Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  "You better go get them."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  "Cazz," Bolan said, "I know this isn't an easy thing I'm asking you to do, but it's important."

  "No sweat. I never liked Robbins, anyhow."

  "Look, don't take any chances. All you have to do is keep them in the tent and make sure they don't contact anybody. Roberto here will give you a hand."

  "Check." He reached into his shirt and pulled out two small printed circuit boards. Holding one in each hand, he tapped one against the other. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got a feeling the radio's busted and somebody stole the spare parts for the damn thing. Wouldn't you know, a goddamn snafu just when we can't afford it. Some crazy men are tearassing through hell and we can't even tell anybody." He smiled.

  Bolan looked at Hoffman and Rivera. "You ready?"

  Hoffman nodded, but Rivera took longer to answer. He seemed to be giving himself one last opportunity to change his mind. Redemption wasn't easy to contemplate, maybe harder than actually doing it. Finally he nodded. "I'm ready."

  "Let's go, then." Bolan shook Hoffman's hand. "Gil, watch yourself. And remember, you don't have to take them down. Just keep them busy. If we leave now, we'll be there in two hours. It should take you about four hours, so I guess you better hit the road."

  Hoffman climbed down from the table he'd been sitting on. He clapped Bolan on the shoulder, then shook Rivera's hand. "General, you better deliver. I'm too damn old for another disappointment. I'm not even sure I'm doing the right thing. If I put my ass on the line, there better be a payoff at the other end."

  Rivera held on to Hoffman's hand. Looking him in the eye, he said, "I have a feeling my watchdog will see to it there is a payoff."

  Hoffman pulled his hand away and walked out of the tent, followed by Bolan and Rivera. The CIA agent climbed into the waiting jeep and waved casually. Then the vehicle lurched, groaned across the dirt square and was gone.

  Bolan stood and watched until Hoffman was out of sight. He looked at Rivera then, a thoughtful expression darkening his features. "You better believe I'll see to it," he said.

  Rivera turned to him. "Mr. Belasko, if you have any doubts at all, we'd better clear them up right now. Once we leave here there's no turning back. We both know that."

  Bolan sighed, then spoke to Washington. "Okay, Cazz, you're up."

  Washington grabbed the warrior's hand. "Good luck, my man. I'll be rooting for you."

  "Maybe you should pray," Rivera suggested.

  The man looked at Rivera. "General, that's something I stopped doing a long time ago. I don't think God's home when any of us call." He nodded to Roberto and walked across the compound to the supply tent.

  Bolan waited until the men reappeared with AK-47s, then tapped Rivera on the shoulder. "The jeep's out back," he said. "We better move or we'll miss the chopper."

  The two men slipped between Rivera's tent and the woods on the far edge of the camp. Bolan led the way through the trees to a small clearing, where two men waited in a second jeep. While the general climbed into the passenger seat, the Executioner slid behind the wheel, started the engine and kicked the jeep into gear. The vehicle struggled through tangled weeds and small bushes, jolted over a fallen log, then cut into the road about fifty yards past the far side of the camp.

  Over the roar of the engine, Bolan shouted, "You know this is a long shot, General, don't you?"

  Rivera shouted back, "The longer the odds, the bigger the purse. But I'm not a gambler. If I didn't think we could pull this off, I wouldn't be in this jeep right now."

  Bolan lapsed into silence and crossed mental fingers, hoping the chopper would be at the rendezvous. The operation was a shoestring affair, hastily assembled and precariously balanced. One small glitch would tear the whole thing to pieces. Both men knew it, and neither one seemed disposed to discuss the fact.

  Twenty minutes later Bolan heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He turned to the two men in the back of the jeep. Carlos Ingrazia, a man Rivera had taken a liking to on sight, patted the M-50 between him and Joaquin Cruz. "Ready," he said, "just in case."

  They all knew it could be a Sandinista chopper and also knew that the smallest delay might wipe out their plans. Ingrazia raised crossed fingers. "I think it's ours," he said. "The Hinds sound different."

  The rendezvous point was about a mile and a half ahead. The sound of the chopper faded, and Bolan goosed the Jeep. Even while in the air they wouldn't be safe, but they'd have a better chance. A jeep on the ground stood little chance against a fully armed Hind. They could run for cover, but the forest on both sides of the road was too dense for the jeep.

