Читать книгу Savage Rule - Don Pendleton - Страница 6

Mack Bolan, the soldier still known to a very few as the Executioner, crouched low and was perfectly still. His senses, attuned to the sounds of the jungle through long experience, picked out the telltale sounds of men and equipment some distance off. Some barely conscious part of his mind easily separated these from the ambient, natural noises of the beautiful—and deadly—terrain surrounding him.

The enemy wasn’t far away.

He finished hiding the crumpled, night-black HALO chute, burying it quickly and quietly with a few shovelfuls of moist earth and a handful of undergrowth. Then he silently folded the entrenching tool and replaced it on his small battle pack, next to his machete in its strapped-on scabbard. The pack had been specially prepared for him, at his request, by Stony Man Farm’s armorer.

The Executioner paused at movement near the toe of his combat boot. A four-inch tarantula crawled quietly over his foot and continued on, oblivious to the hell that was about to be unleashed. It wasn’t the largest specimen Bolan had seen, by a wide margin. He silently wished the creature a safe journey as he continued on in the opposite direction. An old joke echoed through his mind, a parody of a rallying cry: Forward, toward the danger.

Smiling grimly under the dark tiger stripes of black-and-green combat cosmetics smearing his face, Bolan made a mental inventory of his equipment. He was clad in his customary combat blacksuit, a close-fitting garment bearing multiple slit pockets. The web belt around his waist bore pouches for extra loaded magazines for his weapons. Grenades of varying types were clipped to the belt and to the web harness over his shoulders, to which his pack was also secured. Over this, in a ballistic nylon shoulder holster designed to withstand the humid climate, he carried a Beretta 93-R with a custom-made sound suppressor attached. The machine pistol, like the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in a Kydex holster inside his waistband behind his right hip, had been specially action-tuned by John “Cowboy” Kissinger. Kissinger had served as the Stony Man Farm’s armorer for so long that few of the weapons carried within the covert facility or taken into the field by the action teams hadn’t felt his touch or undergone the scrutiny of his gunsmith’s eye.

The rifle in Bolan’s fists and secured by a single-point sling was a well-worn M-16 A-3. The 5.56-mm NATO weapon was capable of full-auto fire, and this one was equipped with an under-the-barrel 40-mm M-203 grenade launcher. Across the soldier’s chest was a bandolier of 40-mm grenades, as varied and lethal as the handheld bombs strapped to his person.

Also attached to Bolan’s web harness was a pair of truly lethal-looking blades, Japanese-style fighting tools manufactured by an American importer. The smaller blade had a single cutting edge over eight inches long, with a textured, guardless handle and a needle tip. The larger knife, a staggering weapon almost the size of a short sword, was also single edged, with a pronounced curve and a killing point, fully thirteen inches in the blade. Both wicked-looking knives were useful for only one purpose: killing people.

The Executioner was going to give them a workout.

He had been dropped here, in the dead of night, near the Guatemalan-Honduran border, for that purpose. The call from the secure phone in Hal Brognola’s Justice Department office in Washington had been clear enough, reaching Bolan as he rested between missions at Stony Man Farm. The big Fed, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, had wasted no time telling Bolan that the request for SOG intervention had come straight from the President.

“The Man,” Brognola had said, “wants us to stop an invasion of Guatemala.”

That had gotten Bolan’s attention.

Brognola had gone on to explain that in Honduras, a recent series of military coups had deposed two governments in six months. The beleaguered people of Honduras were no strangers to this type of governmental turbulence, but this time was worse than in the past. A new strong-arm dictator, “General” Ramon Orieza, had seized power, waging an ironfisted campaign of murder and intimidation to keep the terrified Honduran people under his control.

“It’s bad, Striker,” Brognola had said, using Bolan’s Farm code name. “Orieza has turned Honduras into an armed camp. He’s completely coopted the Honduran military, and he has a cadre of shock troops camped outside the capital. We’ve received reports of roaming death squads, political assassinations, even mass graves. Orieza makes Pol Pot look like an amateur.”

“There’s more to it than that, I’m guessing,” Bolan said. He knew only too well that, as extensive as its resources could be, SOG couldn’t pursue every injustice on foreign soil; it simply wasn’t possible. For the President to involve Stony Man directly meant that something far worse was implied—something with international implications that also threatened the security of the United States.

