden in the edge of the jungle and jutting from the hangars around their airfield. It was no secret the CIA, DEA and U.S. Special Forces were entrenched down here. Tack on all the guerrilla armies, the graft and corruption, the fact that kidnapping was a major industry all by itself, all the bombings, murders of judges and cops who wouldn’t be bought…
Grogen felt the weight of his weapon over his shoulder as the Saudis moved for the drums. And the Man with the Power wanted to know if they’d brought their money.
BOLAN HAD BEEN ATTACHED to a DEA-Special Force outfit code-named Dragon Company. Ostensibly they were military advisers, down here spraying the coca fields, raiding labs, working with Colombian authorities, training and so forth, but Bolan knew different.
Everyone knew where the drug lords were, where the labs were located in the jungles. The Colombian authorities knew all the shipping routes, much of the narcotics still flowing through neighboring Panama to the northwest. They knew the cartel used legitimate business as fronts to launder its dirty billions, much of Colombian officialdom still taking a fat envelope now and again. The DEA was sometimes thrown a nice bone to gnaw on, a big catch of a narcoshark maybe, a ton or two of coke seized, or a major lab burned down.
Everyone knew, but no one wanted to stop it. Why?
Money.
And it was said, Bolan thought, that cocaine was still Colombia’s number-one export, surpassing coffee.
All that was minutes away from changing, Bolan knew, as he pressed silently on into the jungle.
Major Horn had his orders, and Bolan could only imagine the man’s thoughts that he had to turn over his force to Colonel Brandon Stone, and any problems with that, there was a number at the White House to call. Not only that, but Bolan was there to turn the covert war on drugs into overt slaughter.
Clad in dark green jungle fatigues, M-16/M-203 combo in hand, the warrior was weighted down in full combat regalia.
He moved in on the opposition from the east, eyes alert for patrols, booby traps. The numbers waiting were staggering. Between Quintero’s army of FARC rebels and hired thugs, the Saudis, then the black ops force…
Well, that was why Bolan had a flying armada of gunships on standby. The transponder painted him on the screen of the major’s Black Hawk, Bolan counting off the doomsday numbers, down to three minutes now.
He needed to hustle, get in position. A simple pager signal would let the major know to swoop down, blasting.
It had taken hours for Bolan and Horn to hammer out the attack plan, perusing sat and aerial pictures. But they both agreed on the threat to American national security from Colombia, and the good major pledged Bolan his full cooperation.
They agreed that for once, maybe the good guys could make a difference, or at least punch a hole in the enemy’s armor.
Bolan would have preferred a night strike, but with all the enemy parties gathered on the airfield in broad daylight…
Take them as they came, they were all fair game.
CABRIANO KNEW he was going to get screwed in the deal.
He checked himself again in the black-tinted glass of the GMC, feeling as if he were vanishing before his very eyes. The fear and anxiety were bad enough, but heap raw anger on top of it all, and he was jumping out of his skin. Or he was shrinking inside himself, stewing over what bad thing would happen next.
He watched as the Man of Power ordered three of his men to begin hauling the Saudis’ money toward the big cargo plane parked outside the hangar. It looked like they were negotiating, one of the Saudis flapping his arms, his mouth working overtime, in a snit. There were new black ops along for the trip, eight by his last count, all of them toting subguns, looking right through him when they bothered to look his way at all.
What the hell? Was he the invisible man?
No. He was a dead man, once Quintero found out Hildago and his New York boys had been with him when they were cut to ribbons in the Catskills. Or maybe there was a way out. After all, the helmeted agent was the one who killed them. Say he caught a moment alone with Quintero, explained the situation. The drug lord wanted out of this situation, dealing radioactive waste to terrorists. Understandable, it was time to get back to real business.
Maybe there was still time to conjure up plausible rationales. The space suit was just stepping up to the first drum, Geiger counter in one hand, wrench in the other working to twist off the cap.
“I’d be real careful how you handle that stuff.”
It was one of the new ops, Cabriano heard. He wondered why the guy kept easing back, getting more distance from the drums. Cabriano was fifty or sixty yards from the inspection, but decided a few more feet couldn’t hurt. When he caught a whiff of the toxin, heard gagging all around, he backpedaled another twenty feet in a hurry. Whatever that poison, it was like nothing he’d ever smelled. He couldn’t even begin to describe it.
“What’s your problem?” The new op was glaring at him.
“Right now, it’s fresh air,” Cabriano growled back.
“So hold your nose.”
BOLAN FOUND THEM gathered near the drums.
Picture perfect for what he had in mind.
He punched in the numbers to get Major Horn into the play, then took up the M-16. Figure a hundred yards to the south, nestled in brush at the edge of the tree line, enemy numbers were packed tight. A few 40 mms to start the big bang would carve the numbers by twenty to thirty guns.
Problem was, this would prove no easy chore. The compound was immense, with buildings staggered around three hundred acres. Between runners, the FARC army…
The plan was to blow the place off the earth.
