Rebel Blast

by Don Pendleton

  “Cover this,” Bolan yelled at Leonard, indicating the window he had been attending. “Quick!”

  The security man glanced at the survey team. Freeman gave him a nod. The young engineer was proving his worth, directing the others to keep the more vulnerable members of the group contained. Acquero, too, nodded and gave him a smile.

  Damn, Leonard was glad those two were around, he thought as he moved to take over from the big American. He sighted on the rebels below, sending out covering fire to try to keep them from moving forward or firing any more gas or smoke grenades. As he did this, he allowed the soldier to back up his men below.

  Bolan headed for the stairwell. The top floor of the factory had been lit up by the fire that swept through the town, and that only served to emphasize the darkness into which he was descending. He lost the gas mask as the cooler interior air became clearer, and flipped the night-vision goggles over his eyes. Immediately the stairwell became...

  Clearer? Maybe in vision, but not in making sense of what he was seeing. One man lay half-hidden by a wall separating the factory floor from the stairwell. A pool of blood had spread out around him, and a severed hand lay to one side of him. His legs were bent at an unnatural angle that suggested every bone in them had been broken.

  Had the giant been able to do that? Why hadn’t he been fired on by the guards Bolan had stationed?

  Maybe what was happening just out of sight would provide an answer. Even above the chatter of gunfire and roar of shellfire from beyond, within the thick walls of the factory it was still possible to hear the sounds of hand-to-hand combat.

  Bolan moved cautiously down the remaining steps until he was standing on the factory floor, shielded by the wall. He looked down at the dead man at his feet. The face and head had been battered so severely that in this light—even with the night-vision goggles—it was impossible to work out who it was.

  The Executioner brought up his SMG so that it nestled in his shoulder, braced himself and then slowly moved around the wall so that he had the whole floor in view.

  The sight that greeted him made him pause. Bolan had seen a lot of things over the years, but very rarely had there been anything to make him stop and stare.

  This came close. He could see now why his men had not been able to fire on the giant: there were two rifles across the floor, broken from the impact they had made on the bricks of the factory walls, chunks of which lay around them. A discarded SMG and a gas mask spoke of the giant’s determination to be—quite literally—hands-on in his attack. For in the middle of the floor, two men whirled in a circle, Bolan’s man clinging to the giant if only because he had the larger man’s arms pinned, and so could prevent the giant inflicting more pain on him.

  He wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. The giant was repeatedly head-butting him as they swung around, and the soldier could see blood spraying from his man’s head with each blow. Finally it was one blow too many, and the merc let go, stunned almost to the point of insensibility. He staggered back, reeling and coming to rest on his knees, facing the giant rebel fighter, who stood impassive over him.

  At least Bolan was now able to get a clear sight of the giant. The man was wearing heavy Kevlar, which was why much of the fire directed at him had failed to kill him. The ripped camou clothing showed it beneath, the continuous fire having taken its toll on a vest that was almost hanging from him. Even so, the impact alone should have been enough to stop him. And he had been hit in several places, flesh wounds bleeding heavily from his limbs. He should be down.

  What was keeping him upright? Drugs? Adrenaline? As Bolan got a clear look at his face, he could see that it was blank, the giant’s eyes wired and wild. The rebel was in some kind of self-induced hypnotic state that drove him on regardless. As Bolan watched, the giant pulled a short-handled ax from inside his dangling Kevlar and raised it, dragging breath and bringing forth a mighty cry that rang around the echoing, empty room.

  The mercenaries had tried to take him out with body shots, and had failed because of his immense strength and his armor. One of them was already dead; the other one was about to die after a beating that was tactically unnecessary, but had to have somehow fuelled and fed the giant’s rage.

  The mercenaries had made mistakes because they had tackled him like any regular fighter. They hadn’t had time to adjust before he had been on top of them.

  Bolan had that luxury, and although his teammate looked dead already, he also had the opportunity to save him. The soldier sighted for the center of the giant’s head, set his weapon to continuous fire and squeezed.

  A deafening volley of gunfire filled the almost-empty factory floor. The giant’s head split like an overripe melon as Bolan followed his stumbling gait, caught off balance by the SMG burst. Even the force of the impact gave the giant no escape as Bolan adjusted aim, pouring fire on him as he fell. The ax clattered from his nerveless hand onto the concrete floor, and Bolan moved swiftly into the room, ceasing fire as the giant twitched, his head barely recognizable.

  Barely identifiable through the blood and swelling of his face, Dostoyevsky raised himself slowly and tried to grin as Bolan came to his side. “Thanks, Cooper. I don’t think he was going to kill me quick. Maybe you should. I’m no use to you now.”

  “We don’t leave our own behind, not while they’re alive,” Bolan said firmly, eyeing Vishniev’s mangled body. But even as he did, he was checking Dostoyevsky. As much as he meant what he said, he realized that it would be difficult. The mercenary was unable to sit upright, and as he listed he winced with pain as his shattered elbow and shoulder took weight. One ankle looked twisted at an unnatural angle. He was bleeding from several places, his clothing darkened in patches that were spreading.

