Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan trudged on.

  * * *

  THE BUSHMAN WAS known only as Yam. The withered man was barely five feet tall, his grizzled black hair just reaching Xiblinti’s chest. The bushman’s history was unknown. The only thing Xiblinti did know was that the little man heralded from South Africa. How he had ended up in Djibouti was as much a mystery as his age. The general had somehow found the diminutive African and put him to good use in his army as an “external adviser.” His real role was something else entirely.

  The Bushman was a tracker, one of the best Xiblinti had ever seen. Yam could follow the spoor of any animal, no matter how small. He could identify individual beasts out of a herd. Once, to demonstrate his abilities, he’d led a small patrol out over the mountains into Eritrea, following the two-day-old trail of a herd of migrating Beira antelopes. Yam quickly had identified individual animals, pointing out characteristics and the hierarchy of the herd from the spoor alone. Xiblinti had been baffled by it all. Yam had showed him a particular track, identifying the antelope, and claimed that he could pick that particular animal out of the herd after only a brief observation. Xiblinti had called his bluff, claiming Yam could pick out any animal and say it was the same one. Yam had cackled and gone about proving Xiblinti wrong.

  Yam had made sure that the patrol was upwind when they’d found the grazing herd. He’d climbed a withered old tree, taking his ancient Lee Enfield rifle with him, a rifle as long as he was tall. He’d observed the antelope for less than five minutes before sniggering and nodding to himself. He’d taken aim with his World War I relic and fired. The herd had scattered at the sound of the boom, kicking up a huge cloud of dust and earth. Yam, still chuckling, had clambered down from the tree. Xiblinti had accused him of shooting a random Beira. Yam had continued to chuckle. He’d led them over to the carcass and, taking a machete, cut off the animal’s right hoof. Then he’d led them back up the trail, but not before Xiblinti had instructed some of his men to carry the antelope. They would eat well that evening. On the trail Yam had demonstrated how that particular antelope had been walking and why it had left such a trail. And explained how he had identified it out of such a large herd. Xiblinti’s men had clapped and laughed with delight. Xiblinti stood in awe at the man’s skill.

  But now Yam was after much easier prey, a large American who left a massive trail. Yam was on point, leaping from rock to rock, with Xiblinti close behind. Another dozen men had spread out behind them, nervously eyeing the hill with all its nooks and crannies. Rumors of the American’s exploits had spread around the camp like wildfire. Many of the soldiers wondered if American movies involving action heroes were true, that such spies really could do the impossible.

  Xiblinti did nothing to quash the rumors. When the American was found, Xiblinti would personally kill him. That way his reputation as a fearsome and ruthless warrior would be enhanced. Let the men worry like old women. The American was one man, armed with a stolen rifle with limited ammunition. His hands were cuffed, and he was lost in the desert at night. The advantages were all in Xiblinti’s favor. Triumph would be his in no time.

  Yam stopped and examined the ground. “He stop here,” he said in a high singsong voice. “He put rifle around his neck. Now he use his two hands—one hand to climb. He go faster but leave big spoor. Bigger than elephant.” Yam giggled at the thought of a white elephant man who had to use two hands as one. “He go higher. He have high ground but not enough. Not enough to hide from Yam. He was here five minutes ago.”

  “Five minutes head start already?” Xiblinti asked. “How is that possible?”

  Yam giggled again. “He very fast, like gazelle. He run, but the Lion Yam will catch him. He cannot hide. Yam sees all.”

  Yam continued to climb nimbly up the side of the hill, the rest of the entourage trailing behind him.

  * * *

  BOLAN FINALLY FOUND what he had been looking for. The hill leveled out slightly, forming a miniplateau that was several yards wide. It was almost invisible from observation, as a wall of boulders and rocks surrounded it, creating a natural, defensible position. Bolan climbed over the boulders and dropped down, making sure that the rifle didn’t clatter against the rocks. He stood behind the largest one, examining the hillside below. There was no sign of pursuit, but they were out there, Bolan was certain of it. It would be only a matter of time, maybe minutes, before they were in sight. And in those minutes he had to get out of his handcuffs and lay an ambush.