“When the coup took place and toppled first one, then the second local government,” Brognola explained, “I had Barbara put Aaron’s team on alert.” “Aaron” was Aaron “the Bear,” Kurtzman, the Farm’s wheelchair-bound cybernetics whiz and head of the team of computer experts at Stony Man. “Barbara” was Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller. Bolan and the honey-blonde, model-beautiful Price had a romantic relationship based on respect and desire. That was as much as either could offer the other. And it was enough. These thoughts flashed through Bolan’s mind unbidden as Brognola went on. “It turned out to be worse than just the usual military posturing, and it warned us of the threat to Guatemala. Bear’s people intercepted several coded communiqués between Orieza and the president Gaspar Castillo of Mexico.”

“He was just elected, wasn’t he?”

“‘Elected’ is probably too kind a word for it,” Brognola said. “While relations between the U.S. and Mexico have traditionally been hot and cold, depending on how the political winds of immigration reform were running, we could generally count on their government as a nominal ally. Castillo’s coalition pushed the moderates out of power and immediately cut diplomatic ties with the United States. His election was marred by dozens of allegations of vote fixing, ballot tampering and voter intimidation. Our intelligence sources south of the border tell us that Castillo has seeded the Mexican military with hard-liners loyal to him, not to mention bribing anyone within reach of a handout.”

“Hard-liners?” Bolan had asked.

“Castillo is a known entity to Interpol and various international antiterror groups. He has a file in our computers that goes way back, though he’s slippery. He’s never been tied, definitively, to the activities we know he supports.”

“Which are?”

“Castillo is a racist, a Hispanic supremacist, if you want to call it that. Has a long history as a street criminal in Mexico City. You’ve heard of La Raza?”

“‘The Race,’” Bolan said. “A term that applies to a pretty broad array of activist groups and even a radio network, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Correct,” Brognola had confirmed. “But the La Raza we’re concerned with is a particularly effective and violent Chicano nationalist group, terrorists operating in Mexico and the Southwest United States. Starting in the 1970s, when the concept began to catch on, the group and other radical splinter cells like it have been pursuing the restoration of what they consider the ‘Aztec homeland,’ which they call Aztlán. Through a movement they call the Reconquista—the reconquering of land once possessed by their people, now unfairly held by the United States, as they see it—they want to reclaim those lands lost by Mexico in the Mexican-American War. When all the yelling and posturing is done, they’d basically like to secure as much of Southern California, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona that they can take and hold by force of arms.”

“Understood,” Bolan had said, nodding even though Brognola couldn’t see him. “But what’s that got to do with the coup in Honduras, and where do we come in?”

“Nobody took fringe groups like this radical version of La Raza seriously before,” Brognola said. “And they weren’t much of a threat, at the national level. They were violent, yes, and they managed to kill several people while pushing their racist views, but they weren’t accomplishing much toward their goals. The sea change in Mexico’s government, headed by a known Chicano nationalist who we think has no qualms about using terror tactics to get what he wants, changes that. Now the group has the force of Mexico’s military behind it. Castillo’s also using the military to crush dissent in Mexico.”

“You’re thinking invasion? It would be suicide.”

“Not if it’s done using guerrilla tactics rather than an outright declaration of war,” Brognola retorted. “The Man knows he can’t afford to make an overt enemy of Mexico, not unless he wants a full-scale battle on our southern border. Castillo knows it, too, and he’s playing to that. We know, for example, that Castillo is using Tristan Zapata, a known La Raza terrorist wanted by the FBI and Interpol, to spearhead his operations on the Mexican border. Several border-patrol agents have been fired on, and last week three turned up dead wearing Colombian neckties. Tensions have been rising since Castillo took office, and we’ve traced Zapata’s movements thoroughly enough to know that he’s met privately with Castillo on no less than three occasions.”

“So why am I worrying about Orieza and Honduras when I should be dealing with Castillo and his La Raza forces?”

“Have you heard of O’Connor Petroleum Prospecting?”

“Can’t say I have,” Bolan said.

“They’re an international firm that works with large oil companies, finding previously overlooked petroleum deposits. Under the former, stable government of Honduras, they had an agreement that allowed them to use deep-ranging imaging equipment to locate oil in Honduras. Just before Orieza took over, they found what they were looking for—a previously unknown find that is, as I understand it, quite extensive. When Orieza learned about it, he nationalized the equipment, and either took hostage or murdered the OPP employees operating in his country.”

“The oil’s worth a lot?”

“It could turn Honduras into a wealthy nation, if its government played its cards right.”

“And what hand is Orieza holding?”

“That’s just it,” Brognola said, and Bolan could picture him frowning. “Orieza’s ambitious and brutal. He knows a fellow traveler when he sees one. According to our intercepts, his government contacted Castillo’s and cut a deal. They’re building a pipeline from Honduras to Mexico.”

“And Guatemala’s in the way,” Bolan said.

