Super Bolan - 001 - Stony Man Doctrine

by Don Pendleton

  They dragged the corpse up the steps into the doorway and stripped him of his Kalashnikov. Encizo buckled on a canvas vest of long "banana" magazines for the AKM and slung the auto rifle over his shoulder.

  Footsteps passed the doorway. They saw two Cubans patrolling with AKMs in their hands. Encizo whispered to Bolan, "I place the bugs."

  Nodding, Bolan unhooked the belt pouch. He took out the multi-band receiver and miniature tape recorder, and put the four coin-sized micro-transmitters in Encizo's hand. Encizo glanced from the doorway, then slipped away without a sound.

  Checking the receiver's volume control, Bolan flicked on the power and heard the faint scratching and clicking of the transmitters in one of Encizo's pockets. Crouched in the doorway of the rotting barracks, his H&K silenced submachine loaded and locked, Bolan waited.

  Encizo forced himself to walk in a natural swagger. Despite his familiarity with the language and mannerisms of his enemies, despite his easy killing of the sentry, he knew the danger he faced. In the lighted parade ground beyond the rows of barracks, he saw men and women waiting. From time to time, he heard voices inside the barracks to either side. Footsteps creaked on the old floorboards.

  He dropped to one knee for an instant, still a distance from the office building, and looked through the airspace beneath it. The camou-fatigued legs of sentries paced on the opposite side of the barracks. If they continued around the building, he would meet them face-to-face. In his silhouette and voice, he seemed like one of them, but if they checked him with a flashlight ....

  Moving quickly, he closed the distance to the lighted window of the office. Shouting continued within. He heard a fist pound a desk. Snapping looks in all directions, Encizo ducked into the airspace and crawled into the stinking darkness. Strips of light glowed here and there-above him. Feet crossed the floor. The slashes of light disappeared as the boards bowed, flexed closed.

  Snatches of multilingual conversation came to him. Then the argument continued in accented English. He heard several accents, could only recognize Spanish. What other languages did he hear? Arabic? Russian?

  He searched the floorboards above him. Light came through a hole where a knot had fallen from a board long ago. Looking up, he saw the crumbling edge of the linoleum and a peeling ceiling. Stripping the plastic from the self-adhesive mini-transmitter, he jammed it into the knothole. A handful of mud sealed the hole.

  Clicking his hand-radio, he alerted Bolan, then whispered, "First one in place."

  Bolan switched on the receiver and recorder. He plugged his earphone into the receiver and listened to what was happening in the office.

  " . . . I will repeat for the tenth time. The interception of the shipment from Syria has betrayed the duplicity of the fascists. Even as they attempt to negotiate, to bribe us with promises, they attack our allies. There is nothing to debate. We must stand fast in our resolve. They will not capitulate to history without the death-blows of our—"

  "There is no question of resolve," another voice interrupted. "We will do as agreed, when we receive the order. Not until—"

  "The order will come! But how will the front-line units receive it? We must issue instructions now, not later! Now! Tell them to strike on the day as planned. If we do not order the destruction of the city now, the fascists could jam all frequencies, cut all lines, spread confusion and lies to deceive our fighters."

  "Tonight they travel. Then they prepare their weapons, and then they wait for the order. Perhaps the Americans will surrender. I will not go beyond my instructions—"

  "These are new instructions!"

  "You did not bring the code. I do not know if you are authorized to command me. . ."

  Bolan's hand-radio clicked again. Transferring the earphone, he heard the shouting continue through the hand-radio as Encizo whispered, "I put the second one on the window. Did you hear what they said?"

  "Affirmative. We hit them."

  "How? All we got is these little guns and knives." "We go back for the heavy weapons."

  "We can't. The Cubanos, the ones talking in Spanish, they say they are late, they talk of leaving immediately. They will escape."

  "Forget the other microphones. Soft probe cancelled."

  "How can we attack?"

  "There is no alternative."

  In the minute that he waited for Encizo to return, Bolan calculated the numbers against them. He had counted twenty-plus terrorists at the cars and trucks. More soldiers waited in the barracks, or patrolled the camp. And he knew nothing about the airfield beyond the camp. Could there be more terrorists there?