  He removed the rifle from around his neck and placed it on the ground. Then he sat and unlaced his right boot. His sock quickly followed. What he was about to do required a sensitive touch.

  Next followed the most dangerous part, and the trickiest.

  The French FAMAS F1 rifle had been designed to work under all conditions, including the Arctic. To pull the trigger while wearing thick gloves required the removal of the trigger guard, and Bolan did just that. He pulled away the sheet-metal trigger guard by removing its retaining pin and twisted it around 180 degrees. He flicked the fire selector to single shot. Then he placed the rifle against the rocks so that it was standing on its butt, the trigger pointing toward him. Bolan took a deep breath and placed his hands on either side of the barrel, the handcuff chain across the muzzle. He knew that it was an incredibly dangerous stunt to pull. A thousand things could go wrong and he could easily be injured or killed. But for now there was no other way to remove the manacles.

  He moved his bare foot in to operate the trigger and hit a snag. He couldn’t get his foot in close enough while keeping the barrel pointing in the right direction. Bolan cursed. He was running out of time; he could feel the search party getting closer. He shuffled backward on his backside, taking the rifle with him. He would have to try a different position. Bolan twisted the rifle so that the trigger was pointing away from him. Moving into a lotus position, he wrapped his left leg around the butt to try to steady it. Once again he positioned his hands on either side of the barrel. But this time he would have to use his heel to depress the trigger. Bolan moved his bare right foot inward. He found the exposed trigger and placed his heel on top of it, taking up the slack of the trigger. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and moved his head as far back as possible. The rifle remained steady.

  He pushed down with his foot.

  The resulting muzzle-blast was louder than Bolan had expected. The rifle butt kicked against his groin, bits of metal stung his face and the pressure between his hands was released. He rolled backward, the rifle dropping to the ground. The Executioner shook his head to clear it and opened his eyes. The first thing he felt was that his hands were free. He still had the cuffs on, but at least he could move his hands independently.

  Bolan got to his feet and snatched up the rifle. He peered over the rocks but was unable to detect any movement below him. Using the few seconds that he had, he put his sock and boot back on before moving to the end of the tiny plateau. French FAMAS rifles had a bipod fitted out as standard, and this one was no different. Bolan flipped the two stubby legs down, resting the bipod on the lowest boulder that he could find. He would be firing downhill, while trying not to be illuminated against the sky. Not an ideal sniping position, but he intended to fire only a few shots before slipping away. The FAMAS’s carrying handle doubled as its sight. Bolan checked to make sure that it was still set to single shot and waited for Bouh’s men to expose themselves.

  * * *

  THE BOOM ECHOED around the hills. Several of Xiblinti’s men dropped to the ground, fearing that they were under fire. Xiblinti tensed, ready to join them. Only Yam seemed unaffected. The little man giggled and danced.

  “Oh, he is close. The antelope is close. The lion is coming.”

  “What is he doing? Is he shooting at us?” Xiblinti asked.

  “No shoot us, no, no. He shoot at the moon. At the moon.” Yam laughed.

  Shooting at the moon? Xiblinti wondered what the American was doing. Maybe he’d slipped, and the rifle had discharged. Xiblint
i signaled his men to rise. He would soon find out what the American was doing. It was only a matter of time.

  Then the satellite phone warbled in his pocket.

  * * *

  GENERAL BOUH ENTERED the cave with a small group of bodyguards in tow. It had been a long, hard walk for him, something that he was no longer used to, and he fully intended to make the Americans pay for his discomfort. At least the walk back would be downhill. Using a powerful flashlight, he surveyed the three prisoners with a sneer. The Americans were huddled together, showing how pathetic they were. And their odor offended his nose. Even the CIA spy was cowed. The only man to show some initiative was on the run, soon to be hunted down and shot. For now, he would have to keep these prisoners alive, but not for much longer. The image of their corpses rotting under the desert sun pleased him.

