Suicide Highway

by Don Pendleton

  From his sniping post, Bolan spotted uncertainty and fear spreading like shock waves among the Taliban fighters. He counted nine dead. That left over thirty shooters still unaccounted for across the various rooftops.

  Bolan felt his phone vibrate on his hip as he tucked down behind the wall.

  “It’s Blake. Wesley told me that someone’s jamming communications. Can you see anything?” The Special Forces captain was all work, no bull on the phone. Bolan appreciated that in the man. They could work together after all.

  “I was counting heads, not antennas,” Bolan responded. “I’ll take a look.”

  “You do that, but give my boy and those two Marines some cover fire so they can get to their position,” Blake said. It sounded like an order, but Bolan didn’t mind.

  He saw one of the enemy riflemen shouting into his cell phone. A tinny voice echoed upward from the other side of the pile of bodies he’d created with a slash of Uzi fire moments before. Bolan scrambled over to the dead man’s phone, listening to a breathless rambling in Arabic, almost too fast for him to understand. He got the gist of it, though. The Taliban gunmen were trying to coordinate and figure out why two rooftops full of snipers had suddenly stopped shooting.

  Bolan lifted his rifle again and took snap-aim at the man calling into the phone, trying to coordinate the enemy efforts. He didn’t have the kind of electronics gear needed to blind the enemy, so he’d have to do it the old-fashioned way, one bullet at a time.

  The 5.56 mm slug struck the phone man’s hand. In shock and pain he stumbled and fell over the ledge to the ground. Faces contorted in rage and shock, stunned by the sudden death of their leader.

  The gunners looked frantically for the source of the shot. The Executioner decided to give them some clues, flicking the selector switch on the M-4 and hammering off 2- and 3-round bursts. Supersonic bullets punched through rib cages, tearing apart lungs and heart muscle after shredding themselves on the heavy curved rib bones they shattered. He ducked back down as half the city’s rooftops seemed to come alive with the lightning flash and snap-crackle of dozens of AK-47s hammering all at once. Brick was pulverized and Bolan crawled, scrambling toward the front corner of the roof.

  Any moment, the enemy would return its attention to the easier targets down below, and all that Bolan had risked would have been for naught. He popped up and looked for targets, specifically whoever was jamming the radio transmitter.

  He spotted a group of gunmen, one of whom was separated from the rest and sitting out the fight. He tilted the muzzle to allow for bullet drop from the short-barrel assault carbine, and ripped off a burst that was dead on. The dying man tumbled backward, and Bolan had the range thanks to the scope and where his bullets hit the target. Shifting his grip on the weapon, he wrapped his hand around the rifle’s magazine, index finger looping through the trigger guard of the grenade launcher. He froze as a face appeared in a window just under the rooftop. Bolan focused the sights on the opening. A frightened child’s face appeared for a moment before hands pulled it out of sight.

  High explosives and innocent bystanders, even with the protection of a roof, were not a mixture the Executioner was willing to stir together. He forgot about taking out the jammer with the 40 mm and rested the crosshairs on the compact packet of electronics, once more adjusting for gravity and wind resistance. A pull of the trigger caused sparks and chunks of the transmitter to fly off. A second, more sustained blast kicked the unit along like a soccer ball, tumbling it toward the edge of the roof, entire sections flying apart, circuit boards scattering to the wind.

  He plugged in his earphone and soon the tactical net was alive with voices. Blake was barking orders as he huffed and puffed his way up the stairs. Bolan smiled and watched as the combined force of Marines and Green Berets, scattered across the compound and under heavy fire, started to communicate. He glanced across to Wesley, who shot Bolan a big thumbs-up as he raced toward the sniper’s hide.

  “Wesley, keep down!” Bolan called.

  An Arab gunman swung his rifle around, focusing on the new intruders at rooftop level, visible and vulnerable. Bolan could see Wesley take a half step, bringing up his own rifle. The Executioner tried to track the line of sight that the Special Forces trooper was making. The Taliban shooter that Wesley aimed at bent in two, as if struck in the stomach with an ax handle. The gunman flopped back lifelessly, his intestines pouring out of a pie-pan-sized hole in his abdomen.

