Rebel Blast

by Don Pendleton

  So why would any group seek to put its own people at risk rather than strike at the enemy? It made no sense. They had to realize that the president would not back down if it came to that point. No matter what their bargaining tool, no matter how strong they thought it might be, then surely they had to realize that they would be crushed.

  Unless their advantage was that big: more mineral wealth and American nationals would put them in a pretty strong position.

  Not that strong that they could afford to misjudge the president’s wrath, though, and the minister feared that they had done this, and that things were going to get a whole lot worse, a whole lot more bloody, before this matter was resolved.

  * * *

  “OKAY,” ASLAN BARGISHEV said as he stood in front of the desk that he had until so recently sat behind, “you tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. No worries.”

  Orlov could see the sweat spangling the mayor’s brow and could smell the fear coming off him. He sat back in his chair, enjoying the experience.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” the mayor gabbled on. “Actually, a lot of things, but this one more than the others... What do we actually get out of this? You get the tanks come rolling down the road, but how are you going to stop them and stop the whole town from getting blown to bits?”

  Orlov smiled benignly. “That, my friend, is not going to happen. Assemble the people in the meeting hall for three o’clock this afternoon and I will explain what is going to happen. We have a full hand, and there is no flush that the president can pull that will draw.”

  Bargishev wrinkled his brow then nodded. “Okay, boss, if you say so...”

  Seeing that he was dismissed, the mayor made his way out of the building that had formerly been his domain, being allowed out by the two men who now stood guard at the entrance. Orlov’s only security inside the building was his close ally, Viktor Adamenko.

  As he began to make the rounds of the tradesmen in the town, spreading the word of the meeting via their outlets, Bargishev mused on the man who had taken over his office, his town, his wife. Orlov was a man who exuded an air of confidence, and he seemed to know what he was doing. He had a good tactical sense, as he had secured the town with only a handful of men. They were well drilled and, like their leader, had an air of authority about them.

  If they knew as much about cards as their boss, though, he would have to organize a few card classes before things got too serious....

  * * *

  “THEY’RE UP TO something, and I wish I knew what it was,” Slaughter said in an undertone to Acquero as they sat on their makeshift beds in the old theater. The men guarding them had been joined by another two who had conversed with them in lowered voices, gesturing to the lobby, before three of the four had departed, leaving only one man on the doors. He sat to one side, his AK-47 across his lap. He seemed casual, perhaps too much so, but the survey team was generally so dispirited that its members felt no desire to test his mettle.

  “If it affects us, we’ll know soon enough,” the woman replied.

  Since the death of Callaghan, Slaughter had not made one single joke. His appalling one-liners had driven her mad while they had been working together, and she hadn’t thought that she would ever miss them. But the fact that he was now so subdued was not a good sign, and as a barometer of general morale it was too accurate for comfort.

  “I’d rather know now,” Slaughter said pathetically. “If they’re going to kill us, I wish they’d just do it and get it done. I can’t stand the not knowing.”

  Acquero took his hand. “If they were really lining us up against the wall, you’d feel very different,” she said gently. “They need us. Killing Callaghan was for effect and to make us talk. Okay, so it worked. But whatever that psycho Orlov has planned for us and for this town, a lot of it revolves around what we’ve found. He doesn’t know what our individual specialties are, so we just need to stick together on this. If we get a chance to do anything... Well, I trust Leonard, so we’ll look to him, okay?”

  Slaughter looked over at the security man. His expression revealed his uncertainty, but he had seen the way that Leonard had calmed Freeman the night before. Maybe Acquero was right.

  “Okay... But I’d give anything to know what they’re up to,” he said hesitantly.

  * * ** * *

  ARGUN-MARTAN WAS a small town, and its people had proved so far to be malleable and resigned to any kind of occupation. Although they greatly outnumbered the rebels that Orlov had bought into the town, they were conditioned by a lifetime of being under either the Soviet or Russian heel to automatically shy away from any kind of confrontation with troops. So far this had been to Orlov’s advantage, but if the Russians should choose to send tanks directly into the town, then the strength of his men may be tested in more than one direction, as these people seemed to bend with the wind.

  He had to persuade them that they should remain lashed to his mast, no matter what storms should beset them. He found those metaphors and similes appealing. Maybe he should use them in his speech.

  The meeting house was a building that predated the stark blocks of the post-war Soviet era. It predated the revolution, and had been built in the early years of the twentieth century, its minarets and peeling paintwork in time-dulled hues of red, white, gold and black showing both the influence of the East that still dictated the religion of the town, and also the neglect into which both had fallen as the populace strove to survive in the post-Communist era.

  More to the point, it was big enough to cram in the whole population, and as Orlov stood on the podium and looked out, he could see that the mayor had done his job well. Shoulder to shoulder, men, women and even children had poured into the auditorium. There was a muttering that subsided as he looked out over them, gesturing with one arm for them to be silent. Two of his men were at the back of the hall, and to one side of him was Viktor Adamenko, but as he stood in an unconscious pose that echoed Lenin, he felt certain that he would not need their presence to hold the audience in the palm of his hand. He began, his voice flowing with confidence and assurance.

