“Yes.”
“You’re not going away?”
“No I’m not going away.”
The boy slid to the ground and pulled himself close to the tree.
Bolan edged away, breaking into the open. He caught a glimpse of the helicopter as it came into sight. It was moving back and forth in a grid pattern, checking each section of ground as it flew over. Bolan moved into the open, crossing the clearing at a steady pace. The helicopter passed overhead, still short of the clearing. Bolan watched it fly beyond his position. The turbine sound began to fade. He turned to cross the clearing again. He reached midway when the helicopter swept back over the tops of the trees and yawed violently as the pilot worked the controls.
The helicopter, a French Puma, dipped suddenly, angling in across the clearing. Bolan turned and ran, leading the aircraft. He heard the sudden hammer of a heavy machine gun. The thump of bullets hitting the ground was uncomfortably close. Bolan veered to the right, doubling back. Gouts of earth flew into the air around him. He took a dive that ended in a shoulder roll, bringing him into a sitting position. Bolan pulled the Uzi into firing position and tracked the Puma as it swept toward him, coming round so that the door gunner could locate his target.
Bolan had the gunner in his sights before the Puma settled, hovering no more than ten feet above. He touched the trigger and laid a burst into the door gunner’s upper chest. The gunner grunted under the impact, falling back to hang by his safety harness, the machine gun swinging free on its rack.
The Puma rose, hanging twenty feet up.
Bolan, on his feet, moved around so he could stay underneath the machine, out of sight. The rotor wash pushed at him, flattening the stalks of grass in the clearing.
“WHERE IS HE?” Chakra yelled. “Where is that bastard?”
“Staying out of sight,” Campos said. He had taken down an SA-80 from one of the weapon racks. He clicked in a magazine. “Simon, he’s taken care of the door gunner. Now he’s waiting for us to do something.”
Chakra unclipped his seat harness and pushed his way to the main cabin. He freed the dead gunner from the safety harness and took control of the machine gun.
“Then let’s not disappoint him,” he snapped. “Get us down,” he yelled to the pilot. “A few feet off the ground.”
The Puma began to sink.
Chakra gripped one of the safety straps, leaning out to check the ground as the Puma began to descend. He had changed from the machine gun to the pistol in the holster on his hip. He swept the area with the muzzle as he searched for the man known as Belasko.
On the opposite side of the cabin Hector Campos was checking his patch of ground. He watched the rippling grass, flattened to the earth by the downdraft from the rotors. The Cuban saw nothing. He was about to say so to Chakra when the thought struck him. The American hadn’t been seen running for cover, moving away from the Puma, so if he hadn’t vacated the area…
“He’s under the damn helicopter,” he called out.
Chakra turned. “What?”
Campos pointed at the floor of the cabin. “Underneath. He’s using the fucking helicopter as cover.”
“Land,” Chakra screamed at the pilot. “Now! Put her down fast!”
BOLAN SAW THE PUMA SETTLING, coming down on him faster than he might have expected. He turned and ran, clearing the underside of the fuselage in a dive that took him away from the helicopter’s bulk. He turned over on his back, the Uzi already pushed out ahead of him, and caught sight of a lean, dark-haired figure in the open doorway.
It was Hector Campos. The Cuban saw Bolan’s black-clad figure, flat on the ground, with a 9 mm Uzi tracking in on him.
Bolan saw a rush of alarm sweep through Campos as he stared at the Uzi’s black muzzle. Bolan pulled the Uzi on-line, finger hitting the trigger, then watched the solid thumps hit the body as 9 mm slugs punched through his chest wall. The tearing sensation that followed must have denied Campos the chance to cry out. Bolan watched him stumbling back into the cabin, away from the open door as he fell.
The moment he fired on Campos and saw him fall back from the open doorway, Bolan rolled to his feet. He reached the Puma in three long strides, taking a leap into the opening. As his feet hit the cabin floor Bolan saw Simon Chakra swinging around on the far side of the cabin. The man had a safety strap looped around his left wrist and a hefty autopistol in his right. He wore combat gear, with the rank of colonel pinned to the lapels.