  “Where is your friend going?” the general growled at Douglas. The CIA agent shook his head and said nothing. Bouh nodded at two bodyguards, who stepped over and dragged Douglas to his feet. Bouh drew his service pistol out of its hip holster, a black Browning. Bouh showed it to Douglas, then lowered it to point at Douglas’s left kneecap.

  “One more time. Where is your friend going? Does he expect to find help? Not talking? Would you like me to shoot you in the knee? Then in the other one? And in both your elbows? Then you will be placed outside on the desert sand.” Bouh smiled. “There are more creatures out there than most people would believe. Once they detect your blood, they will attack in droves. By morning, if you haven’t already been eaten alive, then you will, as my British trainers once told me, be barking mad. And still you will be eaten alive. So, tell me, where he is going?”

  Douglas raised his head slowly and stared Bouh in the eye. Bouh hoped for a moment that the spy would resist and was disappointed when he lowered his gaze.

  “He…he’s not going anywhere. He intends to lead your men into the hills, then double back and get us. Maybe steal a jeep or something.”

  Bouh’s face lit up in amusement. “Unfortunately your Mr. Blanski did not reckon on Yam. But do not worry, you will learn of his death shortly.”

  The guards simultaneously let go of Douglas as the general’s arm shot up and around, pistol whipping Douglas to the floor. The CIA man collapsed in a heap. The Trenchard men recoiled in terror. Bouh smiled at their discomfort. “Oh, do not worry. I will not feed you to the desert creatures. Your deaths will be much slower if you lie to me. Did the spy speak the truth?”

  Sanner and Twohig eyed each other nervously. Sanner looked up at the general, shielding his eyes from the glare of the flashlight. “Yes, General. The other man was planning on losing your men in the hills, then coming back for us.”

  “Good,” Bouh said. “That makes it so much easier.” The oversize army general replaced his pistol in its holster and withdrew a sat phone. He jabbed at a few buttons then waited for an answer.

  “Captain, this is General Bouh. The American spy is planning on doubling back. If he does, then I will prepare a surprise for him here. And if he gets past you, then you need not return. Ever.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Xiblinti snorted as he replaced the sat phone in its belt holster. The general’s threat held no water. He had died before, and compared to that terrible day, nothing would scare him again. Certainly not the idle words of his overweight mentor.

  The images of that day sprang unbidden to his mind. He’d been a child in Rwanda, there with his older brother and their parents. He no longer remembered why they’d been in that country, only that it was not where they’d lived, but he remembered when the mobs had come for them. Screaming, yelling, armed with machetes, with knives, with clubs. His parents had been torn apart. His brother hacked to pieces. He had been smaller and tried to hide. But they’d found him, dragged him out by his ankles and laid into him with their weapons. His age had been irrelevant to the hordes. They’d been in blood frenzy, mindless, incoherent, not caring who they killed. They’d chopped at his head, his throat. And then they’d disappeared and left him to die, lying with the bloody remains of his family.

  A detachment of troops from the UNAMIR—United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda—task force, led by then Captain Bouh, had found him, barely alive. He had been rushed to a Red Cross hospital camp, where the doctors had only just been able to save him. For some reason Bouh had stayed in touch, eventually arranging for the young boy to be relocated to Djibouti with Bouh as his guardian. They never mentioned what had happened in Rwanda. Bouh had overseen his education and brought him into the army as his, what? Protégé? Attack dog? Bodyguard? Or a mix of all three? It didn’t matter to Xiblinti. He had a task to perform and he intended to succeed.

  He began to climb again, cresting a ridge, his men behind him, Yam up front, dancing from rock to rock like a mountain goat, sniffing the air and poking at the ground. Xiblinti was still bothered by Yam’s statement. Shooting at the moon? Why would the American shoot at the moon? What could he achieve? A signal for help? Not suicide. The American was too strong willed for that. And his hands were still bound by handcuffs and… Xiblinti’s eyes widened at the image of the American placing the handcuff chain across the muzzle and depressing the trigger.

