Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  Islamov ripped off a burst, and the water a few feet from Bolan chopped with bullet strikes. The Executioner’s grenade flew wide, but Islamov ducked back into the trees as the grenade detonated on the bank. He sank beneath the surface again. He had to do distance or stay a sitting duck every time he surfaced. Bolan opened his hands and let the FAMAS slide from his fingertips and slip down into the darkness. He reached out and swam. The wounds in his sides pulled and reopened as Bolan reached out and opened his stroke. There was a bend in the river fifty yards ahead. From there he could get out of the line of sight and consider his options.

  Bolan swam and surfaced.

  Twice bullets sought him as he breached and sucked air. The third time he came up he had put the bend between himself and Islamov. Bolan surfaced exhaustedly and breaststroked slowly with the current. He couldn’t swim much longer. The rifle slung across his back was a lead weight, and he simply didn’t have it in him. Bolan slowed and trod water. He turned his head to glance back as he heard noise behind him.

  Knock-Knock was in the water and around the bend.

  The Vietnamese had removed his boots and shirt, and abandoned his rifle. He switched from a powerful crawl to a smooth breaststroke that kept his head out of the water as he stroked toward Bolan.

  The legionnaire held his bayonet in his teeth.

  Bolan drew the Beretta. He nearly slid under the surface as he tried to tread water with just his legs and one exhausted arm. The Beretta coughed twice and water sluiced with bullet strikes a yard wide from Knock-Knock’s head. The legionnaire’s face was a grimace around the blade as he came on. Bolan tried to steady himself for another shot but sank. His shot went into the air as the water closed over his head. Bolan strangled as he breathed river. His wounds tore as his lungs convulsed. He lost his pistol as he gagged and clawed to get himself above water.

  Bolan hacked water from his lungs and flailed to stay afloat. Knock-Knock swam on easily, letting the river do his work as he closed in. He did not blink as he watched Bolan’s struggles. The Executioner reached down to his belt. He almost sank again as he drew his bayonet. He put the blade between his teeth and alternately coughed out water and sucked in air around the bitter metal as he waited for Knock-Knock.

  Islamov’s voice boomed from around the bend in the river. “Knock-Knock!”

  Knock-Knock stopped a few yards from Bolan and took the knife from his mouth. “A few more moments, Commander!” His eyes never left Bolan’s as he shouted back. “A few moments!”

  Bolan stopped treading water. He spit out his blade and sank.

  He could hear Knock-Knock diving after him. Bolan desperately unslung the four-foot rifle as he went down. The legionnaire appeared as a dark shape in the brown light above. Bolan’s finger closed around the trigger of the rifle.

  Knock-Knock seized the weapon by the stock and shoved. He had let go of his own blade, as well. He and Bolan struggled with the rifle barred between them. Knock-Knock pushed down relentlessly, forcing Bolan deeper into the brown gloom. The legion commando was at the peak of physical fitness, and still relatively fresh. Bolan was wounded and exhausted.

  All Knock-Knock had to do was hold Bolan down in the dark waters until he died.

  Bolan blew out the air in his straining lungs and went with the steady downward pressure. Bolan’s wounds screamed as he took a momentary respite from the struggle and pulled his knees into his chest. He put his boots into Knock-Knock and then straightened his body with every ounce of might he had left.

  The rifle ripped free from Knock-Knock’s hands.

  The back of Bolan’s head and shoulders scraped the river bottom. Bolan coiled to get his feet under him and exploded upward, thrusting the rifle ahead of him like a spear. The muzzle thudded into something hard and Bolan squeezed the trigger. The weapon twisted in his hands with recoil, and the sound of the high power rifle going off underwater was like a bomb.

  Bolan clawed his way upward for air. His sodden boots gave him no leverage in the water. There was nothing left in his lungs. His life bled out of his sides. Bolan’s vision narrowed into a dark tunnel lit with tiny purple pinpricks of light. His struggle became less intense as his limbs slowed. A strange peace calmed Bolan’s mind. The strain in his lungs eased as he began to die.

