Nigeria Meltdown

by Don Pendleton

  What power did this American have? With just six men, he had stopped two groups of trained military men.

  Ehurie did not know of the shadow team that had joined forces with Bolan. If he had, it would perhaps have increased the deep fear and anger that brewed within him. These were the men who had ransacked his Lagos home and business, and taken his woman.

  Things were to drive his depression deeper on that front. He responded to an alert from the Skype on his laptop, and the face of Milton Abiola appeared. Abiola never looked happy, but even by his standards, his face was set grim and harder than before.

  “Have you eliminated the American yet?” he asked without preamble.

  “I do not know,” Ehurie snapped in return.

  “What about the men—”

  “What about your man?” the base commander rapped back. “Why has he not yet done his job? I should not have to deal with this fool and the military. There are only seven of them in all, and yet—”

  “More than that,” Abiola interrupted. “We have found your woman. She had much to tell us.”

  Ehurie’s expression darkened as Abiola revealed all that Oboko had been able to extract from the woman. Ehurie had always been careful to make sure that she thought she knew more than she truly did, and that any important information about the Brotherhood—indeed, about his criminal business that funded his Brotherhood activities—was kept from her. And yet he was appalled to hear that she had been able to piece together more than he would have imagined. She had been more than his trophy and the madam of his brothel. She had used the intelligence she had applied to gather information from customers to gather information about Ehurie. He cursed his own lack of brain for that and cursed again the fact that he kept his brain mostly in his pants.

  The fact that the American now had assistance—five other men—accounted for how he had been able to mop up the two smaller groups sent to engage him with ease. Ehurie would be ready for the greater numbers with his next action. More than that, he would look forward to coming face-to-face with the scum who had destroyed his business in Lagos. When the uprising came to fruition, that would not matter to him in any monetary sense. That was not the point. His pride and ego were dented, and assuaging them would give him an extra pleasure.

  “Where is she now?” he asked when Abiola had finished.

  The ghost of a smile flickered briefly across Abiola’s face. Ehurie knew what he was going to say before the words left his mouth.

  “Franklin is keen to show his devotion to the cause. So much so that he was a little enthusiastic in his questioning. More than a little, if I am honest. She did not survive long after he had extracted all the information he could. Perhaps that is just as well as she would not have liked the way she looked once she found a mirror again.”

  Ehurie did not answer. His face was impassive.

  “It troubles you?” Abiola queried. “You would like me to deal with Oboko in some way?”

  There was something in his tone that suggested he would enjoy this task, but Ehurie chose to ignore it. He waved a dismissive hand.

  “I am annoyed that I could not do the job myself and make her pay for the trouble she has caused me. I will just have to take out my anger on the American and the scum he has brought with him,” he stated.

  He disconnected and sat back, deep in thought. This changed the way he would approach the enemy, without doubt. His initial thoughts of sending out another group of men to meet them were dismissed. That would mean committing a larger party than would be politic.

  Let them come to him. He would be the spider. His venom would be lethal.

  * * *

  EKWENSE HAD PILOTED the truck back onto the path cut by their predecessors, backing up over rough land that made the aging chassis protest and the engine work to its limits. With the other truck little more than a smoking wreck, Bolan wondered if they would have to make the rest of the short journey to the forest on foot. That might have its advantages in terms of avoiding surveillance, but the negatives outweighed them. He had no desire for his men to reach the enemy territory exhausted or at a pace that would allow the Brotherhood to bring their forces into play.

  They had to hit as hard and fast as possible, and the truck was vital to that. So Bolan was relieved when Ekwense managed to get it back onto a relatively smooth path and gunned the engine. He hit the trail left by the smoking vehicle in their wake.

  “Why this one?” Bolan asked.

  “Why not?” The driver shrugged. “They’ll be watching both, if they have any sense.”

  He was right. Whichever of the trails forged by the enemy vehicles that they took, they were sure to be observed. That was why Bolan had no intention of going directly in. The truck was to get them close and quick. Once that had been achieved, he had other plans.

  He swung out of the cab and climbed into the flatbed in the rear. Samuel raised an eyebrow.

  “You did not think about just getting him to stop?”

  “No time for that,” Bolan replied. He indicated the two sullen prisoners. “Any words from the wise down there?”

  Samuel shook his head. “Nothing. I figure they reckon on us driving right into a trap.”

  “I bet they do,” Bolan said.

  “Gentlemen,” he continued, addressing himself to all the men in the flatbed, “they have greater numbers, but we have the advantage of being smarter, as the stupidity of their response up to now shows. We also have more men than they’re counting on—they only know about the army men I brought with me. So whatever strategy they adopt, we have that edge.”

  “Are you sure?” Ayinde asked. “You said they would come running, but I don’t see them.”

  Bolan turned and scanned the approaching ridge at the edge of the forest. “No, maybe Ehurie can keep his temper better than I hoped. There’s still a lot of forest he’s going to have to cover, though.”

