Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  Dutronc suddenly fell across Sahad in a limp heap. The French scientist was pulled off of Sahad instantly, and a hand grabbed him by the arm and firmly yanked him upright. Dutronc lay dead at Sahad’s feet with dark hole in the back of his head. Sahad blinked as Thana raised her pistol and aimed over his shoulder. The pistol clicked, and a woman’s voice screamed. The ruby-red beam of the laser sight dipped, and the scream was cut short as the pistol cycled.

  Thana scooped up Sahad’s weapon and thrust it back into his hands. “None escape. They all die. Then we extract and link up with Islamov.”

  BOLAN OPENED his eyes. The explosions stopped as quickly as they had started. He was somewhat shocked to be alive. Bolan gasped out a breath and coughed at the acrid chemical stench and black smoke that filled the air. Bits of metal began raining from the sky and tinkling against the smoking roof of the bunker. He yawned against the ringing in his ears. He had given himself a 50-50 chance of surviving the explosion. A low-order detonation of the bomb would have been something else entirely. Bolan peered up from the stairwell. The two armored personnel carriers were scorched black on the outside and smoking. Bolan figured he had about five seconds before the legionnaires collected themselves and began spilling out with their rifles.

  Through the pounding in his skull, Bolan became aware of gunfire from inside the control bunker.

  The door flung open, and a bleeding man tumbled out screaming. “They’re killing everyone! They’re—”

  His head snapped forward, and he fell with a bullet in the back of his skull.

  Bolan dived through the door.

  A man and a woman lay dead where they had tried to flee. Dr. Babu Seth moved through the main control room with an automatic carbine. He walked past the chairs and desks and methodically fired short bursts into the cowering scientists and technicians.

  The range was long for the ancient, fixed sight revolver.

  “Seth!” Bolan roared as he dived behind a console.

  The scientist ceased his slaughter and looked about wildly for the voice that had thundered his name. Bolan ran crouching along a bank of computers. A monitor cracked and exploded near his skull as a high-explosive round hit it. He ignored it as he threw himself into a roll and came up with the Lebel revolver in a two-handed hold.

  Sahad blinked in surprise as Bolan popped up ten feet in front of him.

  The Lebel barked in Bolan’s hands. He put two rounds into the scientist’s stomach. The man grunted and his automatic carbine fired a burst. Bolan raised his aim and fired two more rounds into his chest.

  Irar Sahad staggered and his weapon strobed into the ceiling. His mouth worked as the five holes in the front of his lab coat suddenly began to stain red. Sahad dropped his weapon and fell forward.

  Feresteh Mohammedkhani screamed. “Down!”

  Bolan threw himself to one side. The red dot of a laser sight swept past where his head had been and a snap of orange fire cracked where the .32-caliber exploding bullet detonated against the counter.

  Bolan had one round left in the Lebel. There were no more reloads. “Where is she!”

  “Near the observation windows! She’s—” Her voice cut off with a shriek as an exploding round tore into the computer console on the desk over her head.

  Bolan leaped up into the line of fire.

  Jolie Erulin was already whipping her weapon back toward him. Bolan went for a head shot, but the range was twenty yards. Erulin jerked as Bolan’s round hit her high in the shoulder. She backed up a step with the impact and resumed her shooting stance.

  Bolan threw himself behind cover again as exploding rounds sought him.

  The Executioner was out of bullets. The reload loops on the police belt were empty. He was down to handcuffs and a nightstick. Bolan considered his knife. It was no chance at all, but Erulin had to be stopped, or at least kept occupied until the legionnaires stormed the control room and stopped her.

  “Stand up.” The woman’s voice interrupted Bolan’s thought. “Stand up or I kill her.”

  Mohammedkhani made a noise of pain as the double agent did something to her.

  She was going to kill them both anyway, but Bolan stood. As he did, the desk he crouched under came up with him. The computer, monitor and printer on the desk crashed to the floor and shattered and sparked. The drawers fell open and files and computer disks flew everywhere. Bolan tilted the desk before him as a shield and charged, slamming the desk into Erulin like a battering ram.