  “People of Argun-Martan, you stand on the threshold of making history. You may wonder why we of the Chechen National Socialists have chosen this place in which to sew the seeds of a revolution that will see us finally throw off the yolk of Russian oppression that has dogged us for so long.

  “The truth is that this town is blessed—more so than any other in this glorious land. We have running beneath our feet a gift from Allah that will enable us to stand true, tall and alone. We will be the first as we have the power to defy the Russian overlords and take back our land from them. But our actions, and the wealth and power we can bring, will enable other communities to act in a similar way and so throw off not just the chains of Russian oppression, but expunge the land of the people who represent that. Chechnya is a land for Chechens, and we will eradicate—by whatever means—every trace of the Russian foe.

  “All will be wealthy, in spirit as well as in material things. We will rise up. But I need you to stand tall and strong beside my men in the days to come. The Russians will bluster, but the eyes of the world will be upon us, and we cannot fail. Are you with me?”

  There were mutterings and some confused glances from the floor. Orlov was frustrated. He had hoped that his meaning was clear, and certainly there were those out there that had understood him, but they were not shouting as they were forced to explain to those who had not picked up so quickly.

  Bargishev jumped up onto the podium, bowing obsequiously as Adamenko growled at him. He turned to the townspeople.

  “People, we have minerals under here that we can mine, sell and make us rich. If we do that with these guys, we can get rid of the Russians and kick out anyone who isn’t Chechen. The Russian president—” at which he spit on the podium “—can’t do anything. If we stick together,
we have the power, and maybe we’ll even be the new Chechen capital. To hell with those idiots in Grozny.”

  The muttering in the crowd grew louder until it swelled into a cheer that filled the room. Bargishev turned to Orlov.

  “Okay, they’re all yours.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m glad you could join me on this one, Jack. I’m going to need a friendly face,” Bolan greeted Grimaldi, shaking his hand as the Stony Man pilot entered the lobby of the Istanbul Grande Hotel.

  “Sarge, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Form a bunch of guys you’ve never seen before into a trained unit in twelve hours and then take on the Russian military and a bunch of terrorists? When are you going to do something difficult for a change?” The pilot chuckled, then clapped the soldier on the shoulder.

  “Funny guy,” Bolan replied. “You know, most of the men I contacted wouldn’t touch this?”

  “Yeah, I had a similar experience with the ones on my part of the list. You’d think they actually saved their hard-earned cash and lived off it, instead of blowing it in bars and at card tables,” Grimaldi said sardonically.

  “Can’t say I blame them, Jack. I need men with experience of the area as much as anything, and I guess a lot of them have reasons not to go back or get involved. Now the timetable is tighter. It’s just as well Hal had you ferry me back,” he added with a sly grin.

  “Yeah, some coincidence,” Grimaldi returned. “Listen, Sarge, the guys we’ve got...it worries me.”

  “In what way?” Bolan asked as he guided Grimaldi into a secluded seating area.

  “You don’t—we don’t—know any of them directly. We don’t know what they’re like in combat. We have no experience with how loyal they are, even if the paycheck is big enough, and no idea if they’re reliable in any kind of way.”

  “They come recommended by people we can trust. That has to be enough,” Bolan replied.

  “C’mon, Sarge. Sure we trust those guys, but they’ve only recommended personnel they know would say yes. Considering that they’re saying no themselves, it kind of makes me wonder how much we can infer from that.”

  “Infer?” Bolan said, amused. “You’ve actually been writing up some reports for Hal, right? That’s a very Hal word.”

  “Doesn’t make it wrong,” Grimaldi said seriously.

  Bolan’s tone in reply was equally serious. “No, it doesn’t. I figure these aren’t top fighting men. They’re the best we can get, balancing reliability against willingness to go to the territory. That’s why I’m glad you’re here. I’ll need you to watch my back, just as I’ll watch yours. We’ve got two Chechens, three Russians and a Georgian. He’ll have no ax to grind—maybe the others won’t, but we should still keep it in mind—but there must be a reason why he isn’t top drawer.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Then we assume military discipline and look for trigger points. Got it, Sarge. Let’s do it.”

  The two warriors got up and walked toward the conference suite where they were to meet the six men who would accompany them on the mission. It had taken time to get the names, get their agreement, and get them to this meeting place. It left little time for anything else.

  Even as they walked across the lobby of the hotel, media coverage of events in Chechnya was growing in pitch and intensity. Rolling news channels demanded stories, and with the Russian military moving toward the town of Argun-Martan, that coverage was building to a hysterical pitch, predicting—though never overtly stating—a bloody showdown.

  Bolan had put out calls to trusted men before setting out for Turkey, and had been frustrated by all the people who had opted out. It was not the danger that deterred; the politics of the region were a determining factor. Because he wanted men who knew the region to maximize their familiarity and save time, he had concentrated on men who had Russian or Chechen roots, or were from nearby states.