As Bolan caught his balance, Chakra leaned forward and swung a heavy boot in a vicious kick that caught Bolan on the right hip. The blow wrenched a gasp of pain from Bolan’s lips. Chakra lashed out with the pistol. Bolan felt it thud against the side of his head, over his left eye. Blood began to run from the ugly gash.
Chakra swung his arm a second time. Bolan ducked under the swing and used the Uzi to deliver a blow of his own to the African’s jaw. Chakra roared in pain. He slammed the butt of the pistol down between Bolan’s shoulders as the Executioner closed in. Bolan closed his mind to the pain, using his bulk to push Chakra backward. It was only when Chakra stepped into empty air with one foot that he realized his position. He swung the pistol again, catching Bolan’s upthrust arm. Bolan leaned back, pulling the Uzi around so the muzzle was jammed hard against Chakra’s body. Bolan pulled the trigger and put half the magazine through the man’s lower chest. Chakra was swung aside under the impact of the 9 mm slugs. He missed his footing completely and hung, suspended by his left wrist outside the Puma.
Bolan turned back inside the helicopter and moved up to cover the pilot and radio operator. They had become aware of the struggle taking place behind them, but it had all been over before either man could unstrap himself and reach the weapons rack. Now they were confronted by the sight of the tall, bloody American, his Uzi fixed on them and with a dangerous look in his eyes.
“Hands where I can see them at all times,” Bolan said.
He backed away and pulled the sheathed knife he carried. Reaching up he severed the safety strap supporting Simon Chakra’s lifeless body. Chakra fell to the ground and lay in a sodden sprawl. Bolan rolled the bodies of the dead gunner and Hector Campos out of the helicopter as well.
“Randolph, let’s go,” he called. “You can come out now.”
Bolan saw Karima’s son emerge from his hiding place. The boy ran across to the helicopter and scrambled in, trying to avoid looking at the bodies sprawled on the ground.
“Go and strap yourself into one of those seats,” Bolan said.
Bolan closed the cabin doors, then eased himself into one of the seats fixed along the sides of the cabin, next to Randolph.
“What happens now?” the pilot asked.
Bolan took the map he had carried for so long out of his pocket. He showed it to the pilot.
“Get us into the area, then land.”
The pilot glanced at the map, then across at the radio operator.
“Hey, never mind him, pal,” Bolan snapped. “I’m the one who gives the orders now. You got any problems with that?”
The pilot shook his head.
“Then do it. Just a word. I understand compass points and I can read maps, so no diversions. This Uzi is loaded.”
The pilot settled in his seat and powered the Puma’s turbines. The helicopter rose into the air and swung around as the pilot set his new course.
Bolan leaned his back against the bulkhead. He ached from head to foot. The gash on his head was still bleeding and Chakra’s gun butt had left him with a badly bruised back.
He pulled the transceiver from his pocket and placed it on the next seat. Once they reached the general area he would turn it on and see if he could locate the signal from the set he’d left with Katherine and Ashansii. Bolan glanced across at Randolph. The boy was asleep. Lucky kid, Bolan thought. Bolan could use some sleep, too. Later. His mission wasn’t over yet.
21
Mack Bolan stood with Ashansii, Katherine Karima translating for him again.
�
��Are the slavers dead?”
“Yes.”
Ashansii smiled. “Perhaps they will think before they come to Tempala again.”
“They paid a high price this time.”
Bolan was facing the Puma helicopter. The pilot and the radio operator were on their knees, hands behind their heads, just in front of the machine. A pair of Tempai stood over them, spears held ready if the men attempted anything.
Ashansii looked across to where the other children, grouped together, were sitting.
“We will care for them until they are returned home.”
“It may take a while, Ashansii,” Bolan said.
“Then we will care for them for a while. Don’t worry, Belasko. They’re with family now.”
“I have to go,” Bolan explained. “To take Karima’s children back to him.”
“I understand. Take care, Belasko.”
Bolan moved toward the helicopter, Katherine and Randolph close behind him. He gestured with his Uzi and got the pilot and radio operator on their feet. They all boarded the Puma.
