Читать книгу Ambush Force - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Tent City, Kabul

Aaron Kurtzman was well pleased, and his face showed it across the video link. “Everyone is singing your praises, Striker. Delta Force is oozing goodwill, and Hal said the President wants to clone a hundred of you in assorted colors.”

“Yeah.” It hadn’t been a bad op. Some very unpleasant adversaries had gone down, and something very ugly had been averted.

“You don’t seem pleased. You don’t think you got the right boys?”

“Oh, we got the right Taliban boys, but we didn’t get the thugs who backed their play against the Rangers.”

“You still believe someone betrayed the Rangers’ location?”

“It was more than just a tip-off. The Taliban had intel on composition and numbers, and they had serious backup. Light-support weapons, at least, being used by people who knew what they were doing. Even in the most desperate of circumstances, Army Rangers should have been able to fight their way out of a Taliban ambush. Instead, they were cut to pieces. Even in the face of overwhelming numbers, a few should have been able to escape and evade. We have hundred percent casualties. That’s unheard-of, Bear, but since they were mutilated, beheaded, burned and their bodies stacked like cordwood, it’s a little difficult to determine exactly what happened. So everyone is screaming Taliban.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Afghanistan, Striker—people scream Taliban with good reason.”

“Bear, someone sold that gas to the Taliban. You want to take out a reinforced squad of U.S. Army Rangers with hundred percent casualties? How about starting a firefight in a narrow canyon and then ending it with nerve gas.”

Kurtzman was no longer smiling. “Yeah, nerve agents are nonpersistent. So when help finally arrived, they found spent shell casings and RPG hits and suspected nothing.”

“And the bodies were burned to prevent any telltales of nerve-agent exposure to be found.”

Kurtzman let out a long breath. “Well, that means you’re right. Someone set up the Rangers, someone gave the Taliban nerve agents and someone with the expertise had to be present to deploy the gas correctly.”

“That’s right, and it happened on German army turf.”

“Striker, the Germans haven’t produced chemical weapons since World War II.”

“The East Germans did.”

“Those stockpiles were destroyed—” Kurtzman sighed unhappily “—supposedly. You’re going to have a hard time penetrating the German army.”

“I can’t, and winding a black turban around my head and pretending to be Taliban isn’t going to work, either.” Bolan flipped through his file again. “You said the Shield protection agency has contractors working in the area?”

“For God’s sake, what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing I can prove, and nothing anybody will want to hear. Hell, I’m probably wrong, and frankly I hope I am. But we won’t know unless I go in and tear things open. What I am saying is eighteen Army Rangers are dead. And if the United States Army Rangers are after you, you’d better have a weapon of mass destruction, because that’s the only way you’re going to stop them. I think that’s exactly what happened, and far as I can see there are three possible players. I can’t join the Taliban, and I don’t speak German.”

Kurtzman’s craggy brow furrowed. “So you’re going to join Shield.”

“They’re independent contractors,” Bolan said. “It’s probably the only cover I can use to poke around.”

“They’ve got a waiting list a mile long,” Kurtzman argued. “They’ve got Special Forces guys from all over the world taking early retirement just to join up.”

Bolan nodded. “I know, so I’m going to need a guy they would kill to have join them and then piggyback my way in.”

Kurtzman perked an eyebrow. “You have someone in mind.”

Bolan grinned. “Indeed I do.”

BRIGADIER EUGENE TOLER PEERED at Lieutenant Dirk’s fist somewhat apprehensively. He sighed, rolled his eyes and then shook his head at Bolan. “Mr. Cooper, are we sure this is absolutely necessary?”

Bolan didn’t blame the English officer one bit. The lieutenant’s fists, like a lot of things about him, were oversized for his frame. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

Captain Fairfax stood to one side shaking his head. He had been in Special Forces for decades, and nothing had ever prepared him for the utter surrealty of this situation, much less the fact that he was about to lose his best officer.

Dirk took a deep breath, and his knuckles creaked and popped as he balled up the soup bones. He looked at his hand as if it didn’t belong to him and then at the brigadier. “You ready, sir?”