  Two men—and a woman—with only light weapons against a multinational terrorist force of unknown numbers. Bolan did not like it. He had more weapons in the Cadillac, but to return to the hidden car risked losing the chance to hit the terrorist teams before they disappeared into the crowded millions of a distant city.

  How could they even up the odds?

  Like a shadow with eyes, Encizo returned. His commander's whispered instructions did not surprise him.

  "We'll capture what weapons we can," said Bolan, "and reduce the numbers with the silenced guns until it starts."

  "Two of us, against all of them? In this junkyard? It will be a miracle if—"

  "There is no alternative. We'll never find those terrorists once they're in Boston or Detroit or Washington. Monitor those goons. I'll buzz Flor and brief her."

  Bolan passed the receiver and recorder to Encizo, then clicked his hand-radio.

  "No change," she answered. "They stand at the cars. Waiting. They do nothing."

  "Situation has changed. We've come too late for information. Hold your position. When the fire fight starts, you're on your own. Hit everything that moves. We will not, repeat, will not go into your field of fire. Retreat to the car if we don't return."

  "You're attacking them? But you left the rockets and grenades in the car!"

  "We can't risk going back to the car," said Bolan's voice. "The terrorists are in motion. We stop them here or they're gone."

  "Then I will stop them!" said Flor. "I will block the road while you come out."

  "You alone? Not smart."

  "Yes, it is stupid. One woman against many cars of Communists. Almost as stupid as two brave men against an army. But there is only one road out. I can block it. I can give you time."

  "If they have a plane, the leaders will escape—"

  "We have the car's transmitter," said Flor. "We can alert the Coast Guard, say they are dopers. You are wasting time. Hurry and we can make it. It is only two miles back to the car. We can run it in a few minutes."

  Encizo grabbed his arm. "They are radioing their leader for confirmation of the new orders. The captain of these Cubans will not change his instructions unless he gets the orders from 'the Russian' himself. He said that, 'the Russian.' "

  Pausing for an instant, Encizo listened, then relayed new information. "And they must translate it into code! Luck just came to us. We have time."

  Keying his hand-radio, Bolan informed Flor. "We just got a reprieve. A few minutes. Move to the road and wait for our signal."

  "Thank God! Dead heroes do no one any good."

  They retraced their route quickly. When they came upon two sentries, Encizo ordered the sentries to put out their cigarettes, then he and Bolan continued on in the darkness without breaking stride. They jogged across the cleared ground, thrashed through the grass and brush beyond the perimeter. They did not need to signal Flor. She hissed them to a halt.

  "Why not ring bells? I heard you a hundred yards away! Here, take all this—"

  She passed them her Uzi and the silenced H&K, and pulled off her heavy Kevlar windbreaker. "I will run to the car. I run miles every morning. If you guard the road, I can run without looking back—"

  "Good idea," Bolan agreed.

  She sprinted away without another word.

  "Is there a word in Spanish for female macho?" Bolan asked his Cuban compatriot.

  "They
are fighting!" Encizo monitored the mini-mike receiver, a hand cupped over the earphone he wore. He strained to interpret the chaos of sounds and voices. Finally, he turned to Bolan.

  "They killed the Cuban captain and his lieutenant," he said.

  "What?"

  "Knifed them, beat them. The Arab and the Oriental are laughing. I cannot understand what they say. I think they talk in Arabic. Someone else—"

  Encizo listened again. "Now they're speaking Spanish. They say the captain they just killed had lost his nerve. That he could not follow his orders. It is one of the other Cubans they talk to. The Cuban asks if they must abandon the war against the Americans. No! The war will go on. Without mercy. Without quarter. The Oriental says he will talk to the freedom fighters. This Oriental is the worst yet—he says they will gas the cities. He goes to give them the orders to do so."

  What was it he had read once, Bolan thought, what was the phrase? "The children of the Revolution devour one another." These revolutionaries, these "front-line fighters," murdered one another in their lust to murder Americans. They had abandoned the goal of their conspiracy—the bloodless evacuation of all American forces stationed in allied countries, leaving the few free nations of the world naked against Soviet power—in order to satiate their psychotic fantasies of mass murder.

  When the President had summarized the evidence linking the conspiracy to the KGB, Bolan understood the motive: a quick Soviet victory over NATO and the other American alliances. The end of the cold war, the end of the propaganda war, the end of the wars of national liberation. Victory without casualties to the Red Army, victory without the destruction of Soviet military bases, victory without the threat of incineration of Russian cities.