  Bolan’s gut tightened, not at the carnage, but at a dread feeling. He spun back and saw a gaunt scarecrow of a Marine hauling Wesley into the rooftop sniper’s hide, bullets smashing the roof around the two men. The Executioner flicked the M-4’s muzzle and fired off a burst toward the shooters closest to Wesley. The magazine ran dry after ten rounds.

  It was enough to draw enemy fire toward him and away from the vulnerable Americans, and Bolan ducked down, feeding a fresh magazine into his carbine as he listened to bullets pop like hailstones against the other side of the wall he was nestled against. Wesley was down, and there was no telling how badly he was wounded. Even the combat load-bearing vests they wore didn’t have enough trauma protection to completely stop a steel-cored, armor-piercing 7.62 mm round. A sustained burst would turn even the best armored soldier into so much ground chuck.

  With an aching heart, Bolan pushed aside thoughts of Wesley, returning to the task of helping break the back of the Taliban assault on the Chaman command post.

  Lives had to be saved.

  CAPTAIN JASON BLAKE BURST out onto the rooftop, McKorkindale, Jerrud, Sellid and Fasood in tow. He saw Stone shooting from his rooftop, raining accurate fire on the Taliban shooters as fast as he could track them. He waved out the group he was with, looking for anybody still capable of fighting on top of this building, M-4 sweeping for threats.

  “Clear!” Jerrud announced over his radio.

  He looked over to Fasood, who raised his hand and made a sweeping cut horizontally. He shook his head to reinforce the point.

  This rooftop was home to his group, and a bunch of dead bodies.

  Blake looked over to the compound and saw a mess. Craters from where RPGs had slammed into the ground smoked, thick black columns spiraling skyward. Not a single pane of glass was intact. One wall of the entrance was chewed to pieces by what had to have been a solid battering ram. He couldn’t conceive of simple automatic rifle fire doing that much damage to concrete, at least until he looked up and saw the chewed apart section on the roof that Stone was working from.

  “Ogden, what’s the sitrep down there?” Blake asked.

  “I’ve got two of ours wounded, one serious. We also ended up with seven injured and one dead Marine,” Ogden answered. “We could have a couple more dead if we don’t get medevacs in here.”

  “How far out are they?” Blake asked.

  “Just got on the horn with them now. We can count on ten, fifteen minutes, but that might not be soon enough,” Ogden answered.

  Blake sighed. “You’ve got Marines up there with our people?”

  “They’re the only ones on their feet,” Ogden said.

  Blake watched as the two Marines started their methodical sweep of the rooftops, rifles cracking, one shot one kill. Every Marine was a rifleman, and the lowest level of skill allowable for each member of the Corps was to be a marksman. While the Palestinians kicked up a lot of brass with little effect, and his Green Berets were making the enemy sweat, the two sharpshooters were knocking down a man with each pull of the trigger.

  Colonel Stone was doing more of the same. Only Jerrud, his own A-team’s sniper specialist seemed to be keeping pace with the other three men.

  It felt anticlimactic at this point, terrorists dropping as a coordinated effort hit the rooftops. More Marines and Green Berets moved down below. Vehicles that could operate were starting up. He keyed his radio.

  “I want status reports, all channels,” Blake called in.

  “This is Captain Kitchner, USMC,” an unfamiliar voice broke
in. “Sorry we showed up too late for your trip this morning.”

  “Well, I’m glad you guys still had something interesting to do,” Blake said. He turned to McKorkindale and waved him on. “We’re going to need all of our medics it looks like.”

  “Yeah. My boys Hickcock and Plaster are trying to keep your man Wesley stable,” Kitchner answered. “You might want to get down here.”

  Blake looked around the battle scene. The gunfire had faded, and he glanced to Colonel Stone, who was already hooking himself to the climbing rope and rappelling down from the roof. “All right, it’s clear. Everyone to the compound.”

  “And how do we know you’re not going to try to drag us in?” Sellid asked.

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “We’re operating under a flag of truce. We have a mutual enemy.”

  Sellid nodded.

  “Colonel Stone, are you on the net?” Blake asked.

  “Yeah. What kind of transportation are we getting in here?” the man in black asked.

  “We at least have medevacs and their escorts,” Blake returned. “What do you need?”

