Rebel Blast

by Don Pendleton

  Leonard felt a little more assured. It looked as though they had the guts to pull together more than his pessimism had allowed him to think. All the while he had been watching the guard, who had winced and trembled with each of the two successive shell bursts. Although there had been no more since then, he was expecting it. That was making him nervous and—to their advantage—distracted.

  Time now, then, to put the plan into action. Although the survey team seemed to be as downtrodden as before, at first glance, there was a tension about them that meant Leonard felt the need to act quickly. Their body language was in danger of alerting the jumpy guard, whose eyes were flickering nervously across the group.

  The briefest of nods, and Acquero started to cry with a pain that seemed sudden and severe. Obeyo and Freeman went to her, Obeyo beckoning to Avallone. They stood over her and then backed away to show that she was now prone on the ground.

  Obeyo moved toward the guard, who backed off nervously, raising his AK-47. Obeyo shook his head, spread his hands in a gesture of supplication, and in halting Russian said, “She is ill. She needs doctor. We have no first aid.”

  The guard looked uncertain; he hadn’t been briefed for this. He knew that she was the group leader, and that Orlov always spoke to her first. That made her important. Could he risk anything happening to her, and the wrath of his leader? He moved forward, as if to try to see what was wrong with her, to decide what action he should take. He tried to keep the group in his sight as he did so, but as Leonard had instructed, they fanned out to make this hard. Avallone and Rattenbury moved a little more than the others, taking a greater risk to catch the guard’s eye.

  He swung toward them, his AK-47 leveled. Acquero groaned loudly. The guard was a young man, he had little combat experience, and Leonard had guessed that, playing on it. As the young guard’s attention shifted again, and the barrel of his AK-47 wavered, he had failed to notice that Leonard had moved behind him.

  The security man acted with a swiftness and determination he hadn’t even been sure he still had in him. He was only three feet from the guard’s back, and he half stepped, half jumped, his knee catching the man in the small of his back and driving him forward as Leonard’s arms closed around the guard’s neck. As he hit the floor of the auditorium, a burst of fire from his rifle discharged harmlessly into the wood and concrete, throwing up chips and splinters that rained around the security man as he affirmed his grip and twisted. With a sickening crack, his neck broke. Leonard felt the man go limp beneath him, and he let go slowly, straightening.

  The survey team was looking at him, at the dead guard, with blank and shocked expressions. Leonard was breathing heavily. This was the first time for some years he had been called upon to take a life, and he had forgotten how it felt. Then he saw the others, and realized that they had only ever witnessed this once before—when Callaghan had been killed by the giant. Leonard realized that he had to snap them out of it. Their reactions showed how much they would have to rely on him, no matter how much courage they found in themselves.

  “Come on, remember the plan. Stick together and follow me. We can do this, people,” he said with a confidence that he didn’t entirely feel, picking up the discarded rifle. He had no idea what was out there, but his only hope was that the shell bursts at the other end of town had drawn most of the rebels, and maybe most of the townspeople. Empty streets would be preferable. There were a lot of people on the team, and it would be difficult to find a place to hide.

  * * *

  KRILOV AND DOSTOYEVSKY had to have only missed them by minutes, but it was enough for Leonard to lead the survey team away from the theater, taking a side street that ran at an angle to the alley used by the mercenaries as their sheltered approach. By the time the mordant Russian was telling Bolan that they had drawn a blank, but that the party had been at that location, Leonard was already directing his people toward the newer buildings that marked the outer reaches of Argun-Martan.

  Bolan told Krilov and Dostoyevsky to stay where they were. He and Bulgarin would join them as soon as possible, and he directed Vishniev and Basayev to do the same. The target could not have gone far—the Russian reported that the body of the guard was still warm, with no rigor setting in—and so it might be possible to locate them. In such a small town, it would not take the four mercenaries on foot any time at all to catch up with the two on the scene, and by the same reckoning it was unlikely that a target group as large as the survey team could move that quickly. They may have injured, and they didn’t have the experience among them to make the kind of pace achieved by the mercenaries.

  While they waited for the others to reach them, the two men on-site made a brief recce to see if they could pick up a trail. There was nothing definite, but Krilov had an idea of the way he would have chosen.

  He explained his theory to Bolan when the four mercenaries met up. “You have one man who knows his business. First thing is, you don’t head for the river as it is open ground all the way. You go for the foothills—nearer, more cover. You also need plenty of cover for a big group. If I was your man, I would take the road that leads out to the factories. More covered space and fewer people.”

  “Would they know this?” Basayev asked.

  “They had an ex-operative on security, and they’d been here long enough for him to know the layout. It’s a good call.” He looked at his watch. “We’re tight on time if we’re going to get to the rendezvous for when Jack’s in the air. We’ll have to take a chance and hope their man thinks like you and me, Krilov.”

  “I sure hope so,” the Chechen said. “I don’t want to be here when the Russians get serious.”

