Rebel Force

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan saw Sable reach the temporary shelter of a fallen log and slide behind it. The Russian operative turned and brought up the pistol Bolan had given her, ready to cover the running men, though the range was extreme to the point of futility.

  Bolan charged forward, working hard until he reached the log. He used his free hand to keep his balance as he slid over the top of the downed tree with the pilot still on his shoulder.

  Behind them Kubrick urged his men forward. A hand grenade exploded by the nose of the helicopter, and a three-man fire team charged the cargo bay from the tail of the helicopter. Their weapons raked the helicopter with fire as they assaulted the aircraft.

  Bolan pulled out his Victor High Standard. He rested his arm on the trunk of the fallen tree to steady his aim. Sanders leaped across the top of the log and landed heavily on the other side. The first of the Russian mercenaries cleared the door of the Black Hawk. Kubrick, still packing the RPK one-handed, shouted something and more men emerged over the fence of the dacha.

  Bolan calculated the distance to the downed helicopter from their position among the rocks behind the fallen tree. He realized that even an optimistic calculation put the ragtag band of wounded operatives too close to the wreckage.

  “Come on, we’re too close!” he said to Sanders. “Help her, we’ve got to get away!”

  Sanders didn’t question his orders. He turned and helped Sable drape her arm around his neck. Bolan hoisted Grimaldi and began to move rapidly over the broken ground, down a short incline and into a brush-choked ravine. Sanders and Sable passed them. Bolan was panting as he struggled to put a fold in the topography between themselves and what he knew was coming.

  He never heard the Raptors, but seconds later the bombs struck.

  21

  The concussive force was devastating. A gigantic flash of flame materialized, turning night into day and the ground under The Executioner’s feet shook hard enough to knock him down. Dirt and rocks rained down around them. As he fell, Bolan tried to throw himself over the helpless Grimaldi and protect him from falling debris.

  For a second all the oxygen in the area was sucked up by the explosion, and Bolan gasped to breathe. Spots appeared before his eyes, and then in an instant it was over. Waves of heat rolled past him, leaving him cold in the sudden aftermath of their passing. He kept himself over Grimaldi, holding his head in his arms.

  When the detritus stopped falling Bolan risked a look. He lifted his head in time to see the fireball from the explosion roll up into the sky and then dissipate. A column of black smoke, deeper than the night, roiled up from the burning oil slick that was all that remained of the downed helicopter.

  Bolan pushed himself to his feet and looked at the flame center. There was a huge crater where the wreckage had been. He knew the Russian government in Grozny would strongly suspect that this had to be American work, but it was unlikely they would ever be able to prove it.

  He heard Sanders groan and looked over in time to see the CIA agent pick himself up from where he had blanketed himself over Sable. The woman looked shaken, but still together, under control. Sanders helped the Russian woman to her feet, then turned to survey the damage.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  The way the man said it made Bolan think that it might, truly, have been a prayer. Bolan saw no one moving, heard no screams. It seemed the strike had vaporized not only the Russian mercs, but their paymaster, Kubrick, as well. But the Executioner didn’t intend to leave it to speculation.

  Bolan turned to Sable. “You okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. We’ve got to get moving. That will bring every army and special police unit in the region in a hurry. We have to be long gone by the time they get here.”

  “Agreed,” Sanders said, attempting to insert himself into the conversation.

  Bolan ignored him. “I came up through this area to infiltrate your estate. The road is only about a hundred fifty yards from here, but my car is too small to hold all of us.”

  “It would be easier to take one of mine,” she agreed.

  “Right.” Bolan nodded. “I’m going to do damage assessment, attempt to verify that Kubrick is dead, if possible. If Sanders hurries, he can get your Land Rover down to where I have a car parked.”

  “I’m not leaving her alone with you!” Sanders shouted.

  Bolan was on him before the man could blink, much less perceive that a threat was coming. The soldier simply brought a hard fist straight into Sanders’s nose.

  The CIA agent went sprawling, arms flapping wildly. He fell, and Bolan heard the man’s breath rush from him on impact with the unforgiving ground. Sanders moaned, confused and disorientated from the strike.