  “Something fast,” Mack Bolan said, grunting as his feet struck the ground. “And if you can arrange an airstrike on a convoy of trucks heading toward the Makaki refugee camp and hospital—”

  “Makaki?” Blake asked. “There are thousands of people there. Kitchner, do you think Marine aviation can send up some airpower to knock out the trucks?”

  “It’d be like shootin’ fish in a barrel, unless the convoy got too close to civilians,” Kitchner said. “Colonel Stone, you said you needed fast transportation? We have a couple Hueys coming in for medevac.”

  “They’re supposed to get your wounded to treatment.”

  “They have SuperCobra gunship escorts—four of them—considering the fight we just had,” Kitchner replied.

  “It’s seventy-five miles to the refugee camp, and Abraham’s Dagger has at least a thirty-minute head start on us. If we can get the Cobras to take a couple of us—”

  “Contacting the incoming escorts,” Kitchner stated. “Not going to guarantee that you’ll get more than two of them to take you to Makaki. Marine pilots don’t like leaving their gunners or their slicks behind.”

  “One would be enough, and two would be ideal,” Bolan said. Breathless moments were passing, and Blake spent them racing down the stairs, exiting the building at ground level and returning to his HQ. He couldn’t help but feel self-recrimination at the sight of injured men on the ground. One body was overlaid with a tarpaulin, never to rise again. The dull self-recrimination became a knife of guilt in his chest.

  The tall shape of Colonel Stone appeared at his side as Marines brought down another form on an improvised stretcher.

  It was Wesley, and his eyes stared glassily. The captain felt his own face tighten in sympathy to the pained mask Wesley wore.

  “Colonel?” Wesley whispered. Blake could see where the short, puglike Marine was pressing a wound dressing to the man’s stomach, the gauze soaked through. Around his neck was another hasty wrapping, which was less bloody. Neither Marine’s face held much hope.

  The tall warrior in black leaned over him. “I’m here. What was the big idea moving around and shooting people on that roof?”

  Wesley chuckled, then coughed. “That’s what I went up there for in the first place. There were just a few too many targets for these two jarheads to handle.”

  “We could have handled it,” Plaster said. “He took a second hit. He was too slow getting back under cover.”

  “It was just a dumb, lucky hit,” the wounded man whispered.

  “Just keep quiet. Medevac’s on its way.” Blake tried to soothe him.

  “But I got a call—” Wesley said. “It was Laith Khan. He said he spotted the convoy, and it’s fifteen minutes away from Makaki.”

  Blood burbled from his lips and he looked at Bolan squarely. “You have to get there in time, sir.”

  Mack Bolan took Wesley’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll do it.”

  Wesley closed his eyes.

  Blake shook his head, his whole body tensing up, trying to hold back a wave of riotous anger. “I’ve lost too many people to these animals—”

  “You won’t lose any more,” Bolan said. He looked up, catching sight of the helicopters coming in.

  “What are you talking about?” Blake asked. “You’re going to need backup at Makaki.”

  “And this place is going to need to be kept under control,” Bolan said. “Kitchner is going to need assistance, and if we can’t handle a convoy of Taliban trucks with two Cobra gun-ships, then your tagging along won’t help. Secure this area. Central command is counting on you, and there’s probably a lot more hurt and frightened civilians who can use the humanitarian assistance.”

  Blake took a deep breath, letting it out in a slow shudder. “You’re right, Colonel.”

  “I’m not going to let the bastards who did this get away,” Bolan promised. “But there are just too many lives at stake to be squabbling about who can fit into the cockpit of a Cobra.”

  A tall man with a nose like an ax blade and a tightly trimmed Vandyke ran up. When he spoke, Blake recognized him immediately as Captain Kitchner.

  “I’ve got two Cobras volunteering to ferry you and whoever else you need, Colonel Stone,” Kitchner spoke up.

  “All right,” Bolan said. He looked around and realized that except for himself, Tera Geren and the Palestinians, every trained man here would be needed for emergency relief and to secure the area against any remaining Taliban thugs. “Tera, you’re coming with me.”

  “What about me?” Haytham asked.

  “We don’t have enough helicopters to go around,” Bolan told Haytham. “These are two-seaters.”