  * * *

  AS LEONARD LED the survey team through the streets, he tried to keep them in the shadows as much as possible, and to keep them together. That was no easy task, as Winters and Slaughter had problems keeping Simmons with the others, the catatonic young man stumbling and falling behind. As well, it was hard to find adequate cover while they were in residential streets, where the clustered houses spilled light onto the street and gave little, if any, cover. The only thing he was thankful for was that the shell bursts and resulting damage had kept most of the people toward that part of town. It had made their progress easier. Now, though, the townspeople had to have been sent back to their homes, for as he pulled the group into cover near a garage, a small but steady stream of people walked past them. They were downcast, confused and complaining, which was good, for it meant that they were not paying attention to whoever lurked in the shadows.

  Leonard could feel his people starting to fret, and as he looked out he could see that the stream of townspeople showed little sign of abating.

  Worse, he could see rebel fighters at the back of the crowd. Checking that they were returning to their homes? No matter: if they checked enough, they would stumble on the hidden Americans. That was if they had not already been alerted by the dead guard and the empty theater.

  As silently as he could, he racked the rifle. Teeth grinding, Leonard steeled himself to his task and set himself to take on the rebels, alone if he had to.

  From their position in the shadows, the survey team saw the citizens stream past them, and the rebels at the rear of them grow nearer.

  Leonard sized up the first of the rebels and steadied himself.

  It was only when they were virtually on top of him that he realized that they looked nothing like any of Orlov’s men, and his finger slackened on the trigger.

  * * *

  BOLAN FOLLOWED KRILOV and Dostoyevsky as they took the lead. They moved swiftly along the winding and narrow streets, and were soon behind the straggling townspeople who were returning to their homes. That slowed them a little, as they were unwilling to barge through and engage too closely with anyone who may give them away. While the Russians and Chechens cursed the delay, Bolan used the opportunity to try to see past the crowd. He figured t
hat they couldn’t be too far behind the former hostages, and as they were both a large group and also unused to moving in such a manner, then it was likely that they would need to stop at intervals to gather stragglers. In which case they would need cover...like the shadowed area near the garage that lay just ahead of the townspeople who were slowly dispersing. Some moved past, and in the shadows the soldier was able to make out a man who stood with a rifle, in a stance that suggested he was familiar with a weapon.

  Bolan called Krilov and Dostoyevsky by name, quickening his pace to come level with them.

  “Ahead, in the shadows—go easy now,” he murmured, moving ahead of them so that he would reach the shadows ahead of his men. As he drew closer, he could see that the man in the shadows was a black man, dressed in Western clothes, and his face broke into a grin.

  “Leonard, I’m Matt Cooper, U.S. Marines. My team has come for you,” he said in a voice that was low but designed to carry. It wasn’t the whole truth, but there was no time for explanations. He had to hope that the security man would accept what he said, or else there would be the risk of an unnecessary exchange.

  Behind Leonard, he could see that the group was agitated. Some of them broke forward, and he gestured them back even as Leonard turned to do the same, and some of the others in the party pulled at them.

  “I’ll get them back, give me cover,” Bolan ordered his men, and as he moved into the shadows, the mercenaries took up covering positions.

  “Move it, Cooper. This is unnaturally quiet. No Russian tank commander is going to keep it like this for long,” Bulgarin said over his shoulder.

  Bolan didn’t answer. He knew the Russian was right, but his priority right now was to calm the survey team and prepare its members for the long haul out of Argun-Martan.

  “I knew they’d send someone covertly, damn it,” Leonard said as he clapped Bolan on the shoulder, the note of relief in his voice palpable. Bolan realized how hard it had been for the security man to keep the group together and then take this risk when the opportunity had arisen. He also realized how relieved Leonard was to have help in getting them out of town, and how relieved he was that there was a plan in place. The security man stated what had been his plan, realizing what a slender thread it had been based upon, and by the same token glad that he had not had to lie to motivate his group.

  Quickly, Bolan outlined to the survey team who he was, for brevity still claiming status as a Marine, and explained why his men were Russian and Chechen, to forestall questions for which there was no time.

  “We have a rendezvous, and we don’t have a lot of time,” he finished, addressing the group as a whole. “Your man here has done a fine job, and you’ve shown fortitude and courage. I’m going to have to ask you to dig deep for just a little more if we’re going to get out of here. Stick together, try to move as quickly as you can.”

  He addressed Winters and Slaughter. “If you guys need help with the walking wounded, you have to say so straight away. This is no time for trying to play heroes. You already are. We need to work together and we need to move now.”

  He paused to see if the group had taken in his words, scanning their faces. He could see a hell of a lot of fright, which was understandable, but he could also see determination to get out alive. That was all he needed. With a nod of affirmation, he turned to his men.

  “Let’s go. Basayev, Bulgarin, you guys take point and keep it clear ahead. We’ll take the route we planned. Dostoyevsky, Krilov, you guys bring up the rear and keep our tail clean. Vishniev, you keep the middle moving with Leonard and me. Let’s move it.”

  At the back of Bolan’s mind, the lack of communication from Vassilev concerned him. He had no idea if anything had happened to the Georgian. If not, then why the silence? They didn’t have time to retrieve him, and if his comm unit was down, then he knew the rendezvous point. Bolan took command seriously, and at any other time would have diverted himself, or some of his forces. But looking at the personnel he had, and the size of their task, he reluctantly had to leave the Georgian to his own resources.