  But now? What had they overheard? Did the Soviets think they could murder entire American cities without risking the most horrible revenge in history? The knowledge of this madness stunned him.

  "Amigo!" Encizo said. "Listen.... "

  A voice blared from a loudspeaker. The Spanish drifted through the torrid night. Feedback shrieked. The volume of the loudspeaker fell. Encizo translated.

  "His Spanish is not good. He says ... the fascist Imperialists have betrayed the negotiations. They must wage war without quarter. The front-line fighters are to go to their secret places. . no thought of mercy. Think of the martyred cities of my country, Hiroshima, Nagasaki. The martyr cities of Hanoi, Beirut. Total merciless war. Death to the monster."

  Cheers rose.

  "Yeah," Encizo agreed. "Death to the monster. But he's it."

  "No," Bolan corrected. "He's a leader. We have to take him. Alive. He said 'the cities of my country'? He's Japanese."

  Amber parking lights bobbed and wove toward them. They rushed to the Cadillac as Flor braked, simultaneously hitting the remote-control trunk switch. Bolan jerked heavy cases from the trunk's interior. Stripping off their bandoleers of 9mm magazines, they threw the ammunition and silenced Heckler & Koch submachine guns into the trunk.

  Bolan and Encizo armed themselves for the assault. Black Kevlar battle armor, fitted with steel trauma plates, protected their torsos, groins and throats. One of the Stony Man teams had battle-proved the armor; in Egypt, only weeks before, Carl Lyons took a point-blank AKM burst to the chest, but suffered not even a bruise.

  They buckled on bandoleers of thirty-round 5.56mm magazines, loaded with alternating rounds of SS 109 steel-cored NATO and hollow points. Pouches of 40mm steel-wire fragmentation and white phosphorous grenades hung on their web belts. Bolan tore open a case of the new Italian MU-50G controlled-effect grenades, and filled his thigh pockets and the pockets of his battle armor. He passed the case to Encizo and Flor.

  Both men loaded their M-16 / M-203 hybrid assault rifle/ grenade launchers over their shoulders. Flor took all the bandoleers of ammunition for the DEA Uzis, then buckled a web belt with a Colt Government Model .45 and ten magazines around her waist, and jammed her Detonics in a back pocket of her jump suit.

  "We ready?" Flor asked them, her voice quiet.

  Shaking his head, Bolan pulled a last suitcase from the trunk. It contained six Armburst rockets. Remanufactured for antipersonnel effect, the armor-piercing warheads had been replaced by RDX—an explosive with a rate of expansion of twenty-five thousand feet per second—laminated with four layers of notched steel wire.

  "Now we're ready. Flor, you drive. Phoenix Two, up front with the rockets. You pull the safeties, pass them back to me as we charge the camp. I want to hit them with all the rockets before we go through the gate. And we watch for the Japanese one. We want him alive. Questions? Flor?"

  "I'm ready. Ready to go."

  Hearing her voice quaver, Bolan took a moment to check her weapons and bandoleers, then slapped her on the back to move her toward the driver's seat. "Just drive. You're one cool soldier. When the fire fight gets heavy, you'll do great. Like at the bar."

  Flor laughed. She revved the engine as they jumped in. "I never shot anybody before tonight," she insisted. "I mean, face-to-face. That I know of."

  Now Bolan and Encizo laughed. Encizo turned to her. "Had me fooled."

  "Move it!" Bolan shouted over the roar of the engine and the clattering of gravel and stones against the undercarriage. "Just keep your head down, Flor—you'll learn fast. Remember, we need the Japanese one alive. Alive."

  As the car raced from the trees, Bolan stood up in the back seat of the bouncing Cadillac and shouldered the first rocket. He leaned forward to steady the launch tube on the windshield, but he did not fire.

  "Flor! Stop!"

  She hit the brakes and skidded to a stop on the rutted gravel track. Ahead of them, one of the pickup trucks was leaving the parade ground. Terrorists sat in the other cars and trucks while Cubans in fatigues directed traffic, or loaded the last truck with boxes. They paused in their work to look at the Cadillac.

