Читать книгу Pressure Point - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

“Chaff jam!” Bolan shouted to Grimaldi.

“Already on it,” the pilot shouted back. Groping the console in front of him, Grimaldi thumbed a row of toggle switches, releasing a half-dozen high-yield flares from the underside of the chopper. Igniting within seconds after release, the flares gave off scattered blasts of heat intense enough to rival the thermal signature of the copter’s turboshafts.

The ploy worked.

As Grimaldi banked sharply to the right, the heat sensors on the second Stinger missile were unable to distinguish between the intended target and the fiery chaff. Drawn off course, the warhead hurtled past the Black Hawk’s framework, detonating beyond the range from which it could do any damage. The chopper rode out another shock wave, this one weaker than the one that had taken out the other gunship. Back in the rear cabin, Bolan and Mochtar rocked in place, doing their best to keep Salim stable on the stretcher.

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take over,” Bolan told Mochtar, rising to his feet. “If I don’t get up front and lend a hand, we’re all dead.”

Mochtar shifted position, transferring one hand to the major’s neck while continuing to apply pressure to the worst of the man’s leg wounds. “I’ll do the best I can,” he told Bolan.

By the time Bolan reached the cockpit, Grimaldi had banked the chopper again and changed course, heading back toward the mountain.

“Our turn!” he snarled. “Find me a target, Striker!”

Bolan grabbed a pair of binoculars and scanned the mountains. The sniper who’d just fired at them had dropped from sight, but Bolan could see four others positioned at intervals along a slight trough in the mountain. Peering higher, he spotted a promontory jutting directly above their positions. Pointing, he told Grimaldi, “There. Aim high with the rockets and see if we can get a little help from the mountains.”

“Gotcha.” Grimaldi locked in on where Bolan had pointed and readied the Black Hawk’s 2.75-inch sub-mounted rockets for firing. “One avalanche coming up.”

The gunship shuddered faintly as the first four rockets spewed from their launch tubes and streaked toward the mountains. In quick succession, they struck the rock facing, stitch-blasting a crude line ten yards above the source of the last Stinger.

Weakened from underneath, the promontory collapsed, slamming down hard on another, larger outcropping directly below it. The second shelf gave way as well, splintering into sections and sliding into the trough. As they began to tumble down the side of the mountain, the monstrous stone slabs dislodged still more loose rock, quickly widening the slide’s path. As Bolan and Grimaldi watched, three of the snipers were swallowed up by the avalanche. Several others, hoping to avoid a similar fate, scrambled out into the open and found themselves easy targets for Kissinger and the surviving KOPASSUS troops on the ground. The tide of the battle was quickly turning.

“Nice shot,” Bolan told Grimaldi.

Grimaldi shrugged. “I just wish we’d pulled it off before we lost the other bird.”

Bolan stared at the ravine, where smoke and flames issued from the charred remains of the second Black Hawk. It had landed a little over fifty yards upstream from the fallen bus, which also continued to smolder. There was no way anyone could have survived.

Grimaldi kept his eyes on the enemy and fired a steady stream of .50-caliber rounds from the Black Hawk’s front-mounted machine gun, bringing down yet another of the snipers. He then banked the chopper, changing course so that he was flying parallel to the mountain instead of toward it.

“I want to help Cowboy with a few quick flybys,” he told Bolan. “Go ahead and check on the major.”

Bolan returned to the rear cabin. “How are we doing?” he asked Raki Mochtar.

“Better than expected,” Mochtar reported. “I’ve got the bleeding in his legs under control. The neck’s still a problem, but he’s got a chance.”

“Good. How’s the chest?”

“Smarts a little,” Mochtar said with a grimace as he tapped the area where he’d been hit. “I can live with it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bolan said, grinning.

The Executioner was pulling off his HAZMAT gloves when there was a sudden drumming against the side of the chopper. He cursed and grabbed the nearest carbine, then lurched to the doorway and yanked the door open.

Down below, he saw a sniper firing at the chopper from a rock ledge twenty yards to the right of the avalanche. Bolan quickly returned fire, even as a stream of rounds zipped past his head, thunking into the cabin’s interior. The sniper reeled to one side, dropping his weapon. He clawed at the mountainside for support but lost his balance and was soon tumbling down the steep incline.

Down on the ground, meanwhile, Kissinger and the others had taken up positions and stayed put rather than advancing within range of the rock slide. It had been a smart decision. By the time the slide reached the roadway, its swath was nearly a hundred yards wide, and its forceful momentum was strong enough to sweep the delivery truck off the tarmac and carry it sideways to within a few inches of the guardrail. The railing creaked and listed under the slide’s weight, but held up and managed to keep the truck from going over the side with its deadly cargo.

The jostling, however, unleashed yet another cloud of poisonous gas. Kissinger, Latek and the others quickly moved out, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the truck. As they moved, they kept their eyes on the mountainside and fired at the last few remaining snipers.

Soon, for the first time since the ambush had begun, there was no enemy gunfire to contend with.

Up in the Black Hawk, Grimaldi made two more quick passes as Bolan surveyed the mountainside, spotting three bodies but no sign of movement.

“I think that’s it,” he told Grimaldi. “Let’s get the major back to the base.”

“Let me just check in with Cowboy,” Grimaldi said. He was trying to reach Kissinger on his headset when he detected movement amid the rubble high up the mountainside. “I think we got a stray up at around two o’clock,” he told Bolan.

“Swing by and see if we can take him alive,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi changed course and drifted the Black Hawk closer to the mountain. Bolan spotted the figure in the debris and raised his rifle. Once he got a better look at his target, however, he slowly lowered the weapon and shook his head with disbelief.

“I don’t believe it,” he murmured.

“What?”

“It’s a woman,” Bolan said, grabbing for the binoculars. “A tourist, from the looks of it.”

“She must have wandered over from that textile place when the fireworks started going off,” Grimaldi speculated.

“Or maybe not,” Bolan said once he got a look at the woman through the binoculars. “She might not be a tourist after all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I thought it was a camera she was carrying, but it’s not,” Bolan replied. “It’s a gun.”