“Exactly. Orieza fights across Guatemala, building his pipeline as he goes. When he gets to Mexico, Castillo welcomes him with open arms, knowing that the results of that operation and the pipeline will enrich both nations—well, both men. This will solidify Orieza’s hold on Honduras, and for all we know he’s looking to annex some or all of Guatemala on a permanent basis. The oil wealth helps Castillo finance his personal vision of a recaptured Aztec homeland in the Southwest U.S., too. Orieza has made no secret of the fact that he despises the West. He’s given plenty of speeches on state-controlled television, blaming America for Honduras’s relative poverty. It would do his heart good to see our eye blackened, I’m sure. In the process, he makes a valuable ally, in his view, and strengthens his power at home.”

“But Castillo can’t think he can win a war against the United States,” Bolan protested.

“He doesn’t have to,” Brognola said. “As I said, if he does it just right, he can make things difficult enough that portions of the country will effectively be under his control. He’s counting on America’s unwillingness to go to war with Mexico directly, probably because he thinks we’ll hope to wait him out. The pipeline means he won’t have to wait us out. Even if we apply international sanctions, he and Orieza will be able to find plenty of customers for the oil. They may be counting on the fact that, if they hold portions of territory for long enough—especially those parts of the Southwest United States that are predominantly Hispanic, thanks to largely uncontrolled illegal immigration—they’ll effectively own it, and it will be too much trouble and cause too much unrest for us to get it back.”

“Possession being nine-tenths of the law,” Bolan had said.

“Exactly,” Brognola confirmed. “The Man doesn’t want to be put in that position, for obvious reasons. That’s where you come in, and that’s why our national security is tied to both nations. Striker, we’ve got to put a stop to this. Our analysts tell us that a sudden power vacuum in Mexico would allow the more moderate elements within the government to take control once more. Honduras is more turbulent, but removing Orieza would at least end the immediate crisis.”

“So where do I start?”

“Our ties to Guatemala have always been close, give or take, and Orieza’s troops have made several skirmishes over the border already. We’ve got satellite tracking of the invading force gathering on the border for yet another run. The Guatemalan military isn’t up to the task of repelling a determined invasion. They’re willing, but underfunded and disorganized. They’re screaming for help, and Orieza’s men have bloodied their noses already. Officially, we’ve told them there’s nothing we can do. Unofficially, they’re going to get some assistance as fast as we can get it to them.”

“Me.”

“You,” Brognola said. “I don’t have to tell you that this is delicate. The President isn’t one for nation building, nor would Congress back him if he tried. We have to maintain plausible deniability in this, at least overtly. But we’ve got to stop both Orieza and Castillo, or all four nations will suffer—Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico and the United States. We’ve got to put an end to the crises on the Guatemalan border, and then deal with Castillo’s forays across our own.”

“How far are you willing for me to go?” Bolan asked.

“It was made very clear to me. Do what you do.”

“He realizes the implications?” Bolan pressed. “We’re talking about removing by force, however illegitimate, the leadership of two separate nations. I’m prepared to do that. Is he?”

“The President of the United States of course doesn’t sanction any such action,” Brognola said smoothly.

“If those volatile regimes’ leaders were suddenly to become…ineffectual, and perhaps fall from power, well, that would be fortuitous, wouldn’t it? Yes, I believe fortuitous was the word they used at the State Department when I spoke to them.”

“Understood,” Bolan said. “Backup?”

“None, unfortunately,” Brognola replied. “Able is tied up domestically, and Barbara’s got Phoenix on assignment halfway around the world. You’re it, Striker.”

“Understood,” Bolan repeated. “Let Cowboy know that I’ll need a lot of equipment. I’ll text Barb a list.”

“Grimaldi is already on his way to you by chopper,” Brognola said. “He’ll get you to the nearest airport, where your flight will be waiting. A courier will be dispatched from the Farm and meet your plane with the supplies you specify.”

“Then I’d better get to work.”

“Striker?” Brognola said. “Good luck. I realize that every time we call you it’s important. But I think we both know how much is riding on this now. More than ever.”

“Thanks, Hal. And yeah. We do.” He had terminated the call and immediately begun working out precisely what he would need, in order to fight a one-man war against the armies of two different dictators.

Now he was here, in Honduras, according the GPS coordinates provided by his secure satellite phone, and poised to strike a death blow to Orieza’s troops. Intelligence and satellite imaging provided by the Farm had revealed that Orieza’s pipeline was already under construction. To clear the way into and, thereafter, presumably through Guatemala, Orieza had an advance force preparing to move across the border. Bolan presumed it was this unit that had already carried out the initial attacks that had the Guatemalan government screaming. Apparently casualties on the Guatemalan side had been very high, as reported by Barbara Price. She had transmitted a detailed mission briefing to his secure satellite smartphone while he was in transit, with Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi at the controls of the long-range jet from which Mack had later jumped.