  The Executioner’s lungs exploded in a ragged gasp for life as he broke the surface. He dog-paddled feebly and wheezed. By some unconscious instinct, he had retained the rifle.

  Knock-Knock bobbed to the surface and floated past Bolan with the current. He lay facedown in the water, and his blood mixed with the brown water around him. Bolan heard splashes from the shore. The gunshots and grenade strikes in the water had driven off the caimans and the piranhas. The smell of blood was swiftly bringing them back. Knock-Knock was bleeding a river. Bolan himself was leaking like a sieve.

  The Executioner groaned with effort and began swimming for the opposite shore.

  17

  The sun was setting. Beneath the multitiered canopy of the rain forest the darkness of the jungle floor was already growing thick. The birds had settled into their nests for the night. Bats rose up on leathery wings to feast on the insects that were already rising in swarms and eating Bolan alive. Other predators would be rising to stalk the darkness. The jungle was mostly impenetrable by day, and there were no stars in the jungle canopy to guide at night.

  Bolan was fairly certain a town was somewhere to the west. He had hoped to find signs of it, or at least the next river, before the sun fell. He drank the last of his water and ate aspirins from the medical kit. The wounds in his side were hot, and he was waiting for the beginnings of fever.

  Bolan raised his head and sniffed the air.

  He was either already hallucinating or he smelled coffee. He unshouldered his rifle and began walking toward the smell. He was fairly sure that Islamov would not try to entice him to his doom by brewing up late-night frappucinos in the middle of the jungle, but that didn’t mean the legionnaire wasn’t close and could smell it, too. Soon Bolan smelled cigarettes. He could see the orange glow of a campfire through breaks in the trees.

  The soldier squatted outside the light of the fire and observed the campers.

  A black man and an Indian sat on a log in front of the fire. Beyond them the jungle opened up onto a small strip of beach. The long, skinny canoe was dragged up on the sand. The river gleamed in the last rays of the sun beyond. Coffee brewed in a cast iron frying pan set on two hoops of metal over the fire. The Indio was expertly cleaning a fish. The Creole was cleaning lengths of wire with a rag. A double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees.

  Bolan eyed the ocelot and jaguar pelts stretched across homemade drying racks and knew the two men’s business.

  The Executioner stepped into the camp.

  The two men froze. The Creole’s hands lowered an inch toward his shotgun and stopped as he saw the high-powered rifle in Bolan’s hands. He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

  Bolan glanced at the Indio and his fish. “You having piranha?”

  The Indio’s knife stayed frozen in his hand as he nodded slowly.

  The Creole eyed Bolan’s shredded, soaked and bloodstained clothing. “It looks like the piranha had you.”

  “They tried.” Bolan smiled wearily. “So did the caimans. So did the legion.”

  Bolan knew he played the right card as the two men sat up straighter. Poaching was good in the area, but that was because most men poaching protected animals did not want to run into foreign legion jungle warfare patrols. Being beaten, robbed, bound and left for the authorities was probably the best they could hope for. The Indio lowered his fish and his knife. “They are operating in the area?”

  Bolan pointed back the way he had come. “East, on the other side of the last river.”

  The poachers glanced at each other and did mental calculations. They looked back at Bolan and his scope-sighted rifle.

  “Where’s the nearest town?” Bolan asked.

  The Indio
lifted his jaw toward the river. “Saul is nearest. About thirty kilometers, up river.”

  “You’d better go,” Bolan said.

  The two men nodded and then froze as Bolan reached into his pocket. They leaned forward again as Bolan produced a somewhat abused and waterlogged money clip. Despite its battered state, the poachers could not help but appreciate how thick it was.

  “I’ll pay you a lot of money to take me with you.”

  BOLAN FED more coins into the pay phone. French Guiana did not have the most technologically sophisticated telephone exchange, but it was awfully strange for all circuits to be busy at seven o’clock in the morning.

  Something was wrong.

  Bolan gave the machine the last of his coins. Calling the Farm internationally from a public phone was a huge breach of security, but time was running out, and secure satellite links were few and far between in the Guianan rain forest. Bolan breathed a sigh of relief as the line began to make international beeps and chimes. A large, Creole policeman in a blue-and-white uniform slowly motored down the cobblestone lane on a very old BMW motorcycle.