“Well…right!” The brigadier squared his shoulders, thrust out his jaw, straightened the front of his battle dress uniform and, like English officers and gentlemen since time immemorial, found refuge in Shakespeare. “‘Lay on, McDuff.’”

It was a beauty of a whistling right hook. Brigadier Toler was a big man, but his head whiplashed on his neck as he flew back across the folding table behind him. It wasn’t an act. The folding table collapsed beneath him, and he, his computer, monitor and everything else on his desk hit the floor with a tremendous crash.

Dirk’s voice boomed out at parade-ground volume. “You limey son of a bitch! Good men died because of you!”

“Goddamn it, Lieutenant!” Fairfax bawled. “What in the blue hell do you think you’re doing?”

Toler pushed himself to a sitting position in the wreckage and matched Dirk and Fairfax decibel for decibel. “Mr. Pitt!”

Toler’s aide-de-camp peeked his head in and stared in horror.

“Mr. Pitt!” The brigadier pointed a damning finger at Dirk. “Place that man under arrest!”

“Sir!” The bookish young man visibly braced himself. “Guards!”

“Lieutenant Dirk is an American officer and can only be confined or charged by a U.S. military order!” Fairfax snarled.

“That man serves under NATO Afghanistan Coalition Command, and by God, I’ll see him tried and court-martialed under its bloody aegis!”

Bolan didn’t feel the need to add anything. It was all rolling along very nicely.

Pitt’s voice rose a panicked octave. “Guards…”

It was Fairfax’s turn to be outraged. “You can’t do this!”

“I can and will!” Toler thundered.

“Guards…”

British soldiers with the scarlet-peaked caps of the Royal Military Police came charging into the tent. Toler lurched to his feet. A magnificent shiner was inflating all around his left eye. “Guards! The American lieutenant has just struck a superior officer! Put him under close arrest!”

The MPs’ faces went from surprise to bloodred rage. A Yank had taken a poke at one of their officers. Truncheons rattled out of their sheaths.

Fairfax took a step forward. “By God! If you think—”

Toler roared like a wounded lion. “If the captain opens his bleeding gob again, clap him in irons for obstruction!”

Dirk beckoned the brigadier in. “Oh, you want some more of this? You limey mother—”

The Redcaps dived into Dirk. Dirk disposed of one with a hip throw and staggered one with a right hand before he took a truncheon thrust to the guts and the other two RMPs dived into his legs. Pitt couldn’t have weighed more than 115 pounds dripping wet, but the brigadier’s aide hurled himself into the fray with the enthusiasm and fury of wounded national pride.

The fight went to the ground and became a wrestling match. Dirk was a Special Forces soldier in prime physical condition, but taking down soldiers was what the RMPs were trained to do and numbers and weight told their ugly tale. The Redcaps inexorably got the upper hand, as well as an arm and ankle lock. Then the truncheons began falling on Dirk like rain. They continued to fall until he stopped moving. The Redcaps snapped on the handcuffs and kept Dirk pinned while Brigadier Toler’s aide stood. The young man was shaking with adrenaline reaction, and his broken nose hung on his face like a flattened squid. “Prisoner is secure, sir!”

“Very good, Mr. Pitt. Have him placed in the brig and confined in full restraints. Once he’s properly shackled, fetch a medic around to have a look at him.”

“Yes, sir!”

Captain Fairfax’s face was ashen. “This is intolerable. That man is an American officer!”

“That man will require a lawyer.” Toler’s voice dropped to reptilian coldness. “As his commanding officer, I suggest it is your immediate duty to see to it.”

U.S. military stockade, Kabul

BOLAN WALKED INTO THE CELL and handed Lieutenant Dirk a short, two-page document. “Here you go.”

Dirk took the paper. The Redcaps hadn’t been gentle. His face was lumped as though he’d been attacked by a swarm of Alaskan mosquitoes. He quickly read the first page and flipped to the second and looked at the signatures and seals. “Jesus, I really am eatin’ the big chicken dinner.”

Bolan smiled. “You want salt with that?”