  The problem, he had rapidly discovered, was that feelings on the fragile state of the region ran high on both sides of the divide, and men who usually put money above all else were suddenly discovering a sense of national pride and loyalty that maybe even surprised them.

  It was only within the past three hours that he had managed to assemble a team of the size he required. Jack Grimaldi had picked him up from a NATO base in Greece, and they had flown to Istanbul in the guise of NATO emissaries sent to discuss naval placements on the Black Sea. That gave them the clearances they needed without attracting undue attention.

  Bolan had picked the Istanbul Grande as, despite its name, it was a down-at-the-heel hotel that had seen better days and was off the main tourist routes. It was always busy, but with the kind of clientele who asked no questions and in return wished none asked.

  As the two Americans entered the conference suite, they were greeted by six men, who swiveled from the coffee station table at the far end of the room to meet them with cool and appraising looks. Four of the men were clustered by the table, and looked as though they may have been conversing, while one stood apart and another was seated at the long table that ran the length of the room.

  “Gentlemen, don’t let me stop you,” Bolan said with some humor. “You can speculate all you want, or you can be seated and I’ll explain your mission.”

  “You are Cooper, of course,” said the man standing apart. “You speak, so you are in command. Who is your monkey?”

  “Name’s Grimaldi, and if I’m his monkey, then what does that make you?” Grimaldi replied.

  “The flea on your back,” the man replied in lugubrious tones. He was taller than Bolan—at least six-four—and was rangy. His lean face was sunken at the jaw, and puckered skin over his left eye spoke of a time he had ducked too slowly.

  “Dimitri Bulgarin. Onetime Russian lieutenant and a man with a liking for Afghanistan,” Bolan said cryptically. “Yuri’s description of you was accurate.”

  “He never liked me much. I never liked him. But he knows I work well,” the Russian said. “We have all spoken, to one degree or another, but have of course been cagey about ourselves. Perhaps this is the time for you to introduce us all, seeing as you have already blown whatever cover I may have possessed.”

  “That seems reasonable,” Bolan replied, bearing in mind the way in which the Russian tried to maneuver the psychological advantage. “Be seated, gentlemen, and we will begin.”

  The five fighters seated themselves along the table, joining the impassive man who was already seated. He watched them closely. Bolan noticed that although they clustered together, they still instinctively left some space between themselves and the seated mercenary. He was round-faced, with deep-set eyes and a blank expression. He looked heavy around the middle as he sat, but his thick wrists and the thickness of his neck along with the tightness of his gray polo neck sweater showed that there was still muscle on his frame.

  Bolan was in little doubt that this was Sandal Krilov, a Chechen warrior who had been allied to the freedom fighters invading Dagestan during the first Chechen war. That made him older than many of his comrades on the for-hire circuit, but his reputation was as a stone-cold killer. His allegiance to Chechnya had long since elapsed, or was so buried that he no longer cared. That he had this in his past, however, marked him as risky.

  As he looked along the table, Bolan made a point of introducing the mercenaries without recourse to either asking their names or referring to the tablet that he had placed on the table in front of him. It was only when he had finished that he powered up. Meantime, he ran through the inventory partly as introduction and partly to indicate that he knew about them, could see through them.

  Anatoly Vishniev, a Russian who had served both the military and the mafiya in his time, moving to whoever paid highest. He had been bodyguard and strategic enforcer to Boris Arkdhev, a banker of dubious repute to oligarchs with even worse reputations. Two months after leaving Arkhdev,
the banker had been shot and killed outside his London Docklands apartment. Vishniev—a squat, scarred and unmistakable figure—had been suspected from grainy CCTV footage, but of course had an unassailable alibi, being on a Black Sea beach at the time of the shooting.

  The last Russian in the group was known only as “Dostoyevsky” because of his habit of never traveling without books jammed next to his ordnance. His real name was not known, there being several aliases that had been used over the years. He was bearded, lean, silent and allegedly prone to Beserker-type rages when in combat. His background was believed to be military, and there were rumors that service in Afghanistan had been the catalyst for his going independent. Bulgarin, however, was dubious on this point, and equally as vocal.

  Dzhozkhar Basayev was the second Chechen in the party. He seemed to be smiling at some private joke all the way through the briefing, his pockmarked face split by a grin. His dark eyes darted around his fellow mercenaries, as though sizing them up as much as enemies as allies. He was short, wiry and moved constantly in his seat as though unable to settle. He had spent time in Africa fighting for whoever paid highest, having left his homeland after a tangle with organized crime and a kidnapping that ended with an oligarch’s daughter deflowered and dead when she should have been returned. The ransom money had also disappeared.

  The last member of the party was the only one who did not give Bolan and Grimaldi too much cause for concern: the Georgian Alexei Vassilev, who sat attentive, following Bolan’s introductions around the room with darting, hawklike attention. A tall, lean man whose face was obscured by the kind of mustache worn by Georgian men twice his age, he nodded to himself as if to emphasize points made by Bolan that struck home. Vassilev had come with a high recommendation, yet there had to be a reason why he would take a mission turned down by so many. Find that out, and Bolan knew that the key to the man would be revealed.