Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “They are about six miles to the north of here,” Sanner interrupted.

  “Right. But what role they play I don’t know. Aid shipments are being intercepted by the rebels. Whether Bouh is using the food to feed his troops or just cause disruption, or both, I also don’t know. In fact, there are a lot of gaps. So why don’t you fill some of them in. Why are you here, and why did you leave and then return?”

  “We never left,” Twohig muttered in the darkness. “And what about my kids?”

  “Let’s start back a bit first,” Sanner said. “Somehow Bouh got into contact with Trenchard. I don’t know how. Something we have learned since we arrived is that Trenchard Oil Industries is going under. This is Trenchard’s last grasp of the straws. He was led to believe that there was an untapped oil field here, a covert oil strike other companies had somehow missed. We were sent to assess it. We were told that we first had to report to General Bouh, on entering the country. So we came up here and found exactly nothing. We told him this via radio, and he wanted to meet us in person in Obcock for a report before we made contact with Trenchard. It is unusual, but we thought that this was just an African thing.

  “So we left our guides in Obcock City and saw Bouh. He captured us, held us at gunpoint, told us unless we falsified our reports to America he would kill us, then kill our families. He showed us pictures of our kids going to school, our wives at the mall. He gave us all the materials we needed to fake a report, to tell Trenchard that there was an oil field, just ready and waiting for him. That Bouh was promising us we would have exclusive rights to it.”

  “Faking such a report can’t be easy. Other experts would spot it, surely?” Bolan asked.

  “Yeah, normally you would be right. But Robert Trenchard is desperate. He’s been lying to everybody about his reserves, how much cash is in the bank. The authorities have no idea. Bouh told us this much.”

  “So what does Bouh get from a false report?”

  “Money. Trenchard is backing him to the hilt. Borrowing heavily from other parties. Promises of building water desalination plants along the coast, of modernizing the harbor to take tankers, all that sort of thing. Trenchard thinks he is buying a country. Bouh and Trenchard hired the mercenaries. I have no idea what he is using them for, but I heard something about training Eritrean dogs, whatever that means. And he aims to drive America out of its base by the airport. The French would go, as well.”

  “Lemonnier,” Bolan stated.

  “Yeah, right!” Douglas added. “Like his ragtag soldiers and a gang of mercs could force out the US Marines. The US of A is keeping the current government afloat.”

  “Unless he intends to force them out some other way,” Bolan said.

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure. He would first have to have the troops confined to barracks.”

  “They are already,” Douglas said. “Since the city is so unsafe, they aren’t allowed to have leave there. But it would take more than a few angry citizens to get Uncle Sam to pack up and leave. Bouh would need some sort of catalyst to drive the Marines and Navy away.”

  Bolan sat upright. “The Navy. And a catalyst. Is Bouh behind that, as well?”

  “Who are you talking to now? Me?” Douglas queried.

  “Yes. No. Let me think. Be quiet for a moment.”

  The cave fell silent, the quiet broken only by groans from Twohig and the occasional ones from Douglas. Bolan was lost in thought.

  Eventually he broke the silence. “Sanner?”

  “Yeah.” The voice sounded nearby.

  “Your hands aren’t bound, are they?”

  “No. We aren’t considered much of a threat.”

  “Good. I want you to find my boots, untie them and pull them off.”

  “Okay.” There was movement, hands touching his legs, then Bolan felt Sanner untying his laces, tugging his boots off.

  “While you treat us all to your smelly socks,” Douglas said, “would you mind informing us great unwashed what you have figured out? See if it differs from my views?”

  “This thing is bigger than a mere coup. Bouh is planning to change the balance of power in the whole region. He’s working with al Qaeda elements. That was what Zaid abu Qutaiba’s suicide attack was all about. Sink or damage the USS Ford, drive the US troops back inside Lemonnier, have the base on lockdown. Stir up public opinion about the US presence. The French Legionnaires would also be locked down.

  “The Eritreans that he’s having trained would be used as cannon fodder to cause riots. Once the first gasoline bomb has been thrown against the army or police, then Bouh would move in. He would mount a coup against a weakened government, under the guise of restoring order. I bet that the mercenaries are US and European men. Bouh would then use them as scapegoats, claim that US forces were behind FRUD attacks and other atrocities.

