Death Metal

by Don Pendleton

  “Can’t you pick it up from any exchanges?”

  “Striker, I can only work miracles sometimes,” the computer wizard replied, exasperated. “I have nothing to trace. If you could have gotten a cell from one of the bodies you left littered across Norway—”

  “Point taken,” Bolan interrupted. “So no idea how many to expect at the other end...and they’ll be trained.”

  “Precisely. I would imagine they wanted to use the black metal zealots as cannon fodder rather than risk their own men. Kind of backfired on them, right?”

  “They couldn’t have known anyone was on their tail. They won’t make that mistake again, though.”

  There was plenty for Bolan to think about as he ended the call and concentrated on the road stretching ahead.

  His route took him to the border with Finland in the north of Norway, crossing by the Gulf of Bothnia, and then traveling across country to the area where the Karelia region bordered Russia. It was a long drive, and he stopped only twice to take some rest and refreshment, aware all the time of the signal from the GPS he had planted on the truck—plotting its course as it stopped for longer periods, moved with less speed, and he gradually gained ground.

  Finland was beautiful; there was no doubt. A land of lakes and 86 percent forest could be little else, and the winding roads that took Bolan through the towering coniferous landscape would have been relaxing at any other time. As it was, he found himself wishing for just one straight stretch on which to put on some speed. His only consolation was that these were the same roads that the truck was negotiating, its handling meaning that, with every klick, he gained a few more precious yards, a few more precious seconds.

  Bolan was thankful that he was traveling in the southern regions of the country, where the climate was more temperate than the unforgiving north. He wasn’t equipped for serious snow and cold, and was thankful he was away from the land of the midnight sun, as the cover of night may be a useful ally. He was also aware that going off-road could cause problems, as the ground in which the firs grew could be boggy and dangerous. Like Louisiana with added cold, he thought, amused.

  All levity was soon dismissed as he reached Karelia and noticed that the GPS tracker had slowed almost to a halt.

  * * *

  HADES AND VISIGOTH stretched their legs, staring around them at the forest that crowded in on them.

  “How did those dweebs ever find this in the first place?” Hades asked. “I mean, what were they doing out here?”

  “Playing pagans in the woods,” Visigoth responded. “Cowardly assholes.”

  “You don’t have to worry about how they found the bunker, just that they did,” Seb growled. He was visibly on edge and noticed from the corner of his eye that Manus gestured to the two Norwegians to chill out. Good. Seb was glad someone had some sense. He had enough to worry him now without having to babysit laborers.

  They had parked the truck as close to the bunker as it could get. The vehicle could go off-road to a degree, but the land here was treacherous, and if the truck sat too long, its wheels would sink into the soil. There was enough space between the trees to negotiate a path from the forest road, but the deeper they went, the less he wanted to risk it.

  His main concern was how long they would have to wait for backup. He had sent coordinates to Estonia, but the trip was as long as that from Norway, and he had had a head start. Seb looked around, smelling the firs and listening for the wildlife that called the forest home. He could never call it that; he felt ill at ease where there were too many hiding places. He couldn’t see a way that the guy who had been bugging them could have followed, but the guy had already turned up twice and cost them Milan, if nothing else. Seb would have liked to have finished him personally for that, but the mission took precedence.

  “Come on, we’ve got work to do,” he snapped, leading them through the covered path that led to the hidden bunker entrance, dropping down to the concealed port.

  Once inside, the smell of death hit them.

  “What is that?” Hades asked, gagging.

  “That is what’s left of the bastards who found this place. If you don’t get a grip, then you’ll be joining them,” Seb snarled.

  “Hey, dude, you don’t talk to us like that,” Visigoth snapped, reaching out and grabbing Seb by the arm.

  Before Visigoth had a chance to realize what was happening, Seb slammed him up against the cold wall, his own arm now reversed and up his back, ready to snap like a twig.

  “Listen, you do as I say and like it. This is not a game, and I am not playing. Understand?”

  “He understands, man,” Hades said in a placating manner. “You do, right, Arne? It’s only that we haven’t got this deep before, and it’s new. Just need to get used to it.”

  Seb let go of Visigoth’s arm and stepped back. The Norwegian slumped to the floor, massaging the life back into his aching limb and trying to keep the fear from his face.

  “You need to learn quickly,” Seb said coldly. “Come on....”

  He led them through the complex, the two Norwegians taking in the surroundings with a blank incomprehension that was part fear, part anxiety. For the first time they were wondering—as Arsneth had before them—if they had gotten themselves in too deep. What had happened to Ripper and Hellhammer? They were supposed to rendezvous at Manus’s house but had failed to show.

  Keeping to the rear was Manus, older than the two musicians, and perhaps a little more worldly wise.

  Silently Seb led them through the kitchen area, making a deliberate detour in order to show them what was left of Severance and the Baron in order to bring his point home. He hoped it had worked. By the time they reached the armory, all three Norwegians were grim-faced and quiet.

  The silence was broken by a whistle from Manus, unable to contain his surprise when faced with the ordnance they were here to strip.

