Jomo checked his SA-80 carbine.
“Five years I’ve had that Land Rover. Never got one scratch on it,” he said bitterly, then quickly added, “okay, there were a few marks when I bought it, but military or not, that son of a bitch is in trouble.”
The Tucano throttled back as the pilot brought it in lower, skimming the ground so he could get a better view of the place where the bomb had detonated.
“He’s checking to see if he actually hit us,” Bolan said.
The only response from Jomo was a short grunt. He was belly down, the SA-80 snug against his shoulder as he took aim. He held the target for long seconds before he eased back on the trigger, firing three times in rapid succession. Bolan saw the point of impact where two of the 5.56 mm bullets ripped through the Perspex canopy. The pilot lurched forward, then powered up his engine, the Tucano banking violently to the left, swinging in toward the dry watercourse. It was only forty feet above the ground as it came directly at Bolan and Jomo. The machine guns opened up, raking the earth. Bolan leaned across and shoved Jomo to one side, sending him slithering down the slope, then pulled himself out of the line of fire. There was a roar as the aircraft closed on their position. Dust filled the air, showering Bolan with gritty debris. The engine sound was overwhelming. The Executioner rolled on his back, pushing the Uzi into a vertical firing position, and pulled the trigger, holding it there as the blurred outline of the Tucano went by. The downdraft from the propeller sent clouds of choking dust into the watercourse, blinding Bolan for long seconds. He slid down the slope, coughing, his blacksuit caked in dust.
The Tucano vanished, trailing a thin stream of black smoke, climbing as the pilot regained full control. It became a tiny speck, lost in the hard blue expanse of sky, then the sound of the engine faded, too.
“I think we hit him,” Jomo said. He used his sleeve to wipe the dust from his face, spitting out the dry pasty taste from his mouth.
Bolan nodded. “If he’s in contact with any ground force he’ll be radioing our position right now.”
“Belasko, I want to know what the hell is going on. Why is the damned military shooting and bombing us?”
Bolan didn’t reply for a moment, giving Jomo time to digest what he had just confirmed.
“Okay, okay, I know what I just said. That bloody plane had the markings of the Tempala military on it. Yes, I saw it, and I don’t know why that pilot was trying to barbecue us. But I’ve got a feeling it’s because of you, Belasko.”
“I’ll tell you what I know, Jomo, but let’s get out of this damn watercourse first.”
They returned to the Land Rover, Jomo shaking his head when he examined the burned paint work. He started the engine and reversed, then drove up out of the watercourse with the expertise of a man who had negotiated such places before. He turned the vehicle around and they picked up their former course. They traveled for a good five minutes before the police sergeant spoke.
“You going to tell me?”
Bolan laid out the information he had gained from Stony Man Farm, adding it to all the other data he had on the kidnapping and the subsequent events. Jomo listened in silence until Bolan had finished.
“Everyone in the country knows Chakra is an ambitious man, but I never imagined he would be the one who would betray Karima.”
“We haven’t exactly caught him with his finger on the trigger,” Bolan said. “Maybe we’re looking at a covert group within the military.”
“Either way doesn’t look good for us.”
“I won’t push you to go on,” Bolan said.
Jomo stiffened. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Belasko.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
Jomo glanced at him, then grinned. “You’re almost as smart as me.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Jomo was looking ahead. He leaned forward to confirm something he had spotted. “Belasko, let’s hope we’re both as smart as we think we are,” he said.
Bolan checked out what Jomo had seen. They were still a good way off, but there was no mistaking the uniforms, or the weapons, or the military formation of the five-man squad walking in their direction. Behind them was an ACMAT VLRA, a French-built military truck. Behind the driver and his navigator, the open back of the truck had a swivel-mounted 7.62 mm machine gun. Someone shouted an order to the ground troops and they scrambled back inside the truck.
It appeared the pilot of the plane they had encountered had managed to convey their position to his ground squad, and they were moving in to complete the job he had started.