  The launcher popped. Dead on target, the first low-velocity rocket punched through the windshield of the moving pickup truck. The blast shredded the sheet metal of the body and camper shell. Glass and bits of razor-sharp steel flew into the night in a glittering cloud of fragments.

  Encizo passed back a ready launcher, then tore open the seals on the next as Bolan sighted on the Cubans who had AKMs, and fired. Ten thousand steel blades scythed the soldiers, killing them before their blast-thrown bodies fell, killing the terrorists in the nearest cars and trucks.

  The third rocket hit a truck on the other side of the parade ground as the driver threw open the door and dived out. He never touched the ground, the Arm-burst hitting the truck's rear fender only an arm's length away. The blast and thousands of steel razors reduced the driver's body to a splash of tissue and scattered bone fragments.

  "Hard right!" Bolan commanded. Flor cranked the steering wheel and fishtailed across the bulldozed perimeter. Waiting until he had a different angle of fire, Bolan sent the fourth rocket into the bumper-to-bumper cars and trucks.

  The white flash of death caught a dozen terrorists as they scrambled from the vehicles. It slammed them aside. A woman lifting a Kalashnikov died on her feet, a hundred steel needles ripping through her.

  A sheet of fire roared up across the parade ground as spilled gasoline ignited. Flaming figures ran blindly into the night. Trapped terrorists beat at windows, clawed at doors. Screams rose and faded as throats gulped fire, then were sealed closed with clots of seared lung tissue. A paralysed Cuban dragged himself by his hands from a flaming hulk even as the gasoline incinerated his dead legs.

  They who would have committed mass murder died in a mass pyre.

  "Wait on the last rocket!" Bolan shouted to Encizo. Holding an Armburst ready, Bolan searched for a target. He saw a lone Cuban soldier with an AKM, but did not fire.

  He shouted to Flor, "Hard left! Into the camp!"

  Encizo's M-16 / M-203 popped. A 40mm grenade arced into the flame-lit camp and hit the ground a few steps from the running Cuban. White phosphorous peppered him, though it did not knock him down. But an instant later,
he dropped his rifle to claw at the metallic fire burning through his flesh. Screaming, he thrashed and fell. The phosphorous would continue through to the bone or internal organs, and would burn until exhausted.

  Cranking a hard right, Flor stood on the accelerator and the Cadillac's rear tires spun on the wet marsh grass, throwing mud. She steered for a gap in the tangle of brush and old fence. Too late, she saw a mound of dirt and debris that had been piled by a bulldozer. Hitting it straight on, the Cadillac left the ground.

  Bolan looped his left arm around the passenger seat's headrest. For a long instant, the Cadillac hurtled through the air, then slammed down, the frame scraping the gravel.

  Flor did not take her foot off the accelerator. Fighting a drift to the left, she steered between two barracks, the left rear fender and bumper hitting the corner of one building, smashing the termite-eaten four-by-fours that supported it.

  Decades-old dirt and rotten slats crashed down. Bolan saw a group of Cubans silhouetted by flaming gasoline as they ran between the barracks. One-handed, he pointed the fifth Armburst and fired. The Cadillac skidded past the scene before Bolan saw the rocket hit. Flor fishtailed through a right turn.

  "Next rocket!" Bolan shouted to Encizo.

  A Cuban in fatigues ran from the shadows, his AKM flashing. Slugs hammered the Cadillac. Flor swerved to hit the gunman. He jumped to one side.

  Bolan swung the empty Armburst launcher like a baseball bat, shattering the plastic tube against the Cuban's face. Drawing his .44 AutoMag, Bolan put a 240-grain jacketed hollow point slug into the stunned gunman. Slamming into the man's ribs at 1,400 feet per second, the expanding hollow point liberated a thousand foot-pounds of shock force, which exploded from an exit wound four inches across. Bolan turned away from his somersaulting kill and searched the darkness for other targets.

  Flor braked and turned, skidding to avoid hitting the burning hulks on the parade ground head-on. She hurtled the Cadillac through walls of flame and the stench of burning flesh.

  Completing a circle around a row of barracks, Flor accelerated. Bolan glanced ahead and saw a tangle of corpses, the Cubans he had killed with the fifth Armburst. Flor held the wheel steady as the heavy Cadillac lurched over the corpses. Something clanged on the hood.