  The Executioner moved forward and stood over the man. He stepped up and put one big boot across the struggling man’s throat. His face was granite hard as he pressed down, cutting off the agent’s ability to breathe.

  “You’re a real slow learner, Sanders. Next time it’s a bullet.”

  Sanders grasped Bolan’s foot with his hands and tried to wrestle it free. It was a futile attempt. The intelligence agent gasped and spittle flew from his mouth as his face turned red.

  Bolan looked at Sable to see how she was responding to his field discipline. She stood off to the side, unmoving. Her eyes were bright as she regarded Bolan. Her chest moved quickly, rising and falling as she watched the violence, her lips slightly parted. She made no move to help her former contact.

  Under Bolan’s heel Sanders ceased struggling. The agent was nearly unconscious. Bolan stepped off his throat and the man sucked in a huge breath. The tread mark from Bolan’s boot was vivid on the man’s neck. Sanders’s hands flew to his throat. He sputtered and coughed as he tried to rise.

  “Get the Land Rover. Meet us down the road where the red Porsche is parked,” Bolan said.

  “Vesler’s?” Sable asked.

  “Yes.” Bolan nodded, watching Sanders as the agent struggled to his feet.

  “Where’s Vesler? Surely you didn’t trust him?” Sable said.

  “He’s in the trunk. He must have alerted Kubrick by some means I don’t know about. Why he never led Kubrick to you before I showed up, I have no idea.”

  “Kubrick suspected Vesler knew where Sable was when she first went underground. He was planning on having Vesler’s car tagged,” Sanders said. “I was supposed to do it, but Sable contacted me first. Kubrick must have had it done before you got hold of Vesler. You led him right to Sable!”

  Bolan looked at the man, saw the fear in his eyes. “If you had done your job and reestablished contact with your out-of-region control, that Black Hawk would not have been forced to come into a hot LZ, the gunner wouldn’t have died and my friend wouldn’t be laying here comatose. Now shut up and go get that goddamn Land Rover.”

  “What if Kubrick left security with his vehicles?” Sanders asked.

  “Then I’ll hear the shots. Now go before I shoot you myself,” the Executioner replied.

  Sanders looked over at Sable, chagrin showing on his face. The operator met his eyes with a level gaze. He looked away, shot a hate-filled glance at Bolan and began moving through the blast area toward the dacha.

  “What’s your plan?” Sable asked.

  “I need to see if I can ID Kubrick. You check my friend and do what you can. After I radio back damage assessment we’ll start down the hill toward the road.”

  “From there?”

  “We head for the Georgian border. I have contacts who will make sure we get out.”

  “I have a contact with an arms merchant who moves weapons across the border for the Chechen insurgents. He might be able to arrange transport or a secure landing zone.”

  “I’m not trusting Chechen terrorists. They’d kill Americans in a New York minute.”

  “Not insurgents, weapons dealers.”

  “No way,” Bolan said.

  “Your friend needs medical attention, and quickly.”
<
br />   “How would getting shot help his medical condition?”

  Sable stepped toward Bolan, her face earnest and her hands held out in a submissive display. Bolan didn’t move. If she had wanted to attack him, her best time would have been while he was dealing with Sanders. She appeared, for her own reasons, to truly want defection to the United States. But he trusted the woman as much as he would a jungle viper.

  “Please, let me call him. No harm will come to you if I vouch for you. I have thirty-five thousand euros under a loose panel in the Land Rover. My contact has access to physicians. We can help your friend.”

  “Stay here,” Bolan ordered.

  He moved away from the woman without answering her plea. The last thing he wanted was to trust her. He looked at his old friend as he walked toward the blast area. The pilot looked bad, his wounds were grave and he needed medical attention. On his own, Bolan knew he could escape to safety. Taking Sable, his chances shrank drastically. Lugging a wounded friend, those chances became nonexistent.

  He quickly surveyed the scene and found no trace of the men who’d been near the helicopter when the missile had landed. He moved past the crater and spotted three corpses still relatively intact. He picked up an AKS-74U that appeared, somewhat miraculously, none too worse for the wear.