  “What do we do with this?” he asked softly.

  “You,” Seb replied pointedly, “help us get it loaded and away. Then we put it to some use. That will not be your direct concern.”

  It flashed through Manus’s mind that he and the two young musicians may be left behind, like the rotting meat in the kitchens, once their usefulness had been outlived.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Seb checked his cell phone and grunted at the lack of signal. “Right now? We wait.”

  For a miracle, Manus added to himself.

  * * *

  BOLAN LEFT THE RENTAL CAR three klicks from where the GPS signal told him the truck had stopped. It would make intercept impossible, but that was not his aim. He loaded a duffel bag from his case and hoisted it before setting off across the densely packed fir woods. His game plan was simple: ascertain numbers, take them down in the best manner that presented itself, then call in covert U.S. forces to ferry the ordnance—and himself—the hell out.

  The ground was thick, muddy and sucked at his boots as he hiked over the terrain—tree roots and the littered ground covering adding to the treachery. He also knew that there was the possibility of hostile wildlife in the region.

  Although he had the GPS signal logged and on a map app on his smartphone, he noticed that, as he got deeper into the forest and away from the road, the signal weakened considerably. Good points: the backup the truck driver needed would be as isolated as both the truck and the soldier, giving Bolan at least a level playing field. Bad points: he was isolated from contact with U.S. forces or Stony Man.

  Circling through the woods, breathing hard as the terrain sapped the strength from calf muscles already stiffened by the long journey, Bolan came to where the truck had been parked.

  The bunker had to be within reasonable walking distance—it had to be in order to transport the ordnance from bunker to truck. It stood alone. Reinforcements had not arrived.

 
That was good. It gave the soldier time to track their progress to the bunker without being hurried, or forced into a premature interception.

  Their trail was easy to follow. The Norwegians were not professionals, and the merc with them had not considered it necessary to make an effort. Was that because he thought they would be undisturbed, or because he wanted to leave a trail for whoever was to rendezvous?

  That was a thought. Like the first truck, whoever was to join them would have to trek through the woods. Why give them any help? the soldier thought. He covered the trail even as he tracked it. Make it difficult and he could take down one team before it even reached the bunker.

  Having followed the trail to the bunker’s entrance, he could see that the outer doors had been closed. Whoever was inside would be cut off from the immediate outside.

  Just as he wanted it. The Executioner tracked back, covering his own trail, and scouted a spot where he had cover and a 360-degree view of the surrounding woods. Climbing a fir, he settled himself on a thick limb, covered by needle and fir, and waited.

  * * *

  DARKNESS WAS CLOSING in when Bolan heard the distant rumble of a truck negotiating the terrain as it came off-road. It was forty-five degrees to the point where the first truck was parked, and as it moved slowly the soldier figured that he had time to intercept the vehicle before the men inside had a chance to exit and spread across the forest.

  What would be the better option? Take out the truck as a whole and risk the noise attracting the attention of the men in the bunker? Or wait until the men in the approaching truck went EVA and then pick them off one by one?

  Bolan scrambled down the tree and hit the ground running. His path intercepted that of the approaching truck, about the size of the one he had tracked.

  Using the intel he’d gleaned from eliminating the first vehicle, the soldier could bank on facing three men, maybe four at most. The truck was solid enough, and he was light on grenades with real firepower.

  The moon was bright, and the forest canopy offered patches of cover and patches of light to illuminate any target.

  He made his decision and waited for the truck to roll to a halt.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three men got out of the truck, warily looking around at the darkening forest. From a distance, indistinguishable grumbles and complaints littered their conversation, their body language wary and yet also signaling their fatigue as they made their way across the fir carpet of the forest floor. The crunching of frozen fir and moss beneath their feet as it gave way to the spongy ground beneath served both to locate them easily and also to mask any similar sounds that Bolan might make as he moved through the trees, closing on them.

  They left the truck unlocked and unguarded. Bolan was sure of that from the manner in which they had moved away from it and from the complete stillness that emanated from the vehicle. There was no interior light showing, no movement of the suspension betraying a moving presence within. Bolan knew he could concentrate on the three men as they trudged across the forest floor, trying to pick up the track.

  The man in the lead—shorter than the other two, running to fat—carried a tablet that he stared at, his face puzzled in the reflective glow of the screen. He stopped a couple times, changing direction uncertainly to mumbled dissent from the two men in his wake. He had no visible weapon, but a bulge beneath his jacket showed he had some kind of SMG stowed there.

  The man at the back was also short but wiry. He had a Steyr firearm slung across his shoulders and hunched miserably into the puffy jacket that did little to bulk him out. The center man carried a slung MAC-10. He had a beard and wore a woolen hat, constantly looking around with darting birdlike motions of his head.

  The soldier opted to take care of the middle man first. Divide the other two down the middle and also take out the most alert. In order not to betray his position too greatly, he used the Beretta 93R. Even in this fading light, he had a steady-enough hand, and time enough at that, to take careful aim at a head shot. They were moving slowly, as the man in lead was still puzzling over his on-screen map. Body shots were more effective at range, a safer target. This was being given to him on a plate.