  The line picked up. Bolan recognized the voice of one of the secretaries who screened nonsecure calls the Farm received, and then routed them or had them traced. “Hello, how may I help you?”

  “Ellie, this is Striker. I have some problems.”

  Ellie paused. “I’m going to need verification.”

  “Striker, call sign—” Bolan paused as the policeman puttered slowly by. He took in Bolan’s ragged appearance as he passed. The policeman suddenly whipped his head back around as he spotted the rifle leaning in the corner of the phone booth. Bolan grimaced. There wasn’t going to be time for security codes and clearance. “Contact Hal! Give him this message! Launch at Kourou must be stopped! Tell—”

  The policeman spun his motorcycle in a circle. He dropped the ancient bike on its side and slapped leather. He came up with an equally ancient looking Lebel revolver. “Arrêt!”

  Bolan froze and spoke slowly and clearly. “Tell Hal…broken arrow.”

  The policeman gestured with his revolver at the phone. “Stop.”

  “Tell Hal broken arrow. Repeat, broken arrow.”

  The police cocked back the hammer of his pistol.

  Ellie spoke rapidly over the line. “Striker! Please confirm—”

  Bolan slowly hung up the phone and put up his hands. “Bonjour, Officer.”

  The policeman cocked his head slightly. “An American?”

  “Yes, I was hunting upriver. My canoe capsized.” Bolan kept his hands up but glanced down at his tattered condition and shrugged. “The piranha nearly made a meal of me. I was in the jungle for forty-eight hours. Some fisherman found me and brought me in a few minutes ago.”

  The policeman stared at Bolan’s shredded and bloodstained garments.

  “I was trying to call the United States to tell my wife I am all right, but nearly all the circuits are busy. What is happening?”

  “It is a terrible thing.” The policeman nodded and lowered his pistol. “The U.S. Embassy in Suriname has been bombed. I am sure the switchboards in both countries have been flooded with international calls.”

  Bolan’s insides went cold. He had every faith that it was an attempt to deny him assets and direct U.S. Intelligence attention away from Kourou. The policeman smiled. “You say two fisherman brought you in a few minutes ago?”

  Bolan nodded. “Yes, they were most helpful.”

  “If it was the two men I saw on the docks a few moments ago, those men are poachers and smugglers. You are very lucky to be alive.” The policeman’s smile turned totally professional. “I will need to see your identification.”

  “Certainly, Officer, I—” Bolan’s left hand shot and seized the policeman’s gun hand. His right thumb shot into the notch between the officer’s collarbones and violently compressed his trachea. The policeman’s eyes flew wide as he gagged. Bolan swung his boot up between the officer’s legs. As the man folded, Bolan chopped the edge of his hand into the side of his neck.

  Early in the morning there was very little moving in the frontier jungle town of Saul save the morning fog off the river.

  Bolan dragged the unconscious policeman down an alley. He stripped him, gagged him, bound him and put him in trash bin. The police uniform was a size too large as Bolan shrugged into it but it would pass casual inspection. The soldier strapped on the policeman’s belt and revolver. He reclaimed his rifle and went out onto the street. Bolan picked up the ancient BMW motorcycle from the cobblestones. The bike coughed blue smoke as he kicked it back into life. It wasn’t a Ducati by any stretch of the imagination, but it would have to serve.

  Bolan checked his watch. The hands swept unstoppably toward the launch hour.

  It was 150 miles to Kourou.

  18

  Kourou Space Center

  “He is alive.”

  Thana Al-Habsi’s knuckles whitened around her cell phone. “Really.”

  “If the jungle has not killed him—” Islamov’s voice sounded exhausted “—he will be coming.”

  “What is the status of your team?” the woman asked.

  “All dead.”

  “Dead?” The woman was stunned. “He killed all of you?”

  “All, save myself. It took me some time to get out the jungle, and I had to avoid the Jungle Warfare camp and my fellow legionnaires.”

  Irar Sahad came over and leaned in close to Thana. “What is happening?”