  “Yeah, well, I can ride in his lap,” Geren said. “Just because you’re closing in on seven feet long and have no room for your knees in a Cobra, doesn’t mean I can’t squish down onto Haytham’s lap.”

  The Palestinian leader smiled, nodding in agreement with the spunky little Israeli fireball. “Colonel Stone, you promised to help me take a hand in justice. I want to be there to take the fight to the real enemy.”

  “We could use a third set of eyes on the ground if it comes to that,” Geren added.

  Bolan frowned. By the time the Cobras reached Makaki, Abraham’s Dagger would have been in place for easily ten minutes. Enough time to send assassins ahead to stake out and target the last two witnesses. He checked his watch.

  Time was running out.

  “If you two can fit, so be it. Otherwise, you get to fight to the death to see who rides shotgun in the second Cobra,” Bolan said.

  The Cobras swung down to land in the office compound. Bolan raced toward the closer gunship, dread in his gut with the knowledge that he was already ten minutes too late.

  16

  Laith Khan looked at his watch, put his binoculars to his eyes, then checked his watch again. The phone sat silent in his pocket as Dr. Bronson tried to convince Koenig and Takeda to at least join them in the jeep. Laith glanced over to the rifle propped up in the shotgun seat, just one grab away from cutting loose on full-auto, and it still didn’t seem like enough.

  He remembered the trucks, and he couldn’t begin to put the numbers together of how many men could be packed into the backs of them. Abraham’s Dagger was nowhere in sight, though. Not yet. The road to Makaki wasn’t empty, but it was tottering buses, bicycles and donkey-drawn carriages that approached, not a fleet of military transports.

  He’d never felt so alone in his life.

  The phone rang in his pocket.

  “Colonel?” he spoke as soon as he opened the cell.

  “We’re on our way. Is anything happening yet?” Bolan asked him.

  Laith brought the binoculars to his eyes again, scanning the road, sweeping the horizon, but came up with nothing. “No enemy traffic yet, but I can’t see far. A mile and a half at best, thanks to all the tents in my way.”

/>   “Where are the doctors?”

  Laith took a look over to the tent. “Debating on whether they should stand their ground or run away again, sounds like.”

  “Is Bronson telling them that standing their ground is suicide?” Bolan asked.

  “Sometimes suicide is the painless way out,” Laith answered. He kept his eyes on the road. “Mikela feels bad enough. The three of them sounded like they’d take their fate standing up.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Bolan admitted.

  “Colonel?”

  “You’re going to stay and fight, aren’t you?”

  Laith cleared his throat. “My uncle taught me about duty. He told me you understand.”

  “I do. Be careful. I’m only eight miles away,” the Executioner said.

  Laith lowered the binoculars, letting them fall on the strap around his neck, their weight striking his chest, the impact unnoticed as he reached for his rifle. “The convoy is here.”

  BOLAN HEARD THE WORDS come over the phone and looked at his pilot. “Lieutenant?”

  There was the whirr of machinery over the helmet com link that Bolan recognized as the targeting optics of the sleek, sharklike warcraft that sliced through the sky. “We have them. Range, 3.6 miles. It’ll be cutting it close with the Hydra-70s.”

  Bolan took the gunnery controls, looking at the Hellfire aiming monitor. “I know the range on the rocket pods. And we’re in range for the missiles too.”

  “Minigun’s locked and out of your way, Colonel,” the pilot, a man named Kent, said. “I just hope—”

  “Hold that hope,” Bolan ordered. He lined up the crosshairs on the farthest truck in the convoy, knowing that he had to break up the attack as soon as he could. The more vehicles that got close to the Makaki camp, the more chance that the fighting would end up among the refugees.

  Too many good people had died already, and the sun had only been up a couple of hours. The Executioner wasn’t going to let more innocent blood spill if he could help it.

  He triggered the Hellfire, watching it accelerate to its maximum velocity. On the monitor, he saw the truck growing larger, and he kept the joystick on the view of the bed. As the image grew clearer and more distinct, he saw that the truck was only sparsely filled with gunmen. The image suddenly turned to static as the Hellfire missile with its warhead detonated. On the horizon, an inverted pyramid of smoke and debris shot upward, forming a halolike cloud over the shattered truck.