“Set your course for Tempala City,” Bolan ordered.
The Puma’s turbines powered up, rotors starting to spin.
“Can you get me to Government House?” Bolan asked the radio operator.
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
The helicopter lifted and surged forward, gaining altitude quickly. Bolan kept an eye on the pilot until he was sure the man had the Puma on the correct course.
Behind Bolan Karima’s children settled close together for the flight. They looked tired and worn, their clothing torn and filthy. Apart from the superficial aspects the pair seemed to have weathered their experience pretty well. There might be repercussions later as the full weight of the ordeal emerged. They had heard and seen grim things. Bolan hoped their youthful resilience would see them through the trauma.
The radio operator caught Bolan’s attention. “I’m having difficulty getting through. The frequencies are all busy, or jammed.”
“Let’s hear,” Bolan said.
The operator channeled the radio through to the speaker. He ran through the frequencies, letting Bolan listen in. There was a lot of interference, voices running into each other.
“This is the channel for the Government House communications center,” the radio operator said.
Nothing came from the speaker.
Bolan’s immediate thoughts were that something was happening in the city, and following on that thought came images of rebel activity. He hadn’t forgotten the bomb explosion outside his hotel, the unexpected attack by the rebels, tied he was certain to the fact that Karima’s kidnapped children had been lost to the rebels. Maybe they had decided to increase the pressure on Karima, especially since Bolan’s intervention and his clashes with the rebel/military forces.
He sat back, telling the radio operator to close down.
“So where do we go?” the pilot asked. “Maybe those kids don’t have a home to go back to.”
Katherine made a soft sound in her throat as she heard the pilot’s comment. She looked up at Bolan. “What does he mean? Has something bad happened at home?”
“Everything will work out, Katherine. I promise.”
If there was rebel activity in the city, Bolan decided, then he had to stay away from Government House until he could make a full assessment of the situation. Bolan’s problem was his lack of contacts within Tempala. He immediately deleted that thought from his mind.
He had contacts.
Ambassador Leland Cartwright and Phil McReady.
Cartwright’s team had their base within the U.S. Embassy. If he could get the helicopter to land inside the grounds the kids would at least be safe there while he made his assessment.
He turned to the children. “It’s going to be okay.”
THE PUMA’S PILOT decided to play his stubborn card at first, refusing to take the American to the Embassy.
“What are you going to do, Belasko? Kill me and let us crash?”
“You could have the first part right, pal. Didn’t I mention I can fly one of these things myself? So if it comes to push and shove, you’re a disposable asset. I let you fly so far because it suited my purpose. Think about it while you’re watching for the city to show up.”
The pilot fell silent while he worked out whether the man was telling the truth. The American had proved to be adept at everything else he had done. There was the possibility he was bluffing. The only way the pilot was going to prove that would put his own life at risk, and he had no intention of doing that. He realized his only course was to do as the American said.
“We should be sighting the city in about ten minutes,” the pilot said.
“Fine. Alter your course and bring us down inside the U.S. Embassy compound.”
AS THE PUMA TOUCHED DOWN on the lawn fronting the Embassy, armed Marines converged on it. They surrounded the helicopter, weapons ready.
Bolan ordered the pilot and radio operator to the cabin and got them to open the side door.
“Step out, hands in sight,” the Marine sergeant yelled.
“Do it,” Bolan said and let the pilot and radio operator exit the Puma.
Bolan brought the children out with him. “Sergeant, these are Joseph Karima’s children. Can you inform Ambassador Cartwright that Mike Belasko has them safe. He knows about me. So does Phil McReady.”
The Marine stared at Bolan’s disheveled appearance. Filthy clothing and hard dried blood on his face and head.
“Sir, I don’t know who the hell you are, but it’s for sure you haven’t been on a picnic.”
Bolan smiled. “Sergeant, you said it. Now what about Cartwright? I need to talk to him fast.”
“Sir, don’t we all. I guess you haven’t heard. Ambassador Cartwright was snatched last night.”
“Belasko?”