A black-clad ghost, he crept as close as he dared to where the enemy advance troops were massing. He checked his secure smartphone again; the screen brightness was turned down as low as it could go, and he cupped it with his hand to avoid giving away his position. The muted tones of the GPS grid told him his position relative to both the advance force, whose position the Farm had fixed using a “borrowed” NSA surveillance satellite, and to the semipermanent base camp from which the troops operated. That camp was a few miles down the “road”—a pair of ruts only recently cut through this densely forested area—that Orieza’s advance team had used to move both men and equipment to the Guatemalan border. It was logical that it was from this same camp, detailed and enhanced satellite photos of which had been overlaid with tactical priorities in Bolan’s mission briefing, that Orieza’s troops had launched their previous raids across the border.

Silently, the Executioner peeled back the black ballistic nylon covering the luminous hands of the military field watch he wore. If he judged correctly, the enemy troops would be preparing for a predawn raid for maximum psychological benefit. They would cross the border, destroying anything in their path, using that most vulnerable period of early-morning darkness to their advantage. Bolan didn’t know if they had a specific target in mind—if they planned to travel some distance once over the border, it would alter their departure time—but he judged that he still had at least a couple of hours before Orieza’s military thugs were on the move. That would be plenty of time for him to bring the fight to the enemy, using their own anticipation of battle against them.

They would be preparing to strike the first blow, counting on having the momentum, the combat advantage. Bolan would strike before they were ready, and thus steal that most valuable of battlefield elements from them.

It was this advantage on which all his plans were built. For a single man to take on so many troops would be suicide. Bolan wasn’t suicidal, nor was he insane. He understood only too well what it took for a small, motivated force to defeat a larger and largely unprepared opponent. In this case, he was a small, motivated force of one.

The enemy would never know that.

He unlimbered his compact but powerful field glasses, which were equipped with light-gathering night-vision circuitry. Through their green-tinged view he counted off the enemy column, resisting the urge to whistle as he gauged the strength of their force.

This forward raiding party would be composed of scouts and supporting infantry. They had come fully equipped. Bolan counted several Alvis Saladin six-wheeled light tanks, a couple of RBY Mk1 reconnaissance vehicles and a small fleet of two-and-a-half-ton trucks, whose canvas-covered cargo areas would be used to transport the infantry. Most of the soldiers Bolan saw milling about or gearing up carried M-16s, though a few had Galils and he saw at least one MP-5 submachine gun. He knew that the Honduran military fielded M-79 grenade launchers, though he saw none in evidence; the weapon dated to the Vietnam War and was functionally equivalent to the launcher slung under his rifle’s barrel.

He brought up his own weapon. Pressing the latch, he shoved the barrel of the M-203 forward and flicked the launcher into the Safe position. A quick check with his finger showed him the barrel was clear. If he had picked up an obstruction at the other end during his silent crawl through the jungle, well, that was a risk he would have to take, as there was no way to be certain now. He removed from his bandolier an M-433 HEDP round. The High Explosive, Dual Purpose round could, if fired straight on, penetrate up to two inches of armor plate, and had an effective kill radius of five meters. For several meters beyond that death zone, it would still cause casualties. It was, therefore, the perfect weapon for attacking Orieza’s column of invaders.

Bolan pulled the barrel of the launcher to the rear, locking it in place with an audible click. Then he aimed for the driver’s-side front wheel of the lead deuce-and-a-half, flicked the safety to Fire and squeezed the launcher’s trigger in one fluid movement.

The grenade exploded on impact. The heavy HEDP round tore apart the engine block and cab of the cargo truck, spraying deadly shrapnel in all directions. Men screamed, and for a moment the pitch-black of the nighttime jungle was lit with an actinic yellow-white glare as the Honduran troops scattered.

Bolan smoothly ejected the spent round, loaded another HEDP grenade, aimed and fired. This time he took the truck at the rear of the column, blowing it apart between its cab and its cargo bed. He punched a third round into the vehicle next to it. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught, in the ensuing explosion, a glimpse of one of the vehicle’s heavy tires flattening a pair of men who had been crouching next to it, as the burning circles of textured rubber became airborne missiles.

Bolan shucked the spent casing, fed another grenade into the launcher and punched the HEDP into one of the Saladins. The angle wasn’t good, but his goal was to create confusion and chaos. As the first scattered, unaimed bursts of return fire began—panic shooting, and nothing more—he knew he had succeeded. Flicking his M-16 A-3 to full-auto, he stalked forward into battle.

Hell had come to Honduras.