  The road swept to the left about a hundred yards ahead. Bolan slowed a little, downshifting to give himself more control, and hit the curve with the jeep wound out. The transmission whined like a buzz saw and the vehicle sideslipped into the near leg of the hairpin. A clearing on the left exploded like a disturbed anthill, and Bolan cursed under his breath. Two jeeps — carrying eight men wearing the light brown uniform of the Nicaraguan army — buzzed in circles as the jeep flew by. They had been eating lunch, and the sudden appearance of the vehicle had disoriented them.

  Scattered gunfire broke out, but Bolan swept his vehicle into the second half of the hairpin and was out of sight in an instant, knowing that the patrol would be on their tail in minutes.

  Cruz unlimbered the M-50 and knelt on the floor. He made sure the safety was off and swept the machine gun back and forth in silent practice. They were in a long straightaway now, and by the time they neared the far end of it, one of the Nica jeeps had already entered the back end.

  Bolan heard gunfire, but it was as if he were listening to a sound track. The jeep was untouched, and he saw nothing to indicate that the shots were near misses. Heading into the next turn, the warrior had to back off the gas to keep control. Then he floored it again as the sharp curve flattened into a broad, gentle arc. As long as the road continued to wind, they'd be safe unless the pursuers got too close. On the straight-aways it was another matter.

  Rivera seemed curiously detached from the excitement, as if he hadn't even noticed it. On the next straightaway Bolan glanced back. The four-hundred-yard lead had shrunk to less than three hundred. Cruz opened up with the M-50, its thunderous rattle shaking the jeep. Their pursuers returned fire, sporadic bursts that popped like distant firecrackers. This time, though, they came a lot closer. Dust geysers sprouted in front of the jeep, and a hail of shattered twigs and bits of bark clattered down from the branches overhead. It was only a matter of time before they found the range.

  Bolan started to juke the jeep, jerking the wheel left, then veering back to the right at irregular intervals. It cost them a little time, but the trade-off was a good one. Cruz hammered away now, firing in short, choppy bursts. The belt clattered on the floor of the jeep, and Ingrazia opened up with his AK. Rivera had turned and now knelt on the front seat, bracing himself with one hand and firing his side arm. The pop of the Browning automatic sounded frail and puny alongside that of the larger guns.

  "They're gaining," Rivera shouted, tossing an empty magazine into the trees. He slapped a second in place, then nearly lost his hold on the seat as Bolan wrenched the wheel violently to the left to avoid a fallen tree sticking halfway into the road.

  Cruz shouted, "Bastards won't stay still, damn it." He held the trigger down almost constantly, wasting ammo in his frustration. Then he cried in exultation. "Take that, maricón."

  Bolan heard a sharp explosion and looked back for a second, just long enough to see the lead jeep nose over, then fall onto its top. A sheet of flame shot up from the shattered vehicle, and the spinning wheels disappeared in black smoke.

  Ingrazia shouted, "Here comes the other one."

  Cruz was busy slapping a new belt into the M-50 as Bolan rounded the last curve. They careered into a straightaway, the jeep skidding into the turn and sending rooster tails of dry sand off into the trees. Up ahead a Huey sat on the
ground, its rotor turning slowly, the blades sagging a little.

  "There's the chopper," Bolan shouted as the machine gun started hammering again. The second jeep was too close for comfort. The warrior braked just outside the reach of the whirling blades and jumped down, followed by Rivera.

  "You guys go ahead," Cruz shouted.

  "Come on, Joaquin," Ingrazia shouted, pulling his friend away from the big machine gun.

  But Cruz shook him off. "Get in the goddamn chopper, Carlito. I'll keep them busy."

  Bolan shoved Rivera into the open chopper. The pilot waved his arms frantically and shouted something, but his window was closed. The warrior knelt and began to fire his AK as Ingrazia rushed past him, still looking back over his shoulder.

  "We can wait," Bolan shouted. "Get in!"

  The Sandinista unit had swung its tail end around and was using its own machine gun now, a Soviet PKS mounted in the rear of the vehicle. Three of the four men had taken cover behind the jeep, while the fourth knelt behind the PKS.