  “Islamov’s team has been annihilated.” Thana shook her head. “He says the American is coming.”

  Sahad took the phone. “Islamov, you say the American is coming. How could he possibly reach the space center in time?”

  “At this point, I will put nothing past him. If he reached a town alive…” Islamov paused. “French Guiana is not such a large place, and the distance is not insurmountable.”

  “But what can he do?” Sahad shook his head. “He is but one man.”

  “That one man, wounded and exhausted, slaughtered my entire team, by himself, in the jungle.” Islamov’s voice went steely. “He will be coming.”

  Sahad’s teeth clenched. He’d had had quite enough of the American, as well as Islamov’s and Thana’s failures to figure out who he was, much less capture or kill him. Sahad looked at the clock on the wall. Living or dead, the American was now a nonissue. “The French foreign legion is actively hunting him in connection with Commandant Marmion’s death. The police are looking for him, as well, and with the bombing attack on the U.S. Embassy, the roads are swarming with soldiers and police. We have received no word of the U.S. government demanding a stop to the launch. Even if he has managed to contact his people, it will take far too long politically for anything to be done. The French government will not be pleased by demands to stop a launch because of wild American stories. Particularly if the launch involves one of their most sophisticated new observation satellites. They will find that very suspicious, far too suspicious to suspend the launch, and should inquiries be made, everything here at the space center will appear perfectly normal.”

  Sahad glanced at the clock again with great satisfaction. “And there is no time for any of that. So what can he do?”

  “He will come.”

  “So he comes!” Sahad scoffed. “Security here at Kourou has been quadrupled. What is this lone American going to do? Assault the space center by himself?”

  Islamov spoke slowly and clearly over the phone, as if he were trying to explain something very important to a willful child. “The American will be coming. He will be coming to stop the launch. He will be coming for both of you.”

  Sahad paused as a direct threat to his life finally registered.

  He lowered the phone as Feresteh Mohammedkhani came through the double doors of the lounge. She smiled.

  “There you are, Dr. Seth. Everyone is looking for you.” She looked at her watch in excitement. “We launch within the hour. You are needed in the control room.”<
br />
  “Thank you, Feresteh.” Sahad nodded toward Thana. “Miss Erulin wished to discuss some last-minute security measures she wishes instituted on the launch area.”

  Thana nodded. Sahad smiled benevolently at her. For all her brilliance, the Persian bitch suspected nothing.

  Thana smiled at Mohammedkhani, as well. “You must be very excited. With Dr. Poulain in hospital, this will be your first launch command. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, though I wish Dr. Poulain were here.” The rocket scientist’s face fell. “Have we had any word of…?”

  It took Thana an effort of will to keep the smile of cruelty from her face. “No, we are looking for the site of his helicopter crash. I will let you know as soon as I learn anything.”

  “Thank you.” Dr. Mohammedkhani looked at her watch. “We must return to the main control room, now.”

  Sahad nodded. “We will be with you presently.”

  They watched her leave, and Dr. Seth handed the phone to Thana in irritation. “Here. You talk to him.”

  Thana took the phone. “Come as quickly as you can.”

  “I am on my way.” Islamov’s voice dropped low. “Was that Dr. Mohammedkhani?”

  Thana smiled. “Yes, she is very excited about her launch. But she is worried about her American boyfriend.”

  “I am worried about him, too. Once the rocket is successfully launched, kill her.”

  Thana’s smile grew predatory. “With pleasure.”

  THE BMW WAS BURNING OIL. Her temperature needle was firmly locked against the post in the red, but Bolan had no time to nurse the ancient iron along. All she had to do was survive another twenty minutes. The region was in an uproar with the bombing of the U.S. Embassy. Soldiers and police were everywhere.

  One policeman tearing along the road on a motorcycle raised no attention whatsoever.

  A simple salute had allowed him to go around the last three roadblocks without stopping. Bolan weaved through downtown traffic. His uniform and vehicle had allowed him to burn nonstop all the way from Saul to Kourou. His uniform would not be enough to let him slide through the gates of the space center. The minute he opened his mouth his ruse would be over.