The Land Rover jerked as Jomo slammed on the brakes. He gripped the steering wheel and jammed his foot back on the gas pedal, working through the gears as the vehicle picked up speed.
The harsh rattle of the 7.62 mm machine gun rose over the roar of the motor. The first burst sent rounds into the ground to the left of the Land Rover. Mounds of earth flew in the air, showering Bolan and Jomo.
“Man, is it like this all the time with you?” Jomo yelled above the gunfire.
“No. Sometimes it gets noisy,” Bolan answered.
Bolan twisted around in his seat and saw the ACMAT coming up on them fast. The bounce of the vehicle added to the machine gunner’s problems as he tried to settle his aim on the Land Rover. This was highlighted by his next burst, which fell disastrously short.
“Nowhere to go out here,” Jomo yelled. “Our only cover is to the east. Some low hills. But they might be too far for us to reach.”
Bolan had his Uzi cradled in his arms, cocked and ready to fire. He glanced at Jomo, seeing the hard set to the man’s face.
“Hit the brakes when you’re ready. We take the fight to them. Soon as we stop go EVA. Start shooting once you touch the ground. Don’t stop for anything. It’s us or them, Jomo, and I don’t feel like dying in Africa.”
Jomo laughed. “Me neither. Well, not for some time yet.”
He made sure his carbine was close at hand, glanced at Bolan, then took his foot off the gas pedal and hit the brake. The Land Rover sideslipped, swinging part way around as it slowed. Jomo cut the motor, took hold of his autorifle and swung himself out of his seat.
Bolan hit the ground and turned to face the oncoming ACMAT. His Uzi came on track, his finger stroking the trigger. A stream of 9 mm slugs arced toward the truck, the first burst shattering the windshield. Glass fragments blew into the faces of the driver and the man alongside him. They arched back, clawing at their bloody faces and the Executioner’s second burst took them out of the picture for good. Bolan ran forward, moving in a semicurve that brought him alongside the ACMAT as it came to a juddering stop, stalling as the engine died. Bolan swept the rear of the truck, spinning the machine gunner away from his weapon, his upper torso torn and bloody as the 9 mm rounds impacted his flesh.
Jomo’s carbine, set for single shots, cracked with methodical precision. He took out three of the opposition with three shots, moving in on the truck as he fired. Before each shot he paused, fired, then moved again until the next shot.
As the truck’s last two occupants scrambled from the vehicle, firing on the move, they encountered Bolan on one side and Jomo on the other. Return fire was ragged and poorly aimed. The opposition had been caught off guard.
One of the men from the truck dropped to his knees beside one of his fallen companions. Briefly covered, he swung his SA-80 on line and triggered a short burst in Jomo’s direction. Jomo stepped back and stumbled. Aware that he made a hit, the shooter started to rise, finger still on the trigger. He took the maneuver no further. Bolan, coming up from behind the truck, caught him with a burst that blasted through the man’s body, shattering ribs and erupting out of his chest in a spatter of bloody debris.
The last man dodged behind the truck, down on his knees, searching for a clear shot. In the confusion he had forgotten Jomo was still on his feet. He remembered when a shadow fell across him. He twisted, only just seeing the muzzle of Jomo’s weapon before it fire
d into his body, slamming him to the ground. The policeman fired again, a final shot to the head.
Bolan checked the truck for signs of life. There were none. He moved by the bodies on the ground, removing weapons from possible use out of habit.
Jomo was on his knees, muttering through clenched teeth. His right hand was clamped over his side, blood seeping heavily between his fingers. He glanced up as Bolan approached.
“You ever been shot?” he asked the American. Bolan nodded and Jomo said, “Man, it bloody hurts.”
Bolan took a look at the wound. There was a bullet hole, weeping blood. There was no way of knowing how deep the slug had gone.
“Can you move?”
Jomo looked at him. “Why?”
Bolan was staring over Jomo’s shoulder. “Because these guys have a backup team.”
Jomo followed Bolan’s finger. A second ACMAT was heading in their direction from the south.
“You want to drive?” Jomo asked as he and Bolan returned to the Land Rover.