No prisoners.
No time like the present, Bolan decided, curling his finger around the M-203’s trigger.
They wanted a dirty bomb, they would get it.
14
With two Gulf wars and enough blood of terrorist scum on his hands to fill a lake, Grogen knew all about the calm before the storm.
In fact, two incidents tipped him off it was poised to go to hell.
First, the birds went into a sudden uproar, a hundred yards south, a rainbow of feathers, a squall of caws hitting the air in that direction. Second, three FARC guerrillas tore in from the north in a Hummer. They hopped out, ran up to Quintero, pointing their arms north. He didn’t know much Spanish, but Grogen could read body language and understood enough to know a fleet of helicopters was on the way.
Quintero began cursing, fuming at the Man with the Power.
“I’m telling you, Quintero,” Grogen heard the helmeted man growl, deciding a few more steps back were in order. “They’re not mine. You have DEA problems, it’s because you and your brother—who, I notice, is mysteriously AWOL—are drug dealers.”
Grogen slipped the subgun off his shoulder. The drug lord was railing now at his men about conspiracies, that
American intelligence operators had set him up. The Saudis didn’t look too thrilled to Grogen, either. The terror leader he knew as Rafiq Khalad opened a large nylon bag, hauling out an AK-47. The other Saudis were digging out assault rifles, but Grogen was watching the jungle to the south when—
It flew out of nowhere, and Grogen was already turning and running. He was pumping his legs when the missile impacted dead center in his worst fear.
BOLAN THOUGHT IT IRONIC that in a way he was right back where the campaign began. Sure, different country altogether, but he was once again blowing a hell-storm through the same cut of jackals. Some of the faces had changed, but the Farm had provided him with a file on the gathered parties. The Saudis were well-known terror financiers, have beaten American intelligence at every turn—until now.
It didn’t escape Bolan’s eye that Fabio was not on hand, but the Executioner already had a line on the older brother’s locale.
Bolan cranked up the blast furnace of a 40 mm tempest.
Downrange, they were shrieking like the damned and Bolan quickly found out why. Some of the radioactive material showered about fifteen unfortunate cannibals out of the gate. If he didn’t know better, Bolan would have said the flesh was melting off their bodies.
A few drums were left standing, and Bolan knew Major Horn had his own HAZMAT team ready to scoop up the waste.
CABRIANO FROZE at the sight of men wailing and thrashing on the ground. Those who took a bath in the stuff at ground zero appeared to be melting, or, rather, he judged, the flesh was oozing off their bodies. All of them were now without clothing. The odor of the poison was so strong that Cabriano retched.
He staggered toward the motor pool. A stampede, in fact, was already underway. FARC, the black ops, Saudis, everyone wanted to get the hell away from the raining toxin. He turned, searching the horror show, and saw the helmet melting off the spaceman’s head. At first, he wasn’t sure what he saw, straining his eyes. No, that was a grinning skull being revealed when the goo of his helmet rolled off. A screaming death’s-head went silent, his former tormentor collapsing.
He saw men hopping into vehicles, then heard a storm of cursing. What the hell was this? They couldn’t crank the engines. He wanted to try one for himself, so he threw open the door to a GMC, found keys in the ignition. He twisted. Nothing. Not a cough, not a sputter.
Cabriano felt hands clawing into his shoulder, felt himself go airborne out the door. He hit the ground, looked up and found a black op aiming his subgun in his face.
“I oughta kill you, Cabriano.”
“What is that shit?” Cabriano screamed, more terrified of taking a bath in the toxic garbage than having his brains blown out.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you!”
Cabriano let the black op drag him off the ground and thrust him toward the big cargo plane. They were getting out of there, that was all that mattered. Whatever waited him next…
He didn’t even care about the money anymore. Just get him out of Colombia, back to Brooklyn.
“DRAGON LEADER to Ground Force One, come in!”
Bolan palmed his TAC radio, forced to shout through the static of Horn’s voice. “Ground Force One here. You’re breaking up.”
“We’re having instrument failure. I barely have your position painted.”
“Hostiles have gone rabbit. Blanket the airfield and motor pool with everything you have, then start putting troops on the ground. Keep some distance from the shooting gallery. Whatever the substance in question is, it’s shutting down engines. Copy that.”
“Roger.”
Bolan moved out of the jungle and dropped another bomb down the M-203’s gullet. From the north, he saw the flying armada bearing down. Between the six Apaches and ten Black Hawks they owned the skies. The antiaircraft batteries, Bolan saw, were the first logical targets. Fiery mushroom clouds knocked out rooftop perches on hangars, then the pylons on the Apaches began flaming out more Hellfires, locking onto the motor pool and the cluster of planes.
Bolan didn’t bother counting the dead already strewed near the initial strike zone.
There was more to come, he knew, and aimed for the last few drums.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN the engine won’t start?”