  Bolan looked up. The fence at the back of the dacha had been blown down. Sanders was crossing the lawn and walked up the right side of the smoking house toward the garage. The agent had been right; if Kubrick had left a security detail with the cars then Sanders was in very real danger.

  Bolan spotted a Soviet RPK machine gun, broken like a matchstick. He walked over to the ruined weapon and looked around. Just down the hill from the weapon he saw the corpse of a big man.

  He took in the charred business suit stretched over a 250 pound frame. There were the melted remnants of a sling and bandages on the corpse. The face was completely destroyed. He reached over and picked up a beefy fingered hand covered in coarse black hair. He saw the heavy gold signet ring Kubrick had been wearing earlier.

  Bolan pulled the ring free and put it in his pocket. DNA analysis could confirm it was Kubrick’s.

  Bolan stood and attempted to make contact using his sat phone.

  “Striker to Aviary.”

  The same gruff voice answered. “Go ahead, Striker.”

  “AO sanitized.”

  “That’s good, copy.” The voice paused. “Striker we had a frag-op from Mountain Peak.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “A mutual friend has been in contact with Mountain Peak.”

  Bolan nodded. Hal Brognola.

  AS BOLAN APPROACHED he saw Sable kneeling beside Jack Grimaldi, adjusting bandages around his wounds. She looked up sharply, raising her pistol. She relaxed when she recognized Bolan, set the pistol beside her and finished tying off Grimaldi’s bandages.

  “Kubrick?” She asked.

  “Dead,” Bolan answered. “How is he?”

  “Your friend’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t think a lung was nicked, but I’m afraid of infection. He’s starting to feel feverish. We have to get the bullets out.”

  Bolan knelt beside her and looked down at his old friend. How many times had the Stony Man pilot been there to pull him out of the fire? How many times had Grimaldi served as back up in some violent backwater during Bolan’s War Everlasting? He had to do everything he could to save him. Take any chance.

  “Your friend will die, without immediate help. Have you thought about my offer?” Sable asked.

  “There’s been a change in the plan.” Bolan replied.

  IT WAS A ROUGH JOURNEY down the mountain, and despite Bolan’s best efforts Grimaldi’s wounds opened again. His friend was burning with fever and by the time Bolan lowered him to the ground next to Vesler’s red Porsche, his breathing was rapid and shallow.

  Sanders had already arrived with the Land Rover. As soon as Bolan and Sable appeared, he rushed from hiding to check the Russian agent. He sported two huge black eyes like a bandit mask and his nose was an ugly lump of swollen, purple flesh.

  Bolan shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the wounded pilot. He used a rock to elevate the wounded man’s feet. Sable knelt beside Grimaldi again to arrange his bandages after the scramble down to the road. Bolan rose and walked over to the trunk of the Porsche.

  He slapped the trunk twice with an open hand. Immediately there was a chorus of muffled shouts and the suspension on the Porsche began to shake.

  “Vesler seems fine,” Bolan noted.

  The sound of sirens could be heard from the valley. Bolan looked at Sable.

  “Right, we have to get on the road,” he said.

  Sanders and Bolan put the unconscious Grimaldi in the back of the Land Rover on top of the folded seats. The pilot’s life was in his hands and now depended upon Bolan playing every move exactly right.

  “You drive,” Bolan told Sable. “Get us down on the highway, extraction is waiting.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” she said.

  22

  Sable started the automobile as Sanders climbed into the back to help support Grimaldi. Bolan stopped, the AKS-74U in his hands. He cocked his head into the wind, squinted in concentration. The sound came to him faintly. With the cacophony of approaching sirens it was hard to pick out, a single whisper in a milling crowd.

  “Let’s go!” a nervous Sanders called from the back of the Land Rover.

  Bolan frowned, ignoring the frightened man. He could almost pick it out. Then the sound solidified enough for him to identify its origins. Bolan moved fast.

  The approaching aircraft was coming up the mountain. Bolan sprinted to the Land Rover, jerking open the passenger door. He slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Go!” he shouted.