  Snapping back to the moment, he saw that his men were on the move.

  Clear about their task, and the speed with which they needed to carry it out, the survey team and the mercenaries, motivated by the soldier’s clear commands, moved out with a determination that could be shattered by nothing short of total war.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Alexei, what are you going to do?” Adamenko asked in a voice that was small and confused, somehow grotesque in such a giant figure.

  He had joined Orlov at the front line, after the last shell had hit home and its damage had been countered as much as was possible, and had looked on while the rebel leader had stood in silence, surveying the tanks that stood in formation, as brooding and silent as the man who stood watching them. Finally, Orlov had turned away, ordering his men through the radio system to marshal the population back to their homes, where they were to await orders. To calm them, he ordered that they be told he was about to open negotiations with the Russian tank commander and issue an ultimatum of their own. He reiterated this to the people who stood at the front with him, before sending them away.

  They went, but as with those who were receiving the order at one remove, they were hesitant and confused by what they were hearing. Was the rebel leader about to cave in? Was he intending to declare war—a battle that they knew they could not win against tanks with the meager weapons they had. Orlov had told them of his bargaining power, and the whip hand that he held. But being fired on by tanks that they had expected to be only a threat in preliminary negotiations had shaken their confidence.

  In truth, it had shaken Orlov’s. He had been confident that the Russian president would not want to risk the diplomatic incident the death of the Americans would cause. Was he planning to go ahead and take out the rebels as a lesson to others, while writing off the Americans as collateral damage, the result of rebel intransigence? Orlov had truly not thought the president so bold or so stupid— depending on point of view—as to go ahead with an attack.

  Was it this, or was it just a pissed-off old tank commander going mad? Whatever, it demanded a response. And the only response was to open dialogue. A counterattack was out of the question; they didn’t have the firepower.

  Orlov had stormed away from the front line and back to the hotel, Adamenko in his wake. It was only when they entered the hotel that the rebel leader had the first intimation that something had gone very wrong with his plans.

  All of the rooms had been opened by force. When he reached his suite, he was greeted by the sight of Bargishev and his wife, naked and dead.

  “Serves him right.” The giant spit. “No one messes with the National Socialists.”

  Orlov looked at his old friend, his temper checked only by his disbelief at what the giant was saying.

  Adamenko looked puzzled. “One of our men must have caught them and taken action. You detailed a guard here, yes?”

  Orlov shook his head. “Everyone was pulled to the fire control, surely you realize that? There was no one here...no one that I know of. And why would they kick open all the doors...?”

  With a sudden panicked look, the rebel leader beckoned to Adamenko to follow him. He rushed from the hotel, taking no notice of the confused and questioning looks he received from those of his fighters he passed, the giant in his wake. Adamenko realized that Orlov was headed for the theater. A sudden sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that they had been duped. The attack was just a diversion and somehow...

  They rushed into the deserted lobby. There was no sound from within the theater, and although the doorway to the auditorium was closed, there was a sense of emptiness that told them exactly what they would find when they entered.

  Orlov cursed and kicked uselessly at a discarded chair as he took in a room empty except for the corpse
of one of his men. Adamenko looked on, not knowing what to say to make it better for his friend, wondering how the Russians had managed to penetrate the town, and fighting the rising red mist of hatred and anger that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that he had to try to keep control as Orlov would need him at his side, not going crazy until it was necessary.

  So it was that, with the effort to assimilate all these things, the giant’s voice came out so small and lost. It cut through Orlov’s rage, and reminded him suddenly of those years when they were children and the hate and pride that had first bound them together. He stopped his raging, and was still.

  “I tell you what we do. The only thing we can. We talk to this scum tank commander and find what it is that he wants.”

  “He has what he wants, Alexei. They are gone.”

  “Then why hasn’t he reduced us to rubble yet?”

  “Maybe he does not yet know that he has what he wants,” Adamenko ventured.

  Orlov smiled slowly. “Yes... And if he does not know, then they have not escaped us yet. Rally the men, make a search, Viktor. I will try to contact this tank commander, see what he wants and what he knows. We may yet be able to salvage this and turn it to our advantage.”

  Orlov turned on his heel and led Adamenko back through the now almost empty and deserted streets to the hotel, where his radio was still in the suite cluttered by the corpses of the mayor and his wife.

  Orlov ignored them as he picked up his radio, directing Adamenko to retrieve the one he had left earlier in his own room. Having done that, he led the giant back down to the streets.

  “Alexei, I don’t—”

  Orlov cut him off. “Simple. We are using these old radios because they do not use the same frequency bands as cell phones, and we wanted to not only control the incoming and outgoing messages by cutting the cell mast in and out, we also wished to avoid being overheard by cell scanners. Unless you have the exact frequency, or very old equipment like this to make a scan, it is almost impossible to eavesdrop on these. They are perfect because they are so old they fall outside current usable technology.”