Dirk rolled his eyes ruefully. The big chicken dinner was U.S. military slang for a bad-conduct discharge. Dirk had dodged the bullet. The fix had been put in, but not everyone was in on it. There had been a chance the court-martial could have gone wrong and Dirk could have gotten the full dishonorable discharge. That was something that followed a man around like a pet for the rest of his life. A dishonorable discharge was one of the few stigmas left in American life that was like the mark of Cain. The United States Military was an all-volunteer organization. A person had to want to join up. To be dishonorably discharged implied that you had dishonored your country and the service. Nearly every application for employment in the United States first asked if you had ever served in the United States armed forces and if you had been honorably or dishonorably discharged. Given a choice, it seemed as if most employers would rather hire a thief, a murderer or a pedophile before they would give a job to a man with a dishonorable discharge hanging over his head.

The good news was that despite Brigadier Toler’s highly credible Old Testament thunder, the United States would not let its soldiers be tried by foreign military tribunals whether or not they had the NATO or United Nations stamp of approval. The court-martial had been one of the swiftest ones in recent history. The reasons for the lieutenant’s actions were considered top secret. Mission information leading up to the incident had been redacted. His two Silver Stars for conspicuous bravery had been mentioned early and often, as was the fact that while Brigadier Toler may well have been a superior officer, he was but an officer in the service of the United Kingdom rather than the United States and not Lieutenant Dirk’s commanding officer. Dirk had been uncomfortable with it, but the question of race had been brought up in relation to Dirk’s brutal beating at the hands of the Royal Military Police.

Dirk had gotten the big chicken dinner.

Bad conduct didn’t go on your employment record. While a bad conduct discharge also implied that a person had screwed up—screwed up royally, no doubt of that—at least the person hadn’t dishonored the country. But one look at Dirk’s face told Bolan the big chicken dinner did not taste good. Dirk had devoted his life to serving his fellow citizens, and he had just been handed his walking papers. He was no longer a Delta Force lieutenant. He was now citizen Richard Lincoln Dirk.

Dirk gave Bolan one last, long, hard look. “Full presidential pardon?”

“Full pardon, reinstatement and promotion to captain. Guaranteed.”

“I don’t suppose you can you get that for me in writing?”

“The President has expressed his willingness to do it in his office and invite your mother.” Bolan handed Dirk a second piece of paper with the presidential seal on it. “But yeah, you can have it in writing.”

“Damn…” Dirk looked at the signature on the presidential stationery. “You really can make the magic happen. I’ve seen a few sealed orders in the past two years, and that is the Man’s John Hancock.”

“Check the small print. Pardon, reinstatement and promotion posthumously should you die during the course of this mission. I insisted on that.”

“That’s mighty considerate of you.”

Bolan shrugged. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Damn straight. I know a kebab place two blocks from here that treats soldiers right, and the girls upstairs treat ’em even better. The owner imports them from Germany, and if you want to meet mercs, that’s where they hang out to get hired.”

“It’s on me.”

“Goddamn right it is,” Dirk agreed. “And get me a gun. I’m feelin’ kind of naked here.”

Bolan drew a 9 mm Beretta Model 92 from the back of his belt. “Hold on to this. It was the first thing I could lay my hands on. Give me twenty-four hours, and I can get you anything else you want on special order.”

“You sweet man.” Dirk took the pistol and checked the loads. “Let’s party.”

Lars Shishlik Haus

KEBABS AND BLONDES weren’t the only advantages of the Shishlik Haus. A half German, half Afghan named Lars Obiada ran the establishment, and he could only be described as a war profiteer. Soldiers at war always had their paychecks in their pockets and very little to spend them on. They were always looking for women and liquor. Both were hard to come by in post-Taliban Afghanistan. Obiada provided both, as well as some of the best hashish available. He had lived in Germany for the first twenty years of his life and served in the Bundeswehr, so any German coalition soldier in Afghanistan got his first drink on the house. The Shishlik was always dripping with German soldiers on leave, as well as soldiers from other coalition countries.

The blondes and hash were upstairs, black-market goods and gambling were in the back and the opium den was in the basement. The smell of the best kebabs in Kabul hit you the second you walked through the front door, and the bar was only ten steps away.