  She was thrown back against the window. Bolan grabbed the nightstick from his belt and cracked the turned wood across her forearm. The pistol fell to the floor as her fingers spasmed. Bolan’s backhand blow struck Erulin’s temple. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell as if she had been shot.

  Bolan knelt beside Mohammedkhani. She had taken an exploding bullet in the bicep and was bleeding badly. He ripped off the police belt and cinched the wide leather band over the wound to compress it. She moaned and brought a hand to her bleeding scalp. “You have to get out of here,” she whispered.

  The Executioner nodded. There was still one last task. He glanced at a dead technician a few feet away. The man was much shorter than Bolan but overweight. There were two bloody holes in the front of his lab coat.

  Bolan removed the coat and pulled it over the blue police uniform he wore. Bolan took the dead man’s badge and looped it over his neck

  Mohammedkhani sucked in a panicked breath.

  Bolan whirled in his crouch.

  “Down! Everyone down! No one move!”

  Bolan palmed his knife as legionnaires stormed into the control room.

  The surviving scientists all began screaming at once. Bolan cradled the wounded rocket scientist in his arms. A legionnaire with a fixed bayonet appeared over them and ran his eyes over Bolan’s bloody lab coat and the woman’s wounds.

  Bolan identified himself. “Dutronc.” He jerked his head down. “Dr. Mohammedkhani.”

  The legionnaire nodded sharply. “Are there any more terrorists?”

  Mohammedkhani let out a groan. “I saw someone with a gun. He ran downstairs, toward the lavatory.”

  The legionnaire shouted above the tumult. “One more possible! The lavatories!” Legionnaires rushed to put the door in a crossfire. Others fixed rifle grenades. The legionnaire glanced down quickly. “Can you walk?”

  They nodded.

  The legionnaire jerked his rifle toward the back door. “Go. Get out of here!”

  They joined the stream of escaping scientists and walked out of the bunker into the daylight. Thick clouds of black smoke filled the sky. The Ariane-5 had been obliterated. The launch pad and the field around it were scorched. The frame of the gantry listed on its massive rollers. Armored vehicles, army trucks, ambulances and police cars were tearing toward the bunker from every direction across the launch field. Bolan supported Mohammedkhani as they limped out onto the field. She clutched a kerchief to her scalp. Her face was pale, but her gray eyes were focused and clear.

  Bolan glanced up into the black clouds obscuring the sun. “Islamov has a helicopter.”

  “Islamov?” Mohammedkhani blinked at him.

  “Ilyanov. He was the ringleader in the legion and a wanted terrorist in Russia. His real name is Islamov.”

  “So he got away?”

  “Not yet.” Bolan stared south across the launch field toward where the solid wall of the jungle started again. “I know where he’s going.”

  She sighed. “So you need a helicopter.”

  “I do.”

  She looked past the launch field toward the airstrip. “We have three of them here for liaison duty at any given time. You think you can steal one?”

  Helicopters were already thundering across the field. One was military, one was police, and two were medical that had flown in from the capital. Stealing one would be easy. The question was would French Mirage fighter jets come screaming up at Mach 2 and blow him out of the sky ten minutes after he got airborne.

&
nbsp; There wasn’t much choice. Islamov wasn’t leaving French Guiana alive. “Yeah, I can steal one.”

  20

  Bolan banked the helicopter and took a slow orbit around the jungle resupply camp. A red helicopter like his own sat in the tiny clearing. Its bubble canopy was pocked with several of Bolan’s bullet strikes. Blood smeared the canopy from within. The pilot was slumped forward in his seat. The passenger seat was empty.

  There was no room in the small clearing, so Bolan set his helicopter down in the pond. The skids sank in the mud and the water, and water spilled into the cockpit as he shoved open his door. There was a chance the helicopter would not be able to take off again unless it was dug out.

  That was the least of Bolan’s concerns.