Bolan climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He dropped the vehicle in gear and moved off. “Any ideas?”
Jomo had been scanning the surrounding terrain. He eased forward in his seat then nodded. He indicated a range of low, stony hills to the east. They were a way off, but appeared to offer the only chance for cover.
“Remember when I said they were too far away? Looks like we’re going to find out just how far,” he said.
6
“No point giving them the benefit of the doubt?” Jomo asked, fingering his autofire. “Personally I wouldn’t.”
“Evasion seems to be the word that springs to mind,” Bolan said.
“At least it’s a compromise.”
Bolan hauled the Land Rover in a tight half circle and slammed the gas pedal. He worked through the gears quickly, accelerating with as much speed as he could coax from the vehicle. Land Rovers were built for endurance and all-terrain travel, not for claiming land speed records. Bolan pushed the vehicle to its limit, the SUV picking up speed with what seemed agonizing slowness.
Checking their back trail, Bolan saw the ACMAT take up the pursuit, dust clouding behind them.
“If we can stay ahead and reach those hills,” Jomo yelled above the rattle of the Land Rover’s diesel engine, “at least we’ll have some cover.”
The chatter of automatic fire preceded streams of 7.62 mm bullets gouging the ground behind and to the left of the Land Rover. Bolan peered back over his shoulder and made out a figure behind the machine gun mounted on the pursuit vehicle. It looked to have the same specification as the other ACMAT they had encountered. Again accurate fire was difficult as the gunner was unable to control the sway of the weapon. There was always the chance that he might get lucky and lay some of his fire into the Land Rover, Bolan thought.
The range of low hills was getting closer. The soldier tried coaxing a little more speed from the Land Rover. The terrain began to get rougher as they neared the lower slopes. The hill range was mostly bare rock, with a scattering of vegetation dotted across the undulating slopes. Jomo directed him toward a particular section, so Bolan guessed the man knew a place that would help to conceal them.
Whatever Jomo’s intention, Bolan never found out.
He felt the Land Rover judder as 7.62 mm fire chewed into the rear of the body. Shards of aluminum sprayed the interior of the vehicle, smacking against the legs of his blacksuit. More autofire followed and this time the hot projectiles cored through one of the rear tires, shredding rubber. The tire blew and the Land Rover lurched out of control. Bolan struggled with the wheel.
“Time to leave, Jomo,” Bolan yelled. “Get out.”
The stricken Land Rover hit a projecting rock and shook violently, the floor under Bolan lifting him in a slow-motion tilt. He clung to the Uzi and pushed himself over the side of the Land Rover as it started to roll. Bolan was flung away from the vehicle. He landed on his feet, his forward motion carrying him away from the somersaulting vehicle. He tried to stay upright but his body weight overcame him and he crashed to the ground, rolling and bouncing for yards before he was able to stop. Rough stone scraped the side of his face, leaving stinging flesh in its wake. He felt a stab of pain in his left hip as he slammed against something sharp and unyielding. The moment he had himself back under control, Bolan pushed to his feet. Over his shoulder he saw the SUV coming down in its final moments. It hit the ground on its back, wheels still spinning and engine howling. The impact tore the vehicle apart, scattering debris in every direction.
“Belasko!”
Bolan glanced around and saw Jomo, his face and head bloody, waving at him. The African still carried his SA-80 carbine. Jomo indicated a jumble of boulders. They comprised different shapes and sizes, and looked to be spread for some distance. Bolan followed Jomo and they pushed into the midst of the boulders.
The sound of the pursuit vehicle reached their ears. Brakes squealed as the vehicle ground to a halt. Shouted commands followed. Then came the thump of boots on the hard ground and the rattle of weapons.
“Keep moving,” Bolan said to Jomo.
They wound between the wind-scoured rocks, dust rising in their wake, marking their position.
A weapon fired. The bullet struck rock off to their left, leaving a score mark in the surface. More shots came, peppering the rocks around Bolan and Jomo. Dust and stone fragments misted the air with each hit.