  He didn’t need a second opinion. Sight, squeeze, one shot... The birdlike turn of the head brought the bearded man around so that he was looking square in Bolan’s direction. The slug drilled a hole in the center of his forehead, and he slumped to the fir carpet, already dead.

  The effect of the shot was instantaneous. Yelling in fear, anger and warning to each other, the two remaining hardmen scattered. The wiry man at the rear hit the ground, diving around a tree trunk for cover. He rolled and came up firing in the direction of the shot. While the sound of the round was suppressed, the quiet chug had been audible in the quiet, still air.

  Bullets chipped wood where Bolan had been seconds before, but the gunfire was too late; the soldier had already moved on.

  The fat man had dropped the tablet, tugging open his jacket to free the SMG stashed inside. He was Bolan’s next objective. As the guy struggled to find cover and sight the area where the first shot had come from, Bolan had already circled almost 180 around him, coming up from the rear.

  The shots from the Steyr masked the small sounds Bolan made on the forest floor, and he was behind the fat man before he became aware of the soldier’s presence. The soft footfalls behind him became audible as the echo of the Steyr died away. The guy tried to roll and bring his weapon around, but was too slow and too late. Bolan had stashed the Beretta in his waistband at the small of his back and fell on the fat man before he could complete his maneuver. His knee drove his adversary onto his front, Bolan ramming an elbow into his skull, driving his face into the moss and fir so that any attempt to shout a warning was muffled in the dirt and mud.

  Bolan pulled up his quarry’s head again, hearing him suck in breath and choke on the mud that filled his mouth. With both hands he took hold of the guy’s head and twisted, pulling up as he did, his knee skewering the fat man’s spine.

  The crack as his neck snapped resounded in the sudden silence.

  Two down, one left.

  The wiry gunner yelled something. As Bolan moved away from the second corpse, he could hear the last man moving through the forest. Panic and fear had made him reckless. To gain ground quickly he was ignoring the noise he might make.

  Bolan was not so reckless. He could track his prey by the noise he made, and the soldier moved silently through the cover of the forest so that he passed the wiry man and turned, picking him up from behind.

  He opted for the micro Uzi SMG, to make it quick, firing as his prey reached his companion’s body and stopped dead. Bolan stitched him down the back with a three-shot burst. From stopping dead to falling dead had been a matter of no more than two seconds. There was something that always went against the grain about shooting a man from behind, but circumstances did not always allow for decorum.

  Pausing to listen for any sounds that would betray another presence, Bolan tracked back, taking the weapons from the bodies and recovering the tablet. He stowed them in the duffel bag, then stashed that in a tree near the abandoned truck. The MAC-10 he would take with him. The extra firepower of a light SMG could only help. The tablet could contain intel that would be useful when he was clear from this situation.

  After completing those tasks, he disabled the truck. Releasing the hood, he ripped cables and flung them away. It was the quickest way to take the truck out of play; there was no time to waste. So far he had been lucky, and the men in the bunker still waited for their companions. Sooner or later, they would be compelled to venture outside.

  He wanted to be ready for them.

  * * *

  HADES AND VISIGOTH sat silently, staring into space, waiting. Manus paced the bunker, stopping in rooms, distracting himself by trying to imagine what it had been like to live here. Be
tter than their position now undoubtedly. All three of them had nothing to say, and ignoring the stench and keeping their stomachs was taking all their attention. The manner in which Seb was pacing, and the look in his eye whenever it caught either of the two young musicians, also gave them good reason to keep their peace. Seb was a man who was ready to explode at someone, and neither of them wished to be his target. They just wanted to get the ordnance loaded and return to civilization.

  “Screw this,” Seb said eventually. “They’re either lost or something has happened to them. There’s no way of finding out while we’re in here,” he added, looking at his useless cell in disgust. “We need to get loaded up and out of here. As much as we can.” He beckoned to them, and reluctantly they followed him to the armory. Reluctantly because they had to pass the kitchen area, and it took all the willpower either could muster not to gawk at the bloated bodies.

  Seb didn’t give it a second thought. He yelled for Manus to join them. He was focused on what needed to be done. There was a lot of ordnance—far too much for one truck to take—and so he mentally ticked off an inventory of what would be the important items.

  Much of the regular firepower in there was easily obtainable on the outside. SMGs and rifles were not hard to buy. It would save Freedom Right a lot of cash if they could have all the stock—maybe even generate cash if they could sell surplus—and this had been part of the plan. But that had to change. He needed to concentrate on matching that part of the ordnance that was not readily obtainable on the outside to that which was vital to their immediate plans.

  Within the armory were heavy-duty carts that were designed to move the weaponry in and out of the bunker. It would take two men to move a fully laden cart. If Seb stayed in the bunker to load, he figured that between the three of them they could load the truck in about an hour. Manus could be used for a lookout.