  He slogged through the pond and went and examined Islamov’s helicopter. Bolan noticed bloodstains on the copilot seat and red smears on the handle of the copilot’s door. He looked around the grass and leaves and followed Islamov’s footprints. Here and there were scattered drops of blood.

  Islamov was wounded.

  Bolan walked into the shade of the camouflage netting beneath the trees. The door to the bunker was open. He went inside and did a quick survey. There had been an opened rifle crate the last time he had been inside the bunker with three FAMAS rifles in it. One of those rifles was now missing. A crate of ration packs had been torn open and a number of the packages were gone as well. Bolan took one of the FAMAS rifles for himself and grabbed a web belt with six loaded magazines in their pouches. He took a legion knapsack out of its packaging and loaded it with rations. He took a pair of canteens and filled them from plastic water bladders from another supply crate Islamov had opened. He walked across the bunker to the little table knowing what he would find.

  The suitcase containing the euros was open and empty.

  There was also blood on the little table and an opened medical kit missing its field dressings. Bolan came up out of the bunker and frowned as he looked into the nearly solid wall of jungle before him. Islamov was wounded. Bolan grimaced. So was he. The lacerations in Bolan’s sides ached and burned. He figured the big Russian had about an hour’s head start. He checked the topographic map he had taken from the helicopter.

  Islamov would head south. Approximately eighteen miles southeast was the Camopi River. It ran southwest and would take him directly to the Brazilian border. The nearest city on the map was Talima, another 124 miles away. That was more distance than a wounded man on foot in the jungle was likely to make, but Bolan was sure there were villages across the border that were not on any map, and he was also sure Islamov knew where some of those villages were. The villagers there were more than likely to give a heavily armed man with wads of cash whatever aid and assistance he required, no questions asked.

  There was no choice but to run Islamov down. Once the Russian reached the river, he would be gone.

  Bolan covered the blue police uniform he had commandeered with an olive drab rain poncho and smeared his hands and face with black and green camouflage paint from another crate. He was about as prepared as he was going to get.

  Bolan glanced at the map and at the compass dial in his watch to orient himself, then walked into the rain forest.

  ISLAMOV WAS CLOSE, and it was obvious the big Russian also suspected that he was being followed. He was taking care to hide his tracks. Islamov was wounded, and he would not wear himself out trying to outpace Bolan. He would pick his spot, and then he would turn and fight.

  It was time to end the game.

  The Executioner crept through the undergrowth. The light became brighter ahead, and he came to a clearing. It was about as long as a football field but narrower. Rock replaced the jungle floor. The rock had broken and smoothed over thousands of years of flooding, but the arboreal giants could not find enough earth to take root and grass and reeds had taken had taken over. The morning mist hung over the clearing.

  Islamov waited for him in the long grass. Bolan could feel it.

  He could be a hundred yards away, or he could be six feet from Bolan’s face. Bolan reached back into his pack and pulled out one of the four rifle grenades that came with the standard French assault load and clicked it on to the muzzle of his weapon. He would have to flush out his prey.

  He would have to make the first move.

  Bolan raised his rifle and fired. He aimed toward the middle of the clearing and off to the right. Before the grenade detonated, Bolan had loaded a second and fired it off to the left. He fired his third grenade near the opposite end of the clearing. Monkeys and birds shrieked and howled, but no answering fire came back. Islamov’s self-control was admirable. He knew French grenades were issued in four packs. He would know exactly where his adversary was now, but he would not shoot and expose himself. If he missed, Bolan would return fire with a grenade, and all Bolan would have to be was close.

  Islamov was waiting for Bolan’s fourth grenade.

  The Executioner gave it to him.

  Bolan dived as a burst of rifle fire tore through the branches around him. It came from close to where the fourth grenade had detonated. He rolled up to one knee and fired a burst that ripped through the long grass and rolled again. A burst answered back and Bolan smiled to himself. He had gambled correctly. Islamov had not equipped himself with rifle grenades. The big Russian had not expected to be followed. He was on foot, alone in the jungle, and had to make sacrifices on how much weight he could carry. Food and water would be his main concern.