  “He could also point to Trenchard Oil Industries, saying, ‘look at the greedy Americans, stealing our oil.’ He could prove that Trenchard funded the mercenaries. This would enflame the public even more. It would be viewed as another Iraq. Lemonnier would no longer be viable. Bouh would order the US to leave, and we would lose our only sub-Saharan base. No more drone strikes in Yemen. Al Qaeda would move in. This is a Muslim country, remember, and from here they could push on to the rest of Africa. Bouh would be sitting here on the throne, supporting himself on the misery of his people, and the riches of various terror organizations and rogue countries.”

  “Jesus!” Douglas exclaimed. “How the hell do we tell anybody about this? And what the hell are you doing?”

  Bolan was straining, stretching his arms, lying on his back with his knees pulled up almost to his face. He was working his cuffed hands down his legs. The metal chain was now by his ankles. He twisted more, pushing, pulling, his teeth clenched in effort. He wanted to get his hands around to his front. He labored against the unnatural position, forcing the chain down farther, hauling his feet up high. He could feel a cramp building in his muscles. The chain was under his heels now. His arms were stretched as far as they could go. By wriggling his arms he could walk the chain slowly down his feet. Now the chain was by his toes. He curled his toes upward, then pulled with his arms.

  In an instant his hands were in front of him, almost hitting him in the face. He gasped and stretched out to relieve the ache in his muscles. After a few seconds he pushed himself back into a sitting position.

  “Sanner?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Put my boots back on, would you? On the right feet.”

  “Okay,” Douglas said, “so your hands are in front of you now. That helps, but I don’t see how. What do we do now?”

  “Not we. I was wondering how the mercenaries would like to know that they are being set up. And I can only get there alone.”

  “And my kids?” the forgotten Twohig said from the back of the cave.

  “If I can get a message out, then there are people I know in the States who are more than capable of protecting them and neutralizing the threat. I can get help sent here. But I have to get to the mercs first. Six miles north?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” answered Sanner, who finished fitting Bolan’s boots.

  “Then I had better get a move on,” the Executioner said as he began to tie his laces. Not an easy thing to do, he discovered, with his hands cuffed and in the pitch dark.

  “How will you be able to escape?” Sanner asked. “You’re a journalist, they’re soldiers and…”

  Sanner fell silent. There was a noise outside the mouth of the cave. Talking. Footsteps. Then a flashlight snapped on, blinding three of the four prisoners. Bolan had quickly turned his head away upon hearing the sound of an object being withdrawn from a pocket. He screwed up his eyes, hoping to preserve as much of his night vision as possible. The flashlight shone around the cave, dancing over the men, before settling on Bolan.

  “You. Stand.”

  Bolan slowly stood, still looking away from the flashlight, hoping that the soldiers w
ould think he had been temporarily blinded. He ducked slightly, remembering in time that the cave had a low roof.

  “Out. Now.”

  Bolan moved forward. He wondered if he could get close enough to attack the owner of the flashlight. The soldier holding it seemed to anticipate that and walked backward out of the cave as Bolan approached him. The lamp was turned off as Bolan exited the cave. Blinking he saw two soldiers standing before him, their FAMAS F1 rifles pointing at his chest. They were the same men who had the guard duty in the APC. The one holding the light was the one responsible for kicking Douglas half to death. Both men were smirking with delight.

  “Follow,” the lead soldier said. He turned, marching toward the camp. The second soldier pushed Bolan forward and fell in behind him.

  And Mack Bolan realized that he was about to be tortured and killed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Executioner quickly weighed up his options. The moon was full in the sky, illuminating the entire area in a blue-white glow. Xiblinti was standing outside a tent some forty yards ahead, slapping the blade of his machete into his left palm. Even from this distance it was clear that he was grinning in anticipation of what was to happen. So far neither of his guards had noticed that his hands were in front of his body instead of behind his back. If he was to tackle the two guards, then the two by the cave would come to their colleagues’ aid. Also the alarm would immediately be raised by Xiblinti. On the other hand, once he reached the tent, escape would be impossible.