  “You’re not getting me up there,” the mercenary said with a grimace. “Leave me here—give me that gun,” he added, offering his good hand. “Prop me up and pick me up when you go. I’ll keep us covered. Your plan?”

  Bolan grinned; the Russian had guts. “Your countrymen are attacking the town. If we can keep the rebels at bay until they’re called back, or even take them down, then the confusion should allow us to get out and get to the rendezvous point. Most forces will be concentrated on holding back the tanks.”

  “I would have thought so. They’re fast bastards,” the Russian said with grim humor.

  Bolan realized what he meant. “Not so fast that we can’t carry you. There are enough of us.”

  “Then I suggest you get back up there and leave me to take sentry,” the Russian said, wheezing with the effort of propping himself upright.

  Bolan nodded and left Dostoyevsky where he lay; looking back at the mercenary as he doggedly set his sights, he wondered if the man had enough strength to make it out.

  There was only one way to find out. First, though, he had to clear a path for the survey team to get them extracted successfully.

  Running back up the stairs, he could hear that the firing from the top floor had ceased. When he reached the top, he came up short. What greeted him explained why there was no firing, but presented him with a major problem.

  Bulgarin and Krilov were facing off from opposite sides of the floor, guns directed at each other rather than the enemy. The survey team was huddled in the middle of the floor, with Leonard standing over the top of them, his own rifle trained on the Russian. Basayev stood apart, his weapon still trained on the action outside.

  “Hey, Cooper, good thing you’ve come back,” he yelled. “Try and calm that Russian bastard, will you?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Vassilev groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. He still felt groggy, and his head was pounding like a jackhammer. He tried to remember what he had been doing, and where the hell he was. As he picked himself up and dusted himself down, he looked around. He was in a building that was derelict. Recently, by the look of it: the dust wa
s still settling, and the timbers hanging from the caved-in ceiling creaked ominously. Outside, he could hear people rushing, panicking, and the noises of fire.

  He experienced a jumble of images and sensations, but eventually he pieced it together. He had entered the deserted shop as it was perfect for a recce position. He had headed to the upper story to get a good view of the rebels’ emplacements, and with the binoculars he’d be able to see the tank regiment beyond.

  And then the Russians had fired. Although the shop had not been hit directly, shrapnel from the shell had taken out the roof of the building, causing the cave-in. Although his entire body ached, Vassilev could tell that he had been incredibly lucky and that nothing was broken. Maybe he had a bit of a concussion, but nothing that he couldn’t sleep off later. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. The only problem was that he was, in combat terms, useless now. His weapons were gone, buried and lost under the rubble, as was his radio. He searched for it near to where he had lain, and found what was left of it.

  He cursed and looked at his watch. By some miracle, it was still working. Little time remained until the rendezvous. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could still make that.

  The sudden eruption of the night into a shower of shells and a storm of fire suggested that luck may not be on his side. Cursing louder, the Georgian figured his best move was to get out of the building before it finally crashed down all around him.

  Outside on the street, he passed for a rebel as his clothing was mostly intact, the blacksuit hardly showing. In the confusion that sprung up, this was enough. The streets became full of citizens, some panicking and others flocking to the front line to help defend the town. He dodged between the groups and clusters of people, hardly noticed as he sought to find a path through the carnage and maybe pick up a weapon.

  His progress was delayed by collapsing buildings and the flash and deafening blasts of shells. The fires they caused blocked streets and alleys, forcing him to double back. The move was not without one advantage, as he stumbled over the corpse of a rebel fighter, his AK-47 intact even though half of his torso was missing.

  Providence would always provide, the mercenary figured, picking up the rifle and stripping the corpse of its spare ammunition. The only thing providence was not doing was giving him a clear route to safety. If anything, it was driving him back toward the front line.

  It was then that he saw Orlov. The rebel leader was running through the streets, looking terrified. Vassilev recognized him from their briefing. A man that terrified would most likely have an escape route mapped out, the Georgian figured. Maybe he was worth following.

  Figuring once more that providence would provide, Vassilev set off in pursuit.

  * * *

  “cOOPER, IT’S SIMPLE. These idiots have found something that is of great worth to my people. It should go to them, not to the United States. The move on Argun-Martan should not have happened until daylight, but that does not affect the plan. We move them out of town, then we are picked up by a detachment from the air force that will be sent for us.”

  “If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to my people,” Krilov growled. “You will not take it from them.”

  “Listen,” Basayev interrupted, “you’re like me—you’re only Chechen when there’s no cash involved. We get paid for taking these people back to the Americans. Screw this Russian freak. Kill him and let’s move.”

  Bulgarin smiled. “He cannot kill me. He knows I would drop him first.”

  “So what if I do it? You can’t take us both out,” Bolan said, although his demeanor did not reflect his tone. He seemed relaxed, uncaring. In the center of the floor, the survey team was cowering. Leonard gave Bolan a puzzled stare but did not speak, waiting to see what the soldier would do.

  “Yours was an arranged op, with no opportunity of contact once you had infiltrated us. How long have you been playing this game? Freelance but undercover?”