Cabriano listened as the black op screamed up the hull. The pilot, he assumed, was standing outside the hatch, a dumbfounded look on his face. One nightmare after another, it was more than Cabriano could bear. If he could find Quintero, if the drug lord was even alive…
Cabriano wheeled and ran down the ramp. He heard the black op screaming and cursing after him, waited for bullets to rip into his back.
A search of the horror stage, and Cabriano turned to stone at yet another unexplainable nightmare.
A green vapor appeared to fan out from the blast site. Mummylike figures were weaving ahead, but the mist seemed to chase them down. They cried out, clutching their throats, then grabbing at their eyes, falling to their knees. And the vapor, he saw, was rolling his way, spiking his nose with a stench he could imagine belonged in the deepest bowels of Hell.
He turned in every direction. Men were scattering pell-mell. Looking toward the drug lord’s mansion in the distance, he made out the safari getup.
“Wait! Quintero!”
Cabriano bolted, heard the rattle of subgun fire from behind, then the earth began erupting in explosions. The shock waves nearly bowled him off his feet, but terror and the sight of more men melting before his eyes galvanized him into speed he didn’t think he had.
“Wait! Quintero!”
GROGEN BOUNDED down the ramp. The Apaches, he saw, were hard at work, Hellfires and chain guns eating up aircraft, turning vehicles into steel coffins where runners still attempted to fire up engines. He knew they were painted. FARC rebels were spraying autofire at the flying armada, then were cut down by long roaring waves of doom. The gunships were holding their position, staying clear of the dispersed waste.
Running, he found four of their own contingent, armed and likewise bolting from the doomed plane. Where to go? And who to shoot? The noxious fumes of the mystery waste were knotting his stomach as he took in the sea of bodies. A green cloud, he observed, hung over the field of carnage. One by one, more victims toppled, bone glistening where flesh had been stripped off.
Pumping his legs, he spotted Cabriano closing in on Quintero in the distance. They were fleeing for the safety of the big house on the hill. Figure Quintero had an escape valve in the event of a raid. Go west then, he decided, this game was dead.
The earth roaring behind, Grogen looked back. Balls of fire marched up the hull of their cargo plane. He flinched at the brilliance of the firestorm as it reduced their ride to flying junk.
Now they were definitely stuck in Colombia, Grogen cursing the day he volunteered for this assignment.
He kept running, scouring the hell to the south. Another blast ripped through the last few drums. They were shooting for the sky, metallic comets that…
Grogen went limp at the sight of those rockets streaking his way. Through the smoke overhead he glimpsed the mangled lids flying off, steel Frisbees that whirled on, then the contents were spewing.
Grogen sprinted, his screams trailing him. He looked up, hoping he was clear, but found blue sky gone green and falling on top of him.
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN better, or at the least quicker, for the men on the run if they’d remained in the cargo plane, gone up in smoke and flames with the brief Hellfire barrage. The end result was a hell unlike any Bolan could ever recall witnessing.
As it stood, they took a toxic waste shower, hollering like banshees, writhing on the ground, burning up from invisible fire. A couple of them shouted out for deliverance from a God Bolan could be sure they’d never believed in.
It was something Bolan could never explain, as he veered around the exploding green cloud. The stench alone was beyond any battlefield miasma he’d ever encountered. Then the waste, and the vapor, literally ate the flesh off bone, as quick a
s a man getting dipped in a vat of acid.
Whatever it was, Bolan knew if it fell into terrorist hands and they unleashed a dirty bomb laced with the toxin the horror he found churning before him would have been shot up on a scale…
But that would not happen.
He was there, and the enemy was going down.
The Executioner rammed a fresh clip into the M-16. The screams alone would have chilled a man not accustomed to the horrors of war. But even Bolan had to admit what he heard and saw took death to a whole new level.
This was Hell on Earth.
They cried out in a mixed bag of Arabic, Spanish and English, the damned, blind and stripped of flesh, reeling from the mist.
Bolan spared a full clip of mercy bursts.
Dragon Company had demolished anything that could fly or drive away. The toxic cloud had done most of the dirty work for them. Sometimes divine justice prevailed in mysterious ways.
Horn had his orders, and Bolan went in search of fresh game.
The mansion on the hill was the next target, the Executioner heading that way, double time.
The line on Jorge Quintero was that he was something of a big-game hunter, bagging everything from white sharks to bull elephants. But the truth, Bolan knew, was the man always kept a huge entourage of snipers close by when the killing of an animal for his trophy collection needed to be done.
It figured.
Briefly he recalled part of a conversation with Major Horn while taking in the gathering of armed vultures near the pillared front entrance to the mansion. The Quintero Cartel had been protected by the Colombian power base for years. The cartel donated huge sums to various charities, built schools, hospitals, all of them, of course, erected in their name. Bolan knew he’d never flush out all the vipers down here, likewise angrily aware the whole truth about this campaign would never see the light.
Poison Justice Page 15