Bolan heard Jomo gasp. He looked round and saw the African was on his knees, clutching his wounded side. He was cursing in a low voice.
“Get out of here, man. Do what you came for. I’ll hold these bastards off.”
Bolan shook his head. He bent over Jomo to help him up. The policeman reached out with his free hand and pushed the American aside.
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Belasko. What are you going to do? Carry me?”
The random shots were getting closer.
“No point both of us dying here, man. Go on, get out of here. If I lose them maybe we can join up later. If I can hold them off it gives you a chance.”
Jomo held up his carbine. He used it to push himself upright, propping himself against a slab of rock. “Go now, Belasko. Don’t let these bastards run Karima out of office. Find his kids and get them home. Give the man his chance.”
The gunfire increased, showering Bolan and Jomo with stone chips. Jomo hunched and laid his carbine in a fissure, aiming and firing. A man yelled in pain.
“Get out of here,” Jomo said.
Bolan backed off. He was aware of the sacrifice Jomo was making, buying the Executioner time to slip away. Bolan pushed his way through the maze of rock, listening to the steady crack of Jomo’s weapon. The only way he could repay Jomo’s sacrifice was by doing exactly what he came to Tempala for. From this moment on he was committed to that end. If not for Karima, then it had to be for Christopher Jomo.
Bolan dropped to his knees and crawled beneath a rocky overhang. The sound of the gunfire was fading behind him. He could still pick out the singular crack of Jomo’s carbine. The overhang led him down a dusty runoff, created by draining water. Bolan reached the bottom and found himself in a shallow basin worn from the rock. The basin had no water in it, only a layer of gritty dust. He checked the area. It appeared that the way in was also the way out. Bolan worked his way around the enclosure. The rocks that formed the sides and top of the basin were tightly packed. He almost missed the narrow fissure in the rocks. There was enough of a gap to let him crawl through. He eased into the fissure and worked his way along the confining tunnel. It curved off to the right, the ground under him sloping down. As it did, the tunnel widened a little and the roof over his head became higher. Bolan kept moving, trying not to dwell on the notion that if the tunnel dead-ended he would have to make a return journey.
The sound of the gunfire had almost faded. Bolan was in near silence. The only sound was him crawling along the gloomy tunnel. But at least he wasn’t in total darkness. There was light filtering
through from somewhere, thin shafts that pushed back the shadows and allowed him a degree of guidance. He realized that the light source was becoming stronger the farther he moved.
Bolan felt the ground under his hands drop away sharply. He eased back, peering ahead. The tunnel floor had become a steep slope that led into a hollow deeper than the basin he had found earlier. And there was more light here. Dusty shafts, alive with dust particles, swirled in front of him. Bright light beamed through cracks and gaps in the clusters of stone above his head. He checked out the area. To his left he saw a chimney of rock a good six feet wide, angling up toward the main light source, and when he tilted his head he caught a glimpse of blue sky, only a sliver showing through the rocks twenty or so feet above his head.
The sound of gunfire had receded as he negotiated his way deep into the rocks. Now there was nothing.
How did he interpret that?
Was Jomo dead?
Taken prisoner?
He could have spent a lot of time deliberating, but Bolan’s priority was survival, pure and simple. The mission had become something entirely different from the one he had started out on. Conditions had changed. There were complications that added to the picture as a whole. Bolan would deal with them, in his own way and in his own time. Right now he needed to stay alive, because if he didn’t it wouldn’t matter how complicated the plot became.
He propped the Uzi against a rock, unclipped and removed his combat harness. He assessed his ammo supply, replenishing the Uzi first. With that done he peeled off the blacksuit and examined the wound on his hip. There was a jagged tear in the outer skin that had bled but had congealed now. Bolan decided it wasn’t as bad as he had first suspected. And there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it in his current situation. There was a small medical kit in the bag that had been lost when Jomo’s Land Rover had crashed. If the search squad moved on he might be able to recover his gear. If not, the wound would have to remain unattended.
Shadow Search Page 6