  “Down!” he rasped, even as he heard the first shot. He knew the order had come too late.

  * * *

  BOLAN WATCHED THE first shadowy figures cross the ridge. The second man was Xiblinti, of that he was sure. The third and fourth men were regular troopers. But it was the first figure who intrigued him. The character pranced and jumped around on the rocks. He wondered what part the diminutive man played in Bouh’s army. The answer sprung to mind a second later. He was looking at a Bushman tracker, who was examining the rocks. The man stopped flouncing around and slowly raised his head to look straight at Bolan.

  Their eyes met.

  Bolan shifted the rifle barrel slightly, let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  YAM BARKED A warning a split second before the 5.56 mm bullet took his head apart. Yam’s body stilled before collapsing as if his strings had been cut. Xiblinti was in the process of throwing himself to the ground when he saw the muzzle-flash and Yam die. Even as he impacted with the hard rocks he heard a second shot boom out. A man to his right fell backward without a sound. A third shot was fired before it dawned on his men that they had walked into an ambush. A man screamed, the third victim of the American’s sniping. An element of fear wormed its way through Xiblinti. He could hardly believe that three men had died in two seconds. And the general would be very upset that his pet Bushman was among them.

  One of his men crawled over. “Yam is dead. So are the two sons of Major Abdullah. The American has us pinned down. We cannot advance. We must return and get reinforcements.”

  Xiblinti would have backhanded the man if they had been standing. Instead he settled for a snarl and a glare that he hoped the other man could see in the darkness. Another shot rang out. Another man in the patrol screamed in agony. Xiblinti and his men pushed themselves even deeper into the ground.

  “No! We will not retreat. Order the men to spread out and slowly work their way up to the American’s position. You and I will provide covering fire.”

  The soldier hesitated for an instant, then nodded. He crawled backward, disappearing from Xiblinti’s sight. The Rwandan smiled grimly. Soon they would outflank the American, and then he would find out what it was like to be cut a thousand times.

  * * *

  THE ONLY PROBLEM was that Bolan was no longer in the same position. After the fourth shot he had folded the bipod and quickly crept up the side of the hill, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. The FAMAS F1 rifle he carried held a standard magazine of twenty-five rounds. Assuming the magazine was full when he’d taken it, then he had maybe eleven bullets left. He reasoned that he had five minutes, probably less, before Xiblinti’s men flanked the plateau and found that he had evaded them. Then they would have to cast around for a trail, and that w
ould take longer since their tracker was dead.

  Within minutes Bolan reached the summit of the hill, crouching to avoid being silhouetted against the night sky. A few miles to the north lay a camp. He was unable to estimate the number of occupants, but he counted a dozen campfires. It would take a couple of hours to reach its outskirts and an unknown amount of time to locate the leader of the mercenaries. Then there was the additional risk of confronting the soldiers of fortune.

  Eleven bullets.

  To his rear he heard two automatic rifles open up, spraying the hillside. Xiblinti would be laying down covering fire while his men performed a flanking maneuver. There wasn’t any more time to lose. Bolan looped the rifle over his shoulder and began to work his way down the side of the steep hill. It was tough going. The descent was arduous, the rocks and sand loose and shifting under his weight. The dark didn’t help, either; the moon was now hidden behind another peak. Bolan quickly ended up sliding, using his feet and left hand as a brake to arrest his acceleration. Stones rattled away, cascading down the hill. He knew that he was making too much noise, but there was no way to prevent it, short of stopping altogether. Again he had left a trail that anybody could follow.

  In an instant the situation changed for the worse.

  Bolan’s left foot struck an unyielding rock at the wrong angle. A split second later Bolan was flat on his back, careening down the hillside, completely out of control. The stony ground tumbled down with him, causing a mini avalanche. The rifle dug painfully into his spine. He spread himself out into a star position, digging in his heels in an effort to halt his momentum. Skin was torn from his hands as he groped for a purchase, anything to grab hold of.