Bolan glanced up at the familiar voice. He saw Phil McReady crossing the lawn. The man smiled when he saw Katherine and Randolph.
“Jesus, you did it.”
“What’s this about Cartwright?”
McReady held up a hand. “Let’s get these kids inside. Then we’ll talk.”
The Marines escorted the helicopter pilot and the radio operator toward the Embassy building where they would be put under guard. As the pilot passed Bolan he asked, “Was it true about you being able to fly the chopper?”
Bolan looked him directly in the eyes. “What do you think?”
INSIDE THE EMBASSY Bolan followed McReady to an office. Once they were alone McReady crossed to a steaming percolator and poured Bolan a mug of coffee. As they sat down facing each other across a large desk McReady smiled nervously.
“Leland’s desk,” he said. “Hell of a way to get to sit behind it.”
“While we were flying in I spotted some smoke in areas of the city,” Bolan said.
“Rebels hit around midday. Power station, radio and TV studios. All key points. Apart from that it’s been a stalemate. Karima somehow managed to pull in a fair number of loyal troops, so the takeover has sort of come to a standoff.”
“Do you know where Cartwright is?”
“Rebel leaders have taken over Government House. They have Karima, Raymond Nkoya and now Cartwright.”
“Any threats?”
“They say they won’t quit until Karima steps down and Cartwright accepts that all U.S. interests are withdrawn from Tempala. We step back from the copper deal and there’s not going to be any U.S. military presence in the country.”
“Public reaction?”
“It’s sparse because the regular media outlets have been silenced, but the general feeling is the Tempalans, including a hell of a lot of the Kirandi, have had enough. They don’t want any more unrest. The bombing did the rebels a lot of harm.”
“But they still won’t quit?”
McReady shook his head. “The hardcore rebels still believe that if they get Karima out, the country will back them. To be honest, Mike, I really thin
k they’ve blown their chance.”
Bolan drank his coffee. It seemed a lifetime since he’d had anything so good inside him.
“Any chance of something to eat, Phil?”
“Sure. I’ll fix it.”
“First a shower and a change of clothing. Then I need to talk to my people back home. We still have a communications link?”
“Yeah. We have our own power supply so the rebels can’t touch it. Satellite link as well.”
“Good.”
“Before this all happened we heard about you identifying Chakra as being part of the rebel faction. How’s he going to explain that away?”
“Posthumously,” Bolan said.
BOLAN HAD A DIRECT LINE through to Stony Man. Seated in Leland Cartwright’s leather chair, refreshed from a quick shower, a change of clothing and having his wounds treated by the Embassy doctor, Bolan completed his mission update for Hal Brognola.
“Now that Chakra and Hector Campos are dead, and Karima’s kids are safe,” the head Fed said, “you’d expect that to be an end to it.”
“Not as long as Zimbala and Harruri have their hostages,” Bolan said.
Barbara Price was also on the line. “We have confirmed reports of at least twenty dead. Civilians included, Striker,” the mission controller stated.
“What’s the sitrep as far as Government House is concerned?” Bolan asked.
“Small rebel force in control. Just sitting tight until Karima gives in,” Price added.
“With Leland Cartwright in the middle,” Brognola added. “How do we handle it?”
“You really want me to answer that?” Bolan asked.
“No,” Brognola said. “And don’t mention me by name.”
Bolan chuckled. “Do I embarrass you, Hal?”
“I’m thinking,” Brognola said.
“How are the kids?” Price asked.
“Tired, a little confused and scared. They don’t understand why they still can’t go home.”
“They must miss their father.”
“Yeah, well that’s something I’m going to put right,” Bolan said.
22
McReady had obtained floor plans for Government House. Bolan sat at Cartwright’s desk, studying the drawings. It was helpful that Bolan had been inside the building. It allowed him a degree of familiarity with the layout. Even so he was going in without full knowledge of the killing ground. It wasn’t the way Bolan would have chosen to work, but the situation called for a fast insertion. The longer the rebels had their hostages the more likely they might end up doing something out of sheer desperation if they realized matters were working against them. Bolan had no intention of letting that situation develop.
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