  “So long I can’t remember which I was first, but not so long that I don’t know who pays me more. Or where I’m from. The timescale is screwed, but as long as I get these people to the right point—”

  “And how are you going to take all of us down?” Bolan asked.

  Bulgarin laughed. “Three are gone already—I’m guessing that the big one took out the guards, and Vassilev is long gone. That leaves you three, and maybe the big black guy,” he added, indicating Leonard. “The idea was to take you out as we left for the rendezvous, one by one. It’s not going to work that way, so it’s death or glory.” He lowered his SMG so that it was leveled now at the survey team. “You fire on me, I spray ’n pray as I go. Not much point you going home with body bags, is there?”

  They were at an impasse. Whatever his original plan had been, the Russian now had a simple strategy. If he could not take the survey team, then no one could. He was banking on Bolan’s desire to achieve his mission objective. With his SMG trained on the group, and with Argun-Martan about to be reduced to ashes and rubble, Bolan was running out of options.

  “Kill them,” he said. “Do it. Then I kill you. You really think you can get them out of here and to your rendezvous point without having to kill us? And what about when they scatter outside? Because they will. The bombing or their own fear will do that. Which ones are the most valuable? Which ones do you kill as an example and which ones do you save?”

  Although his voice was calm and steady, the soldier’s pulse raced and he could feel sweat bead on his forehead. He was aware of the shelling outside as it pounded the town. He was aware of the fact that it was getting closer as the tanks began to advance. He was aware of the firestorm it had caused, and how the night breeze was sweeping the flames toward them. There was no barrage from outside now, as the rebels had either been withdrawn to defend the front line, or had just scattered of their own volition. If they could get out of the factory quickly, they would probably have a clear path to the rendezvous point.

  As he spoke, Bolan was aware that Leonard and one of the survey team, a young black guy, had been exchanging glances and discreet hand signals. From his position in the group, the young man was slowly moving so that he crossed those who were in the direct line of fire. Leonard moved slowly, too, coming forward. He could see Bolan looking at him, and their eyes met for a moment.

  Bolan could see that the young man was willing to act as a human shield, and that the security man was also prepared to throw himself into the line of fire.

  He couldn’t allow such sacrifice. He threw down his weapons and stepped toward the center of the floor.

  “Okay, you win,” he said, holding up his hands. “We do it your way.”

  Bulgarin grinned mirthlessly and turned his SMG on Bolan. “I knew you’d see it my way,” he muttered, squeezing the trigger.

  The Executioner threw himself sideways, feeling the burst of rounds catch at his shoulder and upper arm. He moved downward, and the burst was deflected up by the sudden jerk of the gunman. It was enough to save his life, but not his entire skin as the burning pain made him wince and grunt through gritted teeth.

  It had been enough, though. He had hoped that Leonard would somehow read his intent and if not he had at least been quick enough to pick up the thread. In attempting to eliminate the soldier quickly, Bulgarin’s attention had been shifted just long enough for Leonard to fire a burst that sent the Russian staggering toward the open window. Taking their cue, Basayev and Krilov had also fired on him, the force of the combined fire sending the Russian through the open space and down to the ground floor.

  The room was filled with the smell of cordite and the echo of the chattering cross fire as it slowly died away.

  Acquero and Leonard were at Bolan’s side, already tending to his wounds. Basayev and Krilov joined them.

  “It’s clear out there, boss. If we’re going to get going... You up to it?”

  Bolan grinned. “
It’s not my legs, I’ll be fine. I might only be able to hold a gun one-handed, though. Listen— Dostoyevsky is still alive, but you’ll need a stretcher of some kind. I figure these two and that young black guy can shepherd the hostages. They’ve got the guts. Give them some ordnance, and you take Dostoyevsky. If we’re still breathing, we all go.”

  Basayev shook his head. “You’re mad, boss. I thought you were dead meat.”

  “Not yet,” Bolan replied. “Not if I have any say.”

  * * *

  VASSILEV FOLLOWED ORLOV through the streets, past men and women who were now in flight as the destruction spread, hardly noticing the two men who were pushing against the flow. The streets were bleeding into each other as the fires spread and the buildings crumbled under the onslaught. The Georgian was baffled by the behavior of the rebel leader. Where was he going, and what was he hoping to achieve? The town was falling around him, and there was no way that he was going to stop the tank onslaught. If he had any sense, he would try to fall back, regroup, gather as many of his men as he could muster.

  But no, it was as though the rebel leader felt that he had a personal date with destiny.

  Part of the Georgian wanted to take him down and then try to make his way out of this inferno and head for the rendezvous. Maybe he would be the only one. Maybe he would be able to link up with the others if they had made it through this. Whatever, he would have to move if he was to do it.

  Part of Vassilev, though, was curious as to what the rebel leader was doing, and what he hoped to achieve. It was almost a compulsion to follow and see.

  They neared the edge of town. The exact line of delineation had disappeared, swept away by the bombardment. The post where the rebel leader had first observed the tanks was lost, and Vassilev watched as Orlov passed the point without even realizing it was there. He was walking over rubble, ignoring the fires that raged around him and the shells that flew over his head and into the town that lay to his rear.