  Cruz raked the jeep, and Bolan saw sparks flying off the fenders and tailgate. He climbed into the chopper, and the pilot started to rev the engine. Cruz poured it on. He raised a fist in the air when both rear tires blew, then he sprinted for the chopper. Bolan unhitched the chopper's M-60 as Cruz ducked under the rotor. The chopper started to lift off, and Bolan slammed the Sandinista jeep with a quick burst. He let go of the machine gun and reached down for Cruz, locking his hand around the smaller man's wrist. As the chopper climbed, Cruz dangled from the big man's arm.

  Ingrazia had taken over the M-60, keeping the soldiers pinned. The PKS had fallen silent, and Bolan spotted the gunner draped over the tailgate of the jeep, his arms swinging gently.

  The warrior hauled Cruz up far enough for the younger man to grab the doorframe with his free hand. Rivera dropped to the floor alongside Bolan, and together they hauled the little man up into the chopper, which was now two hundred feet above the ground. It spun into a bank, then nosed forward as Cruz collapsed on the floor.

  He looked at Bolan with a weak grin, then vomited on the floor. His body jerking spasmodically. He shook his head, then spit as he rolled away from the mess.

  "Can't take you anywhere, man," Ingrazia complained.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The second rendezvous went off without a hitch. Huddled in the back of the truck, the four men kept their own counsel. Bolan wondered how Hoffman was doing. He knew that they were paying out a very fine wire. It wouldn't take much to snap it, and if it snapped, the backlash of the razor-thin line would cut them to pieces. So much depended on finding one tiny needle in one gargantuan haystack.

  They were close to the capital, and the truck rolled smoothly over asphalt for the first time since boarding. Traffic was much heavier, and Bolan took comfort in the crush of vehicles. They no longer stuck out like a rodeo clown's nose. He didn't kid himself. Things could still go very wrong very quickly, but at least they were getting close. Ironically so much depended now on Daniel Ortega. He was scheduled to give a major speech about the upcoming election. But Ortega was notoriously unpredictable. He changed his schedule with almost perverse whimsy.

  If they didn't get to Pagan's assassins today, they would never get to them at all. Never had a second's timing been split so fine. Bolan watched the general, who seemed lost in thought. Almost hidden by shadows at the front of the truck bed, Rivera leaned against the side of the big van, rocking from side to side as the truck bed shifted on its springs. He seemed detached, as if he were a small wheel in a huge machine rather than a key player in a complex and deadly game. It might just be the way he controlled his emotions or, Bolan realized, he might not have any emotions at all. The man was almost impossible to read, no matter how carefully you studied him.

  Cruz and Ingrazia whispered softly to each other, trying to calm their own nerves with small talk. Bolan got up and took a seat on the floor of the truck alongside Rivera. "Have you decided what you want to do, General?"

  Rivera laughed without enthusiasm. "You ask that as if it were up to me, Mr. Belasko."

  "Isn't it?"

  "No, it isn't. And I won't bore you with my speculation, either. I just want what's best for Nicaragua."

  "Isn't that what you're supposed to be? The best man for Nicaragua?"

  "How does one ever know that? What are the signs? Snow, perhaps? That would truly be a miracle in Nicaragua, would it not?"

  "Who said anything about miracles?"

  "We're talking about what my country needs. And what it needs is not a man, but a miracle."

  Bolan didn't say anything for a few minutes. He sat there, rocking in rhythm along with the truck. Finally he asked the one question that had haunted him since their first meeting. "General, there isn't any hidden fortune, is there? You didn't come back here for money."

  "No, there's no money."

  "Then why?"

  "Because I love my country. And because I, like you, am wary of men who say such things too easily. I didn't want to sound too much like a missionary. I mistrust that kind of zeal. I think you know why. I think you mistrust it, too. But it's true. Not the zeal, I'm too much a realist for that, but the love. That's genuine. And I couldn't sit back and watch a beast like Guillermo Pagan take control. I have no love for Ortega, but replacing him with Pagan is like trying to cure leprosy with cancer. Do you understand?"