  “He knows it. You do not. Nor do these pigs,” one of the prisoners spat out.

  “Exactly. That’s why I need you.”

  “You really think we would betray our comrades?” the prisoner asked, incredulous.

  Bolan shook his head. “You won’t have to. If you don’t tell us, then you get sent in to smoke them out.’ He turned to Achuaba and Ken. “You two look about the same size as them. Change clothes and wire them up to grenades underneath. We send them in, and if they get fired on, then the enemy give themselves away and get blown to hell in the bargain.”

  “You would do that to them?” Ayinde asked, astonished.

  “Why not? You wanted me to kill them back there—what’s the problem?”

  Ayinde grinned. It was the first time Bolan had seen it, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. There was also a new respect in his voice that somehow made the soldier feel uneasy as he said, “There is no problem. Smart move, at last.”

  Bolan left them preparing the two prisoners and swung himself back into the cab of the truck, feeling the wind pluck at his clothes and skin, narrowing his eyes against the dust and grass seed thrown up by the vehicle, riding the bucking of the vehicle as it traversed the earth. All the while, his narrowed eyes were focused on the forest ahead, which grew greater with every second.

  He estimated they were about half a klick from the start of the tree cover when he slid back in next to Ekwense.

  “Slow her down, but don’t stop her,” he said.

  The driver looked at him quizzically, but shrugged and did as he was asked. As the vehicle slowed to a crawl, Bolan slipped out, keeping pace with the moving ground beneath his feet, and allowed the flatbed section to slip past him. He directed the men in the back to dismount, which they did, pushing the prisoners before them.

  Bolan picked up a rock from the ground and moved around so that he was on the driver’s side. He beckoned Ekwense to slip out and, seeing the ro
ck in Bolan’s hand, the driver realized what he intended. He left the engine running and clutch in, keeping it depressed until the last moment.

  As he exited and dropped back, Bolan slipped the rock into place so it jammed on the accelerator. The truck kicked and bucked as the gears whined and it picked up speed. Bolan was spun away from the moving vehicle and landed, rolling, in the long grass. He had been ready for it, and the savanna grass cushioned him as he had hoped.

  He rose and dusted himself off, watching the truck weave as it sped toward the path between the trees that led into the forest. He indicated that his men get off the path and into the cover of the long grass before they could be seen, joining them as bursts of rifle and SMG fire erupted from the trees, directed at the truck. The windows shattered, the fender dented and screamed as slugs hit the metal, but still the truck plowed on.

  Bolan set off on a circular path that would take his men into the forest by another route, watching all the while as the truck headed on a collision course with the trees.

  By the time it hit and exploded, either because of impact or because of the rain of fire, he had already guided his men and their prisoners into the relative safety of the trees.

  Now the game was on.

  In the cool dark of the forest, out of the harsh glare of the sun, it took Bolan and his men a few seconds to adjust to the change in light. The flora was more tightly packed and dense in this area than where the truck had just crashed, which was why he had chosen to lead them here, figuring that it was less likely to be populated with the enemy. If his guess was correct, the initial thrust of their forces would be directed toward either of the trails into camp, and the appearance of the truck would only reinforce this action.

  He gathered his men, with Ayinde listening from a distance, keeping their prisoners both out of earshot and under his baleful gaze.

  “We can’t use radios in here. It’s too risky. We haven’t been able to make a sufficient recon of the area, either. For that reason, I don’t want us to separate. We spread out, but like on the grassland, we keep visual with the next man.”

  “This is a big forest,” Samuel murmured. “How do we know where we’re going?”

  “For a start, we follow the tracks made by the trucks. Along the way there, we’ll have a lot of Brotherhood fighters to take down. I figure the more there are, the closer we’re getting. It’s not a subtle approach, but we don’t have time for subtle.”

  Ekwense eyed him curiously. “Cooper, is there something you’re not telling us?”

  Bolan sighed. “It’s not anything I can be sure of, but if you want to see Lagos, Nigeria even, stay as it is—maybe even get better—then we should move on this.”

  The soldiers were as puzzled as the shadow team, but even though they were not necessarily men of the south, they understood the implication in Bolan’s words.

  With a somber sense of purpose settling over them, they began to trek through the forest and toward the area where the gunfire and explosion were located. Ayinde drove the prisoners on before him, muttering as he took point, “Stay ahead—too far and I kill you no matter what the American says.” The others fanned out in the dense forest, pushing through leaves and branches that overhung and intertwined, forming a thick curtain that made progress slow. The roots beneath their feet caught at their ankles, threatening to tug them down if their attention faltered for a moment. Insects buzzed around them, loud in their ears and biting with sudden pain that only the adrenaline of fear could make them ignore.

  The sporadic gunfire at the truck had ceased by now, and the only sound that cut through the hum of the jungle was the crackle of fire as the truck burned, the occasional sharp screech as metal twisted in the heat punctuating the silence.