Bolan and Dirk gave their handguns to the coat-check thug at the door and took a seat at the crowded bar. Angry German rap music vibrated the walls. The proprietor was a huge man, and his Teutonic Afghan ancestry made for an interesting mix of blond hair, black eyes and a biker’s black mustache and beard. He threw his arms wide as he became aware of Dirk. “The Diggler!”

“My man, Lars!” Dirk grinned.

Obiada poured two shots of whiskey into a glass without being asked. “And for your friend?”

Bolan peered at the row of bottles behind the bar. All were German imports. “I’ll take a liter of the Paulaner hefeweizen.”

The proprietor filled a massive mug full of cloudy yellow beer, dropped in two lemon slices and slid it Bolan’s way. “We have not seen Lieutenant Diggler in some time.”

“That’s citizen Diggler to you, Lars. Hell, I ain’t even the Diggler no more. I’m just…Dick.” Dirk sighed and took a massive swallow of whiskey. “That’s who I am and what I got right now. Dick.”

“How could such thing happen? You are good soldier.”

“I ate the big chicken dinner.” Dirk downed the rest of his drink with a grimace and slid the glass forward for another. “Can you believe that shit?”

“I had heard this, and could not believe.” Obiada leaned his bulk in conspiratorially as he poured brandy. “Is it true you struck British major?”

“No, oh hell, no.” Dirk grinned and spoke a little too loud. “I bitch-slapped a goddamn brigadier!”

Bolan noticed a pair of heads turn their way down the bar.

“You do everything in style.” Obiada laughed and turned an eye on Bolan. “And who is friend?”

Bolan stuck out his hand. “Cooper.”

The bartender pumped Bolan’s hand with pleasure. “Cooper. You, too, were involved in the…altercation?”

Bolan played a card. “Let’s just say it influenced me to not renew my contract.”

Wheels moved behind Lars Obiada’s eyes at the word contract. “I am sorry to hear. First round is on me.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” Dirk pronounced.

“I am scholar of life. As for gentleman…” Obiada suddenly frowned. “I think you have attracted attention of gentlemen at end of bar.”

A voice with a Welsh accent snarled over the music. “’Ey, you.”

Dirk and Bolan ignored him.

“’Ey you! Blackie!”

Just about the entire bar turned. Dirk let out a long sigh and brought his hands to his chest. “Who? Me?”

“Yeah, you.” A lanky man leaned forward and thrust out his jaw. He and his companion wore the green beret of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. “Was that you I ’eard bragging about sucker punching our beloved brigadier, then?”

Dirk raised his hands and gestured at his bruised and battered face. “Listen, man, I already took my lumps from the RMPs and got busted out of the service. I’m a civilian now. You already won. Let it go. I’ll buy your next round.”

The other marine was a skinny little rat-faced man, but he had a mean look about him. “Colour Sergeant, I believe the word he used was ‘bitch-slap,’ and he smiled when he said it, didn’t he, then?”

“Mmm.” The colour sergeant rose, and his head nearly brushed the ceiling. “You know, Jonesy? I don’t believe he’s repentant, not in the least.”

Bolan lowered his liter of beer. “Listen, fellas, we don’t want any trouble.”

“You don’t want trouble, Yank? You’d better stay out of it, then, shouldn’t you?”

“I’m afraid the man’s with me.”

“Really?” The skinny one smiled unpleasantly. “Who’s pitchin’ and who’s catchin’, then?”

Bolan smiled back. “I hear the queen does both.”

The colour sergeant took a moment to do the math, and a beatific smile spread across his face. So far it had just been an exchange of pleasantries. Now? The stomping was on.

“Aw, now. Who’s a clever dick?” The sergeant pointed a finger at Bolan. “It’s ’im, isn’t it, Jonesy? ’Ee’s—”

Bolan shot-putted his beer. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it was a thick, cut-glass liter mug full to the brim, and the Executioner fired it forward, mouth first. The sergeant took the stein across the bridge of the nose, and beer and lemon juice filled his eyes. Dirk spun on his stool and snap-kicked him in the groin, which dropped him to his knees clutching his crotch in beer-blinded agony. Dirk stepped up onto the sergeant’s shoulder to gain some altitude, and rat-face Jones took Dirk’s heel through his teeth.