  "I…" He was interrupted by a rap on the window between the cab and the truck bed. Bolan moved to the tailgate and looked out as the vehicle began to slow. They were turning a corner, and the truck wobbled as it eased over a curb and down into an alley. Weathered brick pressed in on both sides, then the truck turned again and stopped.

  Bolan heard the driver open his door and jump down to the pavement. A moment later he rapped on the tailgate and jerked the pins loose to let it swing open. The canvas top was still pulled across the back, and the warrior peered out from under it. He lay flat on the bed and slipped out to the ground. They were in a courtyard of some kind surrounded by walls. Only the mouth of the alley broke the encirclement.

  The Executioner reached back into the truck for his weapons, then stepped aside to let Cruz and Ingrazia climb down. Rivera came last. He lay on the bed, staring at the four men. Tentatively he let one leg slide over the edge and dangle toward the ground. When both feet touched the pavement, he looked up at the bright blue sky overhead. He was overwhelmed, and it showed. He watched a cloud slide by, the way a man at the bottom of a well would see a bird fly past — with a mixture of envy and admiration.

  The driver tapped Bolan on the shoulder. "We have to get out of sight, señor. Quickly." He stepped away, and Bolan turned to follow him. Cruz and Ingrazia fell into line behind him. The driver stopped at a metal door, rapped twice, once, then waited. Metal ground on metal, and the door swung out into the courtyard.

  "Quickly, por favor" the driver said, pushing Cruz and Ingrazia through the doorway.

  "We have to hurry, General," Bolan whispered.

  The warrior waited for him to enter the building, then stepped in and closed the door. They were in a dimly lit, windowless room that resembled a basement. A kerosene lamp burning on a table in a corner failed to dispel the gloom.

  A man sitting on a folding chair at one end of the table nodded as Rivera approached. The man had long gray hair and a snow-white beard. His hands, orange in the lamp light, were wrinkled and leathery. His face, the little of it that was visible behind the beard, was like parchment.

  He extended a hand to the general, who took it hesitantly. The old man smiled distantly. "Emilito, you've gained weight."

  "Yes, the weight you've lost, my friend."

  "Cancer, Emilito, has taken my weight. Not you."

  "I heard. I'm sorry, Juan. I wish there was something I could do."

  The old man waved one leathery hand. "Too late for that. I have the information you wanted. We better talk." Juan patted the opposite end of the table before unfolding several sheets of p
aper and pressing them flat on the chipped wood.

  Rivera turned to Bolan. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone with my old friend for a while."

  Bolan nodded. He understood perfectly.

  The driver took the warrior's arm. "This way," he said, leading him into another room. Cruz and Ingrazia were already there, changing into peasant clothes, stained canvas pants and denim shirts. Both men already wore sandals.

  The driver handed Bolan a pair of jeans and a denim work shirt. "These should fit," he said. "Not so easy to disguise a gringo your size…" He shrugged. "Maybe the Virgin will watch over you."

  Bolan took the clothing and changed quickly, first donning the harness that would hold his weapons.

  When he finished changing, the driver handed him an Uzi. "Four extra clips are all we could get our hands on," the driver explained. "You'll each have one, and the same amount of ammunition. If you have to shoot, shoot straight and sparingly."

  He handed Cruz and Ingrazia Uzis fitted with slings made out of insulated wire. "Wear these under your shirts," he instructed. "They slip off the wire like this." He jerked on a spare gun, also on a sling, and the wire parted. "It'll hold the weapon securely, but you can get it quickly when you have to."

  Cruz slipped his over his shoulder, then pulled on the shirt. Nestled under his arm under the loose blue cloth, the weapon wasn't at all obvious. Ingrazia followed suit, buttoning his shirt only halfway up.

  "Come with me," the driver said.

  He led them back into the other room, where Rivera and Juan were deep in conversation. The old man acknowledged them with a slight dip of his head. Rivera didn't turn around.

  "You're sure of this, Juan? Absolutely sure?"

  Juan shrugged. "As sure as I can be of anything. Who knows how sure that is? I don't."

  "That's good enough for me."

  "It's not as if you have any choice, eh, Emilito?" Juan laughed, and the sound of it was full and rich, despite his fragile appearance.