  The relief they had first felt on being out of the direct sun was now replaced by discomfort as the humidity of the enclosed forest started to make them sweat, their fatigues sticking to them.

  Bolan had Ekwense to his left, picking his way clumsily through the foliage, and Saro Wiwa to the right. Ayinde was at the far end, with the two prisoners, just ahead of the line. Kanu, Samuel, Sosimi and Obinna came between Ayinde and Saro Wiwa, on the right of the middle three men, while Habila, Emecheta, Ken and Achuaba were strung out between the far end of the line and Ekwense. Bolan could not see each end, but he could hear some of them as they made heavy work of the foliage.

  It worried him that their problems in negotiating the forest left them so open. The enemy was in front of them somewhere. The sooner they came on them and engaged, the better he would feel. If you were fighting them, you could see them. Not seeing them was far worse.

  Beyond the sound of their own clumsy progress, there were rustlings in the undergrowth that could have been wildlife scuttling to hide but could also have been Brotherhood fighters tracking them. Bolan kept an experienced eye on the bush ahead of them, but there was little that gave anything away.

  They were nearing the point where the tracks from the savanna cut into the forest. That was where the enemy had been clustered a few minutes before, and there had been little noise—at least, little audible over their own progress—to indicate that the Brotherhood gunners had moved from their positions.

  Bolan held up a hand to indicate that his men should stop—a signal that was passed down the line until all sound dropped, and he could be sure that his men were still.

  An eerie silence descended over the forest. Bolan barely dared breathe in case he break that silence.

  Then, gradually, as his ears became accustomed to the quieter levels of sound, he could hear in the far distance a wave of rustling, as though moving soldiers had set up a ripple of sound that was spreading toward them, bringing with it danger.

  He was not the only one to appreciate its implications. He was about to signal that they move toward the sound when the quiet was broken by the yelling of one of the prisoners. His imploring voice was harsh in the near silence, accompanied by the crashing of foliage as he broke cover and ran toward the ripple.

  A cry from his fellow prisoner and an angry yell from Ayinde joined the cacophony. A warning, followed almost immediately by a single shot and a scream, and then...

  The forest was suddenly alive with flame and deafening noise as the grenades strapped to the fleeing prisoner’s torso were ignited by a single AK shot. Before the vacuum after the blast had even cleared, the air was filled with a blanket of rifle and SMG fire directed toward the blast area.

  Directly at the area where Bolan and his men now hit the forest floor, splinters from trees and shredded leaves raining down on them, pinning them to the ground while their enemy stole toward them.

  Unless Bolan could act quickly, they were trapped.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Milton, I have done everything you have asked. What more can I do?”

  Oboko spread his hands in a gesture of supplication, his eyes wide with fear and pleading.

  “Franklin, you have done too much. Far too much. The way you work is messy, and in the transition, we cannot afford messy. It is not good.”

  “Good?” The general’s voice rose from a roar to a screech, fear tightening his vocal cords. “I have gotten you results. Surely that is all that matters?”

  Abiola shook his head. “If you really believe that, then you are a bigger fool than I ever suspected. In the coming days, we will need to be seen to be a force for good within the country. We must be whiter than the British ever were,” he added with the faintest glimmer of humor.

  It went over Oboko’s head. “I can be this,” he said in a small pleading voice.

  Abiola looked around. “I doubt that,” he said simply. They were in the basement room where Buchi and the woman had both died. The walls were drab, the once-white paint flecked with brownish-red splashes that may or may not have been blood. The two chairs, straps of leather and twine layi
ng loose, stood mute testimony to recent events, as did the electrical equipment and bowl of tepid water that stood to one side. There was blood on the concrete floor, still red, gathered at the base of both chairs. The major curled his lip in distaste as he looked at them.

  “You know I am loyal to the Brotherhood, Milton. I have always believed—”

  “Shut up, you moron,” Abiola snapped. “You think I do not realize that it is about money and power for you—”

  “And you, of course, have no interest in these things,” Oboko roared, a flash of anger momentarily overcoming the fear.

  “Of course I have an interest in them, but they are not the only things that concern me,” Abiola replied calmly. “They are merely the by-products of having a country in the palm of your hand. Of leading a once-great nation back to greatness. In the days before the British, we were a proud continent. We can be again. Our leader has a vision where all Africans realize that they are God’s chosen people. We are the cradle of the world, and all wisdom comes from us.”

  Oboko was, for a second, speechless. He had always known Abiola to be a hard, practical man, so to see the messianic gleam in his eye as he talked gibberish was disconcerting. It may have been best for Oboko to keep quiet at this point, but he could not help himself. If he had any self-awareness, it would have occurred to him that this was always his problem and was exactly what had brought him to this point. But, unaware and undaunted, he continued.

  “Are you mad? Africa has always been small areas ruled by small tribes. Great nation? We are something the British put together, like the French made Cameroon and the Belgians the Congo. That is why we have trouble with these borders now that they cut through our old lands. Our strengths were in being small. Even I realize that, and you say I am a moron.”