“I swear to God!” Dirk boomed. “If one more English asshole so much as—damn it!”

Four English sailors in full white middy shirts, trousers and hats came roaring forward.

Bolan stood and scooped up his bar stool. He raised it high and then pitched it low into the leading man’s legs, sending him tumbling to the tiles. The man behind him tripped and fell over his fellow sailor. The third sailor did a credible hurdle over the mass of Englishmen littering the floor, but the second he touched down, he took Dirk’s fist to the jaw and joined them. The fourth sailor took a step back and yelled for assistance to the room at large. “Tommy! Queue up!”

The UK was the second-largest supplier of coalition troops to the Afghanistan situation. There were a lot of Tommys at the Shishlik Haus at any given time. British soldiers, sailors and airmen rose from their tables.

Bolan upped the ante. “I need every dogface in this shit hole to stand tall!”

American soldiers came crawling out of the woodwork.

This brawl was going to clear the benches. The only thing missing was the piano player diving out the window. Everyone froze as Lars Obiada emptied half a magazine from a Stechkin machine pistol into the roof. “Sit down!”

The potential gladiators sat back down to their liquor and kebabs. The remaining English sailor pointed a finger at Bolan. “This ain’t over, mate.”

Bolan ignored the sailor and took his seat as the bouncers arrived to clear the carnage.

“Not you two. You know my rule about brawls.”

Dirk shrugged. “Wasn’t a brawl, Lars. More like a friendly beat down between allies.”

“No fighting.”

“All right, we’ll go.”

“No, not out front. Go through back. This way.”

Bolan and Dirk exchanged looks and followed Obiada through a door behind the bar. A narrow passageway led them past the kitchen, and a turbaned goon stood in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He gave Obiada a bow and opened it. The room was small and low, and several games of poker were in progress. A big man pulled in a pile of chips and looked up with a grin. His salt-and-pepper hair was buzzed short on the sides and slightly long on the top like a lot of Eastern European soldiers. It was clear he hadn’t done any PT in a while, but he was built like a refrigerator and radiated strength. He wore the almost universal khaki load-bearing vest of a private contractor, but the pockets were empty at the moment save for the bulge of a cell phone. The big man pointed a thick finger at a row of flat screen TVs on the wall. One was showing FOX news, another an adult film and a third showed security camera feed where Shishlik Haus employees were carrying out British servicemen in various states of disrepair. The man spoke with a Slavic accent.

“I enjoyed floor show. Much better than belly dancers. Even better than taking money from these losers.”

Two Italian airmen who sat bereft of chips gave the big man a sour look but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. Bolan had the man pegged for a Pole. “GROM?”

“Good!” The man grinned. “Very good!”

GROM was the acronym for Poland’s Grupa Reagowania Operacyjno-Manewrowego, or Operational Mobile Reaction Group. The acronym also formed the word thunder in Polish. Poland had been one of the first Eastern European nations to sign up for operations in both Afghanistan and Iraq, and their special forces had been the first people they sent. GROM was their best, and while somewhat inexperienced, their best had the reputation of not being bad, and they were busy soaking up operational lessons the hard way in the fiery crucibles of the Middle East and Asia.

The Pole turned to the Italians. “Why do you still sit here? What do you intend to wager with? Your pants?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Go!”

The two airmen stopped just short of running. The big man shook his head as they left and returned to business. “The lieutenant, we know something of. You—” the big Pole shrugged at Bolan “—I do not know, but if you are with Dirk, this speaks well of you.”

“Thanks. GROM spells badass anyplace I’ve ever been.”

The Pole smiled modestly. “You are too kind.” He pulled a business card out of his vest. “My name is Dobrus, Dobrus Stanislawski. Why do not you and the lieutenant come by the office tomorrow?”

Bolan took the card. It read Dobrus Stanislawski, Security Consultant, Shield Security Services and gave a phone number, e-mail and address in Kabul. He handed it to Dirk.

The former Delta Force commando nodded. “We gonna get lunch out of this? I been in the stockade eatin’ MREs for a week, and I didn’t get my kebabs tonight.”

Stanislawski waved a hand around the premises. “Take-out from here?”

“You got a date, sex machine.”