  And all those euros took up a lot of room.

  Bolan crept forward with infinite slowness. Both men were veterans of the jungle. Each knew that one false step could kill, and the slightest sound would betray. Bolan crept, froze and listened. A few yards away the Russian was doing the same. Each was waiting for the other to make a fatal mistake.

  Both men froze. Rotor blades beat the air. Bolan pressed himself down, but he knew his place in the grass was perfectly visible from above. A troop transport in French army colors thundered over the clearing followed by a second. The two helicopters quickly separated. They began a slow, counterclockwise orbit around the open wound in the jungle. The French foreign legion door gunners leaned out of the helicopters on their chicken straps. The muzzles of their machine guns trained on the two hunters.

  The helicopters slowed and dropped to a few feet above the grass. A squad of legionnaires leaped out of each aircraft and deployed toward Bolan and Islamov. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Bolan slowly stood. Islamov stood ten yards away. He had already thrown down his rifle. The Executioner tossed away his rifle and decided to wait to see how the cards fell. The legionnaires surrounded them. Their faces were grim masks of stone.

  Bolan recognized Doherty. The look on the Irishman’s face told Bolan he was about to be dealt a very crappy hand.

  Bolan looked over at Islamov. He wore civilian clothing. He looked like an ecotourist save for the military web gear he wore over it. His right thigh was bandaged where one of Bolan’s revolver rounds had hit him. The wound had bled through the bandaging and then dried. There were fresh wounds on his left arm and face where some shrapnel had torn him. The Russian reeled exhaustedly on his feet. He still managed to grin at Doherty.

  “Hey, Mikey.”

  Doherty’s face remained an iron mask as he regarded Valentjin Islamov. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “You are out of uniform.”

  “Hey.” Islamov struggled to remain standing. “How about a head start? What do you say?”

  “You’ve already had one.”

  “Oh? Give me another one anyway. For old times’ sake.” The Russian leveled his blue-eyed gaze. “I taught you everything you know. You owe me, and besides, look at me.” Islamov spread his hands. He looked like death warmed over. “The jungle will finish me off in another day.”

  “They’d just send another team.” The Irishman’s face stayed stone. “The legion would hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

  “So?” Islamov shrugged. “What do you
care?”

  Anger kindled behind Doherty’s eyes. “You murdered Marmion.”

  Islamov did not bother to deny it.

  Doherty’s voice lost all emotion. “You betrayed the legion.”

  Islamov stared into space.

  Doherty took a long breath. It was true. The Russian was committed to his cause. He was willing to die for it. He regretted nothing.

  Doherty looked over at Bolan. “Marmion respected and you, and despite my personal feelings, so do I.”

  Bolan accepted that. “How did you find us?”

  “Dr. Mohammedkhani contacted me. She told us how you suspected Islamov would go to the jungle resupply camp. She said you were wounded.” He shrugged. “She thought you might need help. From that location, your only logical path was fairly easy to determine.”

  Bolan let out a long breath. The road to hell was paved with good intentions.

  Doherty squared his shoulders. “You have destroyed an Ariane rocket, compromised the space center’s security, and that of Action Direct. I personally believe that you had your reasons, and acted in the interests of the United States and France. But you have created quite an ugly mess for France. We have orders from Paris to clean that mess up. Including all loose ends.” Doherty genuinely looked sorry. “Our orders are quite explicit.”

  Bolan considered the bayonet clipped to his web belt and the twelve automatic rifles covering him.

  Islamov’s eyes rolled back in his head with exhaustion. He fell to his hands and knees gasping. The rifles covering Bolan rose to hold him in place. Doherty spoke bitterly. “Get up. You stand up and we’ll finish it here, quick. If not we take you back, you are interrogated the hard way and then the firing squad.”

  Islamov grunted with effort and pushed himself up to his knees. As he did, the pin of the NATO standard fragmentation grenade fell to the grass. Only Islamov’s little finger held the spring-loaded safety lever in place. Islamov’s bloodshot eyes were smiling. “Fuck you, Mikey.”