  Sable didn’t hesitate. She slammed her foot on the accelerator, and the Land Rover sprayed gravel as it tore out onto the mountain road. The front tires of the all-terrain vehicle hit the pavement and the traction bit hard, increasing the vehicle’s speed.

  The helicopter flew over the downhill side of the road and pinned the vehicle in its spotlight. Bolan tried to determine the threat he faced.

  The OH-6A Cayuse light observation helicopter spun in front of the Land Rover as the vehicle careened down the winding mountain road.

  Bolan half crawled out the open passenger window to bring his weapon into play just as the road dropped sharply around a tight corner. The tires screamed in protest as Sable took the corner too tight for the boxy vehicle’s suspension.

  The helicopter dropped sharply to keep the racing Land Rover in a tight overwatch position. In that moment, as the chopper banked, Bolan got a clear picture of his pursuer.

  Lich had arrived.

  The helicopter’s doors had been removed and Lich leaned half out of his passenger seat with one foot propped on the landing skid. He had attached a RPK to the top of the helicopter door with a bungee cord. He manipulated the weapon with one hand while bracing himself with the other. Behind him, as anonymous as a storm trooper in his flight suit and helmet, the pilot handled the little helicopter with cool skill.

  “Get the floodlight!” Sable screamed as she swerved the Land Rover around another corner. “It’s blinding me!”

  Bolan thrust the top half of his body out the passenger window and aimed at the bobbing helicopter. His blast went wild, and Lich triggered a burst in response that failed to connect.

  The helicopter suddenly shot straight up for a moment and let the racing Land Rover pass below it. Bolan saw the flashing light of the approaching emergency response vehicles. He slid back into the Land Rover’s cab and put the assault rifle out of sight under the dash.

  Sable blew past the two fire trucks and ambulance doing twice their speed, her foot never straying from the accelerator. Her window was down and her raven hair flew like a tattered banner behind her. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel as she drove the vehicle expertly, but
her face was a serene mask.

  Minutes later they took a corner too wide and almost crashed head-on with a police vehicle. Both cars swerved and knocked off their driver’s side view mirrors in a metal on metal clap.

  Sable screamed curses in Russian but refused to slow. Bolan jerked his head around to stare out the back of the Land Rover, trying to determine how the police car was going to respond to the near miss. He saw brake lights flash red. The police vehicle spun around, starting pursuit.

  The Executioner didn’t hesitate. He grabbed hold of the handle on the car roof and sat up on the edge of the door through the open window.

  As he brought up the rifle, Bolan felt the firm grip of Sable’s hand as she grasped the inside of his knee to help steady him. Bolan snapped open the folding stock and shouldered the weapon. Behind the police car Bolan saw Lich’s helicopter swinging wide over the valley and bearing down on them.

  Bolan looked down the open battlefield sights and triggered a long, ragged burst toward the front of the chasing police vehicle. His rounds skipped off the pavement striking sparks. Tracers poured from the muzzle of his chattering weapon. Smoking shell casings bounced off the roof of the Land Rover and spun out into the night.

  The first of Bolan’s 5.45 mm slugs tore into the front grille of the police cruiser and bored into the engine block. The vehicle’s hood snapped open and popped straight up as the lock mechanism burst apart. The stream of rushing air grabbed the front hood and flipped it back into the car’s windshield.

  The driver locked the brakes of his vehicle and went into a sloppy power slide. More rounds struck the front of the vehicle and clawed the engine into scrap metal. The helicopter zoomed in over the stalled police vehicle and charged down on the fleeing Land Rover. The single Cyclops eye of the forward-mounted spotlight blazed out, blinding Bolan.

  Tracer rounds began spitting out toward Bolan. Sable locked the brakes hard and took yet another corner in the endless succession of turns, momentarily blocking the helicopter from sight.

  Bolan anticipated the helicopter’s flight path and shifted so that his weapon was pointed straight across the roof of the Land Rover. Inside the car Sable’s hand was still a reassuring anchor on Bolan’s leg. Grudgingly, he acknowledged to himself that the woman’s driving was phenomenal.