  No choice, really.

  Bolan made his move.

  He kicked the lead soldier in the butt with his left foot, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make the soldier spin in anger, which was exactly what the Executioner had anticipated.

  Bolan’s right foot shot up hard, impacting at high velocity with the soldier’s groin. The guy squealed and automatically bent over. Bolan grabbed the barrel of the FAMAS rifle and wrenched it out of the soldier’s hands. In the same movement he pivoted, holding the rifle like a baseball bat, slamming it against the head of the rear soldier. There was a sickening crack, and the surprised man dropped instantly to the ground. The first soldier was on his knees, clutching at his testicles. Bolan completed his spin by smashing the stock against the man’s face, shattering the jawbone out of its sockets and sending the man’s teeth flying in a spray of blood. The guy spun to the ground, either dead or unconscious, Bolan didn’t care. Payback for kicking Douglas and enjoying it.

  Now for the tricky bit. Shouts emanated from the cave and from the army camp. A quick check showed Xiblinti had dropped his machete and filled his fist with a sidearm. The two cave guards were unslinging their rifles. Bolan dropped to a crouch. He twisted the rifle around, grabbed the pistol grip. Awkwardly he moved the selector switch to semiautomatic. He rose, holding the bullpup rifle as he would a pistol. It was heavy, off-balance in his cuffed hands, but for the moment, accuracy was not an issue. Keeping the enemies’ heads down was.

  Bolan brought the weapon to bear on the two cave guards, who were just beginning to open fire. Metal hornets zipped past him as he squeezed the trigger. The FAMAS bucked hard in his hands, the recoil throwing the barrel upward. The bullets missed by a wide margin, but the effect was the same. Both soldiers fell to the ground, desperately scrambling for cover. Bolan twisted at the hips, bringing the muzzle to bear on the scarred killer, who was running toward him, his pistol banging out ineffective shots. Xiblinti saw the danger in time, dropping as Bolan opened fire. The soldier charging behind Xiblinti wasn’t so lucky, catching at least one of the hot rounds. The man spun and fell.

  Bolan used the brief lull to turn and run.

  There was an outcropping not far from his position. He charged toward it, his feet slipping on the loose sand and stone. He could hear more shouting from the camp, followed by a lot more shooting. Some of the shots came close, kicking up the sand, forcing the Executioner to zigzag on the uneven ground.

  He skidded several times before reaching cover. Bullets slammed against the black stone and ricocheted into the air. Bolan risked a quick look back at the camp. Men were running around, some partially dressed. Xiblinti had organized a party to advance on Bolan’s position; some fired as they slowly approached. There was the roar of a diesel engine as one of the APCs was started. Bolan ducked back behind the rock as several shots came too close for comfort. He eyed the terrain in front of him, looking for a usable advantage. Thirty yards away was a shallow gully, a dried-up riverbed that led into the hills. Bolan got to his feet and ran toward it, ducking to use the rock formation as cover to hide his position.

  He rolled down the slope of the gully. It was no more than four feet deep, enough to cover a crouching man. Bolan knew that the hills would offer the best escape and evasion possibilities. Bolan began to crouch-run along the gully.

  Behind him came the thunder of a 30 mm machine gun from the armored personnel carrier, a barrage of bullets tearing the rock formation to pieces while providing cover to the advancing troops. It wouldn’t take the soldiers long to discover the escapee’s trail and mobilize a force to pursue him. The camp easily contained a hundred men, and General Bouh could call up reinforcements at a moment’s notice. And somewhere was the helicopter gunship that had been used against them earlier. Bolan increased his pace, hoping to escape into the night.

  “THEY’VE STOPPED SHOOTING,” Sanner said. “They must have killed him.”

  Douglas snorted in derision.

  “You think he’s still alive?”

  “I know he’s still alive. You haven’t seen my boy in action.”

  “Who is he, if not a journalist?”

  “The Lone Ranger,” Douglas replied enigmatically. “I guess that makes me Tonto.”

  * * *

  BOLAN NEVER SAW his attacker.

  The instant he felt the soldier’s boots touch his back, Bolan realized his mistake. This was the Djiboutian military, French trained. Not some bunch of misfit amateurs. They were bound to have posted sentries around the perimeter of the camp, and this one possibly had a colleague covering him with his FAMAS rifle. Bolan threw out his bound hands to break his fall, dropping his rifle in the process. The breath was smashed from his body as he slammed into the dirt. He twisted quickly, hoping to throw the sentry from his back. A rifle butt thudded down hard, missing his head by inches. The sentry hurriedly stepped off Bolan, trying to regain the initiative and his balance.

  Bolan wasn’t in the mood for second chances.

  Now flat on his back, he raised his legs, scissoring them around his attacker. He twisted again, throwing the soldier to the ground. The man yelped and dropped his rifle as he landed on his side, but the guy was agile and scrambled back before Bolan could retaliate any further by kicking the sentry in the face.

  The Executioner and the soldier sat up in the dust at the same moment. The sentry spotted Bolan’s cuffed hands and grinned, clearly believing that he had the tactical advantage. He whipped out a knife from a scabbard on his belt and held it aloft for Bolan to see. Mack Bolan knew that he didn’t have time for a prolonged fight. He could hear the rest of the search party firing odd shots as they approached. He began to push himself backward through the sand and stones of the riverbed, using the heels of his boots, hoping to put a little distance between himself and the sentry.

  The African soldier was having none of it. The guy, grinning, launched himself upward and outward, aiming to land on top of Bolan and plunge the knife through his neck. It was a fatal mistake. The night once again came alive with the sound of autofire. A dozen bullets tore the man apart the moment he raised his body above the gully. The bullet-riddled corpse landed at Bolan’s feet even as a cheer went up from the advancing soldiers, believing that they had killed their prey.

  Bolan rolled over and pushed himself up into a crouch. He saw his rifle nearby and grabbed it, holding it by its barrel. It would have to do, as he didn’t have the time to turn it around. He wanted to put as much space between him and the remai
ns of the sentry as possible. It would be mere seconds before Bouh’s soldiers realized their mistake and spread out to look for him. He had that long to disappear into the night.

  * * *

  XIBLINTI SIGNALED FOR a cease-fire as they approached the gully. Half a dozen men flanked him on either side. Behind him were another twenty, all with their rifles ready, all with itchy trigger fingers. Tentatively the thirteen men peered into the bottom of the riverbed, half expecting the enemy to still be alive. The mangled remains showed no sign of life, the blood dark against the dust. Xiblinti indicated to the soldier on his left to jump down and examine the corpse. The guy did so, then looked up at Xiblinti.

  “It is Yahfa. Not the American.”

  Xiblinti cursed. The prey was skilled and cunning. If they waited too long, then the American would escape into the darkness of the hills. They had to find him before that happened.

  “Send for Yam,” he hissed.

  * * *

  BOLAN CONTINUED HIS upward scrabble. Holding the rifle in his cuffed hands had become more cumbersome the higher he climbed, as the slope became steeper. He stopped briefly to loop the rifle’s strap around his neck. It wasn’t comfortable, but it freed his hands, enabling him to ascend faster. Minutes later he halted to listen for pursuit. A cry had gone up from the soldiers below. Maybe they had found his trail. He pushed on, looking for a cave or hollow, somewhere he would be out of sight. Then he could set about removing the handcuffs. And that would be the most dangerous trick of all. He clambered higher, dislodging loose rocks and sand. Despite the moonlight, Bolan knew that he was hidden in shadows. If it had been daylight, he would have been completely exposed.

  The rocks were warm beneath his hands, yet his breath was misting in front of his face. He wasn’t clothed for the desert chill and could hope only that the temperature wouldn’t plummet too low. He didn’t want to freeze to death on the side of some unnamed hill, hiding from enemy search parties. He scrambled on, searching for cover. The rifle strap around his neck restricted his breathing. Stones and gravel slid under his boots. He reached what he thought was the peak of the hill, crossed the rise and sighed. The hill was much higher than he’d anticipated, another peak hidden behind the one on which he stood.